Page 33

She secured the door behind her, engaging both locks before punching the code into her security system—the same system that had somehow failed to detect Cordell's intrusion days earlier.

The memory of finding him sitting comfortably in her living room, as if he belonged there, sent a fresh wave of unease through her tired body.

Skunk greeted her with subdued enthusiasm, his substantial weight pressing against her legs as she bent to scratch behind his ears.

The pitbull's dark eyes studied her face, seeming to recognize her fatigue without needing it explained.

His presence offered comfort that transcended words—a silent companion who asked nothing but provided everything she needed in moments like this.

"Just you and me tonight, buddy," she murmured, allowing herself a moment of genuine connection before beginning her security checks.

The routine had evolved since Cordell's visit, transformed from basic precaution into meticulous ritual.

Morgan moved through her home with systematic precision, checking window locks, confirming that motion sensors remained engaged, verifying that exterior lights illuminated potential approach routes.

Each step served dual purposes—practical security and psychological reassurance that she retained some measure of control over her environment.

She paused at the living room window, peering through a narrow gap in the blinds at the street beyond.

The neighborhood slept, houses dark and still, nothing moving except the occasional autumn leaf skittering across empty pavement.

Yet the peaceful scene provided no real comfort.

Cordell had proven that he could penetrate her sanctuary without detection.

What was to prevent the Santiago Heights vigilante from doing the same, if he'd somehow identified her during their operation tonight?

The thought lingered as she completed her circuit of the house, checking the back door twice before finally allowing herself to acknowledge the depth of her exhaustion.

Three days remained until Cordell's deadline expired.

Three days to find a solution that protected both her father and Derik from a man whose reach extended into the darkest corners of the FBI.

Three days that now seemed woefully inadequate given their lack of progress on either front.

By the time she reached her bedroom, fatigue had overtaken even her heightened vigilance.

Morgan placed her service weapon on the nightstand within easy reach, her badge and credentials beside it in their worn leather case.

The tattoos that covered her arms—accumulated during those ten years behind bars—seemed to throb with remembered pain as she changed into a faded FBI Academy t-shirt and shorts.

VERITAS, the Latin word for truth, stood out starkly against the inside of her forearm, a permanent reminder of what had been stolen from her and what she now sought with relentless determination.

The familiar routine provided a semblance of normalcy despite the extraordinary pressures converging around her.

She glanced at her phone—no messages from Derik, which meant he had made it home safely after their failed operation.

Tomorrow they would regroup, reassess, try to determine why their vigilante hadn't taken the bait.

If he was even out there tonight at all.

Skunk settled at the foot of her bed, his solid warmth a reassuring presence as Morgan finally allowed herself to sink into exhaustion.

Their vigilante remained frustratingly elusive.

Cordell's deadline continued its inexorable approach.

Both threats demanded solutions she had yet to discover, challenges that seemed to multiply rather than yield to her efforts.

Morgan closed her eyes, forcing herself to compartmentalize the dual pressures long enough to capture a few hours of desperately needed sleep.

The skill had served her during ten years of imprisonment—the ability to temporarily set aside overwhelming realities in favor of immediate survival needs.

She would face both threats again with the morning light, but for now, her body and mind required rest to function effectively.

Sleep came with surprising speed, consciousness yielding to exhaustion before worry could establish its typical foothold. The darkness behind her eyelids deepened, external awareness fading as her breathing slowed and muscles relaxed into the first layers of much-needed rest.

The sound registered before her conscious mind could identify it—a subtle wrongness that penetrated the initial fog of sleep.

Not loud enough to qualify as a disturbance, not distinct enough to immediately classify, but unmistakably out of place in her home's normal acoustic landscape.

Morgan's eyes snapped open, body tensing without movement as she strained to isolate the source.

There—the nearly imperceptible metallic scrape of her back door's lock being manipulated by someone with skill but insufficient familiarity with its specific mechanism.

Someone was attempting to enter her home.

Morgan's hand moved toward the nightstand where her weapon waited, the motion deliberately slow to avoid creating sound that might alert the intruder to her wakefulness.

Skunk's head had raised at the foot of the bed, his ears pricked forward, body tensed but silent—the pitbull's instincts confirming what her own had detected.

The faint sounds continued—careful manipulation rather than forced entry, the work of someone knowledgeable about locks but not rushing through the process.

Someone with confidence in their skills and no fear of discovery.

Morgan's mind raced through possibilities—had Cordell returned to enforce his ultimatum early?

Had one of his people been sent to collect on the threat? Or was it someone else entirely?

The soft click of the lock disengaging provided its own answer—whoever it was had successfully breached her first line of defense.

Morgan's fingers closed around the grip of her Glock, the familiar texture steadying her racing pulse.

She had survived ten years in prison by developing hyperawareness of potential threats, by recognizing danger before it fully materialized.

Those instincts screamed now that whoever had entered her home hadn't come for friendly conversation.

Footsteps moved through her kitchen—deliberate, measured, someone taking care to remain as silent as possible while navigating unfamiliar space.

The pattern suggested reconnaissance rather than direct approach, someone establishing a mental map of the environment before committing to their primary objective.

Morgan eased herself from beneath the light blanket, careful to avoid disturbing the weight distribution of the mattress in ways that might create telltale sounds.

Skunk remained frozen at the foot of the bed, his dark eyes tracking her movements, understanding without instruction the need for absolute silence.

Before her bare feet could touch the floor, a shadow materialized in the bedroom doorway.

Average height. Average build. Dressed entirely in black with gloved hands and what appeared to be a voice modulator device secured around the neck.

The vigilante had found her instead of the reverse, had tracked her home despite her precautions, had breached her security with the same methodical precision demonstrated in the Santiago Heights executions.

Time compressed into crystallized awareness as the intruder lunged forward, closing the distance between doorway and bed with shocking speed.

Morgan rolled from the mattress as a gloved hand swept across the space her throat had occupied seconds earlier.

She hit the floor in a controlled fall, immediately driving upward with her shoulder to create space for maneuvering.

The vigilante pivoted with practiced efficiency, anticipating her movement and adjusting his attack vector accordingly.

A booted foot lashed out, catching Morgan's hip as she attempted to circle toward the nightstand where her weapon remained tantalizingly out of reach.

The blow transmitted controlled power rather than wild force—the calculated application of exactly enough pressure to disrupt balance without expending unnecessary energy.

"You don't understand what you're interfering with," the voice emerged as mechanically distorted sound, stripped of identifying characteristics or natural cadence. "Your reckless shots endangered innocent lives."

The knowledge hit Morgan with the same force as the physical blow—he had been watching her at Santiago Heights. Had observed the operation. Had followed her home. Had somehow identified her as FBI despite their precautions to maintain cover.

Morgan blocked a strike aimed at her solar plexus, countering with a sharp elbow to her attacker's ribs that yielded a grunt of pain despite the voice modulation.

"Federal agent," she stated with cold precision, shifting her weight to create leverage against the vigilante's forward momentum. "You're making a serious mistake."

The mechanical laugh that followed contained no humor.

"Your badge doesn't excuse breaking the law while claiming to uphold it.

Using gunfire to lure me out? Manipulating justice for your own ends?

" Each phrase punctuated with another calculated attack—a strike toward her throat that she barely deflected, a sweep at her legs that nearly succeeded in unbalancing her.

"You're as corrupt as the system that failed Santiago Heights. "