Page 27 of For Vengeance

After completing his initial notes, he rose and moved to the bedroom. The closet door opened silently on well-oiled hinges, revealing clothing as unremarkable as the man who wore it—neutral colors, basic styles, nothing memorable. But behind the hanging garments, a panel in the wall slid aside when pressed, revealing a shallow compartment containing his tools of justice.

The gun rested on a small velvet cloth—a .38 revolver, chosen specifically because it left no casings at crime scenes. Beside it lay the voice modulator, a technological investment that had proved its worth repeatedly by rendering his voice unrecognizable to potential witnesses or victims. Gloves, custom-crafted confession paper, spare ammunition—everything meticulously maintained, precisely arranged.

He lifted the revolver, checking the cylinder with practiced movements. Each chamber contained a round, though he typically needed only one. Economy of force, precision of application—these principles guided his work. He cleaned the weapon weekly regardless of whether it had been fired, the ritual both practical maintenance and symbolic purification.

The voice modulator required battery verification. He tested it briefly, speaking a single word into the device and listening to the distorted, mechanical sound it produced. The technology transformed his ordinary voice into something otherworldly, something that inspired the proper fear and respect in those facing judgment. It separated his everyday identity from his role as justice's instrument—a necessary compartmentalization.

Replacing everything in the hidden compartment, he slid the panel closed and returned to the living room. Anticipation hummed beneath his skin, the familiar electricity that preceded rendering judgment. Carolyn Henderson would face accountability for her hypocrisy, for her abuse, for her performance of virtue while committing private sin. Her confession would reveal the truth she had so carefully hidden from the community. Her execution would remove another predator from Santiago Heights.

He sipped his bourbon slowly, savoring both the liquor and the anticipation. Three hours until midnight. Three hours to prepare, to plan, to ensure perfect execution. His thoughts turned to practical considerations—Henderson's build (slight but wiry), potential resistance (minimal given the element of surprise), optimal approach (rear entrance to their building, service stairwell to third floor, lock picking rather than forced entry).

Justice walked Santiago Heights with quiet footsteps, with unremarkable appearance, with forgettable features. Three hours from now, it would visit Carolyn Henderson, exposing her hypocrisy with a confession written in her own hand before delivering the sentence her crimes demanded.

He smiled into the darkness of his apartment, pleased with the universe's perfect symmetry. The protector revealed as predator. The advocate exposed as abuser. The final, irrefutable evidence that appearances meant nothing, that true justice required seeing beyond facades to the reality beneath.

Three hours. The time would pass quickly in preparation. And then, justice would be served once more.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Morgan gazed through the windshield of her sedan, watching darkness settle over Santiago Heights like a predator claiming its territory. Street lamps flickered to life in irregular patterns, some burned out from neglect, others casting pools of sickly yellow illumination that barely penetrated the growing shadows between buildings. The transition was more than mere darkness falling; night transformed the neighborhood, changing not just its appearance but its fundamental nature. The working families who defined its daylight hours—mothers hurrying children home from school, shopkeepers sweeping storefronts, laborers returning from construction sites—retreated behind locked doors and barred windows, while a different ecosystem emerged—predators and prey engaged in their nightly dance across cracked sidewalks and dimly lit corners.

Her surveillance of Thomas Parker had yielded nothing useful, just hours of watching the prosecutor methodically restore his grandfather's home. The man had finished his renovation work around ten, carefully storing tools in a locked shed and securing the property with multiple deadbolts before driving directly home to his Highland Park residence. No detours, no suspicious stops, no clandestine meetings in shadowy corners—nothing to suggest he was anything other than what he claimed: a former resident with sentimental attachments to a neighborhood most of his colleagues avoided. The disappointment sat heavily in Morgan's chest, another potential lead evaporating under scrutiny.

The vibration of her phone cut through her thoughts, Derik's name illuminating the screen. She answered immediately, anticipation momentarily elevating her heart rate.

"Anything?" she asked without preamble, her voice revealing more eagerness than she intended.

"Nothing," Derik replied, frustration evident in his voice, the single word carrying the weight of hours spent in fruitless observation. "Harrison completed his patrol route exactly as scheduled. Spoke with a few residents, checked door locks on businesses, then returned home. If he's our guy, he's not hunting tonight."

Morgan sighed, massaging her temples where tension had settled into a persistent ache. The disappointment was becoming familiar—lead after lead yielding nothing concrete, their vigilante remaining stubbornly invisible despite increasingly focused investigation. "Same with Parker. Straight from the renovation to home." She checked the time—just past eleven. The digital display seemed to mock their lack of progress. "Meet me back at headquarters. We need to regroup."

