Chapter 29: The Hunting Choice — Part 3
Marcus Webb didn't look like a monster.
In the dim light of the alley, he looked like what he was—a middle-aged man in a military jacket, kneeling over an unassembled rifle, with the tired eyes of someone who'd seen too much and decided to do something about it.
"FBI," Morgan repeated, weapon steady. "Step away from the rifle. Hands where I can see them."
Webb didn't move. His hands stayed on the rifle components, not assembling, not reaching for his sidearm. Just... waiting.
"You're better than I expected," he said. His voice was conversational, almost pleasant. "I thought I'd have at least another week before anyone connected the dots."
"Marcus Webb, you're under arrest for the murders of Michael Torres, Sarah Chen, and David Williams." I kept my own weapon trained on his center mass. "This is your one warning. Stand down."
"Sarah Chen." Webb's smile faded. "She was my partner for six years. Six years of watching each other's backs, saving each other's lives. And when it counted—when I needed her to stand with me—she chose the bureaucrats over brotherhood."
"She told the truth," Elle said from behind us. She and Hotch had arrived, covering the alley's other entrance. "That's not betrayal. That's integrity."
"Integrity." Webb laughed—a harsh, bitter sound. "Is that what they're calling it now? I used necessary force to stop a threat. The suspect was reaching for a weapon. Everything I did was justified."
"The review board disagreed," Hotch said.
"The review board was covering their own asses. They needed a scapegoat, and Chen gave them one." Webb's eyes found mine again. "You understand, don't you, Agent? You've been in the field. You've made hard calls. The people who judge us from their comfortable offices—they don't know what it takes to actually stop the monsters."
[MANIPULATION ATTEMPT DETECTED]
[PATTERN: RAPPORT BUILDING — SEEKING COMMON GROUND]
[RESISTANCE: HOLDING]
I recognized the technique. Find common ground with the arresting officer. Build sympathy. Create hesitation at the critical moment.
Webb wasn't trying to escape. He was trying to force us into making a mistake.
"I understand that you murdered three people," I said flatly. "I understand that you were about to murder a fourth. Whatever you think justified that—you're wrong."
"Am I?" Webb's hand twitched toward his hip. "They destroyed my life. My career, my family, my reputation—all gone because I did my job. Someone had to hold them accountable."
"And someone has to hold you accountable. This is your last chance, Webb. Hands up. Now."
The silence stretched.
[DANGER SENSE: ACTIVE]
[THREAT ESCALATION: IMMINENT]
[FOCUS: -5]
I felt it before it happened—a shift in Webb's weight, a tension in his shoulders, the particular stillness that preceded explosive movement. He was going to draw.
"Down!" I shouted, moving before the word was fully out.
Webb's hand came up with his sidearm—SWAT fast, the kind of speed that came from thousands of hours of practice. His first shot cracked past my ear, close enough that I felt the air displacement.
I fired once.
The round caught him in the shoulder—his gun arm—and his weapon spun away into the darkness. He staggered but didn't fall, reaching for something at his ankle—
Morgan hit him low, driving him into the alley wall. Webb fought back, elbow connecting with Morgan's ribs, but it was a losing battle. Elle was there a second later, and then Hotch, and Webb went down under the combined weight of three federal agents.
"FBI! Stop resisting!"
Webb didn't stop. He thrashed and kicked and clawed, all the training in the world useless against three-to-one odds. It took another twenty seconds to get him cuffed, face-down on the cold concrete, breathing hard and bleeding from the shoulder.
"EMTs are en route," Elle reported, stepping back. "ETA three minutes."
I stood over Webb, weapon still drawn, watching him struggle against the cuffs.
"They betrayed us," he gasped. "They let the system rot. Someone had to—"
"Shut up."
My voice was colder than I intended. But I didn't take it back.
[COMBAT ENGAGEMENT: COMPLETE]
[THREAT NEUTRALIZED]
[PHASE 2 REQUIREMENT 4: COMPLETED]
[PHASE TRANSITION: INITIATED]
The notification flashed in my peripheral vision, but I didn't acknowledge it. There would be time for that later. Right now, there was a wounded prisoner to secure and a deputy to inform that he wasn't going to die tonight.
The EMTs arrived, loaded Webb onto a stretcher with the casual efficiency of people who handled bleeding suspects regularly. He was still ranting as they wheeled him toward the ambulance—something about brotherhood and betrayal and the thin blue line. The words faded as the distance grew.
Hotch approached me while the others coordinated with local law enforcement.
"Good shot," he said. "Controlled. You could have killed him."
"He's more useful alive."
"Is that why you didn't?"
I met Hotch's eyes. He wasn't accusing—just asking. Trying to understand what had happened in the split-second between Webb's draw and my trigger pull.
"He wanted us to kill him," I said slowly, working through the logic as I spoke. "That's why he smiled when we found him. That's why he drew instead of surrendering. He wanted to die as a martyr for his cause—betrayed cop killed by the system he served."
"And you denied him that."
"A trial is worse. Public exposure of his crimes. Evidence that he murdered his former colleagues for personal revenge, not principle. By the time the prosecution is done, he'll be a cautionary tale, not a symbol."
Hotch considered this.
"That's a very calculated response to a man trying to kill you."
Because I wasn't just defending myself. I was hunting.
But I didn't say that. Some things weren't for sharing.
"The training kicked in," I said instead. "CID taught us to think beyond the immediate threat."
Hotch nodded, accepting the explanation. Or appearing to accept it.
"Good work tonight, Mercer. All of you."
He moved off to coordinate the cleanup. Morgan was getting his ribs checked by a medic—Webb's elbow had done some damage—and Elle was on the phone with Reid, walking him through the takedown for the case report.
I stood alone in the alley, breathing the cold Virginia air, feeling the adrenaline slowly drain from my system.
Phase 2. I completed the requirement.
I chose to hunt.
The weight of that choice settled into my bones. Not guilt—I didn't feel guilty. Webb had murdered three people and would have murdered more. Stopping him was the right thing to do.
But the way I'd felt when I made the decision—the eagerness, the anticipation, the satisfaction of tracking another predator and bringing him down—that was something else. Something I'd need to understand.
Elle appeared at my shoulder.
"You okay?"
"Fine."
"You don't look fine. You look like you're having a very intense conversation with yourself."
She wasn't wrong.
"I'm processing," I said. "It's been a while since I shot someone."
"First time since you joined the BAU?"
"First time since Kosovo."
She absorbed that without comment. Then, unexpectedly, she reached out and squeezed my hand—brief, warm, hidden from the others by the angle of our bodies.
"You did good," she said quietly. "Webb was going to kill Harmon, and then probably us. You stopped that. Whatever else you're thinking about—start there."
I squeezed back.
"Thanks."
"Don't mention it." She released my hand, stepped back. "Now come on. Hotch wants to debrief before we head back. Something about your 'proactive approach' being noteworthy."
We walked toward the command vehicles together.
Behind us, the alley sat empty—just concrete and shadows and a few drops of Marcus Webb's blood already freezing in the November cold.
The hunt was over.
Whatever came next had already begun.
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