Page 16 of For Vengeance

The alternative—failing at either task—was unthinkable.

They walked to their vehicles in companionable silence, each processing the day's developments. The parking lot was nearly empty at this hour, most officers having departed for home or night patrol. Occasional bursts of radio chatter echoed from the dispatch office, reminding them that while they might pause, crime never did.

"It's after midnight," Derik observed, glancing at his watch. The subtle shadows beneath his eyes had deepened over the course of the long day. "We should get some rest. Fresh eyes might see something we're missing."

Morgan nodded reluctantly. Every instinct pushed her to continue working—to review evidence again, to develop new leads, to make use of every precious hour that remained before Cordell's deadline. But she recognized the wisdom in Derik's suggestion. Exhaustion dulled perception, clouded judgment, slowed reflexes. None of which she could afford in the days ahead.

"You're right," she conceded, fishing her car keys from her pocket. "I'll head home, review the case files once more, then try to get a few hours of sleep." She knew her promise of "a few hours" was the most she could commit to. Real rest had become elusive since Cordell's visit, her sleep fragmented by hypervigilance and nightmares.

Derik studied her face, clearly seeing through her partial surrender. "I could come over," he offered quietly. "Safety in numbers. And I might actually convince you to sleep for more than three hours."

The offer tempted her—not just for security, but for the comfort his presence provided. The solid reassurance of having someone she trusted watching her back while she allowed herself the vulnerability of sleep. But she hesitated, still struggling with the habit of self-reliance that prison had ingrained in her.

"Not tonight," she decided finally. "I need to check in with my father, warn him to be extra cautious. That's a conversation I'd rather have privately." She didn't add that she feared Cordell might be watching Derik's movements now, tracking his comings and goings. Minimizing their time together outside of work hours might keep him safer, at least until she developed a better strategy.

Derik accepted her decision without argument, recognizing the steel beneath her words. "First thing tomorrow, then," he said. "I'll bring coffee. The good kind from that place on Elm Street, not the station sludge."

The promise of decent coffee earned a fleeting smile, a brief lightening of the gravity that had settled over her features. "I'll hold you to that," she replied, unlocking her car door. "Get some rest yourself. We're going to need every advantage we can get."

As she drove through the quiet Dallas streets toward home, Morgan felt the events of the day settling over her like physical weight. Walsh's bitter disillusionment with the system. The methodical killer still hunting the streets of Santiago Heights. Cordell's ultimatum ticking away in the background of everything. Each pressure alone would be enough to test her resilience; combined, they threatened to overwhelm even her prison-hardened defenses.

By the time she reached her house, exhaustion had seeped into her bones, making even the simple act of checking her security system require conscious effort. Skunk greeted her at the door with quiet enthusiasm, his solid warmth pressing against her legs as she secured the locks behind her.

"Just you and me tonight, buddy," she murmured, crouching to scratch behind his ears. The pit bull leaned into her touch, a stable presence in a world that seemed increasingly unstable.

Later, after a brief shower and a perfunctory check of her perimeter, Morgan settled into bed with case files spread around her. Skunk took up his customary position at the foot of the bed, his body a warm weight across her feet. She had intended to review everything once more, to search for connections they might have missed, but her body had other plans.

The files slipped from her fingers as her eyes grew heavy, fatigue finally overcoming determination. Her last coherent thought before sleep claimed her was that tomorrow would bring them one day closer to answers—and one day closer to Cordell's deadline.

She would face both when morning came.

CHAPTER NINE

James Murray savored the crisp autumn air as he made his final approach to the detached garage. The November chill had emptied the streets of the upscale Dallas neighborhood, leaving him to work in perfect solitude. Moonlight cast long shadows across manicured lawns, the kind of properties where security systems were common—but not at this particular house. The three-story colonial with its detached garage stood partially gutted, plastic sheeting visible through several windows. Perfect timing.

Murray had been watching the property for weeks. The owner—some oil executive with more money than sense—only appeared on weekends to check renovation progress before retreating to his Highland Park mansion. Leaving behind what Murray had glimpsed during his reconnaissance: a pristine 1967 Mustang Fastback, midnight blue with white racing stripes, parked in the otherwise empty garage.

His fingers instinctively touched the lock-picking tools in his jacket pocket. At thirty-seven, Murray had perfected his craft over twenty years of breaking into cars and driving away with other people's property. Two convictions had taught him caution but never deterrence. If anything, his eighteen months in state prison had only refined his skills, connecting him with better fences who paid premium prices for vintage cars.

He crouched low as he approached the garage, moving with practiced stealth across the driveway. No motion-activated lights flickered on. No dogs barked. Murray smiled to himself. Amateurs. People with money always assumed their wealth alone would protect them.

The side door lock was basic—a simple pin tumbler that Murray could have picked in his sleep. He inserted the tension wrench and rake pick, feeling the familiar resistance of the pins. With subtle movements of his wrist, he manipulated the tumblers until he felt the satisfying give of the mechanism. The lock turned with a barely audible click.

Murray slipped inside, easing the door closed behind him. The garage interior was dark, but the moonlight filtering through a small window provided enough illumination to confirm his prize was waiting—the Mustang's sleek silhouette unmistakable even in the shadows.

He withdrew a penlight from his pocket, keeping the beam low as he circled the vehicle. Unlike the half-gutted house, the garage was immaculate—concrete floor swept clean, tools organized on pegboards, not a speck of dust on the car's gleaming paint. Murray ran an appreciative hand along the Mustang's hood, feeling the cool, smooth metal beneath his fingertips.

"Hello, beautiful," he whispered.

Murray had stolen dozens of cars in his career, but vintage models were his specialty and personal passion. There was something about the craftsmanship, the mechanical purity of these older machines that modern vehicles couldn't match. And this one was exceptional—numbers-matching 390 V8 engine, original paint, pristine interior. Even in the dim light, he could tell the restoration work was top-notch.

Forty thousand dollars minimum, he calculated. Maybe fifty with the right buyer—a collector who wouldn't ask questions about paperwork or provenance. Benjy, his fence in Houston, would salivate over this find.

The driver's door opened with a well-oiled precision that spoke of meticulous maintenance. Murray slid onto the leather seat, inhaling the intoxicating scent of aged leather and faint motor oil. His hands caressed the steering wheel—original, not a reproduction. A car this clean was increasingly rare.

Murray leaned down, aiming his penlight beneath the steering column. He'd need to pop the panel and access the ignition wires. Modern cars had made his job harder with their electronic security systems, but classics like this Mustang—they were almost too easy, built in a more trusting era.

He reached for his screwdriver when something in his peripheral vision made him freeze. A subtle shift in the shadows behind him, almost imperceptible. The back door opening silently.

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