The briefing room felt smaller at night, the walls closing in as fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across the evidence board. The clinical brightness made the crime scene photos appear even more grotesque—Rodriguez slumped over his coffee table in a pool of congealing blood, Rivera's unseeing eyes staring at the ceiling of his apartment, Murray's body crumpled behind the wheel of the stolen Mustang. Morgan stood before these images, arms crossed tightly over her chest, frustration building with each passing minute. Three dead men connected by their criminal activities in Santiago Heights and the methodical manner of their executions.

"Three victims in two weeks," she said as Derik entered the room, carrying fresh coffee for both of them, the acrid scent of the over-brewed department coffee cutting through the sterile air. "He's escalating. There will be a fourth soon if we don't get ahead of him."

Derik handed her a cup, the warmth seeping through the paper into her fingers, a small comfort amid growing concerns. "We've interviewed every viable suspect, tracked movements, verified alibis. Harrison and Parker remain possibilities, but we've got nothing concrete on either." He gestured toward the map where their geographic profile was marked with red pins indicating murder locations and blue shading showing their suspected radius of the unsub's residence. "The neighborhood connection is our strongest lead. Our unsub unquestionably considers Santiago Heights his territory to 'cleanse.'"

Morgan took a slow sip of coffee, the bitter liquid burning a path down her throat, momentarily distracting her from the deeper burn of frustration. The vigilante continued to elude them, protected by both methodical planning and a community that saw him as deliverer rather than predator. Residents had made their allegiance clear during her canvas—subtle approval in averted gazes, in reluctant answers, in the unmistakable absence of outrage over the murders. Meanwhile, Cordell's ultimatum ticked relentlessly closer—three days remaining until he made good on his threats against her father and Derik.

The parallel pressures threatened to crush her between them, each deadline approaching with inexorable certainty. Prison had taught her to compartmentalize, to focus exclusively on immediate dangers while maintaining awareness of longer-term threats. She employed those skills now, forcing Cordell's ultimatum to the periphery of her consciousness while she concentrated on the vigilante case. One problem at a time. Present danger before future threat.

"We can't just wait for another body to drop," she said finally, setting her cup down with more force than necessary, coffee sloshing over the rim onto the polished surface of the conference table. "We need to force his hand."

Derik looked up from the case file he'd been reviewing, wariness entering his expression. He recognized the tone in her voice—the particular quality it took on when she was considering tactics that diverged from standard procedures. "What are you thinking?"

Morgan took a deep breath, knowing her next suggestion would meet resistance. Her fingers unconsciously traced the outline of her VERITAS tattoo through her shirt sleeve—the permanent reminder of justice denied and her commitment to finding truth regardless of cost. "We draw him out. Create a situation that would trigger his sense of justice—essentially setting a trap by having an agent pose as a criminal in Santiago Heights."

"Absolutely not." Derik's response was immediate, his voice hardening with concern, coffee forgotten as he focused entirely on her. "We're dealing with an unknown, highly methodical killer who leaves zero evidence. Putting an agent in that position without knowing who we're targeting or how he selects victims would be incredibly dangerous."

"You have a better idea?" Morgan challenged, gesturing toward the evidence board, the faces of three dead men staring back at them from clinical crime scene photographs. "Three people are dead, Derik. Three executions without a single viable lead. At this rate, we'll be adding a fourth victim before we're any closer to identifying our unsub."

"And your solution is to volunteer as potential victim number four?" Derik set his coffee aside, stepping closer to her, voice dropping lower as though concerned about being overheard despite the empty building. The shadows beneath his eyes had deepened over the past days, evidence of his own worry about both investigations. "This isn't just about the case, Morgan. You're pushing for high-risk operations when you're already dealing with Cordell's threat. It's too much."

The observation struck closer to home than Morgan wanted to admit. Was she pushing for more extreme measures because she felt time slipping away on multiple fronts? Was Cordell's ultimatum affecting her judgment, making her willing to take risks she might otherwise avoid? During her years in prison, she'd learned to recognize when fear was driving her decisions—a dangerous impulse that had to be checked before it led to potentially fatal errors.

"Okay," she conceded after a moment, forcing herself to consider alternatives, to view the situation with the detached analysis that had made her an excellent agent before her wrongful conviction. "Not a full undercover operation. Something more controlled." Her mind raced through possibilities, seeking options that might draw their vigilante out without putting an agent directly in his crosshairs. "What if we stage what appears to be a crime in progress? Something that would catch his attention without actually endangering anyone?"

Derik's expression remained skeptical, but he didn't immediately dismiss the modified approach. His eyes studied her face, gauging her conviction, weighing the potential risks against their increasingly limited options. "What specifically?"

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