Page 19

He moved through Santiago Heights like a ghost—present but unnoticed, familiar yet invisible. The afternoon sun cast sharp shadows across the cracked sidewalks, warming the autumn air just enough to draw residents outside without their jackets. Perfect conditions for his daily reconnaissance.

Three deaths in two weeks. He could almost feel the increased police presence, like a change in atmospheric pressure before a storm.

Unmarked vehicles parked at odd angles, plainclothes officers trying too hard to blend in, asking questions that locals pretended not to understand.

The dance was as familiar as it was ineffective.

Santiago Heights had perfected the art of silence long before he'd taken up his mission.

He'd perfected the art of blending in even longer ago.

Average height. Average build. Forgettable features.

Decades of being overlooked had taught him how to move through spaces without creating ripples, how to observe without being observed.

He wore beige khakis and a navy windbreaker today—clothes that belonged nowhere and everywhere, that drew no attention and left no impression.

The corner of Maple and Westmoreland always provided a wealth of intelligence.

He paused at the bus stop, pretending to check a schedule he'd memorized years ago.

Twenty feet away, Darnell Wilson conducted business with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd never faced consequences.

Small plastic bags exchanged for cash, quick handshakes that concealed the transactions from casual observers.

Wilson had been on his list for months now. Third-tier dealer, not significant enough to warrant immediate attention while bigger targets remained. But he'd risen several places after Rodriguez's execution. Nature abhorred a vacuum; Rodriguez's territory wouldn't remain unclaimed for long.

He made a mental note to increase surveillance on Wilson. The dealer's patterns were still developing, his confidence growing daily as he expanded into Rodriguez's former territory. Soon, perhaps. But not yet.

A police cruiser rolled slowly down Westmoreland, the officers inside scanning faces with professional detachment.

He turned slightly, angling his body away without making the movement obvious, focusing on the bus schedule with apparent absorption.

The cruiser continued past, its occupants never giving him a second glance.

The sense of power that came with such invisibility never failed to satisfy him. They were looking so hard, and yet they couldn't see what stood directly before them. Justice, walking among them in comfortable shoes and unremarkable clothes.

He continued his patrol, moving east toward Jefferson Boulevard.

The map of Santiago Heights existed in his mind with perfect clarity—every alley, every fire escape, every blind corner committed to memory through years of patient observation.

He knew which security cameras were functional and which were empty deterrents.

Which streetlights would fail first after sunset.

Which buildings had roof access and which were sealed.

Knowledge accumulated over decades, refined through meticulous attention.

Three teenage boys lounged against the wall of the corner market, passing a vape pen between them.

They should be in school. He recognized two of them—Garcia's youngest and the Henderson boy, both from families struggling to keep their children from the neighborhood's gravitational pull toward criminality.

The third was unfamiliar, older, his posture suggesting authority over the younger boys.

Recruitment is in progress. He filed away the older boy's face for future reference. Not a target himself—not yet—but worth monitoring as a potential catalyst for others' descent into criminal behavior.

His phone vibrated once in his pocket. He checked it casually, maintaining his unhurried pace along the sidewalk.

A message from work—schedule confirmation for tomorrow's shift.

He replied with a brief acknowledgment, his thumb moving efficiently across the screen.

Maintaining appearances, preserving the ordinary life that served as both cover and contrast for his true purpose.

The duality no longer felt strange. Twenty-seven years in Santiago Heights, watching from the sidelines as the neighborhood transformed around him.

Twenty-seven years of observing as the system failed repeatedly, as predators were caught and released, caught and released in an endless cycle that mocked the concept of justice.

The decision to step from observation to action had come gradually, then suddenly—like water slowly filling a vessel until a single additional drop caused it to overflow.

Rodriguez had been that final drop. Watching him sell to the Menendez girl, barely fourteen, with her hollow eyes and too-thin frame.

The same girl he'd seen carried to an ambulance three days later, her mother wailing on the sidewalk behind the stretcher.

She'd survived, but something in him had not.

The system's failure had finally exceeded his capacity to witness passively.

