Long Shadows – Chapter Five

"It is better to exist unknown to the law." – Irish proverb

2002

Even with their limited data, Interpol had guessed that Valhalla was quite wealthy from his business dealings. Emily had found this somewhat hard to believe based on Doyle's activities in Boston. His apartment was haphazardly furnished in a rundown neighbourhood; his cars were decent, but not expensive. The only indicators of his wealth were the nice restaurants that he regularly took Emily to. It didn't make sense—he was a good businessman, and he was clearly making a lot of money. His arrogant personality suggested a life of extravagance that he didn't seem to have.

The real destination of Doyle's money became clear a few days later, when Emily climbed aboard his private jet for the flight to his expansive villa in Tuscany.

Doyle came up behind her and wrapped his hand around the back of her neck. She jumped, startled, but covered for it by pressing a kiss to his cheek.

"Are you ready for this, love?" he asked.

She laughed. "For the plane ride? I mean, my ears always hurt on smaller planes, but I think I can handle it."

Doyle winked at her as he walked down the plane's aisle to swing his bag onto a seat. "You know what I mean." He sat down and patted the seat next to him. "Are you ready to do this with me?"

"Of course I am." Emily sat down and covered his hands with hers. "Ian, I've had time to think about this. Wherever you go, I know that's where I want to be."

"Good," he replied simply. He leaned across her to address his men across the aisle. "Liam, wheels up in five."

Emily reached for her purse. "Mind if I step out for a smoke before we take off?"

"You can smoke on the plane, Lauren."

She delivered a swift kiss to Doyle's cheek and whispered, "I knew there was a reason I liked you."

Soon after takeoff, Doyle moved to the front of the plane with Liam, and the two began speaking in hushed tones. Emily chewed her nails and watched them from her seat. Emily Prentiss the agent longed to eavesdrop on the conversation; for that matter, Lauren Reynolds the arms supplier was intrigued by the possible business discussion. But Lauren the girlfriend knew her place in Ian's life, and it was Lauren the girlfriend who decided to get up and make friends with the other two men on the plane.

"You're Riley, right?" she asked, sitting down next to the freckled redhead whom she'd met at her first arms deal.

"Yeah," he replied. He nodded his chin towards the man across the table. "And he's Brendan."

Brendan was a few years older than Riley, maybe closer to Emily's age. His dark brown hair was just beginning to grey at the temples. The hawk-like nose and prominent cheekbones gave him a harsh look, but his eyes seemed surprisingly kind. There was something friendly in his gaze, a smile turning up the corner of his lips as he extended his hand toward Emily.

"It's a pleasure, Lauren," he said. Like Riley, his Irish accent was softer and less pronounced. "We were just going to start a game of cards. Care to join us?"

"I'd love to."

He produced a pack of cards and began to shuffle. Emily pulled out a cigarette, and Riley lit it for her. The three played a few rounds of poker, interspersed with good-natured squabbling as they mixed together dollars, pounds, and lire. As they played, Emily sneaked glances towards Doyle and Liam, but she couldn't hear their conversation. The thought of being in a foreign country with men who would kill her without a moment's hesitation if she slipped up still made her nervous; she'd had nightmares about it all last night. She inhaled heavily and let the bitterness of the cigarette calm her.

One hand led to a round of particularly high betting, and Emily squealed with delight as they all revealed their cards. She drew the pile of money to her side of the table and looked up at Doyle to find him watching her. His eyes glittered in a way that Emily had learned meant he was pleased. She blushed and winked at him.

"Now, boys," Doyle smirked, "I've already paid Lauren. You don't need to be giving her any more money."

They all laughed.

"How long before we land?" asked Brendan.

Doyle looked at his watch. "A good few hours. It'll be morning in Italy, but it's nighttime in the States."

Emily stood up and stretched. "In that case, I think I might take a nap." She settled back in her original seat and pushed her chair all the way back. "Ian, I could get used to this life."

He chuckled and took the seat beside her. "Maybe I should sleep as well."

