Page 26 of For Mercy (Morgan Cross #16)
Morgan entered the sterile chaos of the emergency room just as they wheeled him in.
The gurney rushed past, a blur of motion and medical urgency, carrying Dr. Thomas Bryant—his body a roadmap of pain and narrowly-escaped death.
The harsh lights illuminated his ashen face, each crease and shadow accentuating the proximity of his brush with mortality.
His wrists were a mess of lacerations, hands sliced by shards of betrayal, while his skin held the pallor of a man who had danced a duet with the dark.
Glass had been his unwilling partner, carbon monoxide the orchestra playing a silent symphony in his lungs, stealing his breath with merciless efficiency until fate or chance had intervened.
The metallic scent of blood mingled with antiseptic, a sensory reminder of the fragility of life that permeated the air around them.
"Cross," Derik murmured, close enough to share her space but far enough to watch the whirlwind of doctors and nurses descend upon the survivor.
His voice carried the weight of their shared history, a shorthand developed through years of partnership and unspoken trust. Their eyes met, a silent conversation passing between them—Reeves had failed this time, but it was a temporary reprieve.
The harshness of the hospital lighting carved deep shadows beneath Derik's cheekbones, accentuating the concern etched across his features.
It was unlikely the trauma nurse turned executioner would allow his narrative to be disrupted by a living testament to his fallibility.
Reeves's pride would demand completion, his warped sense of justice requiring the final period at the end of Bryant's sentence.
"Stay with Bryant," Morgan ordered, her tone brooking no argument, though her eyes softened for a moment as they lingered on Derik.
The subtle shift in her expression spoke volumes—a vulnerability she allowed only him to glimpse, a momentary crack in her otherwise impenetrable armor.
She trusted him to guard the doctor's fragile lifeline against an enemy who considered finality a virtue, who saw death not as the end but as the ultimate judgment.
Turning away, she strode from the room, her mind already cataloging the next steps, calculating probabilities and mapping out the spider's web of Reeves's possible moves with the precision that had made her legendary within the Bureau before her fall from grace.
Her footsteps echoed through the corridor, keeping time with the urgent cadence of her thoughts. Each click of her boots against the linoleum floor was a metronome, setting the pace for this deadly game of cat and mouse they found themselves entangled in.
Outside the hospital, the afternoon sun bore down mercilessly, indifferent to the life-and-death drama unfolding within the manmade caverns of healing.
The heat shimmered off the asphalt, creating ripples in the air like distortions in reality—not unlike the twisted mirror through which Reeves viewed his own actions.
Morgan dialed the number of the local law enforcement liaison, her voice steady as she laid out their predicament, each word measured and deliberate, wasting nothing.
"We need eyes on every property rented in cash over the last few months.
Short-term leases, storage units, anywhere Reeves could have set up his judgment chambers. "
"Understood, Agent Cross," came the crisp reply, laced with the respect her reputation commanded despite—or perhaps because of—her troubled history.
Orders were dispatched, and a citywide search commenced.
Each possible location held the potential for salvation or disaster—a race against an unseen countdown where the prize was human lives, the forfeit paid in blood and shattered futures.
As the net cast wider, Morgan felt a familiar coil of tension winding tighter within her, a serpent of anxiety and determination intertwined.
She scanned the parking lot, cataloging faces, vehicles, movements—anything out of place, any shadow that might conceal a predator.
The heat pressed against her skin, but she barely registered it, her focus razor-sharp and unwavering.
Reeves was out there, planning his next move, perhaps already implementing it while they scrambled to catch up.
"Find him," she whispered to herself as she paced outside the ER, the words a promise and a prayer.
Her eyes scanned the horizon for any sign of movement, any hint of the killer who thought himself an arbiter of fate.
The afternoon light cast long shadows across the pavement, stretching like fingers reaching for the sanctuary of the hospital where Bryant fought for his life.
