Page 17

Morgan jolted awake, a strangled gasp caught in her throat.

The darkness of her bedroom pressed around her as the nightmare's images lingered—kneeling on cold concrete, a gun against her head, Richard Cordell's voice distorted through some mechanical filter as he forced her to write out a confession for the crime she'd been framed for.

In the dream, her hand had trembled as she'd pressed pen to paper, just like Rodriguez, just like Rivera. Just like their vigilante's victims.

The case files she'd been reviewing before sleep claimed her were scattered across the comforter, several pages crumpled where she'd thrashed during the nightmare.

Morgan ran a hand through her short brown hair, trying to shake off the lingering terror of the dream, the feeling of helplessness that had followed her from prison and never quite released its grip.

Her phone vibrated on the nightstand, the screen illuminating with Derik's name. Morgan's stomach tightened—calls at this hour were never good news.

"Cross," she answered, her voice still rough from sleep.

"We've got another one," Derik said without preamble.

The background noise suggested he was already at a scene—voices calling to each other, the crackle of police radios.

"James Murray, car thief with two previous convictions.

Same signature—execution-style gunshot to the back of the head, forced confession. "

Morgan swung her legs over the side of the bed, already reaching for the clothes she'd draped over a nearby chair. "Where?"

"Highland Hills neighborhood. 4200 block of Sycamore Drive. Victim was killed inside a classic Mustang he was attempting to steal from a detached garage."

"I'll be there in twenty," Morgan said, already calculating the fastest route across Dallas at this hour.

"I'll have coffee waiting," Derik promised before ending the call.

She dressed quickly—dark jeans, charcoal button-down shirt, ankle boots, shoulder holster hidden beneath a light jacket.

The routine was automatic, muscle memory developed over years of middle-of-the-night callouts.

She clipped her badge to her belt and checked her weapon, the familiar weight of the Glock grounding her as the last wisps of the nightmare receded.

"Hold down the fort, buddy," she told Skunk, scratching behind his ears before refilling his water bowl. The pitbull watched her with solemn eyes as she activated the security system on her way out.

The streets of Dallas were nearly empty at this hour, the city suspended in that liminal space between night and morning.

Morgan drove through deserted intersections, her headlights cutting through lingering patches of fog that had settled in the pre-dawn hours.

Her mind raced ahead to the scene, to what this third killing might tell them about their unsub.

The change of location was significant—their vigilante was expanding his hunting grounds, becoming bolder, more confident.

She pulled onto Sycamore Drive seventeen minutes after Derik's call, immediately spotting the cluster of police vehicles parked at awkward angles, their lights strobing through the darkness, painting the upscale neighborhood in alternating slashes of red and blue.

Uniformed officers had established a perimeter, yellow crime scene tape stretched across the driveway of a large colonial home where plastic sheeting covered several windows, evidence of ongoing renovations.

Derik waited at the edge of the tape, two coffee cups in hand. His hair was disheveled, his tie slightly askew—signs he'd been called directly from home rather than coming from the office. He handed her one of the cups as she approached.

"Homeowner received a security alert about garage tampering on his phone around 2 AM," he explained as they ducked under the tape. "He lives in Highland Park but drove over to check. Found Murray already dead inside the Mustang."

"Neighbors?" Morgan asked, gratefully sipping the coffee—strong and black, exactly how she needed it.

"Canvassing now. Most were asleep, but there's a retiree across the street who reportedly takes late-night walks for his insomnia. Officers are interviewing him."

They approached the detached garage, its double doors now standing open to facilitate the investigation.

Crime scene techs in white Tyvek suits moved methodically around the structure, photographing, measuring, collecting evidence with practiced precision.

The space was dominated by a midnight blue Mustang Fastback with white racing stripes—a vehicle that would have been worth a small fortune to a thief with the right connections.

The driver's side door stood open, and James Murray's body remained where it had fallen, slumped forward against the steering wheel.

Blood had pooled beneath him, soaking into the pristine leather seat.

The back of his skull was a ruined mess where the bullet had exited, brain matter and bone fragments spattered across the windshield in a grisly abstract pattern.

On the passenger seat lay a notebook, its pages stained with blood spatter but the writing still legible—Murray's confession, written in the shaky hand of a man who knew he was moments from death.

"This is different," Morgan observed, carefully circling the vehicle to view the scene from all angles without contaminating evidence.

