Page 27 of For Mercy (Morgan Cross #16)

"Neither do I." Her reply was firm, laced with urgency that brooked no argument, yet tender enough to acknowledge his concern.

She placed a hand briefly on his arm, the contact brief but meaningful, a tangible connection to anchor them both.

"But we have to cover both bases. He's playing us, Derik. We can't let him win."

With a curt nod, Derik relayed the change of plans to the team, his voice steady though she saw the worry flickering in his green eyes, a storm of emotion carefully contained behind professional composure.

They were in uncharted waters, and the current was pulling them under fast, threatening to drown them in the consequences of missteps and miscalculations.

Morgan turned on her heel, every cell in her body urging her back to the hospital, every instinct screaming that time was running out.

The gravel crunched beneath her boots as she strode toward the unmarked car, each step purposeful and charged with determination.

She couldn't shake the image of Dr. Bryant's pale face, the barely-there breaths that fogged the oxygen mask in erratic patterns, each one a tenuous hold on life.

Reeves had left a survivor, and if there was one thing she knew about men like him—they never left loose ends.

They viewed unfinished business as personal affront, incomplete narratives as challenges to their authority as authors of others' fates.

She hailed an unmarked car, giving the driver clipped instructions that conveyed both urgency and authority.

The agent behind the wheel nodded, recognizing the gravity in her tone, the life-or-death stakes that hung in the balance.

As the vehicle sliced through the city, sirens concealed beneath its hood, Morgan replayed every interaction with Reeves, every word he had uttered, searching for clues she might have missed, patterns that could reveal his next move.

He'd appeared grief-stricken, shattered by the loss of his sister, his performance so convincing that even she—with all her hard-earned cynicism—had initially believed his pain genuine.

But now she saw the cracks in his facade, the careful staging of a man hell-bent on delivering his version of justice, a perversion of the healing oath he had once taken as a medical professional.

His grief was real, perhaps, but it had twisted into something monstrous, a justification for atrocities committed in the name of retribution.

Through the car window, the city blurred past—office buildings and apartments, restaurants and shops, lives continuing in blissful ignorance of the predator in their midst. The sunlight bounced off glass and metal, creating prisms and reflections that fragmented reality into kaleidoscopic patterns.

Morgan's mind swirled with thoughts of her own quest for vengeance against those who had wronged her—against Cordell and the corruption that had seeped into the very foundations of the Bureau, rotting it from within like a cancer.

But this—this was different. Darren Reeves was out there, claiming the role of judge and executioner, perverting the principles of justice she had devoted her life to upholding.

His actions were not retribution but murder, not balance but bloodshed, and she wouldn't allow another tragedy on her watch.

Not when she had the power to stop it, to intercept his hand before it dealt another fatal card.

The hospital loomed ahead, a towering beacon of light amidst the gathering dusk.

Its countless windows glowed with artificial daylight, each one representing a life in transition—healing or ending, beginning or continuing.

Somewhere within that labyrinth of corridors and rooms, Reeves was making his move, threading his way toward his prey with the precision of a surgeon and the intent of an assassin.

Morgan braced herself, shoulders squaring with resolve, jaw set with determination.

She knew that within those walls, a killer sought to play god over life and death, to render verdict without trial, sentence without appeal.

And she would be damned if she let him succeed, if she allowed him to claim another victim while she drew breath.

"Step on it," she urged the driver, her voice tight with controlled urgency, her body coiled with readiness for the confrontation to come.

The early evening shadows lengthened across the dashboard as the car accelerated, eating up the distance between them and their destination.

Her resolve steeled within her, a core of unbreakable purpose forged in the fires of her own suffering and tempered by the oath she had taken to protect others from the same. "We're running out of time."

***

Morgan's legs pumped like pistons as she hurtled down the hospital corridor.

Her boots thudded against the linoleum, a staccato rhythm that punctuated her urgency, each impact sending jolts up her calves and into her thighs, pain she barely registered in her single-minded focus.

Nurses and doctors turned, startled by the blur of an FBI agent barreling past them, her face set in a mask of determination that discouraged questions or interference.

The fluorescent lights overhead flickered in her peripheral vision, casting a sterile glow on walls lined with sanitized hope, the antiseptic brightness exposing every detail with clinical precision—the worn edges of bulletin boards, the slight yellowing of once-white ceiling tiles, the smudged fingerprints on glass door panels.

The hospital sounds enveloped her—the soft ping of monitors, the hushed conversations of medical staff, the occasional announcement over the PA system—all processing in the background of her consciousness as irrelevant data.

Her focus narrowed to a laser point: room 312, where Bryant lay vulnerable, where Reeves might already be completing his unfinished symphony of destruction.

The air tasted of disinfectant and fear, her own adrenaline adding a metallic tang that coated her tongue with each ragged breath.

She rounded the corner so sharply that her shoulder brushed the wall, sending a jolt through her collarbone, the momentary pain registering as nothing more than a fleeting signal easily dismissed.

Every second mattered; every heartbeat was a ticking clock in this race against a killer's twisted sense of justice.

The corridor stretched before her, seemingly endless in her urgency, each door a potential barrier between her and her goal.

Her hand instinctively checked her weapon, the solid presence of the gun a reassurance against her hip.

The weight of it grounded her, connected her to her purpose, to the oath she had taken to protect and serve, to be the shield between innocents and those who would prey upon them.

In her mind, she saw Bryant's pale face, the life hanging by threads as fragile as spider silk, waiting for Reeves's scissors to make the final cut.

The number on Dr. Bryant's door loomed closer—312 in stark black against sterile white, each digit growing larger as she closed the distance with relentless momentum.

Adrenaline flooded her system, sharpening her senses, preparing her for what lay beyond.

The world narrowed to that single point in space and time, all else falling away as irrelevant, as background noise to the critical moment approaching with each stride.

She reached for the handle, her breaths coming hard and fast, each one tasting of the cold resolve.

The metal of the door handle was cool against her palm, the sensation registering distantly as her muscles tensed in preparation.

Time seemed to slow, each millisecond stretching into eternity as her fingers closed around the handle, as the latch gave way beneath her pressure.

Her heart thundered in her chest, a war drum setting the pace for the battle to come.

She burst through the door.