This isn't what I want

chapter 41

** Reid's POV **

"No. She can't go undercover. She's just returned to the field. And this mission is too dangerous." I yell out.

I can tell the rest of the team agree, and are not happy at all.

"Agent Reid, this is not your decision to make. This is the best way to catch the unsub before he kills again."

"JJ's not even a profiler. How is this the best way?"

"Agent Jareau has skills in communication and deciphering cryptic messages, and she's the only person within the DC area that fits the profile and can speak Russian."

"You speak Russian?" Garcia asks her.

"I'll do it." JJ says with a deep breath. 

Behind her eyes, I can see the fear, but she doesn't seem to care. She just has a determined look on her face, and doesn't look at any of us as she walks away with Strauss, presumably to get ready.

"Did any of you know she speaks Russian?" Garcia asks us.

"I found out earlier." I answer as everybody else shakes their head. "There's a lot of things we don't know about her."

** JJ's POV **

I'm dressed in a blank tank top and jeans with a chip embedded in a studded necklace.

"This will track your position, and we'll be able to listen in to your conversations." Strauss explains to me. "Remember, you need to look for a link between the eight victims. A common aspect of lifestyle, or a person, or a particular place. Something that we can use."

"I understand, Ma'am. Where's Aria?" I ask her, as I realise Emily didn't have Aria when I first arrived.

"She is being looked after. She is in safe hands. I just need you to concentrate on this mission."

"Of course." I say, determined to look ready.

Am I ready to go undercover? Honestly, not really. But I know I have to, to protect the others who are on the unsub's target list.

After a quick goodbye to the team, I drive to a small, quiet suburb, and let myself into the house I'm using as a cover. It's plainly decorated with a small television and table in the front room, and a reasonable sized kitchen. I'm barely in for two minutes when there's a knock on the front door.

Unsure about who it is, I put my gun on the small shelf beside the door and open it a crack. There's a young girl, no older than about eleven, holding a small tin.

"Hello. My name's Francesca, I live across the street. You're new here, so I brought cookies." She says in a thick Russian accent, and presses the tin in my hands.

"Thank you very much, Francesca. Would you like to come in?" I offer as a way to say thanks.

Suddenly, her smiling face disappears and she looks worried. Something's wrong, but I can't tell what.

"I can't. I have to get back." She mutters and rushes across the street.

I watch as she slips back into the house opposite, and I'm shocked to see all of the windows are shut, and the curtains are drawn tight. Strange, for a family with a child. But not unheard of. It's only been a few minutes, but I feel hungry so I take the tin of cookies and begin to eat one. It's delicious, but there's an unfamiliar taste at the back of my mouth.

And suddenly, my vision becomes blurred. My head starts to hurt, so I stand up to get a glass of water, and the last thing I remember is the outline of a stool as I fall to the floor, unconscious.