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"Still clear on all approaches," Derik's voice murmured in her ear, his professional tone barely masking his own disappointment.

The slight weariness in his words betrayed the hours of motionless vigilance they'd all maintained.

"No unusual activity anywhere in the target zone.

Even typical street traffic has died down. "

Morgan shifted her weight slightly, easing the discomfort in her lower back where a dull ache had begun to spread.

The brick wall behind her had long since leached away her body heat, the night's chill seeping through her jacket despite the relatively mild Texas autumn.

The cold had gradually worked its way into her bones, a physical manifestation of the operation's failure.

She flexed her fingers inside her pockets, trying to restore circulation without making noticeable movements that might betray her position to anyone watching from the darkness.

"Let's call it," she finally whispered into her comm, surrender tasting bitter on her tongue.

"Operation's blown. Our unsub isn't taking the bait.

" The admission felt like a personal defeat, another small victory for a killer who remained stubbornly invisible despite their best efforts to force him into the open.

A chorus of subdued acknowledgments came through her earpiece as the surveillance teams prepared to withdraw.

Morgan detected the same frustration in their voices that churned within her—the collective disappointment of experienced agents who had committed hours to an operation that had produced absolutely nothing of value.

She stayed in position a moment longer, scanning the darkness one final time, unwilling to abandon the operation despite its obvious failure.

Something about their vigilante felt personal now—his elusiveness a deliberate challenge, his continued freedom an indictment of her investigative abilities.

Each passing day without identifying him felt like another small failure, another reason to question whether her skills had deteriorated during her decade behind bars.

She stepped out of the shadows, rolling her shoulders to release the tension that had accumulated during her long vigil.

Muscles protested the sudden movement after hours of enforced stillness, sending small spasms of discomfort down her spine.

The alley remained as empty as it had been all night, undisturbed except for her own presence.

No curious residents seeking the source of gunfire.

No patrolling officers responding to reports of shots fired.

Most tellingly, no vigilante drawn to investigate violence in his self-appointed territory.

"I'm heading back to my vehicle," she said quietly, moving toward the mouth of the alley with the measured steps of someone disappointed but not defeated.

Her boots made little sound on the cracked asphalt, years of practice allowing her to move nearly silently when necessary.

"Let's regroup at headquarters, see if we can salvage something from this disaster. "

The streets of Santiago Heights presented their typical post-midnight facade—empty sidewalks punctuated by occasional figures hurrying toward destinations with heads down and shoulders hunched, defensive postures that spoke volumes about the neighborhood's reputation.

Sporadic porch lights illuminated small islands of safety in the darkness, their glow barely extending beyond crumbling front steps.

Barred windows reflected the intermittent passage of cars on larger thoroughfares, metal barriers that spoke of a community under siege from within.

A neighborhood simultaneously alive and dormant, its residents adapted to coexisting with danger through practiced avoidance and learned invisibility.

Morgan moved through this landscape with outward confidence that belied her inner turmoil.

Their vigilante remained at large, likely planning his next execution while they wasted precious hours on failed operations.

Meanwhile, Cordell's deadline continued its inexorable countdown—now less than three days remained until his ultimatum expired.

Dual threats pressed against her consciousness, neither yielding to her efforts, both promising violence if she failed.

The weight of these parallel dangers had begun affecting her sleep, her focus, her tactical decisions—exactly the psychological pressure Cordell had intended when he'd delivered his ultimatum in her living room.

As she approached her vehicle, parked strategically two blocks from the alley where she'd fired the shots, Morgan's instincts prickled with sudden awareness.

Something felt wrong—an almost imperceptible shift in the night's energy, a sense of being observed that transcended ordinary hypervigilance.

The sensation crawled across her skin like static electricity, raising the fine hairs on the back of her neck despite the absence of any visible threat.

She maintained her pace, resisting the urge to visibly react while every sense heightened to identify the source of her unease.

Her gaze swept the street with practiced casualness, analyzing shadows, doorways, parked vehicles, rooflines—all the places a watcher might conceal themselves while maintaining visual contact with her position.

"I'm getting a weird feeling," she murmured into her comm, keeping her voice conversational while continuing her environmental scan. "Possible surveillance on my position. Nothing visible, but someone's definitely watching."

"Location?" Derik's response was immediate, the tension elevating his usual calm. She could hear him shifting position through the earpiece, years of partnership allowing her to visualize his movements from sound alone.

"Approaching my vehicle on Westmoreland.

East side of the street, midblock." Morgan continued walking without breaking stride, maintaining the appearance of someone unaware of observation.

Her fingers drifted casually toward her weapon, not drawing it but confirming its accessibility should the situation deteriorate.

"Could be nothing. Stay in position until I confirm. "

The feeling intensified as she reached her sedan, keys already in hand to minimize her vulnerability during the transition from foot to vehicle.

Nothing visible stood out—no unusual shadows, no parked cars with occupants, no obvious hiding places within direct line of sight.

Yet her every instinct, honed through years of fieldwork and sharpened by prison's constant dangers, screamed that she was being watched with focused intent.

The sensation wasn't the generalized anxiety of moving through a dangerous neighborhood after midnight.

This felt specific, targeted—the unmistakable pressure of concentrated attention from unseen eyes.

Someone was tracking her movements with professional interest, studying her rather than merely observing her presence.

She unlocked the driver's door, sliding into the seat with practiced efficiency while scanning the street through the windshield.

Santiago Heights offered dozens of vantage points for an observer—darkened windows in apartment buildings, rooftop access on commercial structures, shadowed doorways between the pools of sickly yellow light cast by functioning streetlamps.

A skilled watcher could remain completely invisible while maintaining clear sightlines to her position, especially someone with intimate knowledge of the neighborhood's architecture and blind spots.

"I'm mobile," she informed the team as she started the engine, the familiar rumble providing minimal comfort against the persistent sensation of being observed.

"Still can't identify the source, but someone's definitely watching.

Could be our unsub, could be unrelated neighborhood activity.

" She kept her tone professional despite the adrenaline now coursing through her system, years of training allowing her to function effectively despite physical stress responses.

"Want backup?" Derik asked, concern evident even through the professional shorthand.

The subtle undertones in his voice communicated what he didn't say explicitly—that Cordell's threat had changed the risk calculation for all operations, especially those that placed her in potentially vulnerable positions.

Morgan considered the options, weighing security against investigative necessity.

If their vigilante was indeed observing her, approaching with multiple agents would only confirm his suspicions about their operation and drive him deeper underground, potentially destroying any chance of identifying him before he claimed another victim.

If the sensation stemmed from ordinary Santiago Heights danger—gang members, opportunistic predators, territorial drug dealers—backup might be warranted, but would compromise their already tenuous vigilante investigation.

"Negative," she decided after a moment's deliberation.

"Maintain positions until I clear the neighborhood.

Could be nothing, and we don't want to spook our unsub if he's finally showing interest." The vigilante's pattern suggested someone who studied targets extensively before acting—if he was observing her now, forcing his retreat would only delay the inevitable confrontation while giving him additional information about their tactical capabilities.