Chapter Text
Hotch fiercely regretted every decision that had led to this moment, powerlessly watching a livestream of Reid and JJ chained and beaten in a dingy warehouse.
He didn't know what he could have done differently to prevent it. They couldn't just not investigate a dark net human trafficking ring supplying victims to serial killers and pedophiles all over the country. No one could have predicted that a criminal syndicate that had successfully stayed under the radar for years would suddenly boldly snatch two FBI agents, and livestream their torture to the New York field office. None of that helped to dispel the rage and guilt curdling in his stomach.
Hotch was unpleasantly jolted back to the present by a pained grunt from JJ as one of the masked men viciously backhanded her.
Morgan, who had been alternately pacing and flipping aggressively through their meager files, flinched bodily. He hated feeling powerless even more than the rest of the team, Hotch knew, and would undoubtedly prefer to be out looking if he had the choice. But there were more than enough boots on the ground already; if they were going to help find JJ and Reid, it would be from here.
“Garcia!” Morgan snapped abruptly. She whimpered and turned to look at them, revealing a tear-streaked face that clashed incongruously with her cheery, pink cat ears.
Softening instantly, Morgan squeezed her shoulders apologetically, “come on baby girl, you got this, find them!”
“I-I can't,” she stuttered, typing frantically on her computer “they're bouncing the signal through dozens of proxy servers all over the world, I can't track it. Oh god, they could be anywhere.”
Hotch clenched his jaw and looked away, catching several NYPD cops and local feds hastily avoiding eye contact. He ground his teeth in irritation, he could hardly tell them not to watch the video when the traffickers had somehow projected it on every computer screen in the office, and they might help identify the location. Still, their pity and morbid curiosity made bile rise in his throat.
Suddenly, one of the officers choked off a gasp, “what the fuck”
Spinning back around to face the screen he seconded Rossi's quiet “Madonna” at the sight before him. One of the traffickers, who had presumably been behind the camera, was now slumped dead on the floor, his slit throat still gushing blood.
There was a beat of silence, as everyone gaped in shock. Then in the span of a few seconds, gunshots rang out, and the three men nearest JJ and Reid hit the ground. None able to raise their guns in time to defend themselves. A tall man dressed in black tactical gear, a brown leather jacket, and a full face red helmet, prowled into the frame with predatory grace. He was built like a fucking tank, bristling with weapons, and was apparently immediately recognizable to the task force's organised crime agents who all twitched in unison.
“Holy fuck, it's the Red Hood,” blurted Agent Sanchez, blushing when several agents turned to stare at her.
He didn't have Reid's perfect memory, but he was intimately familiar with the frontrunners of the FBI's most wanted list. The Red Hood: an unholy amalgamation of crime lord, vigilante spree killer, and mercenary. The team had never been asked to profile him and agents were generally advised not to engage due to how goddamn dangerous he was. Hotch now had a better understanding as to why.
The one remaining trafficker was frozen where he had been slouched against the wall. From the way he was wildly patting his waist he had obviously made the fatal mistake of leaving his gun across the room. In a final hail Mary, the man bolted for the door, passing inches from where JJ and Reid were hanging limply from the ceiling.
Don't shoot, don't shoot, Hotch prayed. His prayers were answered when Red Hood opted to show off his knife skills instead. Moving unnaturally fast for such a large man, he caught up to his prey in mere moments, stabbed him in the throat and ripped the blade out through his carotid, covering Reid in arterial spray. Garcia shrieked and clapped her hands over her mouth, while Prentiss muttered “Jesus Christ.”
Turning away, Red Hood nonchalantly flicked blood off the end of his knife. For a moment, Hotch naively hoped it was over, but he was mistaken. One of the unsubs Hotch had thought dead was apparently only gut shot, and was shuffling backwards towards his dropped gun. He couldn't help but think that a marksman as skilled as Red Hood must have missed the heart on purpose, and was uncomfortably reminded of a cat sadistically toying with a mouse. Hood threw the knife with unerring accuracy, skewering the unsub's hand inches from his gun, and pinning it to the ground. That's unhygienic, Hotch thought nonsensically - he wouldn't have to worry about bloodborne diseases for much longer.
The unsub let out a shrill scream, and Hood began advancing towards him, hand resting casually on the gun strapped to his hip.
“Red Hood, stop!” cried a weak voice.
“Jesus pretty boy, please shut up” Morgan groaned. Hotch admired Reid's professional integrity but he couldn't help but agree, anxiously pinching the bridge of his nose. He could only blame shock and delirium for Reid's apparent lack of self-preservation.
Thankfully, Red Hood was unperturbed and didn't even turn, responding wryly “hang tight feds, I'll be with you in a moment.”
