Page 21 of For Vengeance

Now, three executions later, his purpose had crystallized into something pure and uncompromising. Not vengeance—justice. Not chaos—order. Each target selected with care, each execution carried out with precision, each confession extracted to acknowledge the truth that courts had failed to establish.

He paused at Jefferson Park, taking a seat on a bench that offered excellent sightlines across the small green space. A young mother pushed a toddler on the swings, her vigilance apparent in the way her eyes constantly scanned the surrounding area. Two elderly men played chess at a concrete table, their concentration intense despite the occasional gusts of wind that threatened their pieces. Normal people trying to live normal lives in a neighborhood where normalcy required constant vigilance.

A man in his thirties approached a trash can near the playground, a fast-food wrapper clutched in his hand. Instead of depositing it in the receptacle, he casually dropped it onto the ground beside the bin and continued walking, his gaze fixed on his phone.

White-hot rage flashed through him, so sudden and intense it momentarily clouded his vision. His fingers tightened around the edge of the bench, knuckles whitening with the effort of restraint. The disrespect, the casual disregard for community standards, for basic decency—for a moment, he imagined following this man, cornering him somewhere private, forcing him to write his confession before—

He drew a deep, careful breath, loosening his grip on the bench. Not this one. Not for littering. The mission required focus, priorities. Drug dealers who poisoned children. Sex offenders who violated women's safety. Thieves who stole without remorse. Those were the true threats, the predators whose removal would actually improve lives in Santiago Heights.

Still, he made a mental note of the litterer's face. Perhaps later, when the major threats had been eliminated, there would be time to address these minor infractions. To build a community where even small violations carried consequences.

A flash of movement caught his attention—a figure moving with purpose along the opposite side of the park. Female, brown hair, confident stride. Something about her triggered his professional instincts, honed through decades of observation. Not a resident. Her alertness was different—deliberate rather than habitual, assessing rather than wary.

Law enforcement.

He watched her progress with peripheral vision, maintaining his relaxed posture on the bench. Her attention wasn't on him—she was observing the neighborhood itself, studying its rhythms and patterns. Exactly as he had done for years.

Interesting. Not a patrol officer or standard detective. Someone with a broader perspective, someone trying to understand Santiago Heights as an ecosystem rather than just responding to individual crimes. FBI, perhaps? The escalation from local police made sense after three connected murders.

He felt a flutter of excitement beneath his calm exterior. They were taking his work seriously enough to bring in federal resources. Validation, in a way, though he required none beyond the knowledge of his own righteousness. Still, the thought that his mission had commanded attention at that level suggested impact, effectiveness. The system that had ignored Santiago Heights for so long was finally paying attention, even if they were hunting him rather than the predators he targeted.

Should he pause? The tactical part of his mind considered the question dispassionately. Federal involvement increased risk. His methods, while meticulous, were not infallible. Every execution created evidence, opportunities for detection.

The thought evaporated almost as quickly as it had formed. Too many names remained on his list. Too many predators continued to operate freely, victimizing a community that had been abandoned by official justice. His mission wasn't about personal safety—it was about filling the gap left by a broken system, standing in that broken place until it was repaired or until he fell trying.

Besides, hadn't he prepared for this eventuality? The personas he'd constructed, the precautions he'd taken, the evidence he'd never left behind—all designed with the assumption that eventually, they would come looking. Let them. Justice moved invisibly through Santiago Heights, untraceable and unstoppable.

He remained on the bench until the female agent had disappeared around a corner. Only then did he rise, adjusting his windbreaker with casual precision. The afternoon was waning, shadows lengthening across the park. Soon the neighborhood would transition to its evening rhythms, bringing different opportunities for observation, different predators emerging to hunt.

And he would be watching, as he always did. Cataloging their movements, their patterns, their victims. Adding names to his docket when necessary, removing them when justice had been served. One by one, until Santiago Heights became what its residents deserved—a community where actions had consequences, where predators could no longer operate with impunity, where justice was more than an empty promise made by a system that had long since abandoned them.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The afternoon sun cast long shadows across Santiago Heights as Morgan walked its streets, observing the neighborhood with the trained eye of someone who had spent years reading urban landscapes. Modest homes with barred windows stood alongside small businesses fortified with security gates. Working families hurried along cracked sidewalks, shoulders hunched against more than just the autumn chill, while on certain corners, young men with watchful eyes conducted transactions that no one acknowledged.

It was a community of contradictions—hardworking residents trying to carve out decent lives alongside criminal elements who preyed on that very decency. The uneasy coexistence was visible in every interaction Morgan observed: the way mothers pulled their children closer when passing certain houses, the deliberate avoidance of eye contact with men lounging on specific street corners, the calculated timing of errands to avoid certain hours when danger peaked.

She'd dressed deliberately for this canvas—jeans, a simple t-shirt beneath a lightweight jacket, her badge and weapon concealed but accessible—nothing that screamed federal agent, but nothing that attempted to mimic the neighborhood's style either. Experience had taught her that pretending to belong in communities like this only raised suspicion. Better to be obviously an outsider with honest questions than someone whose attempted camouflage triggered instinctive distrust.

"Excuse me," she said, approaching an elderly woman sweeping her front stoop despite the futility of keeping dust at bay in the Texas autumn. "I was hoping to ask you about some recent events in the neighborhood."

The woman paused, leaning on her broom as she assessed Morgan with shrewd eyes that had likely witnessed decades of Santiago Heights' evolution. Deep lines etched her brown face, a testament to years under the harsh Texas sun and harsher life circumstances. "You police?" she asked directly, no fear in her voice, just the practical need to categorize this stranger.

"FBI," Morgan replied, briefly displaying her credentials before tucking them away. "Agent Cross."

The woman nodded once, neither impressed nor intimidated. "Maria Santos. Lived here forty-two years." She resumed her sweeping, but her posture remained open enough that Morgan knew she hadn't been dismissed.

"I'm investigating the recent deaths in the area. Rodriguez, Rivera." She paused, watching for reaction. "James Murray, most recently."

Maria's sweeping rhythm didn't falter, but something flickered across her weathered features—not shock or grief, but something closer to grim satisfaction. "Bad men, all of them," she said finally, her accent thickening slightly with emotion. "Rodriguez sold poison to children. My granddaughter's friend, only fourteen, in the hospital because of him. Rivera..." She made a sound of disgust. "Women couldn't even use the public library bathroom without wondering if he was watching. These men, they got what was coming."

The frank approval in her voice troubled Morgan deeply. She'd encountered similar sentiments in other neighborhoods where criminal justice seemed to operate on a delayed schedule, if at all, but hearing it stated so directly highlighted the dangerous appeal of vigilante justice when legal remedies consistently failed.

"Do you know who might have wanted them dead?" Morgan asked, keeping her tone neutral, conversational.

Maria's sweeping slowed as she appeared to consider the question. "In Santiago Heights? Everyone and no one." She shrugged. "We learned long ago—police come, take reports, nothing changes. Courts release the same criminals back to our streets week after week. After a while, people stop hoping for justice from outside."

Morgan recognized the resignation in Maria's voice—had heard similar sentiments from inmates during her incarceration, had felt that same helpless rage herself when Cordell had stolen ten years of her life through a corrupted system. The understanding created an uncomfortable kinship with both the residents of Santiago Heights and the vigilante they were hunting.

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