Page 26 of For Vengeance

As they coordinated a surveillance plan for the remainder of the night, Morgan felt the weight of Cordell's deadline pressing more insistently against her consciousness. Three days remained to resolve his ultimatum. Three days to find a solution that would protect her father and Derik from Cordell's reach. While Santiago Heights's vigilante demanded her professional attention, Cordell's threat remained a constant undertone to every decision.

"We should split up," she decided. "You take Harrison, I'll observe Parker after he leaves here. See where they go, what they do during their supposed routine evenings."

Derik hesitated, concern evident in his eyes. "You sure about splitting up? After Cordell's visit..."

"We'll cover more ground this way," Morgan insisted, though she appreciated his concern. "Besides, I doubt our vigilante is targeting FBI agents. We don't fit his victim profile."

The skepticism in Derik's expression suggested he wasn't entirely convinced, but he nodded his agreement. "Check in every thirty minutes. Any hint of trouble, we regroup immediately."

As they parted ways to begin their separate surveillance assignments, Morgan tried to focus exclusively on the vigilante case, on the methodology they were tracking, on the profile they were developing. But beneath that professional concentration, Cordell's ultimatum continued its relentless countdown, a parallel threat she couldn't ignore much longer.

Three days until she would be forced to choose between surrendering her father to Cordell's vengeance or watching Derik and potentially others she cared about suffer the consequences of her refusal. Three days to find a solution to an impossible choice, while simultaneously hunting a killer who had appointed himself judge, jury, and executioner in a neighborhood the justice system had largely abandoned.

The irony wasn't lost on her—searching for someone who had taken justice into his own hands while contemplating what her own limits might be when official channels failed. The line between justice and vengeance had never felt quite so precarious, the boundary between righteous and wrongful action never quite so blurred.

Santiago Heights stretched before her, its contradictions visible in every block—working families trying to build decent lives alongside criminals who preyed upon them, honest struggle alongside predatory opportunism, hope persisting despite generations of neglect. Somewhere in this complex ecosystem, their vigilante moved with lethal purpose, convinced of his moral authority to eliminate those he deemed threats to the community.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

He locked his apartment door behind him, sliding the deadbolt into place with practiced precision. Another evening patrol completed, another night with no suitable targets encountered. The disappointment settled in his chest like a physical weight as he hung his windbreaker on the hook beside the door, its beige fabric unremarkable, forgettable—exactly as intended.

His thoughts returned to the litterbug from Jefferson Park earlier that day, the man who had so casually discarded his trash beside rather than inside the receptacle. Such blatant disregard for community standards deserved consequence. Perhaps not execution—he maintained standards, after all—but something. A lesson. He regretted now not following the man, not learning his name and address for future reference. Santiago Heights could only be restored one correction at a time, and he had allowed an opportunity to slip away.

The apartment greeted him with familiar silence, its spare furnishings arranged with mathematical precision. No clutter, no excess, nothing unnecessary. The living room contained a single armchair positioned for optimal viewing of both the television and the front door, a small side table bearing a reading lamp and notepad, and bookshelves lined with volumes organized by subject matter rather than author or title. No decorative touches softened the space—no paintings, no photographs, nothing personal displayed for casual observers. The walls, however, told a different story.

Newspaper clippings covered the far wall in neat rows, each article precisely trimmed and mounted on black cardstock before being affixed to the wall with removable adhesive. The collection represented years of methodical documentation—crime reports from Santiago Heights, court summaries, case dispositions. Many featured familiar names, cases he had personally transcribed during his twenty-three years as a courthouse stenographer, watching justice fail time after time from his silent position beside the judge's bench.

His finger traced the headline of an article about Rodriguez's death, satisfaction warming him at the memory of the dealer's final moments. The confession had been particularly detailed, Rodriguez's hand trembling as he documented the customers he had purposely addicted, the children whose lives he had knowingly destroyed. Justice, finally delivered after the system had repeatedly failed.

He moved to the kitchen, his evening routine unfolding with practiced efficiency. Clean glass from the dish drainer. Filtered water, precisely twelve ounces. Two precisely measured ounces of bourbon from the bottle kept in the freezer—his single daily indulgence. No ice. The ritual was comforting in its consistency, a counterpoint to the unpredictable nature of his mission.

The sound pierced his contemplation—a woman's voice, shrill with anger, emanating from the apartment building across the narrow alley that separated their structures. Santiago Heights' aging architecture and poor insulation made privacy a luxury few residents enjoyed, particularly on mild evenings when windows remained open. He had learned to filter such intrusions over the years, to ignore the countless domestic squabbles and late-night arguments that provided the neighborhood's nocturnal soundtrack.

But something in this voice arrested his attention—recognition. He placed his glass on the counter and moved silently to his kitchen window, opening it wider to better capture the sounds.

"You worthless piece of shit!" The woman's voice carried clearly now. "I told you to have dinner ready when I got home! How hard is that to understand?"

A quieter voice responded, too low to distinguish the words, but the placating tone was unmistakable. A husband attempting to defuse his wife's rage.

The crash of breaking glass followed, then a man's cry of pain.

"You think I want to hear your excuses?" the woman continued, her voice dropping to a dangerous hiss. "After I've been working all day while you sit around this apartment? I should have listened to my mother. She told me you were useless."

He leaned closer to the window, curiosity transforming into focused interest as he identified the source. The Henderson apartment, third floor of the building opposite his. Carolyn Henderson—Santiago Heights Neighborhood Association president, community organizer, vocal advocate for domestic violence awareness. The same Carolyn Henderson who organized fundraisers for the women's shelter downtown, who spoke passionately at community meetings about protecting vulnerable families.

The sound of an impact reached him—flesh striking flesh—followed by another masculine cry.

"Next time I tell you to do something, you do it," Carolyn hissed, the threat explicit in her tone. "Or I swear to God, Robert, you'll regret it more than you do right now."

A slow smile spread across his face, appreciation for the universe's perfect irony warming him like fine liquor. Carolyn Henderson, public champion of the abused, private perpetrator of the very violence she claimed to fight. The hypocrisy was exquisite, perfect—a performance of virtue concealing genuine vice. How many community members had been deceived by her carefully constructed persona? How many resources had been misdirected based on her apparently selfless advocacy?

He returned to the kitchen, retrieving his bourbon and carrying it to the living room, where he settled into his armchair. His mind raced with possibilities, with the perfect symmetry of this development. Henderson certainly qualified for judgment—her hypocrisy was not merely personal failing but public deception, her abuse not just private sin but a mockery of everything she claimed to stand for.

The Henderson apartment went quiet eventually, the argument apparently concluded or at least paused. He sat motionless, listening to the ambient sounds of Santiago Heights at night—distant sirens, occasional shouts, the persistent bass from someone's car stereo thumping blocks away. His thoughts organized themselves with familiar precision, considering angles, approaches, optimal timing.

He would need to wait, of course. Midnight, at minimum, when the neighborhood settled into its restless version of sleep. When Robert Henderson would likely be unconscious, unable to interfere with justice. When Carolyn might be vulnerable to the same surprise she had used against Marcus Rodriguez, Anthony Rivera, and James Murray.

His notebook appeared in his hands, retrieved from the drawer in the side table without conscious thought. The pen moved across the page with practiced efficiency, documenting this new development, building the case against Carolyn Henderson. The notes were meticulous—date, time, specific quotes, details of sounds heard. Evidence gathering, just as he'd been trained. The courthouse had taught him the importance of precision, of documentation, of building an irrefutable case. Those skills served a higher purpose now.

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