Page 35 of For Vengeance

And Cordell possessed those same qualities, amplified by resources and connections the vigilante could never have accessed. If a self-appointed neighborhood executioner could breach her security and come so close to succeeding, what might Cordell accomplish when his deadline expired?

As dawn approached and the procedural response to the shooting continued unfolding around her, Morgan reached for her phone to contact Derik. Administrative leave wouldn't stop her from preparing for Cordell's endgame. If anything, the temporary removal from official duties might provide opportunities to operate with fewer institutional constraints—a realization that created uncomfortable resonance with the vigilante's philosophy of justice outside failing systems.

Perhaps they weren't so different after all. Just positioned at different points along the same spectrum, making different choices about which lines could be crossed when official channels proved insufficient.

Morgan pushed the disturbing parallel aside, focusing instead on immediate necessities. The vigilante of Santiago Heights had been stopped.

EPILOGUE

The examination room's fluorescent lights cast everything in an unforgiving glare—including the bruises darkening on Morgan's arms and the split in her lower lip. The antiseptic smell reminded her too much of prison infirmaries, places where questions weren't asked about injuries and inmates learned to tolerate pain rather than report it. She sat on the edge of the paper-covered table, the material crinkling beneath her as the doctor applied butterfly closures to the gash on her forehead.

"You're lucky," Dr. Hassan said, her deft fingers working with practiced efficiency. "Two centimeters to the left, and he might have fractured your orbital bone." She completed the last closure and stepped back. "You've got a mild concussion, considerable bruising, and I suspect your ribs are going to hurt for at least a week. But nothing that requires admission."

Morgan nodded, wincing slightly at the movement. Every part of her body ached from the confrontation with Rivers, each bruise and laceration mapping the desperate battle that had unfolded in her living room. "Thank you, Doctor."

Dr. Hassan disposed of her gloves and made a few final notes in the chart. "I'm prescribing anti-inflammatories and something for the pain. Use ice on that cheekbone—twenty minutes on, twenty off." She gave Morgan a measured look. "And actual rest. Not FBI-style rest where you're back at your desk in three hours."

Before Morgan could respond, a knock sounded on the examination room door. She recognized the pattern immediately—Derik's distinctive three-tap rhythm, developed over years of partnership.

"Your ride is here," Dr. Hassan observed, gathering her supplies. "Remember what I said about rest. Doctor's orders."

Morgan slid carefully from the examination table as the doctor departed, every movement a reminder of last night's violence. She caught a glimpse of herself in the small mirror on the wall—the darkening bruise on her cheekbone, the split lip, the neat row of butterfly closures holding together the gash on her forehead. External evidence of the confrontation that had ended Nathan Rivers' vigilante crusade permanently.

The door opened, and Derik appeared, his expression a complicated mix of concern and relief. He had changed clothes since she'd last seen him at the crime scene, but the shadowed circles beneath his eyes revealed he hadn't slept any more than she had.

"Hey," he said simply, eyes cataloging her injuries with professional assessment and personal worry. "You look terrible."

Morgan managed a small smile despite her split lip. "You should see the other guy."

The dark humor fell flat, as they both knew exactly what had happened to the "other guy." Rivers' body had been taken directly to the morgue while Morgan had been transported to the hospital for evaluation. The execution of three men had ended with the executioner's own death in her living room.

"How bad?" Derik asked, gesturing toward her injuries as they moved into the hospital corridor.

"Concussion, bruised ribs, various lacerations. Nothing serious." Morgan walked carefully beside him, each step measured to minimize discomfort. "Dr. Hassan says I'll live, though she insists on actual rest, which apparently differs from FBI-style rest."

Derik's hand found the small of her back, providing subtle support as they navigated the busy hospital hallway. "Smart doctor."

They made their way to the hospital exit in companionable silence, Morgan adjusting her pace to accommodate her injuries. Outside, morning sunlight bathed the world in deceptive normalcy—traffic moving on nearby streets, hospital staff changing shifts, life continuing as if a man hadn't died by her hand hours earlier.

Derik's sedan waited in the patient pickup zone, the interior already running cool against the growing Dallas heat. Morgan settled into the passenger seat with careful movements, securing her seatbelt over tender ribs. From the driver's seat, Derik studied her with the familiarity of someone who had learned to read her moods through years of partnership.

"Full forensic team is still at your place," he said as they pulled away from the hospital. "Initial sweep has already turned up plenty. Rivers was meticulous—left nothing to chance or interpretation."

"Tell me what they found," Morgan requested, resting her head against the seat back. She needed the facts, the details, the complete picture of the man who had broken into her home with execution in mind.

Derik nodded, understanding her need for information rather than platitudes. "Nathan Rivers, fifty-eight. Court stenographer for the Dallas County Criminal Courts for twenty-three years until his retirement fourteen months ago. Divorced, no children. Lived in Santiago Heights his entire adult life—same apartment for almost three decades." He paused at a red light, glancing briefly at Morgan before continuing. "His home was... illuminating."

"How so?" Morgan asked, turning slightly to face him despite the protest from her ribs.

"He documented everything. The forensic team found journals dating back fifteen years, progressively darker in tone. Early entries express frustration with repeat offenders, cases dismissed on technicalities. Later ones begin theorizing about 'alternative justice' outside the system. The most recent volumes contain detailed surveillance notes on his victims—daily routines, criminal activities, everything he needed to plan the executions."

The light changed, and they continued through the morning traffic, the familiar landmarks of Dallas sliding past Morgan's window.

"He had a wall covered with newspaper clippings," Derik continued. "Crimes committed in Santiago Heights, many featuring cases he'd transcribed during his career. Photos taken during surveillance, maps marked with pins showing criminal activity hotspots. Essentially a one-man intelligence operation."

"And no one suspected," Morgan said quietly. "He was invisible. Just as he planned."

"Perfectly average in every way—height, weight, features. The kind of man people's eyes slide past without registering. He'd cultivated that invisibility, used it as his greatest weapon." Derik steered them onto the freeway. "The team also found detailed plans for future targets. Carolyn Henderson was next on his list—a neighborhood watch member who apparently abuses her husband behind closed doors."

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