Unknown- A Criminal Minds Fanfic

Chapter 5-Taken Alive

"Shit!" I yelled, and with no thought to the stilettos I was wearing, I took off running after him, Reid on my tail. 

I rounded the corner into the alley and spotted the unsub trying to wrestle the girl into his car, but she was putting up a good fight.

"FBI!  Let her go!" I shouted as I barreled towards him, wishing slutty clubbing outfits had room to conceal a gun, because as of right now, I was without a weapon.  Except for maybe my killer shoes...

The minute he saw us, his eyes widened in surprise and he released the girl and shoved her to the ground, scrambling to get in his car.  He took off before I was even close enough to get a good look at his face, but as I helped the shaking, crying girl to her feet, I kept my eyes trained on the car, memorizing the license plate.  BG-5471.

"It's okay, it's okay," I soothed the girl as she clung to me.  I begrudgingly accepted the physical contact even though normally it made me squirm in discomfort, but she had legitimately been scared for her life so I guess I'd give her a break.

It's not like she noticed, anyways, her face was buried in my shoulder, her long dark hair cascading over my arm.  It was sad that her hair covered me more than the stupid shirt I was wearing.

Reid jogged to a stop in front of me, and a familiar black SUV with flashing lights in the windshield pulled to a stop at the end of the alleyway the girl had disappeared around mere seconds ago.  Hotch and Morgan got out, followed by Rossi and Prentiss.

Reid was doubled over, his hands on his knees, and he panted, "Did you get a-" he stopped to take a breath before continuing, "Plate number?" he asked.

"B G fifty-four seventy-one, black four door, the unsub is just short of six feet with short brown hair," I rattled off everything I had remembered.  I had canvased the club when we'd entered and noticed there were no security cameras inside the club so I had tried my best to remember details.

Reid looked a little surprised but I summed it up to no one working there for only a month knowing how to recall details like that and instead helped Prentiss coax the terrified girl over to an ambulance to get looked over.  Morgan occupied himself with calling Garcia with the information I had just provided, and Hotch was busy conversing with a few people who had heard the girl scream.

In seconds Garcia had sent us an address belonging to one Anthony Jenson, and Reid and I climbed in the back of the SUV--thankfully Morgan had grabbed our guns and some extra vests, though not a change of clothes much to my chagrin--and went with them to check out this creep's house. 

The only problem was he wasn't at home, and there was no evidence of his sadism in his duplex, which means he must have been holding the girls in a separate location before he killed them.  At least we had more info to add to our profile, and JJ presented it to the public on the ten o'clock news.

By six the next morning, after a night of loose theories, exhaustion, and stale coffee--or flat soda, in my case--Mrs. Jenson had arrived at the BAU and was being interviewed by Prentiss. 

Apparently Mr. Jenson had cheated on his wife--while his son was home to witness the whole thing--with numerous prostitutes before running off to marry a stripper when his son was at the ripe age of twelve.  A very impressionable age especially when it comes to skewing a child's sense of love, which must have continued into his adolescence.  Mrs. Jenson had suspected her son was abusing many of his girlfriends as a teenager but neglected to say anything about it to him, the girls, or any of the girls' parents.  And Anthony's current girlfriend of two years had just committed suicide three months ago, right when the murders of the college girls started.  There was our stressor, but his mother couldn't remember any specific locations that would have been important to our unsub, so we turned to Garcia to work her magic.

Five hours later, Garcia came bustling into the conference room and announced--gesticulating with a sparkly fluff-ball ended pen--"It took a little digging, but as always my spelunking has uncovered what you crime fighters need to know.  Right before Holly Wilson--his old girlfriend--committed suicide, her mother reported one of her credit cards missing.  She cancelled it and everything, but Anthony Jenson had already used it to make a down payment on a storage unit in nearby Crofton.  And before you ask, yes, the address has already been sent to your phones," she explained.

Hotch pulled out his phone and headed for the door, Prentiss calling, "Thanks, Garcia," over her shoulder as she followed Hotch out, and Reid and I were right behind them.  After failing to catch this guy when he escaped from the club last night, there was no way I was sitting this out.

We arrived at the storage unit and Hotch and I took the lead.  I covered him when he busted down the door, and then all four of us spread out and checked the edges of the large vacant storage warehouse before advancing towards the man in the middle of the room where a cot, table, and chair were set up, looking small in the vast space.  The guy was sitting on the chair, the floor around it mottled with rusty stains that could only be the blood of the three girls he had killed.  The dim light in the room flashed off of an assortment of steel instruments that could only be for torture.

Anthony Jenson sat dejectedly in the chair, a gun grasped loosely in his hand and dangling at his side.  He knew he was caught, and he wasn't intending to be taken alive.

"Anthony, put down the gun," Prentiss said firmly, cautiously stepping towards him.

"No," he snapped, raising the gun and pressing the barrel to his temple.

"Drop your weapon!" Hotch demanded, his gun raised.

"Don't do it.  Your father shouldn't have left you and your mother," Prentiss started.  "What he did with those women, what he did to you, you don't have to end up the same way.  We can get you help," she said calmly.

His face was stony but in the dim light his eyes showed the turmoil raging inside, and even before he pulled the trigger I knew he was going to give up and kill himself. 

The explosion echoed in the room, and as it faded, we all lowered our guns.  I stuck mine in its holster and repressed a sigh.

We'd found him, but we weren't taking him alive.

I got home a little after five after spending the remainder of the afternoon filling out paperwork in the bullpen.  One of the largest downsides of this job was the immense amount of paperwork.

My feet were sore, my calves ached from running in heels, my eyelids were heavy, and even nine seemed too late to finally collapse in bed.