Page 28 of For Vengeance

"I return to Santiago Heights after midnight and fire shots in an isolated location—somewhere no one will be harmed but the sound will carry through the neighborhood," Morgan explained, the plan forming as she spoke, tactical details falling into place with practiced efficiency. "Our justice-obsessed killer will likely investigate unusual gunfire in his territory. He'd want to know if someone is committing violence on his 'protected' streets."

"And when he shows up to investigate?" Derik asked, clearly not convinced, his posture still radiating concern. "What then?"

"We'll have surveillance teams positioned strategically throughout the area. Multiple agents watching from different angles to identify anyone who responds too quickly or shows particular interest." Morgan moved to the map, indicating potential positions with practiced precision. "We're not trying to catch him in the act—just identify who reacts in a way that suggests they're more than a concerned resident. If Harrison or Parker appears, that strengthens our case against them. If someone new shows interest, we have another suspect to investigate."

Derik studied the map, his reluctance evident in the tight set of his shoulders and the deep furrow between his brows. His concern wasn't just professional; it had become personal since Cordell's visit, his protective instincts heightened by the knowledge that Morgan faced multiple threats. "It's still risky. This guy has demonstrated tactical awareness, preparation. He might recognize a trap."

"Which is why we keep it simple," Morgan countered, her voice taking on the quiet intensity that had convinced reluctant witnesses to cooperate, persuaded prosecutors to pursue difficult cases, earned the respect of agents who had initially questioned her return to the Bureau after her exoneration. "Just enough to pique his interest without seeming obviously staged. If he's as invested in protecting Santiago Heights as his pattern suggests, he won't be able to ignore what sounds like violence in his territory."

For several long moments, the only sound in the room was the soft hum of the air conditioning and the distant ring of a phone somewhere in the building. Morgan watched Derik process the plan, weighing risks against their increasingly limited options, balancing professional obligation against personal concern. His expression shifted subtly as he considered the proposal from multiple angles, his methodical mind testing scenarios, evaluating contingencies.

"We'd need at least six agents for proper coverage," he finally said, the statement an implicit, if reluctant, acceptance. "Plainclothes, communication gear, designated extraction points if anything goes sideways." His tone had shifted from opposition to tactical planning, though concern still shadowed his eyes. "And strict time parameters—if nothing happens within a set window, we withdraw, no exceptions."

Relief flooded through Morgan, though she kept her expression neutral. The plan wasn't perfect, carried obvious risks, but represented their best chance of identifying their vigilante before another body appeared with a forced confession beside it. "We can position them in pairs, covering the three most likely approach routes to wherever I fire the shots. Two-hour maximum window, then complete withdrawal regardless of results."

"Mueller won't authorize this without significant safety protocols," Derik warned, already reaching for his phone, thumb hovering over the assistant director's contact information. "And he'll probably want to substitute another agent for you given Cordell's direct threat."

"Then we'll establish them," Morgan replied simply. "And I'm the best qualified for the trigger position—I know Santiago Heights better than any other available agent after spending the day canvassing. Besides, our unsub has a specific victim profile. I don't match it." The argument was logical, professional, disguising her deeper motivation—the need to remain actively involved, to pursue this vigilante personally, to maintain control over at least one of the threats she faced.

Derik held her gaze for a long moment, something unspoken passing between them—a recognition of her determination, an acknowledgment of the risks, a silent agreement to protect each other regardless of the operation's outcome. Their partnership had evolved beyond professional boundaries, especially since her return from prison, into something neither had fully defined but both relied upon increasingly.

"I'll make the call," he said finally, pressing Mueller's contact. "But I'm taking the observation point closest to your position. Non-negotiable."

Morgan nodded, accepting the condition without argument, understanding it stemmed from more than tactical considerations. As Derik stepped away to speak with Mueller, she turned back to the evidence board, to the three men whose deaths had brought them to this point. Somewhere in Santiago Heights, their vigilante was perhaps selecting his next target, studying criminal activities, planning another execution. The clock ticked for his unknown victim just as Cordell's ultimatum counted down for her father and Derik.

Time was running out on multiple fronts. The trap they were setting might not be perfect, might not yield immediate results, but it represented action rather than reaction—a chance to get ahead of their vigilante before he claimed another life. The risks were calculated, acceptable given the stakes. At least, that's what Morgan told herself as she began sketching out the operational details, pushing away the nagging doubt that her judgment might be compromised by Cordell's parallel threat.

