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Distant doors slammed as residents secured themselves inside their homes, responding to the gunshots with practiced self-preservation rather than curiosity.

A dog barked several blocks away, the sound trailing off into whimpers before silence reclaimed the night.

A car accelerated somewhere to the west, tires squealing briefly against pavement—perhaps someone fleeing what they perceived as danger, or merely coincidental timing.

Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. The silence of Santiago Heights remained unbroken except for distant traffic and the occasional dog barking in response to unseen stimuli.

No one approached the alley. No curious residents, no patrolling officers, and most importantly, no vigilante drawn to investigate violence in his territory.

The lack of response began to gnaw at Morgan's confidence in their strategy.

"No movement on Jefferson," reported one of their surveillance teams, voices low and professional in her earpiece.

"Westmoreland is clear," confirmed another. "Minimal civilian activity, none showing interest in the shots."

Morgan remained motionless, controlling the frustration that threatened to disrupt her concentration.

Had their theory been wrong? Did the vigilante not consider random gunfire worth investigating?

Or worse—had he somehow detected their operation, recognized it as a trap set specifically to draw him out?

"Thirty minutes since shots fired," Derik updated, his voice carrying the composed professionalism that had made him an excellent agent but couldn't completely mask his disappointment. "Still no response from any direction."

The lack of response felt more significant than any activity might have.

Their unsub had demonstrated methodical planning, patience, and tactical awareness in his executions.

If he operated in Santiago Heights nightly, as their profile suggested, he should have been drawn to investigate unusual gunfire in his territory.

His absence suggested either a failure in their theory or, more concerning, that he had evolved beyond their current understanding.

"Maybe he's not out tonight," one of the agents suggested through the comm, frustration evident despite the professional tone.

"Or he's watching us watch for him," Morgan replied quietly, the possibility sending a chill down her spine despite the mild autumn night.

Their vigilante had proven his ability to remain undetected despite committing three executions in two weeks.

What if he was observing their operation right now, cataloging their tactics, identifying them as law enforcement?

The thought wasn't paranoia but a legitimate tactical concern given their unsub's demonstrated capabilities.

The minutes continued to accumulate without incident.

The damp brick wall against Morgan's back seemed to grow colder as time passed, leaching warmth from her body despite her jacket.

She shifted position minutely, just enough to maintain circulation without creating noticeable movement that might betray her position.

Prison had taught her the value of such micro-adjustments—how to alleviate discomfort without drawing attention, how to appear perfectly still while making necessary postural changes to prevent muscle cramps.

An hour after the shots, the operation had yielded nothing beyond a deeper appreciation for Santiago Heights' apparent indifference to gunfire.

No residents had come to investigate. No patrol cars had appeared.

The neighborhood's learned response to violence—staying clear, remaining uninvolved—worked against their strategy.

Their vigilante, if he was indeed active tonight, had demonstrated similar restraint, refusing to respond to what may have seemed an obvious attempt to draw him out.

"We give it another thirty minutes," Morgan decided, her voice barely above a whisper in the quiet alley. "If nothing by then, we reconvene and reassess."

She shifted her weight slightly, maintaining her position in the shadows while alleviating the growing discomfort of remaining motionless for so long.

Prison had taught her how to disappear into stillness, how to become so completely part of her surroundings that guards would pass without noticing her presence.

Those skills served her now as she waited, listening to the night sounds of Santiago Heights, for a vigilante who refused to reveal himself.

The unfulfilled anticipation created its own tension—the sense of a predator nearby but unseen, watching perhaps from some vantage point they hadn't considered.

Morgan couldn't shake the feeling that they were being observed, that their trap had been detected and countered by someone who understood the dance of hunter and hunted better than they had anticipated.

The sensation wasn't paranoia but instinct—the same instinct that had kept her alive through ten years in a system designed to break her.

As minutes continued to pass without incident, Morgan began mentally revising their approach, considering alternative strategies, different angles of investigation.

Their vigilante had demonstrated once again his ability to avoid detection, to anticipate their moves, or at least to exercise sufficient caution to avoid potential traps.

They would need to adjust accordingly, perhaps return to more traditional investigative methods, deeper background research, intensive interviews with potential witnesses who might provide insights they had missed.

The night's failure wasn't total—even negative results provided information, eliminated possibilities, refined their understanding of their unsub's behavior patterns.

But as the second hour of their operation approached with no sign of their vigilante, Morgan acknowledged the growing likelihood that tonight would yield no breakthrough, no identification, no substantive progress toward preventing another execution in Santiago Heights.

Somewhere in the darkness, their vigilante remained free to select his next target, to plan his next judgment, to continue his mission of delivering what he considered justice to those the system had failed to punish adequately.

And Morgan remained determined to find him before he claimed another victim, before another confession was written under duress, before another execution was carried out in the name of righteousness.