In this moment, SSA Dr. Spencer Reid knew three things to be true, and not the truth that was some objective truth that could comfort him with religious fervor like statistics did for him, but three gritty, horrible and real truths that he was facing. What those three things were, to his dismay, were that his back-up was still about ten minutes out, the officer whom had taken him to this location had been shot in the head, and that it was dark and he had no idea where the hell the unsub was. Everything else was gravy.

He was terrified in the wholest sense of the word. The nostalgia he was feeling for a certain rural patch of Georgia wasn't making this situation any better, either. The air was stifling with humidity, the ground damp from a brief summer rain, and that in and of itself made it even harder to tread the terrain.

This was what it felt like to die, he didn't have to tell himself that; after all with an eidetic memory he could just instantly recall that exact sense that had happened not quite long-enough ago for his psyche to have healed. This feeling in his chest was the same feeling he had shortly before Tobias Henkel had successfully put him into cardiac arrest (after his brief seizure that is), and that horrible, sickening fear was present now. When he heard a branch snap behind him he quickly pivoted then dove behind what appeared to be a bush, but was actually a fallen tree branch from the earlier storm.

Two shots were fired in his direction as he stumbled to get away from the shooter, air a very limited commodity that his lungs really wished they were better stocked for. The exact moment that he turned from the profiler hunting the unsub to the potential victim being hunted was fuzzy…

…Punctuated only by the forcible sound of a gunshot muffled by hitting flesh and ripping through a skull. Reid surmised that the son of a bitch was using a .45 Magnum, his ears were still ringing from the shot and he hadn't even been close to the officer or the unsub at the time.

He stumbled down an incline, a 70-degree drop that lasted for about twelve feet before petering to a 40-degree incline then close-enough to be level. His knee buckled in an unhappy reminder that physical therapy did not magically make ligaments reattach or fully repair themselves.

So instead of losing his hiding place, because in this essential moment he had to do just that, he held his wince and sucked in three breaths before putting pressure on his knee, praying that he didn't just undo what took an entire surgery and months of P/T to fix. His prayers were answered, either by the titanium joint the surgeons had put in or some godly presence, he didn't want to evaluate it. Standing, he started to maneuver the hill, closely so he could use it for cover as he proceeded to make his way back to the initial target. He might be alone now, but he had two things the unsub didn't: time, and an IQ of 187.

After putting fifty yards between where the unsub last saw him and where he was currently standing, he braved the hill. Spencer wanted to at least radio in 'shots fired, officer down' before trying to confront the man on his terms. As long as his friends knew his situation, he knew he'd be able to pull through, and perhaps more importantly, that they'd come prepared.

He hadn't been prepared; however, for being cold-clocked on the side of his head by the butt of a pistol. It sent him reeling to the ground in anguish and a splash of crimson. He really hated the dark. Using one of the academy moves Morgan had taught him in his first or second year of actual field-work, Reid sent his good leg upward, hooking behind the unsub's knee before jerking back roughly, bending his knee and sending the son of a bitch murderer to the ground. He had been lucky when the creep lost his gun too. Now, they were on the same page, in the dark and not in immediate grasp of a gun.

Reid did something he never had much practice in doing, then. He threw a punch, a hook if he was correct, connecting to the cheek of a stunned murderer as they began jockeying for top position, unfortunately he hadn't managed to knock the unsub to his back, and thus was working with less leverage.

He dreaded what looked like milky fair skin clenching fingers together over his head and then slamming them much closer to Reid's head, namely at the moment of contact. That was painful. Not as bad as the steal handle of the gun, but being bashed in the face repeatedly by the violent offender was anything but peaches. Clutching for anything he could use to slow the onslaught, Reid's right hand finally found a hardy rock before introducing it to the unsub's skull for a change. Using that swinging momentum as forward motion, he managed to get on top this time, until the unsub grabbed him by the wrists and started to roll.

