Page 29 of For Vengeance

The lack of response felt more significant than any activity might have. Their unsub had demonstrated methodical planning, patience, and tactical awareness in his executions. If he operated in Santiago Heights nightly, as their profile suggested, he should have been drawn to investigate unusual gunfire in his territory. His absence suggested either a failure in their theory or, more concerning, that he had evolved beyond their current understanding.

"Maybe he's not out tonight," one of the agents suggested through the comm, frustration evident despite the professional tone.

"Or he's watching us watch for him," Morgan replied quietly, the possibility sending a chill down her spine despite the mild autumn night. Their vigilante had proven his ability to remain undetected despite committing three executions in two weeks. What if he was observing their operation right now, cataloging their tactics, identifying them as law enforcement? The thought wasn't paranoia but a legitimate tactical concern given their unsub's demonstrated capabilities.

The minutes continued to accumulate without incident. The damp brick wall against Morgan's back seemed to grow colder as time passed, leaching warmth from her body despite her jacket. She shifted position minutely, just enough to maintain circulation without creating noticeable movement that might betray her position. Prison had taught her the value of such micro-adjustments—how to alleviate discomfort without drawing attention, how to appear perfectly still while making necessary postural changes to prevent muscle cramps.

An hour after the shots, the operation had yielded nothing beyond a deeper appreciation for Santiago Heights' apparent indifference to gunfire. No residents had come to investigate. No patrol cars had appeared. The neighborhood's learned response to violence—staying clear, remaining uninvolved—worked against their strategy. Their vigilante, if he was indeed active tonight, had demonstrated similar restraint, refusing to respond to what may have seemed an obvious attempt to draw him out.

"We give it another thirty minutes," Morgan decided, her voice barely above a whisper in the quiet alley. "If nothing by then, we reconvene and reassess."

She shifted her weight slightly, maintaining her position in the shadows while alleviating the growing discomfort of remaining motionless for so long. Prison had taught her how to disappear into stillness, how to become so completely part of her surroundings that guards would pass without noticing her presence. Those skills served her now as she waited, listening to the night sounds of Santiago Heights, for a vigilante who refused to reveal himself.

The unfulfilled anticipation created its own tension—the sense of a predator nearby but unseen, watching perhaps from some vantage point they hadn't considered. Morgan couldn't shake the feeling that they were being observed, that their trap had been detected and countered by someone who understood the dance of hunter and hunted better than they had anticipated. The sensation wasn't paranoia but instinct—the same instinct that had kept her alive through ten years in a system designed to break her.

As minutes continued to pass without incident, Morgan began mentally revising their approach, considering alternative strategies, different angles of investigation. Their vigilante had demonstrated once again his ability to avoid detection, to anticipate their moves, or at least to exercise sufficient caution to avoid potential traps. They would need to adjust accordingly, perhaps return to more traditional investigative methods, deeper background research, intensive interviews with potential witnesses who might provide insights they had missed.

The night's failure wasn't total—even negative results provided information, eliminated possibilities, refined their understanding of their unsub's behavior patterns. But as the second hour of their operation approached with no sign of their vigilante, Morgan acknowledged the growing likelihood that tonight would yield no breakthrough, no identification, no substantive progress toward preventing another execution in Santiago Heights.

Somewhere in the darkness, their vigilante remained free to select his next target, to plan his next judgment, to continue his mission of delivering what he considered justice to those the system had failed to punish adequately. And Morgan remained determined to find him before he claimed another victim, before another confession was written under duress, before another execution was carried out in the name of righteousness.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

He stood motionless in the stairwell, listening to the echo of gunshots fade into the familiar nocturnal soundtrack of Santiago Heights. The sound had been distinctive—not the rapid discharge of gang violence or the panicked firing of a mugging gone wrong, but two deliberate reports separated by exactly three seconds. The precision troubled him, disrupting the pattern recognition he had developed over decades in this neighborhood. His gloved hand rested lightly on the metal railing, the voice modulator and revolver heavy in his jacket pockets as he processed this anomaly. Those shots had been deliberate—measured, calculated, almost theatrical in their execution.

Twenty-seven years in Santiago Heights had taught him to distinguish between different types of violence and to categorize the sounds of desperation, aggression, and retaliation. He could differentiate between the sharp reports of small-caliber handguns favored by street dealers and the more resounding boom of larger weapons gang members carried to establish territory. He knew the acoustic signature of random fire versus targeted aggression and could interpret the narrative of violence from its percussion alone. These shots felt... wrong. Out of place. The timing is too deliberate, the spacing too perfect, like someone attempting to simulate violence rather than engage in it.

He checked his watch—12:47 AM. The luminous dial glowed faintly in the dim stairwell, confirming that events were deviating from his meticulously crafted schedule. He had timed his approach to the Henderson apartment with mathematical precision, selecting this hour when both Carolyn and her husband would likely be in their deepest sleep cycle. The building's security door had yielded to his lock picks in under thirty seconds—a poorly maintained mechanism that provided the illusion of safety rather than actual protection. The stairwell had offered perfect concealment, no cameras to record his ascent to the third floor, no residents likely to be awake at this hour on a weeknight. Everything had proceeded according to plan until those shots pierced the night.