"Good," she whispered. "I always sleep better next to you." She kissed his stubbled cheek and tucked a pillow beneath her head. "I'm notoriously good at sleeping on planes," she warned him, "so don't let me sleep through the landing. I want to see out the window as we come down."

"I'll make sure to wake you," he promised, grinning. "Sleep well, Lauren."

"You too, Ian," she mumbled, settling against his shoulder. Her eyes slid closed and her breathing began to steady.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

"Lauren, we're here."

Bleary-eyed and yawning, Emily emerged from the SUV. Her boots crunched against the gravel to the other side of the car, rubbing her eyes. Doyle gestured towards the house with a grand sweep of his arm. "What do you think?"

The villa itself was a beautiful peach-coloured, three-story building with a stone roof. There were balconies and patios and rooms with huge windows that overlooked the sprawling grounds. It reminded Emily of the extravagant embassy houses she'd grown up in. The front drive, where they stood, was accented by a little garden with purple flowers that blossomed in the shade of a fruit tree. The back of the house was hidden from view, but beyond it were more trees and a little gazebo. Somewhere, a dog was barking.

"Oh, Ian," she breathed. For a moment, she tucked away the reminder that she was on a life-threatening mission and slipped into the fantasy of Lauren Reynolds. She was on vacation, at a private villa in Tuscany, with a gorgeous man who'd managed to capture her heart in just a few short weeks. And all it was costing her was her body and a few RPGs.

Doyle pulled her to him and kissed her forehead before tugging her towards the house.

"Shouldn't we help unload?" Emily asked.

He shook his head. "The men will take care of it. Come inside, I asked the housekeeper to have breakfast ready for us."

Emily thought of the dinner he'd made for her back at his apartment in Boston. Ian Doyle was practically a profiler himself. His understanding of human behaviour allowed him to become whoever Emily wanted him to be. He was charming and romantic; he knew where all her buttons were and how to push them just right. But he was a sociopath, and he was literally too good to be true.

He led her upstairs and out onto one of the terraces, where a little table was laid out with a few dishes of food, a pitcher of orange juice, and a pot of tea. Doyle pulled out her chair and trailed his fingers down the bare skin of her arm as she sat down.

"Ian," she said, pouring herself a cup of strong black tea, "this is unbelievable." She gestured to the table, and then to the entire house. "You're unbelievable."

"I'm glad, love. You don't know how pleased I am that you're here with me." Doyle reached down and nudged her chin, tilting her head up so that their lips met. Emily caught the familiar taste of cigarettes and black coffee and something sweet that she could never quite place. Her tongue mingled with his, and she realized with a jolt of horror that she'd come to recognize the familiarity of his kisses; worse, there was a kind of comfort in the hungry way that his mouth searched hers. When had she started wanting to kiss him? How long before she stopped having to fake attraction and arousal? What if it was already beginning, and she was too blind to see it?

The revelation caused Emily to pull away suddenly, but she was saved from having to explain by the huge ball of fur that came bounding across the terrace. The dog put its paws on Doyle's leg, nearly knocking over the breakfast table, and began to pant enthusiastically. Doyle laughed and patted its head.

"Lauren, I'd like you to meet Murray," he said.

She grinned. "A formal introduction?"

"Of course," he replied solemnly, but his eyes were twinkling. "Go on, Murray, say hello to Lauren."

The dog trotted over to Emily's chair and sat obediently, his tail thumping against the stone floor.

"So you're my competition for Ian's affections, huh?" she asked the dog. Murray's tail thumped faster, and she laughed, looking over at Doyle. "He's such a sweetheart. I've never seen a dog that big, though—what on earth is it?"

"Irish wolfhound." Doyle leaned back in his chair and watched them. "He likes you."

"I like him, too. I'm just so surprised to see that you have a dog, though. I would have thought—" Emily stopped short. She couldn't very well say that having a pet was unlikely for a sociopath, given their proclivity toward animal cruelty. She sipped her tea to buy time and finally continued, "Well, with all the moving around you do, it's just unexpected."

