The jet is quieter than usual.
Not silent—there’s always the steady mechanical hum of the engines and the occasional shuffle of case files—but quieter in the way it gets when everyone is mentally preparing for a case that might escalate.
Morgan is reviewing photographs.
JJ is on the phone coordinating with local law enforcement.
Hotch is standing near the front of the cabin reading through the preliminary report again.
Which leaves me with an unfortunate amount of time to think.
Specifically about a very particular possibility.
I glance up from the case file.
“Hotch?”
He doesn’t look up yet.
“Yes, Reid.”
“Based on the current trajectory of the situation, there is approximately a forty-seven percent probability that the local authorities will request federal tactical support if negotiations deteriorate.”
Morgan looks up from the photos.
“Translation?”
“It could escalate into a hostage scenario.”
JJ nods slightly.
“That’s what the local PD is worried about.”
I hesitate.
Because the next part of the thought is significantly less professional.
“…If that happens,” I continue carefully, “there’s a strong chance the FBI Hostage Rescue Team would be deployed.”
Morgan’s eyebrow lifts immediately.
“Oh?”
I try to keep my voice neutral.
“They’re the Bureau’s primary tactical response unit.”
“Uh huh.”
“And statistically speaking they’re extremely effective.”
Morgan leans back in his chair, clearly entertained now.
“Reid.”
“Yes?”
“You’re rambling.”
I blink.
“I’m providing context.”
Hotch finally looks up from the report.
“Do you have a point?”
I hesitate again.
This part is harder to phrase logically.
“…If HRT does get called in,” I say slowly, “it’s possible we’ll be interacting with their command structure.”
Morgan grins now.
“Oh we definitely will.”
JJ glances between us.
“Why?”
I adjust my glasses.
“Because last time we worked with them their unit chief was—”
I stop.
Morgan’s grin widens.
“Oh no.”
JJ leans forward slightly.
“Was what?”
I clear my throat.
“Extremely competent.”
Morgan laughs outright.
“Extremely competent.”
“Yes.”
Hotch watches me quietly now, which is statistically concerning.
“So hypothetically,” I continue quickly, “if someone wanted to express professional appreciation for a tactical commander’s effectiveness…”
Morgan presses his lips together to stop smiling.
“What kind of appreciation?”
“Well,” I say, trying to sound purely analytical, “something small. A professional gesture. Nothing that could be interpreted as inappropriate within an operational context.”
JJ tilts her head.
“…Reid.”
“Yes?”
“…Are you asking what gift you should bring the HRT commander Hale?”
I blink.
“…Hypothetically.”
Morgan leans forward across the table, grinning like he’s about to enjoy this far too much.
“Oh man.”
Then he glances at the others.
“Y’all hear that?”
He points at me.
“Pretty boy’s got a crush on the sniper.”
I realize about halfway through the silence that everyone is still looking at me.
Which, statistically speaking, suggests they are expecting clarification.
So I provide it.
“Well— it’s not just… arbitrary interest,” I say, adjusting my glasses slightly. “There are observable factors.”
Morgan leans back immediately, already amused.
“Oh this is gonna be good.”
I ignore him and continue.
“She carries herself differently than most people in federal tactical environments. Her posture is extremely controlled. Shoulders squared, center of gravity balanced. It’s the kind of stance that usually develops in people with extensive field conditioning.”
JJ’s mouth twitches.
“And the visual indicators are… notable,” I continue thoughtfully. “The platinum hair, for example. It’s distinctive. Statistically memorable. People tend to register high-contrast physical traits more quickly in high-stress environments.”
Morgan mutters, “He noticed the hair.”
“You’re analyzing her like a research paper.”
“I’m not,” I say automatically.
“…although there are several statistically fascinating components.”
“Kid,” Morgan says, shaking his head, “you’re down bad.”