The voice modulator lent his words an unnerving mechanical tenor, but the tone itself wasn’t overly threatening, and he could detect hints of a Jersey accent even through the voice filter.
The trafficker had apparently resigned himself to dying enough to want to get the last word, sneering “fuck you Hood! Mask is gonna sell all your little alley rats to the worst scum he can find.”
Hood stared down at the man, his helmet rendering him utterly unreadable, gun levelled at his head. “No, he won't. You know why? Cuz I already gutted him and sliced his fucking head off. Now, I'm just cleaning up the dregs,” he said flatly, pulling the trigger unceremoniously.
Hotch and Rossi turned to look at each other with raised brows, easily communicating the same thought: did Red Hood already kill off the whole operation?
Now that JJ and Reid were the only living targets alone in a room with a mass murderer, Hotch could feel his anxiety rising rapidly. Garcia was still clacking away on her keyboard, but her panicked muttering didn't inspire much hope.
“He's never killed a federal agent before” Sanchez offered tentatively in what she no doubt considered a reassuring tone.
“Yeah, but there was that thing with Jameson and the kneecaps and…” Parks trailed off at the withering glare Prentiss gave him, “nevermind, it's not important.”
“Parks!” Hotch growled in irritation, “get us everything you have on the Red Hood.” Parks gulped, and with a last wistful look at the livestream, scuttled away.
On screen, Red Hood was meandering casually towards JJ and Reid as though he didn't just brutally murder 5 people in front of them. Morgan sucked in a breath when he paused in front of JJ.
“What's your name, fed?”
Red Hood towered over JJ, but she tilted her head back weakly, lifting her chin with characteristic defiant determination.
“Jennifer Jareau - people call me JJ” she added hesitantly.
The team all knew what she was doing. Without a profile, or even micro-expressions to work with, she was resorting to the basic tactic of humanizing herself.
Red Hood seemed to know it too - criminals make the best profilers - huffing a garbled, staticky laugh, “well JJ, people call me Hood. Now what unit do you work for, and where the fuck is your team?”
“The Behavioural Analysis Unit” Reid interrupted hurriedly, his face white beneath the blood spatter, “we were snatched while interviewing a witness.”
Hood let the silence lengthen, somehow projecting danger and threat with just a tilt of his head. Attempting to keep his attention away from JJ, Reid continued in a calmer, more even tone, “this is being livestreamed to the FBI. Killing us won't get rid of the video evidence, but if you help us now, we can advocate for leniency at trial.”
Hotch hoped that Hood would respond rationally to this offer, but he wasn't particularly optimistic even before Sanchez groaned quietly behind him.
Hood snorted derisively “it's cute that you think I've never committed murder on candid camera before, but don't you worry your pretty little heads. I ain't about to bring more trouble on myself by offing a couple of government agents for no good reason.”
After an instinctive wave of relief, Hotch's mind snagged on the phrase for no good reason. The rest of the team seemed to be on the same track. “He's a righteous, mission-oriented killer who views himself as a vigilante. He won't kill people he classifies as innocent,” said Prentiss with forced calm.
“Yeah, innocent by his definition” Morgan countered angrily, “the guy's a psychopath.”
“Quiet” Rossi ordered, eyes still fixed on the screen where Red Hood now stood terrifyingly close to JJ, with one arm wrapped around her waist. In a single fluid movement he drew a peculiar, wavy knife, and sliced through the chains, catching JJ's slumped form on his shoulder. With surprising gentleness he set her down on the floor, propped against the wall, then repeated the process with Reid.
Straightening, Hood somehow managed to convey exasperated sternness, despite the helmet.
“Keep quiet, don't do anything stupid, and you'll be back with your little fed buddies in no time, capiche?” he said flatly.
Injured, exhausted, and with their wrists still zip-tied Reid and JJ had no choice but to nod weakly in agreement.
Turning away dismissively, Hood started walking directly towards the camera. Hotch couldn't deny the instinctive prickle of unease at the sight of the Red Hood moving purposefully towards them, growing ever larger in frame. His fellow agents seemed to share his sentiments if their minute flinches were anything to go by.
Moments later, Hood was sitting directly in front of the camera, apparently tapping away at a keyboard, the eerie white lenses of his helmet glowing dimly.
“I didn't think I'd be on a video call with one of the FBI's most wanted when I woke up this morning” Rossi commented dryly, breaking the tense silence.
“What is he looking for?” Hotch asked the room at large, “why doesn't he leave the scene if he doesn't intend to kill JJ and Reid?”
“His next target maybe? He did mention ‘cleaning up the dregs’” suggested Prentiss.
Their discussion was interrupted by Garcia's cry of relieved triumph, “that's it, I've got it, I've got the location! Warehouse in the Bronx, I sent you the address.”
The Red Hood gave a distinctly cocky salute at the camera and the screen went black.