Doyle started to reply, but was interrupted by a woman, who looked to be the housekeeper, hurrying towards them.

"Monsieur Doyle, pardonnez-moi, le chien," she said in rapid French. She was a small woman, her brown hair streaked with grey and pulled high into a bun. Her hairstyle and uniform made her look severe, but it was clear from her features that she had been pretty when she was younger.

"Louise, ce n'est pas un problem," Doyle said. The woman nodded respectfully and tugged on Murray's collar.

"Oh, let him stay," Emily pleaded. "He's so friendly."

The housekeeper looked to her employer for confirmation before retreating into the house. Doyle watched Emily with a mixture of amusement and intrigue. She smiled at him and returned to her breakfast. Murray flopped to the ground between and resumed panting. After a moment, Doyle began eating, too.

They ate mostly in silence, except when Doyle paused to point out some feature of the villa or the surrounding landscape. Emily sneaked scraps of bacon to Murray under the table. It felt like a typical breakfast that a typical couple would share. But there was nothing typical about an arms dealer and a CIA plant sharing toast and eggs, and the discomfort Emily had felt before was starting to creep back.

To break the tension that only she could feel, she cleared her throat and asked, "So, are Liam, Riley, and Brendan the only men here with you?"

"They're the only ones who travel with me, but I have other associates here in Italy."

"Have they been with you long? Since your IRA days, I mean?"

Doyle cocked his head to the side and gave her his trademark half-smile. "You're a curious one this morning."

Emily blushed. "I was just chatting with them on the plane. They seem nice, although I still maintain that Liam doesn't care for me."

He waved his hand dismissively. "You're here, aren't you? That's what matters." He settled back in his chair and paused to think before answering. "Brendan joined the Army right before the ceasefire in '94. He came to me on Liam's recommendation. Riley's our youngest; he was part of the political side of things until the second ceasefire, in '97." He steepled his fingers. "They were both frustrated, both passionate about their cause. And passion is the first step in breeding a good warrior."

"What about Liam?"

Doyle crossed his arms over his chest. Again, he spent a few moments in silence before speaking. "Liam's something of a mystery, even to me. But he's the best man I know."

Emily nodded slowly. She finished the last of her tea and stood up, walking over to stand at the edge of the terrace. She could see the front driveway: the men and the cars had all disappeared, and the only person down there was an elderly gardener tending to the fruit tree in the center of the drive. The bright sunlight was beginning to dim to grey, and she could see dark clouds rolling in the distance. Doyle moved to stand behind her and slid his hands around her stomach. He tucked his head against her shoulder and buried his nose in her hair. She reached behind to caress the back of his head.

"I know I sound like a broken record," Emily said softly, "but I still don't quite understand how I earned the right to be here with you."

His voice was muffled by her thick hair. "The right?"

"You're an attractive man, Ian, and I have no illusions." She turned in his arms and leaned back against the railing, looking up into his blue-green eyes. "I know I'm not the first woman to fall for you. But I also know that asking me to leave the country with you was a big deal." She stroked his weathered cheek. "What did I do to deserve you?"

Doyle leaned down and gave her a gentle kiss. "I can't entirely explain it. But somehow I know that you're special, Lauren. I know I can trust you. I've forgotten how to live without you, and I don't want to have to relearn it."

"You trust me, Ian? You really do?"

"I really do."

Emily took a deep breath to steel herself. "Tell me about Valhalla."

For a moment, Doyle seemed not to have heard her. He stared down at her just as he had before. Then he exhaled heavily and replied, "I'm sorry, Lauren."

"You know what I do for a living," she reasoned. "I want to know about Valhalla. You told me about your men—can't you trust me with this?"

"It's not the same, love. It's just…." He looked up and spoke towards the cloudy sky. "Valhalla is… he's…." He glanced back down at her. "Valhalla is different."

Present

"You don't know how grateful I am for this," Emily said into her phone. She was walking up the front steps of the FBI building at Quantico. She took one last paranoid glance over her shoulder before she entered the front hall. Presenting her badge to the security guard, she headed into the elevator.