"Our first two victims were killed in their homes—places where they felt safe, where they could be cornered.

Murray was followed to the scene of his crime, executed inside the vehicle he was attempting to steal. "

"Showing us he's willing to adapt," Derik agreed, his voice low to avoid being overheard by the nearby techs. "Not just waiting for targets in predictable locations but actively tracking them."

Morgan studied the body, the position suggesting Murray had been sitting normally in the driver's seat when the killer approached from behind.

"Our unsub caught him off-guard. Probably slipped into the back seat while Murray was focused on the ignition wiring.

" She pointed to the exposed wires beneath the steering column.

"Murray was distracted by his own crime—made himself vulnerable. "

"The confession mentions three recent car thefts," Derik said, consulting his notes. "High-end vehicles taken from parking garages and restaurant valet areas. None of which Murray was ever charged with or even suspected of by police."

"Which reinforces our theory that the killer either conducts his own surveillance or has access to information that isn't in official records," Morgan concluded.

She scanned the garage interior, noting the immaculate organization, the tools arranged neatly on pegboards.

"I want every nearby house checked for security cameras.

Ring doorbells, home security systems, anything that might have captured someone approaching or leaving this garage. "

"Already on it," Derik assured her. "Dallas PD is pulling footage from the neighborhood association's security cameras at the subdivision entrance too."

Morgan nodded, turning her attention back to the scene.

The precision of the execution, the careful positioning of the body and confession—all hallmarks of their methodical killer who left nothing to chance, who planned each murder with meticulous attention to detail.

Not crimes of passion or opportunity, but calculated acts of what the killer perceived as justice.

She moved closer to examine the confession without touching it, reading Murray's increasingly desperate handwriting as he documented his history of thefts. The final line caught her attention: "I'm sorry, Sophia. I should have been better."

"Who's Sophia?" she asked.

Derik consulted his notes again. "Daughter, age seven. Lives with Murray's sister while he 'got his life together.' According to his sister's initial statement, he'd promised this would be his last job, that he was saving for them to move to Austin."

Morgan felt a familiar twist in her gut—not sympathy for Murray, whose choices had led him to this garage and his death, but for the child who would grow up knowing her father had died a criminal's death. Another collateral victim of their unsub's brand of justice.

The lead crime scene technician approached, clipboard in hand. "Agent Cross? We've recovered the bullet from the headrest. Nine millimeter, same as the previous scenes. No casings found, which suggests a revolver or that the killer collected his brass."

"Consistent with our profile," Morgan acknowledged. "Professional, methodical, leaving nothing that could identify him." She gestured toward the body. "Time of death?"

"ME's preliminary estimate puts it between 1 and 2 AM. Rigor is just starting to set in." The technician made another note on his clipboard. "We'll know more once we get him back to the lab."

Morgan nodded, turning to scan the garage once more.

Dawn was breaking outside, pale light filtering through the small window, illuminating dust motes that danced in the air disturbed by the investigators' movements.

The new day was arriving, bringing with it the stark reality of another victim and the certainty that their vigilante was escalating, becoming more confident with each successful execution.

"He's not going to stop," she said quietly to Derik as they stepped outside, the early morning air cool against her face. "Three victims in two weeks, each one perfectly executed. He's found his mission."

Derik studied her face, concern evident in his green eyes. "You okay?" he asked, pitching his voice low enough that only she could hear. "You seem more shaken by this one."

Morgan hesitated, unwilling to admit how deeply the nightmare had affected her, how seeing these forced confessions resonated with her own experiences of coercion and injustice.

"Just tired," she said finally. "And aware that we're racing against the clock—both with this case and with Cordell's ultimatum. "

Four days left before Cordell's deadline expired. Four days to find a way to protect her father, Derik, herself. And now, a race to stop a vigilante killer before he claimed a fourth victim. Time was their enemy on all fronts.

"Let's get back to headquarters," she said, squaring her shoulders against the weight of those parallel pressures. "We need to break down what this new kill tells us about our unsub's evolving behavior."

As they walked back to their vehicles, Morgan cast one final glance toward the garage where James Murray's life had ended.

Three victims, three confessions. How many more would there be before they caught this killer?

And how could she focus on hunting him when Cordell's clock continued to tick relentlessly in the background of everything?

One case at a time, one day at a time. It was how she'd survived prison. It would have to be enough now, too.