So, first off…I hope everyone enjoyed the virtual cookies. You should be glad that they were only virtual, since whenever I make real cookies it's a complete disaster. Anyways…I hope this chapter is enjoyed!
Hotch practically leapt out of his car, slamming the door behind him. "What have you got?" he asked breathlessly.
The sheriff glanced up at him. "We haven't tracked him down yet," he said, "It's like a maze in those back alleys—nobody goes in there."
"Hotch!" Hotch turned around as he saw his teammate approaching. "Have they found Tucker yet? Have they found Reid?"
Hotch shook his head. "They have police agents searching," he said.
"I'm going, too," Morgan said, and before Hotch could stop him, he sprinted into the alleyway.
Reid tried to speak, to cry out; but Tucker's hand was still pressed against his mouth. The homeless man stared at them, dazed, for a split second; before scrambling to his feet and running out of the alleyway, stumbling twice along the way.
"Spencer," Tucker said sternly, "Do you have any idea how long it took me to find you?"
Reid just stared at him, his brain scrambling, trying to prepare his next move. Maybe the homeless man would get some sort of help. Then again, he hadn't been the most apt at giving directions—Reid had a mental image of the man running around and around in a square, and he felt the most bizarre urge to laugh.
Tucker moved again, and Reid tried to make a break for it; but Tucker caught his wrist, vice-like, and pressed a knife to his abdomen.
"Let go of me," Reid hissed.
Tucker pulled him closer, the knife digging further into Reid's skin. "But we're brothers," he insisted, "We have to stick together."
"Tucker," Reid's voice broke out of sheer terror. "You don't have to do this."
Tucker's breath was hot in his ear. "I'm sorry, Spencer," he whispered, "This is the only way."
Sharp, hot pain enveloped him; he let out a cry before he had even registered what had happened, sinking to the ground. He clutched at his side with shaking hands, trying to stop the bleeding.
"Tucker," he whimpered, "S-stop—"
His breath was cut off in a gasp as the knife came down again, this time into his stomach. He rolled over on the ground; it felt like he was drowning, choking on his own blood. He struggled to keep his eyes open; breaths came in desperate gasps.
He looked up at Tucker one last time; everything was going fuzzy, going white around the edges. Tucker's lips moved again, but he couldn't make sense of the words. He thought he heard a familiar voice—someone was sobbing; was it him? He couldn't make sense of it. It was nothing but a strange cacophony, devoid of meaning, fading in and out of perception. There was one final jolt of pain, then a loud shot that broke through the cacophony—someone was calling his name—and then it all fell into darkness.
"Tucker Davies," Morgan commanded, "Drop the knife now."
Morgan couldn't see what was going on, exactly; all he knew was that Tucker was standing, and Reid was on the ground, and Tucker was holding a knife inches from his throat.
"I'm sorry," Tucker said sadly, "I can't."
"Tucker, I do not want to shoot you. Put the knife on the ground and step away from Reid."
Tucker fixed his gaze on Morgan; his eyes looked tired, but happy. "You can shoot me if you want," he said, "I suppose it'll all be the same in the end. I was a good son, after all—wasn't I, Agent Morgan?"
"Step away from Reid," Morgan commanded. "He's your brother—you know you don't want to hurt him."
Tucker hesitated. He looked at Reid.
Then he smiled;
The knife came down;
And Morgan fired.
Tucker staggered briefly, dazed—then collapsed on the ground.
"We need a medic," Morgan hissed into his microphone, before sprinting over to Reid. He felt a jolt of panic when he saw the young man's condition—his eyes were half open, already glazing over; dark, pooling blood was seeping from his stomach.
"Fuck," Morgan muttered, "Fuck, Reid, don't do this to me. Come on." He pressed both hands to the boy's bleeding abdomen. "Come on, Reid, this isn't fair. This is so, fucking, unfair." Hot, angry tears were coursing down his face, the guilt growing heavier with every word. "I'm sorry, man. I'm so sorry. Just please—please wake up—"
It was at this point that he became aware of hands pulling him away from his friend; he tried to fight them at first, adrenaline and fury pulsing through his veins—finally, he heard the words, "Agent Morgan, these are the paramedics, you need to step away from him now—"
He forced himself to move away, his entire body shaking with something that was either anger or terror or sorrow, or maybe all three—he leaned against the wall and watched, dazed, as the three paramedics worked feverishly over his friend. He moved his hand to his face; it was shaking.
It was also covered with blood.
*…so yeah, things aren't going well! I apologize for the cliffhanger. But even if you're angry…review! ; ) I will bake virtual cupcakes this time.*