come down soon | s. reid

00 ~ prologue

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prologue:
waiting game

❝   Courage is not the absence of fear,
but rather the judgment that something else
is more important than fear.   ❞
— Ambrose Redmoon

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     SCOUT AWOKE TO THE SOUND OF HAMMERING. At first, she thought it was gunshots, that her team had finally found her and approached the ranch house guns blazing to rescue her. But then a glint of silver flashed in her eyes as the early morning sunlight reflected off the bars over the window, and she realized she was still alone.

      She pulled at the chain connecting her to the wall, trying to use her position on the still-made bed as leverage to no avail. She had tried dislocating her thumbs to break free on the first day of her captivity, but he noticed and tightened her binds until they cut into her skin. Her wrists were bruised and scabbing from trying to escape; her muscles weak and heavy. Her head throbbed, and the pounding from outside only made the pain echo inside her skull.

     She moved to the far end of the bed, as far as she could get while chained to the wall, and peered out the window. The tan pick-up truck outside hadn't moved from where it was parked last night, and the dust of the dirt road lay still. Then the banging stopped, started again, then stopped followed by the frustrated sound of metal dropping onto metal. She could hear the front door swing open, and familiar, heavy footsteps approached.

     The four locks on her bedroom door were slowly undone, and her kidnapper's head peeked around the corner of the doorframe. Scout moved back up against the wall, her cheek still sore from the punch he'd landed just a few hours before.

     "Good morning, princess," he soothed. "Sleep well?"

     Scout stared back wordlessly. Over the four days she'd been held hostage, she'd tried threatening him—legally and violently—bargaining, flattery, pleading. He responded with gentle kisses and heavy fists. Now, with nothing left to give, she chose silence.

     He sat on the edge of the bed, smoothing out the quilted covers. His fingers twitched as he ran them over the floral embroidery, and Scout noticed the fresh burns spotted around his hands. He smelled of gasoline, gunpowder, and sweat, small beads dripping down his forehead.

     "I've been working really hard to make everything perfect. It's almost ready." He looked up at Scout, expecting a reaction. She kept her expression deadpan. He shrugged sheepishly. "I only have the back end of the house to cover, and then it will be done."

     Had he told her what his plans were? Scout couldn't remember. The past few days had been such a blur of panic and pain that she could barely remember what day it was.

     When she didn't respond again, he let out a dejected sigh. "I know this is hard for you, princess, but it's for the best. I've been dreaming about this for so long that nothing can ruin our future together. Nothing."

     He raised his hand and tucked a piece of hair behind Scout's ear, smiling as if his knuckles didn't paint the bruises on her skin. She flinched at his touch. His cold, calculating glare scanned her face as a calloused thumb stroked her cheek, the scar she had given him almost 14 years ago morphing the skin on his cheek. She was used to Spencer's soft fingertips playing with her hair, his kind eyes glistening into hers...

     Scout tried not to think about Spencer too much. Her worst fear was that she would die here— in a dilapidated farmhouse in the middle of nowhere—and the last words she ever said to him were some of the cruelest she'd ever spoken.

     "Everything has to be perfect." His hand trailed down the side of her face to her neck, his fingers lightly running along the gold chain of her necklace. He picked up the mockingbird charm that rested on her chest and Scout held her breath. "And in order for it to be perfect, the version of you the FBI knows must die."

He tightened his hold on her necklace and yanked, jerking Scout's head forward with force. The necklace didn't break at first, so he used his free hand to hold Scout's shoulders back as he pulled again. This time, the clasp snapped and the necklace popped off, a cut from the chain stinging the back of Scout's neck.

     He held up her necklace—the mockingbird now a faded copper color after two decades of wear—and his lips curled upwards in a sinister smile. Scout choked back a sob.

     "This means a lot to you," he sneered. "Just like you mean a lot to me. And apparently, you mean a lot to other people, too." He gathered the necklace in his palm and slid it into his shirt pocket. "They'll come running, won't they? They won't be able to resist the idea of saving you."

     Scout's mind flooded with fear as she realized what he meant. Her eyes must have done the same. "Don't worry, dear. You'll be where you belong. You'll be with me." He took her hands in his, gripping them tightly so she couldn't pull away. "And they'll be where they belong: burning in the deepest depths of Hell."

     Scout felt a tear run down her cheek. He wiped it away tenderly. "Shh, shh. It'll all be over soon. Then, I'll have you all to myself. I'll be able to do whatever I want to you." One of his hands was squeezing Scout's so tightly she winced in pain.

     He planted a quick kiss on her forehead and headed toward the door. He stopped and looked back at Scout, chewing on his already-bloody lip. "Whatever I want," he whispered.

     As soon as she heard the front door shut, Scout sat up and wiped away the tears she'd silently shed. This couldn't be the way her life ended: alone, helpless, pitifully. She had to do something, anything, so that if she did die, at least she'd die fighting.

     A sparkle of gold glistened on the bed, and she picked up a fragment of her necklace. She pricked herself, then readjusted her legs beneath her. Positioning the sharp metal in between her fingertips, she tried finding the right angle to pick the lock of her chains, little by little, praying she'd be quicker than her kidnapper.

     She set herself the goal of assessing her situation from her team's perspective: victimology, geographical profiling, going over the evidence she thinks they have, and psychological analyses of her kidnapper. She didn't want to admit to herself that if she were them, she'd be stumped. But then again, she'd be a lot closer if she had what the others brought to the table: Hotch's leadership, Emily's tactfulness, JJ's grace, Rossi's sense of justice, Morgan's grit, Garcia's bright attitude, and Spencer...

     She'd start at the beginning and work her way to where she was now, scraping and scanning through every moment as she slowly felt for a click in her binds. Somewhere in her past hides the missing piece she needed to get ahold of her team so she could warn them of the danger they were in. No matter what, come hell or high water, she'd get back to the family she'd worked so hard to establish. No matter what, she'd get back to her genius.

The hammering resumed.