Now he stood frozen between the second and third floors, recalculating. The Henderson woman deserved judgment—her hypocrisy and abuse demanded accountability, her performance as domestic violence advocate while privately terrorizing her husband represented the particular breed of duplicity he found most offensive. But gunfire represented either another predator operating in his territory or someone in immediate danger. Both possibilities superseded his planned execution of judgment against Carolyn Henderson.

Justice required priorities, triage. The immediate threat took precedence over the scheduled judgment. Years of courthouse stenography had taught him the value of process, of following established protocols. His mission might be extrajudicial, but it maintained internal consistency, procedural integrity. The Henderson judgment would wait; the source of those anomalous gunshots required immediate investigation.

He descended the stairs with silent efficiency, each footfall placed deliberately to avoid sound. Years of moving through Santiago Heights unnoticed had taught him how to minimize his acoustic presence—weight transferred gradually rather than abruptly, foot placement that avoided loose boards or creaking steps, breathing controlled to prevent even that minimal sound from betraying his presence. The service exit opened to the narrow alley behind the building, darkness enveloping him as he slipped outside with practiced ease.

The night air carried the lingering scent of gunpowder, confirming what his instincts had already told him—the shots had originated nearby, perhaps two blocks south where abandoned warehouses created natural sound channels that amplified and directed acoustic energy through the neighborhood's maze-like structure. The faint chemical smell cut through the usual Santiago Heights bouquet of garbage awaiting collection, cooking spices from ground-floor apartments, and the perpetual undertone of vehicle exhaust that never quite dissipated even at this hour.

He moved through the darkness with practiced ease, keeping to shadows, avoiding the pools of sickly yellow light cast by the few functioning street lamps. His unremarkable appearance served as urban camouflage—average height, average build, forgettable features, clothes selected specifically to avoid notice or later description. Even if someone glimpsed him now, they would remember nothing significant—just another resident of Santiago Heights moving through the night, unremarkable, forgettable, essentially invisible despite physical presence.

The alley between Jefferson and Westmoreland offered the most direct approach to where he estimated the shots had originated. He navigated the narrow passage with confident familiarity, stepping around overflowing dumpsters and abandoned furniture with the ease of someone who had mapped every obstacle, memorized every potential impediment to quick movement through his territory. The mental cartography of Santiago Heights existed in perfect detail within his mind—every alley, every fire escape, every blind corner cataloged through years of patient observation and meticulous documentation.

As he approached the junction where two alleys intersected, he slowed his pace, instincts warning him to proceed with greater caution. The gunshots had come from somewhere very close now, the lingering scent of discharge growing stronger. He pressed against the brick wall at the corner, becoming one with the shadows as he carefully peered around the edge, his movements so gradual they would be imperceptible to casual observation.

Movement caught his eye immediately—a figure emerging from the darkness of the opposite alley. A woman, moving with deliberate purpose, her posture alert but controlled. Even in the poor light, he could make out her short brown hair and the unmistakable outline of a weapon being holstered beneath her jacket. As she passed momentarily through a shaft of moonlight that penetrated between buildings, he glimpsed what appeared to be tattoos covering her arms below the pushed-up sleeves of her jacket.

Recognition flashed through his mind with sudden clarity. The same woman he'd observed earlier that day in Jefferson Park—the one who had moved with such purposeful attention through Santiago Heights, studying its patterns, its residents, its rhythms. Not a casual visitor or lost driver seeking a shortcut through unfamiliar streets. Someone with clear intent, professional purpose, evaluative rather than merely observational.

She moved away from the location where the shots must have originated, her stride confident, unhurried. Nothing in her demeanor suggested fear or reaction to danger—no rapid movement, no frequent glancing over her shoulder, no hunched posture to minimize her profile as a potential target. Instead, she projected the calm efficiency of someone who had completed a task exactly as planned, who anticipated no negative consequences from her actions.

She had fired those shots.

The certainty solidified as he observed her continue down the alley. The timing, the precision, the controlled departure—this was not a victim or a witness, but the source. But why would someone deliberately fire shots in an isolated location, then calmly walk away? What purpose could such an action serve in Santiago Heights after midnight?

Unless...

The realization formed with perfect clarity, pieces assembling themselves in his analytical mind. A lure. A provocation. Someone trying to draw attention, to trigger a response. The deliberate spacing of the shots suddenly made sense—designed to carry through the neighborhood, to sound distinctly different from the typical gunfire that occasionally disturbed Santiago Heights' nights, to stand out as an anomaly that would attract specific attention.

He remained motionless in the shadows, watching as the woman reached the end of the alley and hesitated, scanning her surroundings before continuing onto the street. Her movements suggested training, awareness, professional assessment of potential threats—the methodical environmental scan of someone accustomed to operating in dangerous conditions. Not a criminal, then. Something else. Law enforcement, most likely, though not displaying any visible identification or equipment beyond the concealed weapon.

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