Page 34 of For Vengeance

The vigilante's chest still rose and fell, though each breath appeared increasingly labored. Blood bubbled at the corner of his mouth with each exhalation, suggesting the bullet had penetrated a lung. The wound itself continued steadily pumping blood that spread across the black fabric of his clothing, already forming a growing pool beneath him on her living room floor. Morgan recognized the signs of severe trauma that would prove fatal without immediate intervention—and possibly even with it.

"Why?" Morgan asked, keeping the revolver trained on the fallen vigilante despite clear evidence the threat had been neutralized. "Why come after me instead of disappearing? You had to know we were FBI."

The vigilante's breath came in labored gasps, the mechanical distortion failing intermittently as damaged circuits struggled to function. "You were getting too close," he managed, each word clearly requiring tremendous effort. "Saw you watching... understood too much about Santiago Heights... about my work."

Morgan moved cautiously closer, never lowering the weapon despite the vigilante's obviously deteriorating condition. Blood had begun pooling beneath him, spreading across her living room floor in steadily expanding circumference. "Who are you?" she demanded. "What's your name?"

A strange sound emerged—laughter stripped of its mechanical filter as the modulator failed completely, revealing an ordinary male voice beneath. "Nobody," he answered, his natural tone surprisingly gentle and articulate despite the circumstances. "Average build. Average height. Unremarkable features. That's the point... nobody sees justice until it arrives."

The description matched exactly what witnesses might say if asked to describe the man dying on her living room floor. There was nothing memorable about his features—no distinctive scars, no unusual facial structure, nothing that would make him stand out in a crowd or remain in someone's memory after a casual encounter. He was, as he claimed, essentially invisible until he chose to act.

His breathing grew more labored, blood bubbling more prominently at the corner of his mouth. Morgan recognized the progression of fatal hemorrhage from her years in law enforcement, knew that medical intervention—even if immediately available—would likely prove insufficient. The bullet had done catastrophic internal damage, creating bleeding that couldn't be controlled outside an operating room, and possibly not even there.

"Are you ready," the vigilante asked, his natural voice carrying an unexpected dignity despite the violent context surrounding it, "to confess your crimes as you made others confess theirs? The lines you've crossed? The rules you've broken? The justice you've perverted through corruption and compromise?"

The question cut deeper than Morgan wanted to acknowledge, resonating with uncomfortable parallels between her pursuit of Cordell and this vigilante's mission in Santiago Heights. Both operated at the edges of official sanction when conventional channels failed. Both pursued those who had escaped formal consequences for their actions. Both claimed moral justification for potentially crossing lines that separated justice from vengeance.

She offered no answer, maintaining professional distance despite the vigilante's attempt to establish equivalence between them. His breathing grew increasingly labored, blood loss accelerating as his body's compensatory mechanisms began failing. The pallor of his skin had transformed from the flush of exertion to the waxy pallor that preceded death. Morgan recognized the approaching boundary between life and death, had witnessed it enough times to identify its imminent arrival.

"Judgment comes for everyone," the vigilante managed, words emerging between increasingly desperate attempts to draw oxygen. "Even those... with badges. Remember that... when you face your own reckoning."

The statement carried no specific threat—merely philosophical observation delivered from the threshold between life and death. His final exhale carried no additional words, body relaxing into the stillness that separated the living from the dead. The vigilante of Santiago Heights had enforced his final judgment, though it had been upon himself rather than another criminal.

Morgan remained motionless for several heartbeats, weapon still trained on the lifeless form among the shattered remnants of her coffee table. Skunk pressed against her leg, a solid anchor amid the chaos of her destroyed living room. The pitbull's warm weight provided grounding as the full impact of what had just occurred began to register beyond the immediate tactical responses that had kept her alive.

Blood soaked into the carpet, spreading outward from the vigilante's body like a crimson halo. The face revealed nothing extraordinary—average features, unremarkable appearance, exactly as he had described himself. In death, as in life, he remained visually forgettable while his actions ensured he would never be forgotten.

