✓ | 𝗔𝗣𝗛𝗥𝗢𝗗𝗜𝗧𝗘 · ͟͟͞͞➳ spencer reid

CHAPTER 11 ━━━

# ! | CHAPTER ELEVEN
- she might be in over her head

━━━ HOTCH SHAKES HIS
head and pinches the bridge of his nose. "He's hiding now. He's been inside this investigation, knows what we all look like. We can't send anyone in, he'll recognize us."

"Well…" Meryl trails off, digging around her bag and coming up with a ginger wig and blue contacts.

Hotch holds up his hand. "No way, it'll be far too risky. If he catches you, you're as good as dead."

Something flashes in the woman's eyes but she shrugs it off. "C'mon, babe. He's not the scariest bull I've been in the pen with."

Over the last two and a half months, Meryl had proved to be an undeniable asset to the field team. She was warmly welcomed due to both her skill and her personality, and maybe the fact that she came equipped with coffee and a smile every morning without fault. The team had really grown on her. Garcia loved to go shopping together, practically begging Murph to add a bit of color to her wardrobe. Prentiss, however, became a best friend when it seemed like the rest of the team was paired off. Morgan and Reid, Rossi and Hotch, JJ and Garcia, and now the affectionately dubbed duo of "Em&M", courtesy of Reid. Now, they were in New Orleans working an abduction murder case.

The rest of the team nods halfheartedly, Penelope picking at her nails. Reid's eyebrows are scrunched together but he says nothing, fearing his concern will bubble up as lack of confidence. Morgan glances at the clock, five p.m. Meryl knows what he’s thinking, it’s getting late. They have to get moving or someone else is going to die.

ೃ⁀➷

“We’re gonna get him, Murph. Tell me you know that.” Meryl looks up at Derek, who offers her a small smile. It seemed so odd that only a few weeks ago, she was just thinking about how she could literally feel how much he didn’t trust her. They’re in the backseat of one of the SUVs, Hotch is driving and Rossi is riding shotgun, but they’re talking about some old Elvis movie animatedly. Meryl wears a black jumpsuit. It’s tight, low cut, exactly what the unsub likes. Her ginger hair is in a bob kind of style, her eye makeup is done to make her doe-ish eyes look that much more accentuated. She takes a moment to think. Those women who have died have had some sort of shortcoming, a birthmark or a speck of green in their blue eyes.

She nods in response to Derek. “Yeah, I know.”

Now, he smirks. “C’mon, don’t tell me little miss badass is scared?”

Meryl responds accordingly, smiling and narrowing her eyes playfully. “Course not, sugar.” She resists the urge to curl her arms over her stomach and loosens her posture, staring out the window.

Carolyn’s comes into view faster with Hotch driving. The man had a lead foot and zero shits to give, which was simultaneously effective and mildly worrisome. When they park on the side of the road opposite of the bar, Aaron turns in his seat to look at Meryl. “It is imperative that you stay singularly focused and you get out of there before you can get killed. We need you on this team after today, okay? All you need to do is get him outside. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir. In and out, I can do that.” She goes to get out of the car. “Oh, and Murph?” Derek pipes up, “you’ve got someone in there with you, just in case.”

Meryl adjusts her obnoxious silver belt buckle and heads into the western style saloon, already hating herself and she hasn't even opened her mouth yet. Great thinking, Murph. Send the pale little Italian chick in to pose as Dolly Parton’s left tit for the night. She walks in and immediately scans the room for Prentiss, thinking her to be the next one in line as far as undercover gusto is concerned. But no, there in the corner by a rusted out jukebox, pretending to nurse a bottle of Bud Lite was Spencer. He wears baggy jeans and leather boots, aviator sunglasses tucked into the neck of his partially unbuttoned plaid shirt. Half naked girls with a combined IQ of about six and a half surround him. He looks like he wants to die as one seductively perches on a pool table. The view isn’t half bad, Meryl thinks, as one girl locks eyes on her.

Her target, however, sits at the bar with something dark in a glass, barstool swiveled out toward the dancefloor. Meryl puts her curvy hips to work and saunters with everything she has, catching his eye and that of several other men in the process. She catches a glance of a gun in the outline of his lower pant leg and throws a discreet hand signal to Spencer, tugging two fingers through her hair. She leans over the bar and immediately, there’s a low wolf whistle to her left. Clint Conrade, their doting unsub, looks her up and down appreciatively.

“What’s a gal like you doing in a place like this?” Clint asks, voice dripping with attempted allure.

Meryl leans forward, pressing her breasts together as she takes the straw of her cute little vodka martini in between her teeth. “Might just be looking for a fella like you, how’s that sound?” Her southern accent is beyond passible. Back in the car, Rossi and Hotch exchange a glance.

“I knew she was good…” Rossi trails off, drumming his fingers as he watches her work her way into Clint’s senses on the live security feed, courtesy of one Penelope Garcia.

“Yeah, but she’s damn good,” Morgan comments.

In that amount of time, Meryl has captured the unsub’s attention. Too much of it, perhaps. He’s eyeing her down completely now, making sure she fits the bill. She discreetly slips her communicator out from her ear and into her bra. Clint’s eyes halt on her mouth and for a moment, Murphy fears he can see the discoloration in the scars covered up by foundation. That is apparently not the case, because he offers her a slow, easy smile. “Let’s get out of here, cupcake. Don’t wanna leave your drink now, do you?”

She raises it in a mock toast then takes a small sip. “One for the road. Get a couple of these things in my system and I get all loosey-goosey!" Loosey-goosey. Christ, if this guy doesn't kill me off, I may have to do the honors, Meryl thinks, licking her lips seductively as she sets her drink down, the floor of the bar swimming under her feet.

A great many things happen in the next couple of seconds. A gaggle of girls cut off Spencer's view and Meryl’s vision gets blurry. The bartender offers her a cruel smile as her limbs grow heavy and Clint slips a hundred bucks across the table, sliding his arm around her waist to hold her up as they walk to the door. People they pass by nod and smile in understanding when he claims to be taking home his drunken girlfriend.

“Hotch. Hotch. I lost eyes on her!” Spence scream-whispers once the gaggle clears about seven seconds later. Garcia links all their calls together, screeching, “What do you mean you lost eyes on her?”

Spencer rushes toward the back exit. “I mean that there was a swarm of people in my way and in that time, he… God, I don’t know-” his eyes catch on her martini, “-he drugged her.”

The muffler on an older truck picks up and then, just as quickly, zips farther away.

“Was that…” Morgan asks, a little bit in shock. Hotch replies an affirmative. “JJ, Prentiss, do you have eyes on an older model pick-up truck?”

“Negative, we didn’t hear a thing over here,” Prentiss replies, shifting the sedan into gear and pulling out onto a main road at the back of the bar’s parking lot.

Reid runs out to hop in next to Morgan, something metallic clinking in the front left pocket of his jeans. He digs around and pulls out Meryl’s locket. Derek watches as Spencer clicks it open, seeing the watch face with its Roman lettering on one side. On the other face is a picture of all of them, the picture Murphy had taken from behind her little digital camera, shrunken down and solidified inside the necklace with what seemed like resin.

“Oh my God,” Spencer breathes out, fear accelerating his heart beat, “She thinks she’s going to die.”