Emily Prentiss One Shots

Arrest.

TW: undercover work, emily having some fun at work for once

You slipped on your boots and reached for your jacket, mind already on the next delivery, when the front door exploded inward.

"Get down!" you shouted, too late. The first volley of bullets ripped through the living room, shattering glass and bone alike. You hit the floor hard, adrenaline flooding your veins as you counted the shots, the screams, the seconds between them.

When the noise stopped, the silence hit like a concussion.

Five down. Maybe more.

Your ears rang as you forced yourself upright, FBI training warring with the part of you that had to stay Jordan Russo: drug mule, mid-level grunt, disposable. You dialed 911 with shaking fingers anyway.

"What the hell happened, Russo?"

Your boss, Steven Evans, was standing in the doorway, gun still drawn, scanning the wreckage like he was cataloging it.

"I don't know, boss," you said, slipping the phone back into your pocket. "I was leaving for a delivery when the door flew open. Guy came in spraying, didn't even look."

He stared at you for a beat too long before grabbing your arm and yanking you toward the back door. "We're leaving before the cops get here."

The car ride to the warehouse was silent at first, save for the hum of the tires on wet asphalt. You could feel your heart hammering in your throat. One wrong word, one suspicious glance, and this whole operation would end with a bullet to your head.

Evans finally broke the silence. "You ever wonder how people like us end up here?"

"Not really," you muttered. "I make deliveries and keep my mouth shut. That's the job."

He chuckled darkly. "Fair enough. But you should know, once you take a life, you never really get out. I learned that the hard way."

You turned your head, feigning disinterest. "You've killed people?"

"A woman," he said simply. "Years ago. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Three kids: two girls and a boy. Isaac, Layla, and Y/N, I think."

The air left your lungs.

For a second, the world blurred — the sound of the tires, the faint smell of gasoline, the rain hitting the windshield — all of it fell away until only his words echoed.

He killed your mother.

You forced your voice steady. "Rough. I, uh... lost my mom when I was a kid too. So I get it. For what it's worth."

He nodded, apparently satisfied, and kept driving.

You stared out the window, nails biting into your palms, repeating your cover story over and over to drown out the blood roaring in your ears.