Chapter 6: The First Collar
Raymond Marks lived in a single-story ranch house at the end of a cul-de-sac.
The neighborhood was quiet—the kind of place where people mowed their lawns on Sunday and waved to their neighbors. No one would suspect that the man in the corner house had killed sixteen people in six weeks.
That's the point, isn't it? Monsters don't look like monsters. They look like everyone else.
Hotch parked two houses down, killed the engine. Local SWAT was already staging at the far end of the street, black-clad figures moving with practiced efficiency.
"We wait for tactical's signal," Hotch said. "Morgan, you're primary breach support. Mercer, secondary coverage. I'll coordinate from the command position."
"What about negotiation?" I asked. "If he's inside, he might have barricaded."
"We assess on entry. If he's got a weapon, SWAT takes point. If he's willing to talk, we talk."
Morgan checked his weapon, chamber loaded, safety engaged.
"And if he runs?"
"He won't run. This type never does. They want to be understood. They want to explain their mission."
The radio crackled. SWAT commander's voice, clipped and professional.
"Team Alpha in position. Team Bravo covering rear exit. Awaiting federal go."
Hotch keyed his radio.
"FBI is green. Execute on your mark."
"Copy. Executing in thirty seconds."
I stepped out of the SUV, weapon drawn, moving to my position behind the SWAT stack at the front door.
The system flickered.
[THREAT ASSESSMENT: MULTIPLE VARIABLES]
[SUBJECT LOCATION: UNKNOWN]
[SYSTEM STRESS LEVELS: ELEVATED]
[WARNING: PERFORMANCE DEGRADATION POSSIBLE]
Not now. Not when I need you.
The warning didn't care about my needs. The interface stuttered, text fragmenting into visual static.
[SYSTEM OVERLOAD — FUNCTIONS TEMPORARILY UNAVAILABLE]
[ESTIMATED RECOVERY: 10-15 MINUTES]
Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
The system went dark.
No threat assessment. No danger sense. No tactical overlay. Just me, my training, and a Glock 19 with fifteen rounds in the magazine.
You did this before the system. You can do it again.
The SWAT commander counted down.
"Three. Two. One. Breach!"
The battering ram hit the door. Wood splintered. Flash of light as the tactical team poured through the opening.
"FBI! Raymond Marks, we have a warrant for your arrest!"
Shouts. Footsteps. Doors being kicked in throughout the house.
"Living room clear!"
"Kitchen clear!"
"Bedroom clear!"
Morgan and I moved in behind the tactical team, covering angles, sweeping corners. The house was small—living room, kitchen, two bedrooms, one bathroom. Standard suburban layout.
No sign of Marks.
"Basement," Morgan said, pointing to a door in the hallway.
The door was ajar. Light spilled up from below.
SWAT stacked on the stairs. I took position behind Morgan, heartbeat steady, focus sharp.
No system. No advantage. Just training.
The tactical lead descended first, weapon-light cutting through the darkness. Morgan followed. I brought up the rear, watching the angles, watching the shadows.
The basement was unfinished—concrete floor, exposed pipes, single bulb hanging from the ceiling. And there, in the center of the room, stood Raymond Marks.
He wasn't holding a hostage.
He was holding a knife to his own throat.
"Stay back!" His voice cracked, high and desperate. "Stay back or I'll do it!"
The SWAT team froze, weapons trained.
Hotch's voice came from the stairs behind me, calm and controlled.
"Mr. Marks. I'm Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner with the FBI. We're not here to hurt you."
"You don't understand." Marks' eyes were wild, darting between us. "You don't understand what I did. What I had to do."
"Then help us understand."
Hotch moved past me, hands visible, weapon holstered. Slow steps. Non-threatening posture.
"I saved them." Marks' knife hand trembled, pressing the blade deeper against his skin. A thin line of blood appeared. "I saved them from what was coming. The debt, the shame, the suffering. I gave them peace."
"I know you believe that."
"It's not belief! It's truth! I've seen what happens to families like that. The father drinks himself to death. The mother works three jobs and still can't keep the lights on. The kids grow up in poverty, in shame, in pain. I saved them from all of it!"
Hotch stopped six feet away, maintaining eye contact.
"You're right that financial stress destroys families. You're right that the system fails people. But what you did—"
"What I did was mercy! They thanked me! Before the end, they understood. They knew I was giving them a gift."
He's dissociating. The knife isn't a threat—it's a safety valve. He needs to believe he can end this on his terms.
I stepped forward without thinking.
"Mr. Marks."
His eyes snapped to me.
"Who are you?"
"Agent Ethan Mercer. I want to ask you something."
Hotch gave me a look that said what are you doing, but didn't stop me.
"The children," I said. "Tommy and Sarah Brennan. Did they thank you?"
Marks' face twisted.
"They were too young to understand. But they would have. When they were older, when they saw what I saved them from—"
"No." My voice was quiet. Not accusatory. Just certain. "They wouldn't have. Because children don't understand mercy killings. They understand that someone came into their home and ended everything they knew. They understand fear. They understand pain."
