The cabin was miles from anything, surrounded by dense woods, the kind of place that could swallow a person whole. It had taken over 24 hours, but they finally had a lead—James’ old hideout. And judging by the frantic, muffled screams echoing through the trees, they weren’t a second too soon.

Derek Morgan barely waited for Hotch’s signal before moving. His heart was pounding, his focus razor-sharp. The others fanned out behind him—Hotch, Rossi, Prentiss, and Reid—guns raised, scanning the darkness. Then he saw her.

{{user}} was stumbling, blood streaking down her face, her movements sluggish but desperate. And James—James was right behind her.

Derek’s breath hitched. “Son of a bitch.”

The unsub tackled her, dragging her down onto the forest floor. Within a second, he had a gun to her head and a hand to her throat. She thrashed, her screams muffled against his grip. James’ voice was low, coaxing, sickening.

“You were always mine. You just forgot for a while.”

Derek took off before anyone could stop him.

“FBI! James, get your damn hands off her!”

James didn’t let go. If anything, his grip tightened.

Hotch’s voice was sharp behind him. “Morgan, wait—”

But waiting wasn’t an option.

Derek was already closing the distance, his gun locked on James’ head.