Page 31 of For Vengeance

"Approaching my vehicle on Westmoreland. East side of the street, midblock." Morgan continued walking without breaking stride, maintaining the appearance of someone unaware of observation. Her fingers drifted casually toward her weapon, not drawing it but confirming its accessibility should the situation deteriorate. "Could be nothing. Stay in position until I confirm."

The feeling intensified as she reached her sedan, keys already in hand to minimize her vulnerability during the transition from foot to vehicle. Nothing visible stood out—no unusual shadows, no parked cars with occupants, no obvious hiding places within direct line of sight. Yet her every instinct, honed through years of fieldwork and sharpened by prison's constant dangers, screamed that she was being watched with focused intent.

The sensation wasn't the generalized anxiety of moving through a dangerous neighborhood after midnight. This felt specific, targeted—the unmistakable pressure of concentrated attention from unseen eyes. Someone was tracking her movements with professional interest, studying her rather than merely observing her presence.

She unlocked the driver's door, sliding into the seat with practiced efficiency while scanning the street through the windshield. Santiago Heights offered dozens of vantage points for an observer—darkened windows in apartment buildings, rooftop access on commercial structures, shadowed doorways between the pools of sickly yellow light cast by functioning streetlamps. A skilled watcher could remain completely invisible while maintaining clear sightlines to her position, especially someone with intimate knowledge of the neighborhood's architecture and blind spots.

"I'm mobile," she informed the team as she started the engine, the familiar rumble providing minimal comfort against the persistent sensation of being observed. "Still can't identify the source, but someone's definitely watching. Could be our unsub, could be unrelated neighborhood activity." She kept her tone professional despite the adrenaline now coursing through her system, years of training allowing her to function effectively despite physical stress responses.

"Want backup?" Derik asked, concern evident even through the professional shorthand. The subtle undertones in his voice communicated what he didn't say explicitly—that Cordell's threat had changed the risk calculation for all operations, especially those that placed her in potentially vulnerable positions.

Morgan considered the options, weighing security against investigative necessity. If their vigilante was indeed observing her, approaching with multiple agents would only confirm his suspicions about their operation and drive him deeper underground, potentially destroying any chance of identifying him before he claimed another victim. If the sensation stemmed from ordinary Santiago Heights danger—gang members, opportunistic predators, territorial drug dealers—backup might be warranted, but would compromise their already tenuous vigilante investigation.

"Negative," she decided after a moment's deliberation. "Maintain positions until I clear the neighborhood. Could be nothing, and we don't want to spook our unsub if he's finally showing interest." The vigilante's pattern suggested someone who studied targets extensively before acting—if he was observing her now, forcing his retreat would only delay the inevitable confrontation while giving him additional information about their tactical capabilities.

She pulled away from the curb, driving with deliberate normalcy despite the adrenaline continuing to course through her system. Her eyes constantly checked the mirrors, seeking headlights that might follow her pattern of turns too precisely, vehicles that maintained consistent distance despite speed changes, or pedestrians who appeared in multiple locations along her route. The rearview mirror revealed nothing unusual—no headlights following at a suspicious distance, no figures trailing her departure on foot. Yet the sensation of being tracked persisted, a phantom pressure between her shoulder blades where a watcher's gaze seemed to rest.

Three blocks from her original position, Morgan executed a careful driving maneuver designed to expose any tail—a series of turns that would force a follower to either reveal themselves or abandon the pursuit. She took a right at the next intersection, then an immediate left into a narrow side street, accelerating briefly before slowing to observe any vehicles that might appear behind her. Each turn revealed only empty streets in her wake, the neighborhood growing quieter as she approached its eastern boundary, where Santiago Heights gave way to slightly more respectable areas with functioning streetlights and fewer abandoned buildings.

"I think I'm clear," she updated, relaxing fractionally as the sensation of being watched finally began to fade. The tight muscles across her shoulders loosened marginally, though the lingering effects of adrenaline kept her posture rigid behind the wheel. "Heading to headquarters now. All units can withdraw per original extraction plan."

As Morgan merged onto the larger thoroughfare that would take her back to FBI headquarters, frustration settled over her like a physical weight. Another night lost, another operation yielding nothing but shadows and suspicion. Their vigilante remained free to select his next target, to force another confession at gunpoint, to execute another judgment without trial or appeal. The sense of racing against an invisible clock intensified—both for the vigilante case and Cordell's ultimatum, dual deadlines converging with potentially lethal consequences.

"It's possible he identified our operation before we even began," Derik suggested over the comm, his analytical mind already processing the night's failure for usable intelligence. "Someone this careful, this methodical—he might have resources or methods we haven't anticipated. The timing of those shots was deliberately unnatural. Any resident familiar with actual gunfire would recognize the difference immediately."

The observation aligned with Morgan's growing concerns about their unsub's capabilities. Three executions without a single viable lead suggested someone with either extensive preparation or profound understanding of investigative techniques—perhaps both. Someone who anticipated law enforcement responses and planned accordingly. Someone who might, in fact, be watching them while they searched for him, evaluating their strategies with the same methodical attention they applied to analyzing his crimes.

"We need to reconsider our approach," she agreed, turning onto the highway that would take her back downtown, the sedan's headlights illuminating the empty road stretching before her. "Meet me at headquarters in twenty. We'll reassess with whatever information the teams gathered tonight."

