The attacks came without warning.
January 3rd, 2006. Garcia's personal information appeared online—social security number, home address, mother's maiden name, credit card details. All of it posted to public forums with a simple caption: "The Oracle sees all. But who sees her?"
January 4th. Reid's mother's address—a care facility in Las Vegas where she received treatment for schizophrenia—was mailed to the BAU in an envelope marked "personal." No threat, no message. Just the information itself, proving access to secrets we thought were buried.
January 5th. Morgan's sealed juvenile record—a fight that had nearly derailed his career before it started—was unsealed and sent to the Washington Post. The reporter had the decency to call Morgan before publishing, but the message was clear: nothing was safe.
"He's not just threatening us," Gideon said in the emergency briefing. "He's proving access. Showing us that every secret we have, every person we care about, every vulnerability we've tried to hide—he knows it all."
The team sat in stunned silence.
Garcia's eyes were red—she'd been crying since her information leaked, though she'd never admit it. Reid looked pale, his mother's safety suddenly uncertain. Morgan's jaw was clenched tight enough to crack teeth.
And Elle... Elle looked ready to kill someone.
"Classic siege psychology," Gideon continued. "Break down the defenders' confidence before the assault. Make them feel exposed, vulnerable, helpless."
"We're not helpless," Hotch said. "We're the FBI. We don't cower because some delusional stalker sends threatening mail."
"What do we do?" Morgan demanded. "How do we find this guy before he does more than embarrass us?"
"We investigate." Hotch turned to the board, where photos and documents from the Fisher King communications were pinned. "Garcia, secure your systems. I want everything encrypted, everything monitored. Reid, your mother's facility is getting federal protection starting today. Morgan—"
"I'll handle my own problems," Morgan interrupted.
"No. You won't." Hotch's voice was steel. "This is exactly what he wants—us fragmenting, each trying to protect our own. We work together or we lose."
[TEAM DYNAMICS: STRESSED]
[COHESION: THREATENED]
[THREAT ASSESSMENT: FISHER KING — IMMINENT ACTION LIKELY]
[FOCUS: -5]
I'd been quiet through the briefing, running calculations.
The Fisher King knew about Garcia, Reid, and Morgan. He knew about Gideon—the chess piece had proven that. He knew about Hotch and JJ, presumably, though he hadn't shown his hand there yet.
But did he know about me?
I was the newest member of the team. The one with the most carefully constructed cover. If there was a gap in his intelligence, it might be me.
"I have an idea," I said.
Everyone turned.
"He knows all of you. Your histories, your secrets, your weaknesses. But I'm new. My file is thinner. My vulnerabilities are fewer." I met Hotch's eyes. "If anyone can move without him anticipating it, it's me."
"What are you suggesting?"
"The parchment in his letters—it's authentic medieval stock. Garcia traced similar purchases to antiquarian suppliers in the D.C. area. I want to follow that trail. Alone."
"Alone?" Morgan shook his head. "That's exactly what he wants—us separated, vulnerable."
"Maybe. Or maybe it's what I want." I kept my voice calm. "If he's watching the team, he's watching you together. A solo agent running a quiet investigation might slip under his radar."
"And if it doesn't?" Elle's voice was sharp. "If he's waiting for exactly that opportunity?"
"Then at least I'm the bait, not one of you."
The room fell silent.
Hotch considered the proposal, running his own calculations.
"It's risky," he said finally. "But you're not wrong about the logic. If he doesn't have intelligence on you specifically, you might be able to move where we can't."
"Hotch—" Morgan started.
"I'll approve a twenty-four-hour investigation. Limited scope. You report in every four hours. Miss a check-in, and we're coming after you." Hotch turned to me. "Clear?"
"Clear."
Before I left, Elle stopped me in the hallway.
She didn't speak. Just reached up and straightened my collar—the same gesture she'd made on our first date, adjusting my appearance with careful hands.
"Come back," she said.
It wasn't a request.
"I will."
She nodded once, then walked away without looking back.
[RELATIONSHIP INDICATOR: ELLE — CONNECTION PERSISTS]
[DESPITE DISTANCE, BOND REMAINS]
The investigation took me through Alexandria's antiquarian district—small shops with dusty windows, cluttered with history's detritus. The third shop I visited recognized the parchment sample Garcia had provided.
"Beautiful work," the owner said, an elderly man with glasses thick as bottle bottoms. "Authentic fifteenth-century Italian. I sold three sheets of this about two months ago."
"To whom?"
"Cash transaction. No name." The man frowned. "But he was memorable. Intense. Kept talking about 'sacred vessels' and 'the eternal quest.' I thought he was writing a novel or something."
"Description?"
"Tall. Thin. Scarred—something on his face, though I couldn't tell you what. Late forties, maybe early fifties. Walked with a slight limp."
I took notes, thanked him, moved on.
The trail continued through antique weapons dealers, manuscript sellers, even a specialty armor shop that catered to Renaissance fair enthusiasts. Each transaction was cash. Each seller remembered the same man—intense, obsessive, wounded in some visible way.