"That's not—"
"You think you're different from the people you're saving them from? From the system that failed them? You're not. You're just another predator. Another monster wearing a human face."
Marks stared at me.
The knife lowered, just slightly.
"I'm not a monster."
"Then put the knife down and prove it. Stand trial. Let a jury decide if you're a savior or a killer. If you're really righteous, you've got nothing to fear from judgment."
For a long moment, no one breathed.
Then Raymond Marks dropped the knife.
It clattered on the concrete floor, and three SWAT officers moved in immediately, wrestling him to the ground, cuffing his hands behind his back.
"I saved them," he kept saying, even as they hauled him to his feet. "I saved them. You'll see. Everyone will see."
They dragged him up the stairs.
Hotch turned to me.
"That was a risk."
"It worked."
"This time." His expression was unreadable. "Don't make a habit of going off-script."
"Understood, sir."
Morgan clapped my shoulder as we headed back up the stairs.
"Nice work, man. Most new guys freeze up when things go sideways."
"Military."
"Yeah, you keep saying that."
Outside, Raymond Marks was being loaded into a patrol car. He was still talking—explaining, justifying, preaching to anyone who would listen. No one was listening anymore.
[SYSTEM RESTORED]
[PERFORMANCE UNDER STRAIN NOTED]
[ADAPTATION REQUIRED]
The interface flickered back to life in my peripheral vision. Clean text, stable display.
[FOCUS: 50/50 — RESTORED]
[EXP GAINED: +200 — FIRST SUCCESSFUL APPREHENSION]
[THREAT ASSESSMENT: COMPLETE. UNSUB NEUTRALIZED.]
Nice of you to show up after the work was done.
I dismissed the notification, walked toward the SUV.
Elle intercepted me halfway.
"Heard you talked him down."
"Hotch did most of it."
"That's not what Morgan said." She studied me, the same way she had on the jet. "You didn't hesitate in that basement. No shakes, no adrenaline crash. That's not normal for a first major takedown."
"Military."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it keeps being true."
She didn't look convinced. But she also didn't push.
"The jet leaves in an hour. Debrief on the way back."
She walked toward her car without waiting for a response.
I watched her go, then looked back at the house where Raymond Marks had believed he was saving people.
Sixteen dead. Four families erased. And he died convinced he was a hero.
The worst monsters always do.
The flight back to Quantico was quiet.
Hotch worked on reports. Morgan dozed. Reid read three books simultaneously, somehow keeping track of all of them. Elle sat across from me, occasionally glancing up from her files.
I stared out the window at clouds illuminated by the setting sun.
[CASE COMPLETE: COLUMBUS FAMILY ANNIHILATOR]
[TOTAL EXP: +475]
[LEVEL PROGRESS: 1 → THRESHOLD NOT MET]
[ABILITIES LOGGED: SURFACE READ, DANGER SENSE, THREAT ASSESSMENT]
[SYSTEM NOTE: OVERLOAD VULNERABILITY IDENTIFIED. RECOMMEND STRESS MANAGEMENT TRAINING.]
Stress management. Right. I'll add that to the list, right after "don't die" and "don't get caught."
The system diagnostics ran in my peripheral vision, cataloging the failure, analyzing the conditions that had caused it.
[OVERLOAD TRIGGER: MULTIPLE SIMULTANEOUS THREAT VECTORS + ELEVATED HEART RATE + INSUFFICIENT FOCUS RESERVES]
[RECOMMENDED COUNTERMEASURES: FOCUS POOL EXPANSION, CONTROLLED BREATHING PROTOCOLS, GRADUAL STRESS EXPOSURE]
I filed the information away. The system could fail. That was the lesson. All those abilities, all that tactical advantage—and when it mattered most, I'd been on my own.
And I survived anyway. That's something.
But it also meant I couldn't rely on the system. Not completely. Not in situations where everything could go wrong in an instant.
I needed to be good enough without it.
Elle's voice cut through my thoughts.
"First case. First win. How does it feel?"
I turned from the window.
"Like it's just the beginning."
"That's a good answer." She almost smiled. "Most new guys say something about justice or closure. You're more honest than that."
"Closure's for victims' families. We don't get closure. We get the next case."
Now she did smile—small, cynical, real.
"You'll fit in fine, Mercer."
She went back to her files.
I went back to the window.
Somewhere below us, Raymond Marks was sitting in a cell, still convinced he was a savior. The families he'd "saved" were being buried. The neighbors who'd trusted him were learning that monsters could live next door.
And somewhere out there, other killers were planning their next moves, confident that no one could stop them.
The BAU existed to prove them wrong.
I existed to prove something else entirely.
[PHASE 1: AWAKENING — PROGRESS: 12%]
[NEXT THRESHOLD: LEVEL 3]
[TIME TO ADAPTATION: UNKNOWN]
The jet banked toward Virginia, carrying us home.
But Elle's reflection in the window caught my eye. She was watching me again.
Not suspicious, exactly. Not hostile.
Just watching.
She sees something. Doesn't know what yet. But she's looking.
I met her eyes in the glass. Held them for a moment.
Then I looked away first.
Some battles weren't worth fighting.
Not yet.
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