Page 32 of For Vengeance

Derik remained behind after the others had filed out, his expression troubled in the harsh fluorescent lighting that cast unflattering shadows across his face. He waited until the door closed behind the last agent before speaking, maintaining their privacy.

"You felt someone watching you tonight," he said, not a question but a statement of fact. His years as her partner had taught him to read her subtle cues, to recognize when her instincts had been triggered, even when she maintained an outwardly calm demeanor. "You think it was him? Our vigilante?"

Morgan considered the question, recalling the particular quality of that unseen observation—focused, evaluative, calculating rather than merely threatening. Not the generalized danger of Santiago Heights after midnight, but something specific, intentional. "Maybe," she acknowledged, leaning against the edge of the table. "It felt...professional. Controlled. Not the typical Santiago Heights threat. Not someone looking for an easy victim or a territorial dealer tracking movements through their area."

"If it was him, he's now aware we're actively hunting him, not just investigating the murders," Derik pointed out, moving to stand beside her. "That changes the dynamic. He knows we're setting traps, trying to draw him out. That knowledge will affect his behavior, his timeline, his method selection."

The observation hung between them, its implications clear. Their vigilante now knew federal agents were specifically targeting him, setting traps, attempting to draw him out. That knowledge would likely change his behavior—perhaps making him more cautious, perhaps driving him underground temporarily, or perhaps—most concerning—accelerating his timeline to complete whatever mission he believed himself to be undertaking.

"We need to identify his next potential target," Morgan concluded, turning back to the evidence board where three dead men stared back at her from crime scene photos. The harsh overhead lighting illuminated the gruesome details of their deaths—Rodriguez slumped over his own confession, Rivera's blood soaking into the carpet beneath him, Murray's lifeless form trapped in the classic car he'd attempted to steal. "Rodriguez, Rivera, Murray—he selected them for specific reasons. If we can understand his selection criteria completely, we might predict who he's hunting next."

Her fingers traced the connections they'd established between the victims—all criminals operating in Santiago Heights, all having escaped serious consequences for their crimes, all killed in ways that suggested intimate knowledge of their activities. "He's not choosing randomly. Each victim represents something specific to him—some personal offense against his concept of justice, his vision for Santiago Heights. If we can understand what drives his selections, we might get ahead of him before he kills again."

The vigilante's clock and Cordell's ultimatum ticked in terrible synchrony, both deadlines approaching with relentless certainty. Morgan felt the weight of both pressing against her with each passing hour, each failed strategy, each lost opportunity. But beneath that pressure, a deeper determination solidified—she would not fail on either front. She would find this vigilante before he killed again, and she would find a way to protect her father and Derik from Cordell's vengeance.

Failure was not an option she was willing to accept. Not now. Not with so much at stake. Not when the consequences would be measured in blood and loss and grief. She had survived ten years of wrongful imprisonment, had rebuilt her life from the ashes Cordell had created, had reclaimed her position and purpose despite everything taken from her. She would not allow either of these threats to destroy what she had fought so hard to restore.

"We'll find him," she said quietly, as much to herself as to Derik. "Tomorrow we start fresh, with a new approach. He's out there, and he's going to make a mistake. They always do, eventually."

The determination in her voice belied the exhaustion pulling at her limbs, the weight of dual deadlines pressing against her consciousness. Three days remained until Cordell's ultimatum expired. Potentially less time before their vigilante selected his next target. The pressure was mounting from multiple directions, but pressure had always brought out Morgan's greatest resilience—a quality forged during ten years behind bars when survival itself had sometimes seemed impossible.

She would find this killer. She would protect her father and Derik. She would face Cordell on her own terms.

Failure simply wasn't an option she would consider.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Morgan's key turned in the deadbolt of her front door at 3:17 AM, the sound unnaturally loud in the pre-dawn stillness of her neighborhood. Exhaustion had settled into her bones like a physical weight, the culmination of too many hours investigating with too few results. The failed operation in Santiago Heights had left her both physically and mentally drained. No vigilante, no leads, just more questions and a dwindling timeline as Cordell's ultimatum continued its relentless approach.