[PATTERN RECOGNITION: ACTIVE]
[SUSPECT PROFILE: TALL, SCARRED, LIMPING — PURCHASES CONSISTENT WITH ARTHURIAN FANTASY]
[PURCHASES INDICATE: PREPARATION FOR ELABORATE EVENT]
[FOCUS: -4]
By evening, I'd traced the purchases to a warehouse in industrial Southeast D.C.
The building was old—red brick, loading docks, the kind of structure that had been a factory decades ago and now sat empty while the city redeveloped around it. No cars in the lot. No lights in the windows.
But the lock on the side door had been changed recently. And the dust on the floor showed footprints.
I called Hotch.
"I've got something. Industrial warehouse, Southeast. Recent activity. I'm going in."
"Wait for backup."
"If I wait, he might be gone. The trail's still warm." I checked my weapon. "I'll be careful."
"Mercer—"
"Four hours. I'll report in four hours."
I ended the call and slipped inside.
The warehouse interior was a museum of obsession.
Armor hung on wooden frames—not reproduction, but authentic medieval plate, lovingly restored. Weapons lined one wall—swords, axes, maces, all sharp enough to kill. Tapestries depicting Arthurian scenes draped from the rafters, their colors faded by centuries but their imagery unmistakable.
And at the center of it all, a workstation.
Parchment. Ink. Calligraphy pens. A laptop computer, incongruous among the medieval artifacts. And photographs—hundreds of photographs, pinned to a board that covered an entire wall.
Pictures of the BAU.
Gideon walking to his car. Hotch at a restaurant with his family. Morgan jogging in his neighborhood. Garcia through her apartment window. Reid at a bookstore. JJ leaving the office.
And Elle.
Dozens of photos of Elle. At work. At home. At the hospital after a case. In the parking lot. On the roof where she went to think.
[THREAT ASSESSMENT: CRITICAL]
[ELLE GREENAWAY — PRIMARY PHOTOGRAPHIC FOCUS]
[IMPLICATIONS: TARGET SELECTION IN PROGRESS]
[FOCUS: -6]
My blood ran cold.
He's not just watching the team. He's focused on her specifically.
Elle is his target.
I photographed everything—the wall, the workspace, the artifacts. Evidence that would help the team understand what they were facing. Evidence that might save lives.
But the warehouse was empty. Cleared out, maybe hours before I arrived.
[ANALYSIS: SUBJECT HAS RELOCATED]
[EVIDENCE INDICATES: IMMINENT ACTION]
[TIMELINE: DAYS, NOT WEEKS]
The drive back to Quantico was a blur of racing thoughts.
I'd found the Fisher King's lair. I'd confirmed his obsession with Elle. I'd proven that he was preparing for something big.
But I was too late to stop him. Too late to find him. Too late for anything except watching the disaster unfold.
Unless I do something.
Unless I tell them everything.
The thought circled like a vulture.
If I revealed my full knowledge—the cold case connections, the pattern recognition that went beyond normal investigation, the things I knew that I couldn't possibly know—they might find him faster. They might save Elle.
But they'd also know I'd been hiding things. That I'd been tracking this for months without telling anyone. That every "lucky guess" and "good instinct" had been something more.
Gideon already suspects. This would confirm everything.
And Elle... Elle would know I'd been lying to her all along.
I pulled into the Quantico lot at 10 PM, the weight of the decision pressing down like a physical force.
The team was still in the conference room when I entered. Tired faces, cold coffee, the particular exhaustion of people who'd been fighting all day without gaining ground.
"Found something," I said, and dropped the photos on the table.
Hotch picked them up. His expression hardened.
"Where?"
"Industrial warehouse, Southeast. He'd already cleared out, but this is what he left behind." I pointed to the wall of surveillance photos. "He's been watching us for months. Every one of us."
"There's something else," Gideon said quietly, studying the images.
"Elle." I kept my voice steady. "There are three times as many photos of her as anyone else. She's not just a target—she's the target."
Elle's face was unreadable.
"Then let him come," she said.
"Elle—"
"I'm serious." Her voice was cold, hard, the voice of someone who'd already decided what she was willing to risk. "If he wants me, let him try. I'm not hiding."
"That's not—"
"I'm not hiding." She stood, gathered her files. "I'm going home. To my apartment. Where he knows I live. And if he shows up, we'll settle this."
She walked out before anyone could stop her.
Morgan started after her, but Hotch held up a hand.
"Let her go. We'll have surveillance on her building within the hour."
"And if that's not enough?" I asked.
Hotch met my eyes.
"Then we pray it is."
The room emptied slowly. Team members heading home to families who might be in danger, to apartments that felt less safe than they had yesterday.
I stayed at my desk, staring at the photos I'd collected, running scenarios that all ended badly.
[DREAD METER: 12 → 15]
[THREAT LEVEL: CRITICAL]
[RECOMMENDED ACTION: INCREASE PERSONAL VIGILANCE]
The Fisher King was coming.
Elle was in his crosshairs.
And despite everything I knew, everything I'd learned, everything I'd prepared for—I had no idea how to stop what was about to happen.
Some things can't be prevented.
Some futures can't be changed.
All you can do is be there when they arrive.
I grabbed my keys and headed for the parking lot.
Elle's apartment was twenty minutes away.
She'd said she didn't want to be held. Didn't want to be protected.
But I was going anyway.
Because some things were worth fighting for, even when you couldn't win.
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