It struck him, with the ground, that this was like those death-rolls alligators would do, namely as he continued to roll down the hill with the unsub in more control than gravity should have allowed, until they hit water. Reid's body suddenly lost momentum, as it grounded to a halt in 20 inches worth of water. Trying to sit up, trying to keep track of how much time had passed, Reid's mind was processing at a speed only adrenalin (and freakishly genius person) could attain. He managed to force his head above the water only to be pushed under again, hands now snaking around his throat as the unsub moved in for a more personal kill.

But Reid knew better than him, he had his profile, he knew damn well that the unsub wasn't used to actual manual strangulation. It takes time, energy, and a sheer animosity that this piece of work was not going to get. Instead of trying to free himself from the unsub's grasp, Reid's hands busied themselves elsewise. It was counter-instinctive but Reid managed to force his mind to work with his body, not against each other. His fists hit in rapid succession to where Reid presumed the unsub's diaphragm to be, and after the ninth hard strike to the solar plexus the hands around his throat loosened, Reid took the opportunity to thrust his head and shoulders above the water line and gasp in the air he had so direly wanted.

One lingering hand, the unsub's dominant, left hand, kept it's vigilance around Reid's throat though. Not being shaken off, even though the grip had loosened. Swatting at it, Reid knew the next few moments would be critical. He saw flashlights beaming from the hillside, going in the wrong direction, "HERE! OVER HERE!" He yelled before pressure suddenly was applied to his trachea in a very unpleasant manner.

Suddenly Reid was underwater again, but it wasn't as dark this time, stray beams from maglites were swinging over and past him then returning back to where his arms were flailing, no doubt splashing water.

Cognitively, Reid knew this kind of struggling was a waste for what limited oxygen he had, but he was having a hard time convincing his body to again listen to his empirical orders, but in that moment he again revisited the profile and a very risky thought struck him. The unsub doesn't have the experience to know just HOW LONG it actually takes a person to drown. Of course, it varies depending on blood-gas levels of oxygen and carbon dioxide, health, and physical prowess and age, but Reid knew his best bet to get out of it was to fake it.

So he faked it like he did on every date Morgan set him up on with a woman. Literally dying and dating held things in eerie similarity. The vapid conversations were the same forms of acting he used now to convey the desire to the opposing party, in the dating instances usually as chesty blonds with roots the length of his fingernails and in ways of the unsub in the form of a Caucasian 33 year old with black hair and piercing eyes, it was too dark to tell what color they actually were.

His ploy seemed to work, the pressure on his throat eased up, Reid took it as his chance maybe his last one even. He maneuvered his leg just under the unsub's chest before extending fully, again pulling his head out of the water, this time hacking and coughing the mouthful of water he hadn't managed to swallow, he was sure some got in, the way his lungs burned it was a certainty. Taking in a gasp he yelled, "WE'RE OVER HERE! IN THE CREEK!" Coughing, he tried to space himself from the unsub as more foot-falls drew closer.

Reid couldn't fathom why his vision was suddenly growing darker, he could visually SEE the lights moving toward him, his retina clearly taking it in, but the edges of his vision were what started to go dark. More and more until he was looking through pin-pricks, and even then he really disliked what he saw. What he saw was the unsub's forearm, before it finished hooking around his throat and pulling him to a muscular body he was unfamiliar with. He felt his service piece being taken from his holster as shouts and commands were being barked from a semi-circle forming around them.

"GET OUT OF THE WATER!"

"PUT THE GUN DOWN!"

"LET HIM GO!"

Some cop, Prentiss, and Hotch. He could tell that was who said what, but Reid wasn't able to manage the very important sentence he wanted, no… needed to say. The gun was underwater, there's no way it would be able to fire.

Apparently, he didn't need to say it though. The unsub was either a fool who wanted to go out in a blaze of glory with ONE more victim, or really did want to suicide by cop because he pressed the tip of the gun to Reid's forehead and, in a sound Reid still had nightmares about to this day, heard a CLICK! Nothing. Then again, click, again, click… in his frustrations, the unsub threw the gun at whomever was standing in front of them, Reid vaguely smelled Hotch's aftershave and for some reason envisioned him as the brunt of the swarm. There were suddenly two hands around his throat now, though.