Now, three executions later, his purpose had crystallized into something pure and uncompromising.

Not vengeance—justice. Not chaos—order. Each target selected with care, each execution carried out with precision, each confession extracted to acknowledge the truth that courts had failed to establish.

He paused at Jefferson Park, taking a seat on a bench that offered excellent sightlines across the small green space.

A young mother pushed a toddler on the swings, her vigilance apparent in the way her eyes constantly scanned the surrounding area.

Two elderly men played chess at a concrete table, their concentration intense despite the occasional gusts of wind that threatened their pieces.

Normal people trying to live normal lives in a neighborhood where normalcy required constant vigilance.

A man in his thirties approached a trash can near the playground, a fast-food wrapper clutched in his hand. Instead of depositing it in the receptacle, he casually dropped it onto the ground beside the bin and continued walking, his gaze fixed on his phone.

White-hot rage flashed through him, so sudden and intense it momentarily clouded his vision.

His fingers tightened around the edge of the bench, knuckles whitening with the effort of restraint.

The disrespect, the casual disregard for community standards, for basic decency—for a moment, he imagined following this man, cornering him somewhere private, forcing him to write his confession before—

He drew a deep, careful breath, loosening his grip on the bench.

Not this one. Not for littering. The mission required focus, priorities.

Drug dealers who poisoned children. Sex offenders who violated women's safety.

Thieves who stole without remorse. Those were the true threats, the predators whose removal would actually improve lives in Santiago Heights.

Still, he made a mental note of the litterer's face. Perhaps later, when the major threats had been eliminated, there would be time to address these minor infractions. To build a community where even small violations carried consequences.

A flash of movement caught his attention—a figure moving with purpose along the opposite side of the park.

Female, brown hair, confident stride. Something about her triggered his professional instincts, honed through decades of observation.

Not a resident. Her alertness was different—deliberate rather than habitual, assessing rather than wary.

Law enforcement.

He watched her progress with peripheral vision, maintaining his relaxed posture on the bench. Her attention wasn't on him—she was observing the neighborhood itself, studying its rhythms and patterns. Exactly as he had done for years.

Interesting. Not a patrol officer or standard detective. Someone with a broader perspective, someone trying to understand Santiago Heights as an ecosystem rather than just responding to individual crimes. FBI, perhaps? The escalation from local police made sense after three connected murders.

He felt a flutter of excitement beneath his calm exterior.

They were taking his work seriously enough to bring in federal resources.

Validation, in a way, though he required none beyond the knowledge of his own righteousness.

Still, the thought that his mission had commanded attention at that level suggested impact, effectiveness.

The system that had ignored Santiago Heights for so long was finally paying attention, even if they were hunting him rather than the predators he targeted.

Should he pause? The tactical part of his mind considered the question dispassionately. Federal involvement increased risk. His methods, while meticulous, were not infallible. Every execution created evidence, opportunities for detection.

The thought evaporated almost as quickly as it had formed.

Too many names remained on his list. Too many predators continued to operate freely, victimizing a community that had been abandoned by official justice.

His mission wasn't about personal safety—it was about filling the gap left by a broken system, standing in that broken place until it was repaired or until he fell trying.

Besides, hadn't he prepared for this eventuality?

The personas he'd constructed, the precautions he'd taken, the evidence he'd never left behind—all designed with the assumption that eventually, they would come looking.

Let them. Justice moved invisibly through Santiago Heights, untraceable and unstoppable.

He remained on the bench until the female agent had disappeared around a corner.

Only then did he rise, adjusting his windbreaker with casual precision.

The afternoon was waning, shadows lengthening across the park.

Soon the neighborhood would transition to its evening rhythms, bringing different opportunities for observation, different predators emerging to hunt.

And he would be watching, as he always did.

Cataloging their movements, their patterns, their victims. Adding names to his docket when necessary, removing them when justice had been served.

One by one, until Santiago Heights became what its residents deserved—a community where actions had consequences, where predators could no longer operate with impunity, where justice was more than an empty promise made by a system that had long since abandoned them.