Morgan finally lowered the weapon, setting it carefully aside before retrieving her phone to report the incident. The call would trigger a cascade of official responses—crime scene technicians, supervisors, internal affairs, probably Assistant Director Mueller himself eventually. Her living room would transform from private sanctuary to processed crime scene, every aspect of the confrontation documented, analyzed, and formally assessed.

But before making that call, Morgan took one final moment to study the man who had appointed himself Santiago Heights' executioner. Nothing in his appearance suggested the capacity for such calculated violence—no outward indication of the moral certainty that had driven him to eliminate those he deemed deserving of death. How many more names had been on his list? How many more "judgments" would have been carried out if their paths hadn't intersected tonight?

As she dialed, the vigilante's final question echoed uncomfortably in her mind. The parallels between their respective quests for justice outside failing systems. The thin line separating righteous pursuit from personal vendetta. The compromises each had made in service to what they perceived as necessary correction to systemic failures.

Were they truly so different? Or merely at different points along the same continuum, separated only by the badge that sanctioned her actions while condemning his?

"This is Agent Morgan Cross," she said when the emergency dispatcher answered. "I need to report an officer-involved shooting at my residence." She provided her address, badge number, and the basic outline of events while watching the vigilante's blood continue spreading across her living room floor.

Morgan pushed the unsettling philosophical questions aside, focusing on immediate necessities as she reported the shooting to her supervisors. The deeper implications could wait. For now, she had a crime scene to preserve, a report to file, and most importantly, Cordell's deadline still approaching with merciless consistency. Three deaths in Santiago Heights had been conclusively solved, but her most dangerous adversary remained at large, the countdown to his ultimatum unaffected by tonight's violence.

The vigilante had been stopped. Cordell remained.

By the time the first responders arrived twelve minutes later, Morgan had mentally compartmentalized the shooting, separating the necessary professional responses from the philosophical questions that would require deeper examination later. She met the uniformed officers at the door, credentials already in hand, split lip and developing bruises providing visible evidence of the struggle that had ended with a dead vigilante on her living room floor.

"Suspect attempted forced entry," she explained to the first detective on scene, her voice steady despite the adrenaline crash beginning to affect her peripheral systems. "Attacked when confronted. Produced a weapon during the struggle." Her training provided the appropriate framework for delivering essential information without unnecessary elaboration. "I defended myself with his own weapon when he left no alternative."

The formal machinery of officer-involved shooting investigation engaged with predictable efficiency—photographs, measurements, evidence collection, preliminary statements. Morgan submitted to each requirement with professional cooperation, answering questions directly while maintaining appropriate boundaries.

"We'll need your formal statement," the lead detective informed her, notebook in hand. "And there will be administrative leave pending review, standard procedure."

Morgan nodded, already anticipating the bureaucratic response to what had transpired. "I understand. My supervisor is Assistant Director Mueller. He'll want to be notified immediately."

As the crime scene technicians continued documenting the aftermath of violence that had transformed her living room, Morgan stood slightly apart, observing the process with the detachment of someone viewing events happening to someone else. The vigilante's body remained where he had fallen, now surrounded by evidence markers and measuring devices, his unremarkable features captured from multiple angles by crime scene photographers.

Justice had been served according to official processes rather than vigilante methodology. Due process would follow—autopsy, ballistics, formal review. All the systematic procedures that the dead man on her floor had bypassed in favor of execution without trial. The irony wasn't lost on Morgan as she provided additional details to investigators building the official record of tonight's events.

But even as she cooperated with the investigation, her mind continued processing parallel concerns. Cordell's deadline remained unchanged. Her father remained in danger. Derik remained a potential target. The temporary administrative leave following the shooting would limit her official resources precisely when she needed them most. The vigilante's final judgment might prove more significant than he had intended, removing her from active duty when Cordell's ultimatum demanded her full attention and unrestricted access.

Morgan touched the split in her lip, feeling the swollen tissue and tasting the copper remnants of blood that continued seeping from the wound. Physical evidence of how close the confrontation had been, how easily it might have ended differently. The vigilante had proven himself highly trained, methodical, committed—all qualities that might have resulted in her death rather than his under slightly different circumstances.

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