"I did have a couple agents working with me, but…." Her voice caught in her throat. "No, not CIA. International organizations. It'll make a lot more sense when I explain later. I just need to talk to the team."

Emily paused and shifted the phone to her other ear while the person on the other end spoke.

"Yes, Hotch knows. He was the first person I told." She smiled wryly. "No, he was still pissed. We didn't part on the best of terms." She chuckled. "I know, I know. You're such a sweetheart."

The elevator announced its arrival. As Emily exited and rounded the corner towards the bullpen, she felt her heart start to speed up. Somehow, no matter what was going wrong, the sight of her team brought a smile to her face. Garcia was perched on the edge of Reid's desk, her fingers ruffling his new haircut. Morgan's laugh rang out as Reid tried to swat Garcia's hand away. Above them, leaning against the railing, Rossi surveyed the scene, the corners of his eyes crinkling under his thick eyebrows.

They had no idea of the bombshell she was about to drop on their lives.

Emily's attention was brought back to her phone. "He's already cleared it with Strauss," she said. "It's on a temporary basis, just a consult or whatever the bureaucratic term is, but you're good to go." She paused again as the other person said something. "Well, she can just put it in her pipe and smoke it."

She pushed open the glass door to the bullpen and headed for her desk. "Uh-huh. Well, I'm in the office now, so I've got to run. Thanks again for doing this. I'll see you soon." Emily stuffed her phone in her purse and sat down heavily in her chair. Her fingernail automatically found its way to her mouth.

"Prentiss!" Morgan called. Emily didn't hear him; she stared blankly at the floor, where her foot tapped a nervous beat. "Prentiss?"

"Hmm?" she said suddenly, looking up so fast that she heard her neck crack.

"You're an hour and forty-three minutes late," Reid pointed out helpfully. He came over and leaned against her desk. "Are you OK?" His eyes went to her hand. "You're chewing your nails."

"Yeah, well," she sighed, "I've had worse habits." She glanced up at Hotch's office. His door was open and the blinds were up, but the space, usually so familiar and inviting to her, only filled her stomach with dread.

Morgan followed her gaze and smirked. "Damn, Prentiss, you sure are lucky. If it was anyone else who was this late, Hotch'd have their head."

"Oh, stop teasing," Garcia said. "She's a first offender; you, my chocolate dream, have come in hungover so many—"

"I'm not hungover," Emily interrupted, smiling in spite of herself. Garcia's spunk and sense of humour were always infectious.

Morgan raised one eyebrow. "Really?" He took in her pale face, mussed makeup, and sweaty ponytail. "You must have had a rough morning. Come on, spill."

"Can we not do the third degree, guys?" she snapped.

Surprisingly, Morgan and Garcia backed off, retreating to his desk to sneak glances in Emily's direction. Only Reid stayed, and he stared down at her with open concern.

"Emily," he said softly, "what's wrong?"

"Seriously, Reid, I mean it. I don't want to talk about it."

As soon as she saw the hurt in his warm brown eyes, she regretted her words. The young doctor nodded and slunk off to his own desk, leaving Emily alone. She looked up at the ceiling and willed away the tears that sprung to her lashes. She'd been at the BAU less than five minutes, and already she'd managed to hurt and alienate half of the people she trusted to help her. Was this what Doyle had wanted? Had he hoped she'd lose her team? If he knew anything about her—and he knew plenty—he must have counted on her trying to fight by herself.

But Doyle would be his own undoing. By killing Tsia, he'd chased Emily into the hands of the one group of people that could help her take him down.

She looked up at Hotch's office again and was startled by his sudden appearance in the doorway. Their eyes met, dark on dark, and he nodded once. Emily heaved a sigh and stood up, making her way to the stairs. As she reached the upper level, she saw Rossi waiting for her outside his own office. She stopped in her tracks.

"Not you, too," she groaned.

Rossi cracked a smile and approached her slowly, as though she were a deer he was trying not to scare off. "I'm not going to interrogate you. I'm just worried about you. This isn't like you, Emily."