Suffocation, it wasn't how Reid thought he'd go. Nor did he think he'd die in front of Hotch or the others while they watched, but apparently that was how he was going to really die, Reid thought that somewhere between unconscious and conscious, until he felt crushing weight on top of him, he was back in the water again. The warm, unforgiving water, and then there was relief. The crushing pain around his throat was gone, he still couldn't breathe, but he knew, at least scientifically that he was getting blood back to his brain. His eyes blinked as his head was yanked out of the water fiercely, he almost winced with how fingers tangled in his hair to do such, and the first unrestricted breath he took in wreaked of that wonderful aftershave Hotch used.

He was on solid ground now; he had felt himself being dragged. Another parallel he didn't really want to make to Georgia, but nonetheless one he had to assert. He could feel the mud wedge in between the lip of his shoes and his mismatched socks, a buffer between his skin. As Reid's eyes began to regain focus, looking upward, he noticed the stars, the trees, and SAC Aaron Hotchner, all seeming to look right back down at him.

"We need a medic…!" Hotch shouted back, Morgan pushed a now-cuffed unsub into the arms of awaiting detectives. He was sopping wet.

Reid smirked at Morgan, "My hero…" he managed in a sarcastic enough of a tone that Morgan even smiled despite feeling just as sticky and miserably wet as Reid did.

"You owe me for dry-cleaning." Morgan answered haughtily back.

"You didn't have to tackle ME, too." Reid mentioned before looking back at Hotch. He tried and failed to suppress a hacking cough. His hand touched his own throat before he immediately released, hating the lingering feeling of anything confining to the sensitive flesh. It hurt, and he was amazed his voice wasn't raspy… but it didn't stop Reid from trying to physically reduce his attempts to suck in air.

Returning his view to the sky, he said in a low voice, only meant for himself and maybe even Hotch, "I'm okay…" He himself amazed.

He didn't expect any comments, let alone rebuttals, but that didn't stop Hotch, "Like hell you are. You look like a drowned puppy."

Reid turned to face him, the mental imagery was more amusing than he thought it should be, and there in Hotch's stress-aged face, he saw in his sparkling eyes that sign of relief and knew he really was better off than what Hotch admitted.

That was what made him sit up, a sign of bravado or strength, whatever anyone wanted to call it he didn't really care. "The officer with me… the unsub shot him… he's dead."

"We know. We found him first, before we heard you yell." Hotch said, solemnly. "Rossi and JJ are looking for the last victim in the cabin."

Reid shook his head, "She's dead… he must have heard us coming or something, but there's no way he didn't finish her off once he realized we were here." Reid thought aloud.

"In all fairness, Reid, you don't know that. You didn't get to the cabin so you couldn't really know. We have to check."

Reid nodded in understanding, but that didn't change the feeling he had.

That son of a bitch had known they were in his driveway, well, it was more of a private road that ended in front of a cabin, but all the same, the man had heard them, or seen them, or something… and given how he tried to take Reid down, he knew the attitude extended to the missing woman too. He felt a sickening amount of guilt when the idea struck him, that maybe she was lucky enough to die BEFORE he had the chance to torture her as much as he'd have liked. His face twisted in disgust at the actual concept of wishing for another human being's death, an innocent person… Hotch caught the sudden change in expressions and Reid couldn't help but wonder why the hell was Hotch's face STILL so close to his?

"You know that it isn't your fault, don't you?" Hotch said firmly, Reid was certain Hotch was not a man of flesh but of rock and concrete… and rebar.

"Intellectually, yeah, I know that. He had kidnapped her before the press conference went out, and he liked to torture victims for 48 hours, we got here 3 hours after her abduction. Three. That's impressive, but that still doesn't mean she's alive… He isn't the type of monster who'd give up his prey just because the jig is up. He might have just killed her faster than he wanted to, to try to escape or something but that doesn't make me feel any better."

"We don't even know if she IS dead, Reid." Hotch reminded him.