Darren Reeves had made a fatal mistake underestimating Morgan Cross, and she intended to return the favor with interest, to show him the difference between his manufactured justice and the real thing.
***
The scent of rust and decay wafted through the air, a tangible miasma of abandonment and industrial decline that coated the back of Morgan's throat with each breath.
She stood before the derelict building in the industrial district, a hulking skeleton of concrete and corroded metal that seemed to absorb the waning daylight rather than reflect it.
The wind whistled through broken windows, creating an eerie melody that spoke of emptiness and desolation—the perfect stage for Reeves's macabre performances.
It was after hours of searching that local law enforcement finally got a hit, and she was here with Derik at her side, staring up at the structure that matched Reeves's pattern to the last twisted detail.
The building itself seemed to hold secrets, its boarded windows like closed eyelids concealing horrors within.
Graffiti marred the lower walls, urban hieroglyphics telling stories of territory and rebellion, now faded and chipped like ancient cave paintings.
"Team's ready on your go," Derik murmured, his voice low but steady, a constant in the chaos that had become their lives.
His eyes scanned the boarded-up windows, his hand resting near his holstered weapon, fingers twitching with readiness born of years in the field.
The late afternoon sun caught in his auburn hair, setting it ablaze with copper highlights that contrasted sharply with the grimness of their surroundings.
The anticipation hung heavy around them, the stillness of the afternoon punctuated by the distant hum of city life, a reminder of the normality that continued unaware of the deadly game unfolding in its shadows.
Morgan felt the weight of decision pressing down on her shoulders, the lives that hung in the balance with every choice she made.
The tactical team waited at a discreet distance, their black uniforms absorbing the light, their faces set in masks of professional determination.
They trusted her judgment, followed her lead without question—a responsibility she carried like atlas with the world upon his back.
"Wait." Morgan's voice cut through the tension like a blade, sharp and decisive.
She stepped closer to the map spread across the hood of their vehicle, her keen eyes tracing the streets, the dots marking potential trap rooms, their paths converging on this spot with a symmetry that now struck her as too perfect, too convenient. "Something isn't right."
Derik leaned in, his brow furrowing, creating deep lines across his forehead that spoke of countless similar moments of concentration. The scent of his aftershave mingled with the metallic tang of the air, familiar and grounding. "What is it?"
"Reeves..." She shook her head, frustration mounting as she tapped a finger against the map, against the X that marked their current location.
Her instincts screamed warnings she couldn't ignore, alarms ringing in the recesses of her mind where intuition and experience intertwined. “This could just be a distraction.”
The realization hit her with physical force, a punch to the gut that left her momentarily breathless.
The pieces fell into place with terrifying precision—Reeves had led them here deliberately, away from his true target, like a magician directing attention to one hand while the other performed the trick.
"Are you sure?" Derik asked, but the question was mere formality.
His body was already tensing, preparing for the shift in plans that would inevitably follow.
He knew better than to doubt her. They had been through hell and back, their partnership a dance of trust and truth, each step choreographed by years of shared danger and mutual respect.
"Positive." Morgan's decision crystallized with sharp clarity, her mind racing ahead, anticipating Reeves's endgame with the clarity of someone who had stared into the abyss of human depravity and returned to tell the tale.
"You take the team inside. I'm going back to the hospital.
Bryant's not safe; Reeves will finish what he started. "
The wind picked up, carrying with it the distant sound of sirens, an urban soundtrack to their unfolding drama.
Loose debris skittered across the cracked concrete at their feet, dust devils dancing in miniature tornados before dissipating into nothing—ephemeral as the opportunity they now had to catch Reeves before he claimed another victim.
Derik met her gaze, concern etched across his features, lines deepening at the corners of his eyes. The bond between them, forged in the crucible of shared dangers and mutual protection, hummed with unspoken communication. "I don't like splitting up."
His words carried more than professional caution; they held the weight of personal fear, of knowing all too well the price of separation in their line of work.