Chapter 28: The Hunting Choice — Part 2
Fredericksburg spread below us in the fading afternoon light—colonial architecture mixing with modern sprawl, a city that couldn't decide which century it wanted to live in.
We'd set up in an abandoned office building overlooking Deputy James Harmon's patrol route. Third floor, good sightlines, multiple exit options. Morgan had chosen the location, and he'd chosen well.
"Deputy's making his rounds," Elle reported through the earpiece. She and Hotch had positioned themselves in a coffee shop two blocks south, covering the secondary approach. "Nothing unusual so far."
"Copy that." Morgan lowered his binoculars, checked his watch. "Four hours until his shift ends. Lot of waiting."
"Waiting is the job."
"Doesn't mean I have to like it."
The office was stripped—no furniture except some folding chairs we'd brought, dust coating every surface, the particular emptiness of a space that used to mean something to someone. My back ached from the drive, and my stomach had started complaining about the protein bar that passed for lunch.
I settled into position by the window, rifle case open but weapon still secured. We weren't here to snipe—we were here to intercept. The rifle was backup, not primary.
[SURVEILLANCE MODE: ACTIVE]
[THREAT DETECTION: SCANNING]
[FOCUS: -2 PER HOUR]
The system hummed quietly, processing the environment. Every car that passed, every pedestrian on the street, every shadow that might hide a threat—catalogued, assessed, dismissed or flagged.
"You ever hunt anyone like this before?" Morgan asked. He was cleaning his weapon—methodical movements that didn't require conscious thought, letting his hands work while his mind wandered.
"Different war. Same principle."
"Kosovo?"
"And after. Some of the targets we tracked, they were professionals. Trained killers who'd gone to ground in civilian populations. You couldn't just kick in doors—you had to find them first. Watch their patterns. Predict their movements."
"And then?"
"And then you took them before they knew you were there."
Morgan nodded slowly.
"This feels different from most BAU work. Usually we're building profiles, interviewing witnesses, following evidence trails. This is more like... I don't know. Military operations."
"Because the unsub is military. Or close to it." I scanned the street below. "Former SWAT, most likely. Someone who knows how to plan operations, conduct surveillance, execute precision strikes. You can't catch that kind of predator with standard investigative techniques."
"So we become predators too."
"We already were. We just don't usually admit it."
The radio crackled. Reid's voice from the mobile command post.
"Garcia found our unsub. Marcus Webb, former Virginia State Police SWAT team leader. Terminated in 2003 after an IA investigation into excessive force. His former partner testified against him—Deputy Sarah Chen, our second victim."
"Chen was his partner?" Morgan sat up straighter. "That's not in the case file."
"Different department, different jurisdiction. Chen transferred to Henrico County after Webb's termination. Garcia had to cross-reference personnel records across three agencies to find the connection."
I processed the information. Webb wasn't just hunting cops who testified—he was hunting people who'd personally betrayed him. Chen had been his partner. Torres and Williams had likely intersected with his case somehow.
"What about Harmon?" I asked. "What's his connection to Webb?"
"Harmon was the lead investigator on the Chen testimony case. He built the evidence file that got Webb terminated."
The man who destroyed his career. The one who started it all.
"He's not just hunting traitors," I said. "He's hunting the specific people responsible for his downfall. This is a revenge list, not a mission."
"Which means he won't stop until everyone on that list is dead," Morgan finished. "Or until we stop him."
The sun continued its descent. Shadows lengthened across the streets of Fredericksburg. Deputy Harmon made his rounds—traffic stops, business checks, the mundane rhythm of small-town law enforcement.
And somewhere in the gathering darkness, Marcus Webb was watching too.
[THREAT DETECTION: NEGATIVE]
[CONTINUE SURVEILLANCE]
Three hours passed.
Radio checks every thirty minutes. Status updates from Elle and Hotch. Nothing from Reid except periodic profile refinements. The waiting stretched, filled with the particular tension of anticipating violence that might never come.
My hands were cold despite the gloves. Not fear—the temperature was dropping as night approached, and the abandoned office had no heat. But there was something else too. An anticipation that felt almost physical.
The hunt. This is what it feels like to hunt.
"Movement." Morgan's voice was sharp. "Northwest corner, by the hardware store."
I shifted position, brought up my binoculars.
A figure emerged from the alley—male, medium build, military jacket, carrying what looked like a guitar case. Wrong shape for a guitar. Right shape for a disassembled rifle.
[THREAT DETECTION: POSITIVE]
[PREDATOR IDENTIFIED — DIRECTION: NORTHWEST — DISTANCE: 380 METERS]
[COMBAT READING: ACTIVATING]
[FOCUS: -8]
The system flooded my vision with data. Movement patterns suggesting tactical training. Posture indicating concealed weapons beyond the rifle case. The way his head tracked the environment—scanning for threats, checking sightlines, maintaining situational awareness.
Professional. Very professional.
"Contact," I radioed. "Northwest corner, moving toward the deputy's position. He's carrying."
"Visual confirmed," Hotch responded. "All units converge. Non-lethal if possible."
Morgan was already moving toward the door.
"Let's go."
We descended the stairs fast, weapons drawn. The evening air hit like a wall of cold as we emerged onto the street. Webb was two blocks ahead, still unaware—or appearing unaware—of our presence.
Elle's voice in my ear: "We're flanking from the south. Hotch is cutting off the northern exit."
"Copy. Morgan and I have the direct approach."
We moved through the streets, using parked cars and building corners for cover. Webb continued toward his target position—a vantage point overlooking the intersection where Harmon typically ended his patrol.
[TARGET ANALYSIS: FORMER SWAT — HIGH THREAT — APPROACH WITH EXTREME CAUTION]
[WEAPONS ASSESSMENT: LONG-RANGE RIFLE (CASE), SIDEARM (HIP), POSSIBLE KNIFE (BOOT)]
[PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE: MISSION-FOCUSED — WILL NOT SURRENDER EASILY]
[FOCUS: 32/50]
This wasn't Nathan Voss, surrendering in his basement museum. This wasn't Raymond Marks, collapsing when confronted with his own guilt. Marcus Webb was a trained killer who'd already murdered three people. He would fight.
Good.
The thought surprised me. Not its content—I'd faced violent suspects before—but its tone. The anticipation. The eagerness.
The predator recognizes itself.
Webb reached his position—an alley with a clear line of sight to the intersection. He knelt, opened the rifle case, began assembling his weapon with practiced efficiency.
"He's setting up," I reported. "Northeast alley. We have maybe two minutes before he's operational."
"Moving to intercept," Hotch confirmed. "Morgan, Mercer—you have point."
Morgan and I rounded the corner.
"FBI! Don't move!"
Webb's hands froze on the rifle. For a long moment, nothing moved—not us, not him, not even the wind.
Then he turned his head slowly, meeting my eyes across thirty feet of urban alley.
And he smiled.
"Well," he said. "Took you long enough."
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