The drive back provided unwelcome time for her thoughts to drift toward Cordell's ultimatum. Three days. Seventy-two hours to find a solution that protected her father and Derik from a man whose reach extended into the highest levels of the FBI. The parallel pressure had begun affecting her sleep, her concentration, her strategic thinking—exactly as Cordell had intended. Dividing her focus between the vigilante case and his threat ensured neither received her full capabilities.

Streetlights blurred past as she accelerated, their rhythmic passing marking time like the ticking of an oversized clock. The highway stretched before her, empty at this hour except for occasional truckers and late-night travelers. The solitude offered no comfort, serving instead as a reminder of how isolated she felt facing these dual threats—the vigilante who eluded her professional skills and Cordell who threatened everything personal she had rebuilt since her release from prison.

By the time Morgan reached headquarters, the night's failure had crystallized into grim determination. Their vigilante had evaded them again, but each encounter—even failed ones—revealed something about his methods, his awareness, his tactical thinking. The sensation of being watched might have yielded nothing concrete, but it suggested their unsub was more attentive to law enforcement movements in his territory than they had anticipated.

The building's interior lights cut harsh shadows through the corridors as she made her way to the briefing room, the skeleton night staff offering brief nods of acknowledgment as she passed. The quiet efficiency of the nearly empty building contrasted sharply with the chaotic energy of Santiago Heights, institutional order versus neighborhood disorder, official justice versus vigilante execution.

The briefing room appeared unchanged from when they'd left it hours earlier—evidence photos still arranged methodically on the board, coffee cups abandoned on the table, timelines marked with precision. Morgan stood before it all, absorbing the details they'd assembled while waiting for Derik and the surveillance teams to arrive. Her eyes traced the connections they'd identified, the patterns they'd established, searching for something they might have overlooked, some detail that could lead them to their elusive killer.

Three victims. Three executions. Three confessions extracted at gunpoint before death. The crime scene photos showed the methodical nature of each killing—the precision of the gunshot wounds, the careful positioning of the bodies, the confessions placed deliberately within view. Somewhere in Santiago Heights, their vigilante moved with lethal purpose, selecting targets, planning judgments, delivering what he considered justice to those the system had failed to punish adequately. And despite their best efforts, he remained as elusive as justice itself had proven to be throughout Morgan's life—visible in concept but often absent in reality.

When Derik entered the room, the concern in his eyes told her that tonight's failure had only amplified his worry about her dual burden—hunting this killer while Cordell's clock ticked relentlessly in the background. His tie hung loosened around his neck, his normally neat appearance showing the strain of the long night's surveillance. The fluorescent lighting deepened the shadows beneath his eyes, evidence of the toll this case was taking on him as well.

"We'll find him," he said quietly, stopping beside her at the evidence board. His presence at her shoulder provided a momentary anchor amid the swirling pressures. "Tonight didn't work, but it told us something important—he's cautious, observant. He didn't rush to investigate because he sensed something wrong about those shots. That's information we can use."

Morgan nodded, appreciating his attempt at reassurance while maintaining her focus on the evidence before them. "He's studying us while we study him," she agreed, her voice low despite the empty building. "And right now, he's winning that particular contest. He knows Santiago Heights better than we do, understands its rhythms and patterns in ways we're still trying to decipher."

She turned to face the room as the surveillance teams filed in, their expressions reflecting her own frustration with the night's results. Each agent carried the same defeated posture—shoulders slightly slumped, movements less crisp than usual, eyes showing the particular fatigue that came from extended surveillance that yielded nothing. No one had observed anything useful—no suspicious figures approaching the target area, no unusual reactions among the sparse civilian traffic in Santiago Heights after midnight. Their operation had yielded nothing except the unsettling awareness that their vigilante might be more sophisticated than they had initially believed.

"We need to approach this differently," Morgan announced, her voice cutting through the quiet murmurs of the assembled agents. Heads turned toward her, expressions attentive despite the late hour and failed operation. "Our unsub isn't responding to traditional traps. He knows his territory too well, anticipates standard tactics too easily. We've been trying to draw him out, but we need to go back to identifying him through conventional investigative means."

She moved to the whiteboard, wiping away their failed operational plan with several broad strokes and beginning to sketch a new approach. The squeak of the marker against the glossy surface punctuated her words as she outlined the revised strategy. "Tomorrow we go back to basics—intensive background on every resident of Santiago Heights with military, law enforcement, or security training. Cross-reference with anyone who might have access to non-public information about our victims. Focus particularly on those who've experienced personal losses to crime in the neighborhood or who have demonstrated strong moral convictions about criminal justice."

The midnight operation had failed, but failure was simply information—another data point guiding them toward their elusive target. Morgan wouldn't allow disappointment to overshadow determination. Every unsuccessful strategy eliminated possibilities, narrowed parameters, brought them incrementally closer to identifying their vigilante before he claimed another victim. The process felt frustratingly slow, especially with Cordell's deadline approaching, but methodical elimination remained their best hope of finding their killer.

"We'll divide the neighborhood into sectors," she continued, drawing a rough map of Santiago Heights and partitioning it into manageable zones. "Teams of two agents per sector, conducting intensive interviews focused specifically on potential suspects rather than general canvassing. Look for anyone with unusual interest in the murders, anyone with alibi inconsistencies, anyone whose behavior has changed noticeably since the killings began."

As the teams dispersed to begin implementing the revised approach, the energy in the room shifted subtly from defeated to focused. Morgan had provided direction amid failure, a path forward when the previous route had proved impassable. The late hour and failed operation still weighed on them, but professional purpose had been restored, giving meaning to the night's disappointment.

---