She secured the door behind her, engaging both locks before punching the code into her security system—the same system that had somehow failed to detect Cordell's intrusion days earlier. The memory of finding him sitting comfortably in her living room, as if he belonged there, sent a fresh wave of unease through her tired body.

Skunk greeted her with subdued enthusiasm, his substantial weight pressing against her legs as she bent to scratch behind his ears. The pitbull's dark eyes studied her face, seeming to recognize her fatigue without needing it explained. His presence offered comfort that transcended words—a silent companion who asked nothing but provided everything she needed in moments like this.

"Just you and me tonight, buddy," she murmured, allowing herself a moment of genuine connection before beginning her security checks.

The routine had evolved since Cordell's visit, transformed from basic precaution into meticulous ritual. Morgan moved through her home with systematic precision, checking window locks, confirming that motion sensors remained engaged, verifying that exterior lights illuminated potential approach routes. Each step served dual purposes—practical security and psychological reassurance that she retained some measure of control over her environment.

She paused at the living room window, peering through a narrow gap in the blinds at the street beyond. The neighborhood slept, houses dark and still, nothing moving except the occasional autumn leaf skittering across empty pavement. Yet the peaceful scene provided no real comfort. Cordell had proven that he could penetrate her sanctuary without detection. What was to prevent the Santiago Heights vigilante from doing the same, if he'd somehow identified her during their operation tonight?

The thought lingered as she completed her circuit of the house, checking the back door twice before finally allowing herself to acknowledge the depth of her exhaustion. Three days remained until Cordell's deadline expired. Three days to find a solution that protected both her father and Derik from a man whose reach extended into the darkest corners of the FBI. Three days that now seemed woefully inadequate given their lack of progress on either front.

By the time she reached her bedroom, fatigue had overtaken even her heightened vigilance. Morgan placed her service weapon on the nightstand within easy reach, her badge and credentials beside it in their worn leather case. The tattoos that covered her arms—accumulated during those ten years behind bars—seemed to throb with remembered pain as she changed into a faded FBI Academy t-shirt and shorts. VERITAS, the Latin word for truth, stood out starkly against the inside of her forearm, a permanent reminder of what had been stolen from her and what she now sought with relentless determination.

The familiar routine provided a semblance of normalcy despite the extraordinary pressures converging around her. She glanced at her phone—no messages from Derik, which meant he had made it home safely after their failed operation. Tomorrow they would regroup, reassess, try to determine why their vigilante hadn't taken the bait. If he was even out there tonight at all.

Skunk settled at the foot of her bed, his solid warmth a reassuring presence as Morgan finally allowed herself to sink into exhaustion. Their vigilante remained frustratingly elusive. Cordell's deadline continued its inexorable approach. Both threats demanded solutions she had yet to discover, challenges that seemed to multiply rather than yield to her efforts.

Morgan closed her eyes, forcing herself to compartmentalize the dual pressures long enough to capture a few hours of desperately needed sleep. The skill had served her during ten years of imprisonment—the ability to temporarily set aside overwhelming realities in favor of immediate survival needs. She would face both threats again with the morning light, but for now, her body and mind required rest to function effectively.

Sleep came with surprising speed, consciousness yielding to exhaustion before worry could establish its typical foothold. The darkness behind her eyelids deepened, external awareness fading as her breathing slowed and muscles relaxed into the first layers of much-needed rest.

The sound registered before her conscious mind could identify it—a subtle wrongness that penetrated the initial fog of sleep. Not loud enough to qualify as a disturbance, not distinct enough to immediately classify, but unmistakably out of place in her home's normal acoustic landscape. Morgan's eyes snapped open, body tensing without movement as she strained to isolate the source.

There—the nearly imperceptible metallic scrape of her back door's lock being manipulated by someone with skill but insufficient familiarity with its specific mechanism.

Someone was attempting to enter her home.

Morgan's hand moved toward the nightstand where her weapon waited, the motion deliberately slow to avoid creating sound that might alert the intruder to her wakefulness. Skunk's head had raised at the foot of the bed, his ears pricked forward, body tensed but silent—the pitbull's instincts confirming what her own had detected.

---