One problem at a time. One night to focus exclusively on their vigilante. The rest would have to wait.

By half past midnight, Morgan stood in the darkness of the alley, the weight of her service weapon familiar in her hand as she checked it one final time. The tactical simplicity of the operation provided its greatest protection—firing shots to simulate violence, then withdrawing to safe observation positions where surveillance teams could monitor anyone responding to the sounds. No direct engagement planned, no close-quarter risks, nothing that would place her or other agents in immediate danger.

She wore a dark jacket over a black t-shirt, practical clothing that wouldn't reflect light or restrict movement. The outfit allowed her prison tattoos to remain partially visible at her wrists and throat—unusual for an FBI agent, potentially valuable if their vigilante associated law enforcement with a more sanitized appearance. Her earpiece, nearly invisible in the darkness, carried the steady sound of agents checking in from their positions, confirming sightlines and readiness.

"All units in position," Derik's voice confirmed in her ear. He had insisted on taking the closest observation point himself, positioned in a vacant second-floor apartment with clear views of both the alley and the street beyond. The slight tension in his tone betrayed his continued concern despite Mueller's reluctant approval of the operation. "Neighborhood is quiet. Minimal civilian activity on surrounding blocks."

Morgan took a slow breath, centering herself in the moment, pushing thoughts of Cordell aside to focus exclusively on their vigilante. The discipline of compartmentalization had kept her sane during ten years of wrongful imprisonment—the ability to focus entirely on immediate threats while acknowledging but not dwelling on larger dangers. She employed that skill now, narrowing her attention to the operation at hand. "Executing in thirty seconds," she confirmed quietly.

The night air carried the typical sounds of Santiago Heights after midnight—distant music from somewhere deeper in the neighborhood, occasionally punctuated by shouts or laughter that might signal celebration or confrontation, the intermittent rumble of vehicles on larger streets, the rustle of paper trash skittering along the sidewalk in the autumn breeze. Morgan allowed these sounds to wash over her, attuning her senses to the baseline against which any anomalies would stand out.

She raised her weapon, aiming at a section of brick wall where the bullets would impact safely, embedding themselves in the aging mortar without risk of ricochet or collateral damage. The first shot cracked through the night, unnaturally loud in the confined space of the alley, echoing between buildings like a thunderclap in the relative quiet. She waited precisely three seconds, then fired again—creating the impression of deliberate, spaced shots rather than panic firing or random violence.

The sound reverberated through Santiago Heights, traveling farther than might be expected in the quiet of night. Morgan immediately holstered her weapon and stepped deeper into the shadows along one wall of the alley, becoming part of the darkness. Now came the waiting game—monitoring who might respond to the sound of gunfire in a neighborhood where such occurrences typically prompted residents to lock doors rather than investigate.

"Shots confirmed," came Derik's quiet voice in her ear. "Clear sound signature. Now we wait."

Minutes stretched into eternity as Morgan remained motionless in the shadows, controlling her breathing, listening intently for approaching footsteps or voices. Her years in prison had taught her patience, had honed her ability to remain still for hours when necessary, to become so completely part of her surroundings that even trained observers might miss her presence. She employed those skills now, hyperaware of every sound that penetrated the alley.

Distant doors slammed as residents secured themselves inside their homes, responding to the gunshots with practiced self-preservation rather than curiosity. A dog barked several blocks away, the sound trailing off into whimpers before silence reclaimed the night. A car accelerated somewhere to the west, tires squealing briefly against pavement—perhaps someone fleeing what they perceived as danger, or merely coincidental timing.

Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. The silence of Santiago Heights remained unbroken except for distant traffic and the occasional dog barking in response to unseen stimuli. No one approached the alley. No curious residents, no patrolling officers, and most importantly, no vigilante drawn to investigate violence in his territory. The lack of response began to gnaw at Morgan's confidence in their strategy.

"No movement on Jefferson," reported one of their surveillance teams, voices low and professional in her earpiece.

"Westmoreland is clear," confirmed another. "Minimal civilian activity, none showing interest in the shots."

Morgan remained motionless, controlling the frustration that threatened to disrupt her concentration. Had their theory been wrong? Did the vigilante not consider random gunfire worth investigating? Or worse—had he somehow detected their operation, recognized it as a trap set specifically to draw him out?

"Thirty minutes since shots fired," Derik updated, his voice carrying the composed professionalism that had made him an excellent agent but couldn't completely mask his disappointment. "Still no response from any direction."

---