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Derik leaned over her shoulder, his proximity familiar and comfortable after years of partnership.
He smelled faintly of the sandalwood aftershave he favored and the coffee they'd been consuming steadily throughout the day.
"'I can no longer participate in a system that releases the same predators back onto the streets I'm sworn to protect,'" he read from Walsh's resignation letter.
"'Justice has become a revolving door that mocks the victims left in its wake.
I entered this profession to make a difference, to protect the innocent.
Instead, I find myself processing the same offenders repeatedly, watching as they return to victimize the same communities while the system that employs me stands by, hamstrung by politics and procedure. '"
Morgan felt a flicker of recognition at Walsh's words, an unwanted kinship with his disillusionment.
How many times had she felt that same frustration, that same rage at a system that too often failed those it was meant to protect?
After ten years wrongfully imprisoned, she understood the bitter taste of injustice better than most. The system's failures weren't abstract concepts to her—they were embodied in the decade stolen from her life, in the opportunities and relationships lost forever.
She remembered the helpless fury that had consumed her during those early years behind bars, when she'd still believed that someone would recognize the mistake, that justice would eventually prevail.
She pushed the uncomfortable empathy aside, forcing herself back to the facts.
"Walsh patrolled the area where Rodriguez operated," she continued, flipping to another section of the file.
"His beat included the housing complex where Rodriguez was known to sell, and the community center near Rivera's apartment.
He would have known about Rodriguez's activities, even the ones that never resulted in formal charges.
" She studied the arrest records attached to the file.
"He brought Rodriguez in three times personally, but the charges never stuck.
That kind of repeated failure wears on an officer. "
"His profile matches our developing theory," Derik agreed, making notes on a legal pad beside him.
His handwriting was precise, methodical—another small reflection of his meticulousness.
"Former law enforcement, knowledge of local criminals, anger at the system's failures.
The timing works too—eight months since resignation, plenty of time for disillusionment to fester into something more dangerous. "
"And training to execute cleanly," Morgan added, thinking of the professional nature of the killings—no evidence left behind, single shots to the head, quick and efficient.
"Dallas PD's firearms qualification standards would have given him the skills needed for the execution-style murders we're seeing.
" She paused, studying Walsh's personnel photo again.
"His service record shows he was a marksman, consistently scoring above average in firearms training. "
The unremarkable face in the photograph revealed little—a man in his mid-forties with close-cropped brown hair, unremarkable features, and eyes that revealed nothing to the camera.
The kind of face that could blend into any crowd, be forgotten by witnesses moments after seeing it.
Morgan had interviewed enough killers to know that the most dangerous rarely fit the popular image of monsters.
Often, they looked entirely ordinary, their capacity for violence hidden behind forgettable facades.
"Let's find him," she said, closing the file with a sense of purpose. The sound was definitive in the quiet room. "Tonight. Before anyone else ends up with a gun to their head, writing out their sins before execution."
As they prepared to leave, gathering notes and securing sensitive files, Morgan's phone vibrated with an incoming message.
She checked it reflexively, her expression hardening as she read the brief text.
A reminder that while they hunted this vigilante killer, Cordell's clock continued to tick relentlessly.
Five days remaining until his ultimatum expired.
Five days to find a way to protect her father, Derik, herself, from a man whose reach extended into the darkest corners of the FBI.
Five days before, she would be forced to make an impossible choice.
Two predators, two hunts. Morgan squared her shoulders, compartmentalizing as she'd learned to do in prison, where surviving each day had required the ability to focus solely on immediate threats while never forgetting the longer-term dangers. One problem at a time. For now, David Walsh.
"We should check local bars near Santiago Heights," Derik suggested as they headed toward the elevator. "His former partner mentioned Walsh had developed a drinking problem toward the end of his time on the force. Might be a logical place to start."
Morgan nodded, already mentally mapping the establishments frequented by off-duty officers in that part of town.
"The Rusty Nail," she said decisively. "It's where most of the Santiago Heights patrol officers wind down after shift.
If Walsh is still connected to his old life at all, that's where we'll find him. "
As the elevator doors closed, sealing them in momentary privacy, Derik's hand found hers briefly, a gesture of solidarity that spoke volumes.
No words were needed between them—both understood the pressure building from multiple directions, the sense that time was slipping away on all fronts.
The touch lasted only seconds before they both resumed professional postures, but it steadied Morgan more than she would admit.
Every case required focus, but this one carried additional weight.
A vigilante targeting criminals who had escaped justice resonated too closely with Morgan's own history, her own temptations toward vengeance rather than justice.
As they prepared to hunt Walsh, she couldn't escape the uncomfortable awareness that under slightly different circumstances, after what Cordell had taken from her, she might have become someone very like the killer they now pursued.