Page 33 of For Vengeance

The faint sounds continued—careful manipulation rather than forced entry, the work of someone knowledgeable about locks but not rushing through the process. Someone with confidence in their skills and no fear of discovery. Morgan's mind raced through possibilities—had Cordell returned to enforce his ultimatum early? Had one of his people been sent to collect on the threat? Or was it someone else entirely?

The soft click of the lock disengaging provided its own answer—whoever it was had successfully breached her first line of defense. Morgan's fingers closed around the grip of her Glock, the familiar texture steadying her racing pulse. She had survived ten years in prison by developing hyperawareness of potential threats, by recognizing danger before it fully materialized. Those instincts screamed now that whoever had entered her home hadn't come for friendly conversation.

Footsteps moved through her kitchen—deliberate, measured, someone taking care to remain as silent as possible while navigating unfamiliar space. The pattern suggested reconnaissance rather than direct approach, someone establishing a mental map of the environment before committing to their primary objective.

Morgan eased herself from beneath the light blanket, careful to avoid disturbing the weight distribution of the mattress in ways that might create telltale sounds. Skunk remained frozen at the foot of the bed, his dark eyes tracking her movements, understanding without instruction the need for absolute silence.

Before her bare feet could touch the floor, a shadow materialized in the bedroom doorway. Average height. Average build. Dressed entirely in black with gloved hands and what appeared to be a voice modulator device secured around the neck. The vigilante had found her instead of the reverse, had tracked her home despite her precautions, had breached her security with the same methodical precision demonstrated in the Santiago Heights executions.

Time compressed into crystallized awareness as the intruder lunged forward, closing the distance between doorway and bed with shocking speed. Morgan rolled from the mattress as a gloved hand swept across the space her throat had occupied seconds earlier. She hit the floor in a controlled fall, immediately driving upward with her shoulder to create space for maneuvering.

The vigilante pivoted with practiced efficiency, anticipating her movement and adjusting his attack vector accordingly. A booted foot lashed out, catching Morgan's hip as she attempted to circle toward the nightstand where her weapon remained tantalizingly out of reach. The blow transmitted controlled power rather than wild force—the calculated application of exactly enough pressure to disrupt balance without expending unnecessary energy.

"You don't understand what you're interfering with," the voice emerged as mechanically distorted sound, stripped of identifying characteristics or natural cadence. "Your reckless shots endangered innocent lives."

The knowledge hit Morgan with the same force as the physical blow—he had been watching her at Santiago Heights. Had observed the operation. Had followed her home. Had somehow identified her as FBI despite their precautions to maintain cover.

Morgan blocked a strike aimed at her solar plexus, countering with a sharp elbow to her attacker's ribs that yielded a grunt of pain despite the voice modulation. "Federal agent," she stated with cold precision, shifting her weight to create leverage against the vigilante's forward momentum. "You're making a serious mistake."

The mechanical laugh that followed contained no humor. "Your badge doesn't excuse breaking the law while claiming to uphold it. Using gunfire to lure me out? Manipulating justice for your own ends?" Each phrase punctuated with another calculated attack—a strike toward her throat that she barely deflected, a sweep at her legs that nearly succeeded in unbalancing her. "You're as corrupt as the system that failed Santiago Heights."

Morgan recognized the controlled aggression of someone with formal training—not the unrestrained violence of a street fighter or the technical precision of military combat, but something between those extremes. Each movement suggested tactical knowledge applied with personal adaptation, formal instruction modified by practical experience.

The struggle carried them through her bedroom doorway into the hallway beyond, both combatants landing and receiving significant blows. Morgan felt her lip split from a strike that partially penetrated her defense, tasted copper as blood warmed her mouth. Her counterattack drove knuckles into her attacker's floating ribs with enough force to disrupt his breathing pattern, creating momentary advantage.

"This ends now," she said, voice steady despite her accelerated heart rate. "Last chance to surrender before this escalates beyond your control."

Something shifted in the vigilante's posture—a subtle change from calculated aggression to something more desperate, more unpredictable. "I won't be imprisoned," the mechanical voice declared. "My work is too important. Santiago Heights needs me to deliver the justice you've failed to provide."

