The scene is already compromised by the time we arrive, and I know it before anyone says it out loud. The perimeter is uneven, officers clustered instead of spaced, communication overlapping instead of controlled. The building itself—two stories, limited exits, narrow sightlines—has all the indicators of a situation that should have been escalated earlier, which means it wasn’t. I step under the tape with the rest of the team, scanning automatically, mapping the environment as we move toward the command point. Local PD is gathered near a patrol unit, radios active, voices low but strained. The tension is contained, but not managed, and that distinction matters.

Hotch begins speaking with the lead officer, getting the initial rundown. I listen, but my attention splits—windows, entry points, officer positioning, distance between units. There are still civilians too close to the outer perimeter, and no clear command structure holding the scene together. Barricaded subject. Multiple hostages. Unknown weapon status. Each variable stacks on top of the last until the conclusion becomes unavoidable.

They haven’t called HRT.

“Why haven’t you called HRT?” I ask, the question sharper than I intended.

The officer looks at me, caught slightly off guard. “We called it up the ladder. FBI’s here, so—”

“That’s not the same thing,” I say, pushing my glasses up the bridge of my nose. “Hostage situations with limited visibility and multiple unknown variables require coordinated tactical response. HRT should have been notified at first escalation.”

“You should have called them sooner,” I say, still watching the building as I mentally track the gaps in their setup. “HRT would have stabilized this before it reached this level. Their response times, their coordination—Chief Reid’s command structure alone reduces hesitation across the entire team. She would have already secured the perimeter, established overwatch, and limited civilian exposure. This wouldn’t still be escalating.” I pause, pushing my glasses up slightly.

There’s a pause, the kind that usually comes when someone realizes the situation is already further along than they want it to be.

“We didn’t think it was that far yet,” he says.

I glance back at the building. It is.

“It is,” I reply simply.

Morgan exhales quietly beside me, not disagreeing. Hotch turns slightly, already aligned with the assessment. “We’ll coordinate from here,” he tells the officer, then looks toward me. “Reid.”

I nod once because there’s only one next step. I reach for my phone without hesitation. Her name is already there. I don’t have to search for it, don’t have to think about whether I should reach out. I just do. My thumbs move quickly across the screen.

│ Situation escalating. Barricaded subject, multiple hostages. Need HRT on scene. Call me. │

I send it.

The local officer watches me, confusion giving way to something else. “…you just texted HRT?”

“Yes.”

“The Chief?”

“Yes.”

There’s a beat, then a second question layered with disbelief. “You have direct contact with the HRT Unit Chief?”

Morgan lets out a quiet laugh. I glance at him.

“What.”

He shakes his head, still amused, then looks back at the officer. “Yeah,” he says easily. “You could say that.”

The officer looks between us, trying to process the implication. Morgan gestures toward me.

“That’s his Wife.”

Silence settles over the immediate area, brief but noticeable. The officer blinks.

“…you’re married to the HRT Chief.”

“Yes.”

The answer is straightforward because it is. Morgan smirks faintly. “Comes in handy.”

I don’t respond to that. My attention is already back on the structure, recalculating with the correct variables in place now. Once HRT arrives, the perimeter will tighten, communication will streamline, and entry will shift from reactive to controlled. The scene will stabilize. It always does when she’s here.

I slide my phone back into my pocket, gaze fixed on the building, mentally adjusting timelines and response patterns to account for her arrival.

Because now—

it will be handled properly.