Reid's hands covered his face. Over the earpieces they heard confirmation of what Reid was already thinking, realizing…

"We found a body, she's wearing what our missing person was last seen in. He cut off her face and hands. She bled out, she's dead." Prentiss said, with far too much description for Reid to have wanted.

Physical pain actually showed in his face as he crumpled into himself. His hands gripped his own hair, mimicking the roughness of Hotch's hand as he had pulled him from the water. Hotch pulled out Reid's earpiece before pulling him into his chest in an embrace.

So, this too is like Georgia. Reid felt bitter, he felt angry, but more over he felt that same sinking fear of the dark and the clear realization that he was not going to get to sleep tonight, or even tomorrow night for that matter. Tears began streaming down his face as Hotch pulled him closer into the embrace.

"Mortality isn't your sin, Reid." Hotch said, "You shouldn't have to feel survivor's guilt."

Reid didn't have the heart to tell Hotch that the sentiment sounded more like a death-threat than pep-talk but he left it alone. It was enough that Hotch was lending him a shoulder to cry on and doing it in a discrete manner, well, as discrete as two men hugging in the middle of a swarm of cops and BAU field agents.

After another few moments, Reid pulled back, not truly wanting to lose the contact, but all the same knowing that he had to. He felt sick, dizzy and nauseous and he didn't fully know why. Was he coming off the adrenalin high and crashing, or was he a candidate for antibiotics to prevent pneumonia or 'dry drowning', he could have rattled off the statistics for drowning-victims who died because of secondary effects, but he was already depressed and didn't really feel the urge to resort to it.

"Hotch, I…"

"Any idea where the EMTs are?" Hotch asked over the airways, he listened intently for a response before locking eyes with Reid. "We need to get back up that hill, can you manage or do you want me to carry you?"

Reid looked at Hotch trying to assess if that was a joke or a threat. With the grace of a newborn deer, Reid managed to get to his shaky feet before Hotch helped him traverse the climb, a hand on the small of his back the entire time. Hotch maneuvered Reid to sit on the back of the bumper of the ambulance as a pen-light shone into Reid's eyes one at a time, assessing him.

He felt a migraine approaching, something he rarely got but could easily relate to drug-withdrawals and head-trauma… he just hoped he wouldn't have to see the lifeless body of victim number 4, he curled into himself before feeling fabric drape his shoulders, his head pulled up to see Hotch's hands release the blanket over his shoulders.

"Thanks." He looked at the EMTs before mentioning, "I'm fine, I don't need to go in…"

He felt a few glares on him, and he guessed who they belonged to, the incredulous ones were the EMTs and a deputy-sheriff, the miffed one was Hotch's, and the near explosive one was Morgan's.

"Sit your skinny ass on that stretcher, Reid before I strap you down myself. You almost drowned, you're bleeding from the head, and look like death warmed over… and I only think THAT'S because of the heat." Morgan said, matter-of-factly.

Hotch attempted to convince him with reason, more than raw emotion, "Moreover, you probably think you're okay because you're going into shock. I'm ordering you to go in and get checked out."

"Ordering…?" It made it more serious than Reid thought it was, Hotch rarely actually pulled rank on the profilers, but he would do it if he felt he had to tow the line. "…Do I really have to use a gurney?"

The EMT worker laughed, "You can just sit on it, sir."

Reid seemed physically relieved.

"We'll come get your statement in a couple of hours, once they get you checked out." Hotch locked eyes with Reid meaningfully, in that intense glance, Reid wished he was still in Hotch's arms, it felt so much better there. Now he felt naked, despite the draped blanket, the subtle injuries he had been ignoring until now were starting to throb and ache.

He simply nodded once, the paramedic helped him get onto the stretcher inside the back of the ambulance before closing the door.

Reid silently began reliving what had transpired tonight, dissecting it and Georgia, black-listing the overlapping features which seemed to be so innumerous. His silence became deafness as his walls closed in on him, a self-loathing that he felt from even the thought of what using dilaudid was like, to the level of sheer pain culminating behind his temples, he bowed his head and began to shake.

There was no doubting the sureness that this was going to indeed be a long, hard night.

To Be Continued.