"Oh, sure, profile me, that's exactly what I wanted," she answered sarcastically. When he didn't turn away, her tone softened. "Look, Dave, I'm having a bad week. I promise I'll tell you all about it, but I have to talk to Hotch first."

Rossi nodded and gently touched her shoulder as she swept by him. She stepped into Hotch's office, feeling the eyes of her whole team on her back, and closed the door.

In an instant, Emily was in his arms. Hotch clutched her to his chest as she buried her face in his shoulder. Her body shook with sobs.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she whimpered, over and over.

Hotch whispered back, "Sh, Em, sweetheart. You can cry." They stood in the center of his office, wrapped around each other's bodies. For the briefest of moments, she forgot about everything: Doyle, Tsia, all the trouble and danger she'd caused. No harm could come to her as long as Hotch held her.

Emily slowly disentangled herself and slumped down on the couch. Hotch brought his chair around to face her and sat down across from her. He rested his hand on her knee and asked, "Do you want to talk about Tsia?"

She shook her head emphatically. "No." Already, the tears were beginning to dry from her cheeks. "I want to talk about Ian. I want to talk about how we're going to beat him."

Hotch gave her a half-smile. "That's my girl."

"Have you told the team anything yet?"

He leaned back in his chair. "No, they're all just catching up on paperwork. I only told Strauss, so she could clear bringing in a consultant."

Emily nodded. Now that her crying jag was over, she could turn to what came naturally to her—devising a plan of attack. "She'll be here soon, I just got off the phone with her. We should get the team into the conference room." She released the elastic that bound her hair and ran her fingers through it. "I've already got the files on Doyle from Interpol, at least what Clyde could pull."

"I thought you said Easter might be dirty," Hotch pointed out.

"Then we should get Garcia to pull anything she can find, as soon as we've briefed her." Emily stood and began pacing back and forth. Hotch couldn't help but watch her with admiration. Her intensity when she was in her element was almost unrivaled, and the fire it lit in her eyes was beautiful.

"We have to assume Doyle knows as much as possible," she continued, unaware of her boss' gaze. "Assume he knows that I found Tsia, that I think Clyde's gone rogue, and that I've come here."

"What's your assessment of the team's safety?"

Emily could have broken one of their cardinal rules and kissed him right there in the office. Leave it to Hotch to put it so bluntly. She couldn't handle emotion right now, and she was grateful for the opportunity to disengage and compartmentalize. "I don't think he'd come after them," she replied thoughtfully. "Everything Ian does is calculated and practical; he doesn't play games. Still, we should be cautious. Garcia should stay with Morgan. Jessie and Jack…." She frowned. "They shouldn't stay with you. If Ian does decide to attack someone other than me, it'll likely be you."

"I'm sure Dave can take them in," Hotch pointed out, trying not to betray his own nervousness. "He's got the room, and under the circumstances I'm sure he'll be more than willing."

"Good." Emily glanced at her watch. "We should rally the troops. I have to grab the files from my bag—meet you in the conference room?"

Hotch nodded and followed her out of his office. As she hurried down to her desk, he leaned over the railing and called, "Team, conference room, now."

Emily felt the thrill of adrenaline rushing through her blood. This was real; this was happening. The best team of agents and profilers she'd ever seen was tackling the most important case of her life. And despite all of the fear lurking in the back of her mind, she was beginning to return to normal. For the first time in days, she felt confident.

She entered the conference room and headed straight for the board at one end of the table. It felt strange, occupying the role that had always been JJ's and was now filled by Garcia. Emily turned to face the team and found four pairs of curious eyes on her. At the back of the room stood Hotch, stoic and fierce, ready to defend her. She nodded to him.

While Emily pinned photos to the board, Hotch addressed the team. "We have a new case. This one… hits close to home. There is a man who has a personal vendetta against Agent Prentiss. He has the resources and skills to be incredibly dangerous, and we should absolutely not underestimate him. Because of the intimate nature of this case, we will be taking special precautions to ensure the safety of all team members. This man's desire for revenge means that his victimology may extend to those who are close to Prentiss."