The declaration preceded a sudden escalation in violence—a flurry of strikes designed not to subdue but to create openings for lethal follow-through. Morgan recognized the tactical shift immediately, understood with cold clarity that her attacker had moved from attempted neutralization to committed elimination. The vigilante had decided she would not survive this encounter.

Morgan's prison-honed instincts took command, defensive tactics transitioning to survival imperatives. She drove her forearm into her attacker's throat, simultaneously sweeping his supporting leg to disrupt balance. As they crashed together into her living room, Skunk's deep growl joined the chaos—the pitbull's protective instincts finally overriding his initial uncertainty about engaging in the violent confrontation.

The vigilante's hand emerged from his jacket, metallic gleam confirming Morgan's assessment of escalating threat. The revolver—likely the same .38 used in the Santiago Heights executions—swung toward her with lethal intent.

Time slowed to individual heartbeats. Morgan trapped the weapon hand with both of hers, redirecting the barrel away from both herself and Skunk while simultaneously driving her knee upward into her attacker's diaphragm. The impact forced air from his lungs in an audible rush, creating momentary weakness she exploited to twist the revolver from his grasp.

The struggle for the weapon passed through several frantic seconds of contested control, both combatants fully aware that possession meant survival. Morgan felt the smooth metal slide through her fingers once before she regained purchase, her prison-strengthened grip finally securing dominance. The vigilante released the gun rather than allowing her to break his fingers through continued resistance, a tactical decision that acknowledged current defeat while preserving future capability.

But he was far from surrendering. The vigilante responded with renewed desperation, striking with his free hand, attempting to regain control of the situation slipping rapidly beyond his careful planning. His elbow connected with Morgan's temple hard enough to send sparks across her vision, momentarily disorienting her without disrupting her grip on the captured weapon.

"You're no different from me," the mechanical voice accused, its artificial calm disturbed by labored breathing. "You seek justice when the system fails. You operate outside official channels when necessary. The only difference is the badge that excuses your actions."

The accusation struck with greater force than any physical blow, resonating with uncomfortable truth that Morgan had avoided examining too closely. Her pursuit of Cordell operated at the edges of Bureau protocol. Her investigation into his corruption had necessitated steps that bent rules when they didn't break them outright. Was the vigilante seeing something in her that she'd refused to acknowledge in herself?

Morgan managed to create separation between them, the vigilante's revolver now secured in her control and oriented toward its owner. "Federal agent," she repeated, blood from her split lip punctuating each word. "On the ground, hands behind your head. Now."

Instead of compliance, the vigilante launched himself forward with reckless commitment—a tactical choice that eliminated middle ground, that forced lethal response by creating immediate threat. Morgan recognized the decision in the microsecond before impact: her attacker had chosen death over capture, had committed to an action that left her no viable alternative.

The revolver discharged once, the sound deafening in the confined space of her living room. The vigilante's forward momentum carried him into her despite the bullet's impact, driving them both into the coffee table which collapsed beneath their combined weight. Glass shattered, wood splintered, and then stillness descended with shocking abruptness.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

Morgan extracted herself from beneath her attacker's weight, maintaining control of the weapon as she created distance to assess the situation. The vigilante lay motionless amid the destroyed furniture, blood spreading across the black fabric covering his chest where the bullet had entered just below the sternum. The voice modulator had been damaged in the final struggle, circuits exposed where its casing had cracked open against the edge of the shattered coffee table.

The living room had transformed into chaos during their brief but violent confrontation. Couch cushions displaced. A lamp overturned, its shade crushed beneath someone's weight during the struggle. The coffee table was reduced to splintered wood and broken glass. Blood—both hers and the vigilante's—spotting the beige carpet in irregular patterns that told the story of their movement through the space.

Skunk circled the periphery of the destruction, a low growl still emanating from deep in his chest, his protective instincts keeping him alert despite the apparent neutralization of the threat. Morgan kept the revolver trained on the fallen vigilante, her breathing gradually slowing as combat adrenaline began to recede, allowing more detailed assessment of the situation.

---