Page 9 of For Vengeance

"Whoever did this has training," she observed. "The kill is too clean, too professional for an amateur. Maybe law enforcement or military background." She looked up at Mueller. "And they clearly have access to non-public information about their victims. The confessions include details that weren't in official records or public knowledge."

"Which is why I want you both on this immediately," Mueller said. "If we're dealing with someone who has connections to law enforcement or access to restricted information, we need to move quickly."

"I want you both at the Rodriguez crime scene immediately," Mueller continued. "See it firsthand before forensics finishes up. Look for anything the techs might have missed."

Morgan gathered the file, her mind already shifting into case mode, compartmentalizing her personal concerns about Cordell to focus on the immediate investigation. This was how she'd survived prison, how she'd maintained her sanity through ten years of injustice—one problem at a time, one day at a time.

"We'll head there now," she said, standing. "Full briefing once we've seen the scene."

As they moved toward the door, Mueller called after them. "Cross." His voice had softened slightly, the concerned tone of a friend rather than a superior. "Watch your back. With Cordell making bolder moves, there's no telling what might come next."

Morgan nodded, the weight of Cordell's threat settling across her shoulders once more. Seven days. The clock was ticking. But for now, there was work to do, a killer to catch. She would deal with Cordell soon enough.

"Always do," she replied, and followed Derik out the door, the case file clutched tightly in her hand, her mind already racing ahead to the crime scene awaiting them.

As the elevator doors closed behind them, Morgan felt the familiar tension of a new case settling in, a counterpoint to the persistent dread Cordell's visit had instilled. Two separate threats, two different battles to fight. And somewhere in between, she had to find a way to protect her father, to outmaneuver Cordell, and to prevent this vigilante killer from claiming another victim.

Just another day at the FBI for Morgan Cross, former inmate, current agent, and perpetual target in a game that had begun long before she was born.

CHAPTER FOUR

Morgan pulled her sedan to the curb outside Marcus Rodriguez's apartment building, a weathered four-story brick structure that had seen better decades. Santiago Heights stretched before her—a neighborhood where poverty and crime had become so intertwined they were practically indistinguishable. Faded advertisements peeled from storefronts with metal security gates, and small clusters of young men watched from corners with wary, calculating eyes.

"Lovely part of town," Derik muttered as he exited the passenger side, adjusting his suit jacket to ensure his service weapon remained concealed but accessible.

Morgan said nothing, her eyes scanning the street with practiced efficiency. She'd worked plenty of cases in areas like this, knew the unwritten rules—the way residents learned early to mind their own business, the way crime operated in plain sight because reporting it was more dangerous than ignoring it. Santiago Heights had its own ecosystem, its own laws of survival.

Yellow police tape cordoned off the entrance to Rodriguez's building, a uniformed officer standing guard with the bored vigilance of someone nearing the end of a long shift. Morgan and Derik flashed their badges as they approached.

"Third floor, apartment 312," the officer informed them. "Detective Ramirez is expecting you."

The building's interior smelled of mildew and cheap disinfectant, with undertones of cigarette smoke that had permeated the walls over decades. The elevator was out of service—a handwritten sign declaring it would be fixed "soon" looked yellowed enough to have been there for months. They took the stairs, their footsteps echoing in the stairwell.

"Ramirez won't be happy we're here," Derik said quietly as they reached the second-floor landing. "Dallas PD hates federal involvement."

"Everyone hates federal involvement until they need it," Morgan replied, her hand instinctively brushing against her holstered weapon as they continued upward. The weight of it against her side was reassuring, a counterpoint to the unease that had settled in her chest since Cordell's visit.

Crime scene tape crisscrossed the door to apartment 312, and the distinct odor of death permeated the third-floor hallway—that unmistakable metallic smell that Morgan had encountered too many times to count. A heavyset detective stood just outside the doorway, speaking in low tones to a crime scene technician. He looked up as they approached, his expression souring slightly.

"FBI," he said, not a question but a statement tinged with resignation. "Ramirez." He extended a hand that Morgan shook briefly.

"Agents Cross and Greene," she replied. "Thanks for waiting for us."

Ramirez shrugged, his shoulders straining the fabric of his rumpled suit jacket. "Not my call. Captain says to give the feds full access, I give the feds full access." He gestured toward the open doorway. "Have at it. Just don't contaminate my scene."

The apartment was exactly what Morgan expected from the crime scene photos—a small, cluttered one-bedroom with the evidence of Rodriguez's criminal enterprise displayed openly. A digital scale sat on the coffee table alongside small plastic baggies and rubber bands. Pills of various colors and shapes were scattered across a side table, likely fallen from an open bottle nearby. The place reeked of stale cigarettes, cheap cologne, and beneath it all, the sickly-sweet smell of decomposition beginning to set in.

"Body was found there," Ramirez said, pointing toward the coffee where a significant bloodstain had seeped into the wood. Blood spatter patterns decorated the wall behind it, a crimson Rorschach test that told the story of Rodriguez's final moments. "Single GSW to the back of the head, execution-style. No shell casing recovered. Professional job."

Morgan approached the table carefully, mentally reconstructing the scene. Rodriguez seated, perhaps forced to his knees first, then allowed to sit to write his confession. The killer standing behind him, gun pressed to the base of his skull. The confession letter placed carefully on the table before him, directly in his line of sight as he died.

"The door was locked when officers arrived," Ramirez continued, watching Morgan catalog the scene. "Neighbor called in a welfare check after smelling something off. Had to break it down to get in. Deadbolt was engaged from the inside."

"Killer picked the lock to get in, then relocked it on the way out," Morgan said, examining the door frame. "Professional again. This wasn't an impulse killing."

Derik had moved to the window, peering out at the fire escape that ran along the building's exterior. "Any signs of entry here?"

Ramirez shook his head. "Window was locked from the inside, no signs of tampering. Killer came through the front door, same way they left."

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