Hotch took a deep breath, and Emily jumped in, referring to the photos on the board as she spoke in a clear, unwavering voice. "Seven years ago, Ian Doyle was arrested in Italy. He was a former IRA terrorist and had become an international arms dealer. His arrest was the result of a two-year investigation by a joint task force that included agents from CIA, MI6, French DGSE, German BND, and Interpol. One goal of the investigation was to develop a profile of Doyle. This was accomplished. The other goal was to incarcerate him for life for his crimes." For the first time, her voice took on a slight tremor. "That was not accomplished."

The team was rapt with attention. Garcia's lip quivered with fear, and Reid and Morgan were both wide-eyed. Even Rossi, usually so calm and unflappable, was frowning. Emily locked eyes with Hotch, and he gave her an encouraging nod.

She continued, "Several weeks ago, Doyle escaped from prison in North Korea. He made his way across Europe and came stateside within the last week. His goal appears to be killing all those who were involved in his capture. Three of the five agents from JTF-12 are already dead."

Emily paused to gather her thoughts. What could she say next? Her colleagues would be horrified when they learned of her specific role in Doyle's capture. She decided to hold back further information and let what she'd already said sink in.

Rossi spoke first. "Are you one of the two remaining agents?"

"I am. I was the CIA agent. It is possible at this time that MI6 Agent Clyde Easter—" here she motioned to his photo—"is acting against me, potentially as a traitor." Emily was biting her nails again.

Reid was next. He leaned forward with his elbows on the table as he asked, "Has Doyle made contact with you in any way?"

"Yes." Emily chose her next words carefully. "A few text messages, all untraceable. A flower with very specific meaning that was left outside my apartment. And last night…." She trailed off. Had it really been less than 24 hours since she'd seen Doyle? "…Last night, I met him in a park in Dupont Circle. He made it clear that he has both the manpower and the intel to get the revenge on me that he wants."

"Did he contact the other agents he killed?" asked Reid.

"Not to my knowledge."

"So why single you out?" Rossi mused.

Emily opened her mouth to reply and found that the words wouldn't come. Her confidence faltered, and she looked to Hotch for help.

He cleared his throat and spoke in that deliberate, lawyer-like manner that she'd always loved about him. "Emily has an especially personal connection to Ian Doyle. As part of the investigation, she went undercover to infiltrate his organization."

For the first time, Morgan spoke up. "What happened when you were undercover?"

She still wasn't ready to face what she'd done with Doyle, not under the team's scrutiny. Her actions would be unforgivable in their eyes, she was sure of it. The door to the conference room opened, and Emily felt a flood of relief at being spared.

"What are you doing here?" Reid exclaimed.

Jennifer Jareau smiled brightly. "I'm here to help."

-(Bless my stars and garters. I cannot believe how quickly I cranked this chapter out. I almost feel bad for posting it so soon after the last one- I don't want to give you all false hope about my posting schedule. Having said that, I do expect my posts to be a little more frequent now that I'm back at school. Hopefully I can get the next one out sometime in October. I now have almost all the scenes for the past planned out (although suggestions are still encouraged), which means that I have a better sense of where the story's going. I'm expecting it to clock in at around 25 chapters, including an epilogue. So I'm now 1/5 done!

The action of the story is really getting on its feet here. As far as the past is concerned, we're going to start seeing scenes that are more than just Emily and Ian, because there's a lot to deal with in terms of her undercover work. Their relationship has a lot of growing to do, both romantically and in business. As for the present, well, this is the first time I've ever written any team members apart from Hotch and Emily. I hope it went well- please let me know what you thought of it. (As I said last time, I've decided to just exclude Seaver entirely rather than try to gauge her personality from her few episodes.) Anyway, we'll be seeing more and more action each chapter, but there will still be a focus on Hotch and Emily's relationship and how this case affects it.

Huge thanks to all of my readers and reviewers, especially to solveariddle and to my best friend Katie for their helpful and insightful comments. And as always, thanks for reading!)-

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