Page 7 of For Mercy (Morgan Cross #16)

Morgan nodded slowly, her gaze fixed on the empty judge's chair. "Yeah. A game where the stakes were life and death." She turned to Derik, her expression grim. "And our victim lost."

As they moved deeper into the mock courtroom, Morgan couldn't shake the feeling that they were being watched. Not by the killer – he was long gone – but by something else. The weight of judgement, perhaps. Or the ghosts of injustices past.

Morgan's pulse quickened as her eyes adjusted to the harsh glare of the forensic lights. The makeshift courtroom, once shrouded in darkness, now revealed its sinister secrets under the unforgiving illumination.

"Jesus," she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper. "It would've been pitch black when they brought him in. Can you imagine? Waking up here, alone in the dark?"

Derik's jaw tightened. "A final judgment."

Morgan nodded, her mind racing. "The victim was the only audience. This whole setup... it was for him."

She took a careful step forward, her trained eyes scanning every inch of the space. As she moved, the hidden details began to emerge, each one more horrifying than the last.

"Watch your step," she warned Derik, her voice tight with tension. "This isn't just a crime scene. It's a death trap."

Before them lay an intricate web of destruction, something pulled straight from a nightmare.

Trip wires glinted in the harsh light, stretched taut across the floor.

Crude blades hung suspended, poised to strike at the slightest provocation.

Every surface seemed rigged with some deadly mechanism, waiting to be triggered.

"It's like a twisted game of Mousetrap," she muttered, crouching to examine a particularly complex contraption. "Whoever did this wanted the victim to trigger his own death."

As she studied the elaborate setup, a nagging thought tugged at the back of her mind. The level of planning, the meticulous attention to detail... it reminded her of something. Or someone.

Morgan turned to Derik, her eyes locking with his. The unspoken understanding passed between them, a silent acknowledgment of the gravity of what they were facing. This wasn't some heat-of-the-moment crime; it was a calculated, meticulously planned execution.

"This is way beyond a typical homicide," Derik murmured, his green eyes scanning the mock courtroom. "The level of detail, the precision..."

Before Morgan could respond, an officer approached, his face grim. "Agents, we've confirmed the victim's identity. It's Federal Judge Richard Hawthorne."

The name hit Morgan like a punch to the gut. She'd heard of Hawthorne - a man known for his tough sentencing and controversial rulings. A man who'd made plenty of enemies over the years.

"A federal judge," Morgan said, her voice low. "Christ, this is going to be a shitstorm."

She couldn't help but think of her own experiences with the justice system, of the years stolen from her by corruption and lies. Had Hawthorne been part of that system? Or was he a target because he'd tried to fight against it?

"This wasn't just a murder," Morgan said, her eyes narrowing as she surveyed the grotesque scene once more. "This was a message. A very loud, very clear message."

Derik nodded, his jaw tightening. "The question is, who was it meant for? And why go to all this trouble?"

Morgan connected dots, searching for patterns. Could this be related to Cordell? To her father? Or was this an entirely new player entering the game?

"I don't know," she admitted, "but I intend to find out."

With a deep breath, Morgan steeled herself and moved towards the lifeless form on the cold concrete floor.

Judge Hawthorne lay there, his once-pristine suit now a canvas of blood and violence.

He was so close to the exit, mere feet from potential safety.

The sight stirred something in Morgan - a mix of pity and a grim determination to uncover the truth.

Morgan crouched beside Judge Hawthorne's body, her tattooed arms braced against her knees. The coppery scent of blood filled her nostrils, mingling with the musty basement air. Her eyes traced the dark trail leading from the makeshift courtroom to where the judge now lay.

"He almost made it," she murmured, more to herself than to Derik. Her gaze fixed on Hawthorne's outstretched hand, fingers curled as if grasping for the door handle just beyond his reach. "Look at his hand, Derik. He was fighting till the end."

Derik stepped closer, his face a mask of concern. "What are you thinking, Morgan?"

She didn't answer immediately, her mind racing. This scene, this elaborate setup – it reminded her of something, but she couldn't quite place it. Her fingers ghosted over the judge's bloodstained sleeve, careful not to disturb any evidence.

"The wound," she said finally, pointing to a jagged tear in Hawthorne's side. "It wasn't immediately fatal. He had time to try and escape."

Morgan's stomach churned as she imagined Hawthorne's final moments. The fear, the desperation, the slow realization that he wouldn't make it.

"Morgan?" Derik's voice pulled her back to the present.

She shook her head, pushing away the memories. "Sorry. It's just... this is sick, Derik. Whoever did this wanted him to suffer."

As she spoke, Morgan's eyes caught on something glinting near the judge's body. Carefully, she leaned in for a closer look. A small, jagged piece of metal lay on the concrete, coated in dried blood.

"There," she said, gesturing for Derik to see. "That's what got him. Part of one of those damn traps."

Morgan stood, her knees protesting after crouching for so long. She surveyed the room again, trying to piece together Hawthorne's final moments.

"He triggered something in that mockery of a courtroom," she mused aloud. "Got hit, but not bad enough to drop him immediately. He made a run for it, almost got out, but..."

"But the blood loss was too much," Derik finished grimly.

Morgan nodded, her jaw clenching. "He bled out here. Alone. Probably calling for help that never came."

Morgan's eyes swept across the macabre scene once more, her mind racing to connect the dots. The fake courtroom, the intricate death traps, the judge's final desperate crawl towards freedom—it all reeked of meticulous planning and a twisted sense of justice.

"This wasn't random," she said, her voice low and tense. "Look at the setup, Derik. The attention to detail. Whoever did this wanted Hawthorne to feel something before he died."

Derik stepped closer, his brow furrowed. "What are you thinking? Guilt? Fear?"

Morgan shook her head, her fingers absently tracing the outline of one of her tattoos through her sleeve. "Maybe. Or revenge. This feels... personal."

She walked the perimeter of the room, her trained eyes cataloging every detail. The cheap wood of the judge's bench, the carefully positioned jury box, even the tattered American flag hanging limply in the corner. It was all a carefully crafted illusion, designed to disorient and terrify.

"They wanted him to know exactly why he was here," Morgan muttered, more to herself than to Derik.

"This wasn't just about killing him. It was about making him face something.

" She turned to face him, her expression grim.

"I'm thinking this is just the opening act, Derik.

Whoever orchestrated this? They're putting on a show.

And I've got a feeling we're all going to be in the audience for what comes next. "

The weight of her words hung in the air, mingling with the acrid smell of blood and fear that permeated the room.

Morgan's hand instinctively went to her phone, thumb hovering over her father's number.

But she hesitated. How much did he know?

How much more was there to uncover in this web of corruption and revenge?

One thing was certain: the game had changed. And as Morgan stared at the lifeless body of Judge Hawthorne, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was standing at the precipice of something far bigger and more dangerous than she had ever imagined.