Page 36

The examination room's fluorescent lights cast everything in an unforgiving glare—including the bruises darkening on Morgan's arms and the split in her lower lip.

The antiseptic smell reminded her too much of prison infirmaries, places where questions weren't asked about injuries and inmates learned to tolerate pain rather than report it.

She sat on the edge of the paper-covered table, the material crinkling beneath her as the doctor applied butterfly closures to the gash on her forehead.

"You're lucky," Dr. Hassan said, her deft fingers working with practiced efficiency.

"Two centimeters to the left, and he might have fractured your orbital bone.

" She completed the last closure and stepped back.

"You've got a mild concussion, considerable bruising, and I suspect your ribs are going to hurt for at least a week. But nothing that requires admission."

Morgan nodded, wincing slightly at the movement. Every part of her body ached from the confrontation with Rivers, each bruise and laceration mapping the desperate battle that had unfolded in her living room. "Thank you, Doctor."

Dr. Hassan disposed of her gloves and made a few final notes in the chart.

"I'm prescribing anti-inflammatories and something for the pain.

Use ice on that cheekbone—twenty minutes on, twenty off.

" She gave Morgan a measured look. "And actual rest. Not FBI-style rest where you're back at your desk in three hours. "

Before Morgan could respond, a knock sounded on the examination room door. She recognized the pattern immediately—Derik's distinctive three-tap rhythm, developed over years of partnership.

"Your ride is here," Dr. Hassan observed, gathering her supplies. "Remember what I said about rest. Doctor's orders."

Morgan slid carefully from the examination table as the doctor departed, every movement a reminder of last night's violence.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the small mirror on the wall—the darkening bruise on her cheekbone, the split lip, the neat row of butterfly closures holding together the gash on her forehead.

External evidence of the confrontation that had ended Nathan Rivers' vigilante crusade permanently.

The door opened, and Derik appeared, his expression a complicated mix of concern and relief. He had changed clothes since she'd last seen him at the crime scene, but the shadowed circles beneath his eyes revealed he hadn't slept any more than she had.

"Hey," he said simply, eyes cataloging her injuries with professional assessment and personal worry. "You look terrible."

Morgan managed a small smile despite her split lip. "You should see the other guy."

The dark humor fell flat, as they both knew exactly what had happened to the "other guy." Rivers' body had been taken directly to the morgue while Morgan had been transported to the hospital for evaluation. The execution of three men had ended with the executioner's own death in her living room.

"How bad?" Derik asked, gesturing toward her injuries as they moved into the hospital corridor.

"Concussion, bruised ribs, various lacerations. Nothing serious." Morgan walked carefully beside him, each step measured to minimize discomfort. "Dr. Hassan says I'll live, though she insists on actual rest, which apparently differs from FBI-style rest."

Derik's hand found the small of her back, providing subtle support as they navigated the busy hospital hallway. "Smart doctor."

They made their way to the hospital exit in companionable silence, Morgan adjusting her pace to accommodate her injuries.

Outside, morning sunlight bathed the world in deceptive normalcy—traffic moving on nearby streets, hospital staff changing shifts, life continuing as if a man hadn't died by her hand hours earlier.

Derik's sedan waited in the patient pickup zone, the interior already running cool against the growing Dallas heat.

Morgan settled into the passenger seat with careful movements, securing her seatbelt over tender ribs.

From the driver's seat, Derik studied her with the familiarity of someone who had learned to read her moods through years of partnership.

"Full forensic team is still at your place," he said as they pulled away from the hospital. "Initial sweep has already turned up plenty. Rivers was meticulous—left nothing to chance or interpretation."

"Tell me what they found," Morgan requested, resting her head against the seat back. She needed the facts, the details, the complete picture of the man who had broken into her home with execution in mind.

Derik nodded, understanding her need for information rather than platitudes.

"Nathan Rivers, fifty-eight. Court stenographer for the Dallas County Criminal Courts for twenty-three years until his retirement fourteen months ago.

Divorced, no children. Lived in Santiago Heights his entire adult life—same apartment for almost three decades.

" He paused at a red light, glancing briefly at Morgan before continuing. "His home was... illuminating."

"How so?" Morgan asked, turning slightly to face him despite the protest from her ribs.

"He documented everything. The forensic team found journals dating back fifteen years, progressively darker in tone.

Early entries express frustration with repeat offenders, cases dismissed on technicalities.

Later ones begin theorizing about 'alternative justice' outside the system.

The most recent volumes contain detailed surveillance notes on his victims—daily routines, criminal activities, everything he needed to plan the executions. "

The light changed, and they continued through the morning traffic, the familiar landmarks of Dallas sliding past Morgan's window.

"He had a wall covered with newspaper clippings," Derik continued.

"Crimes committed in Santiago Heights, many featuring cases he'd transcribed during his career.

Photos taken during surveillance, maps marked with pins showing criminal activity hotspots.

Essentially a one-man intelligence operation. "

"And no one suspected," Morgan said quietly. "He was invisible. Just as he planned."

"Perfectly average in every way—height, weight, features.

The kind of man people's eyes slide past without registering.

He'd cultivated that invisibility, used it as his greatest weapon.

" Derik steered them onto the freeway. "The team also found detailed plans for future targets.

Carolyn Henderson was next on his list—a neighborhood watch member who apparently abuses her husband behind closed doors. "

Morgan closed her eyes briefly, imagining the meticulous preparations, the patient observation, the absolute conviction that had driven Rivers to appoint himself judge, jury, and executioner.

"His position gave him everything he needed.

He literally recorded the system's failures for decades, watching from the stenographer's chair as the guilty walked free, as victims were denied justice.

He had case details, criminal histories, addresses—all while remaining functionally invisible in the courthouse environment. "

"The perfect vantage point," Derik agreed. "And the perfect cover. Who notices the court stenographer? Who remembers their face or name after leaving the courtroom? He existed in a blind spot of the system."

They drove in silence for several minutes, the implications settling between them like physical weight.

Morgan stared out the window, watching the city give way to residential neighborhoods as they approached her home.

The events of the previous night replayed in her mind—Rivers' break-in, their desperate struggle, the final confrontation that had ended with three bullets and a dying man's disturbing insights.

"You shouldn't feel guilty," Derik said suddenly, accurately reading the direction of her thoughts. "You had no choice. He made that clear when he attacked you when he refused to surrender."

The strange thing was, Morgan didn't feel guilty—at least not in the way Derik assumed. She had eliminated a deadly threat, had prevented future killings, had done her job as an FBI agent. The shooting was clean, justified, unambiguous in its necessity. Self-defense in the clearest possible terms.

"I don't feel guilty about stopping him," she clarified, choosing her words carefully.

"What troubles me is how easily I understand him.

How familiar his frustration feels." She turned to look at Derik directly.

"After ten years wrongfully imprisoned, I've felt that same rage at a broken system, that same desire to correct injustices by whatever means necessary. "

Derik's expression softened with understanding. "But you didn't cross that line. You rejoined the Bureau, worked to reform the system from within."

"I had you," Morgan said simply. "I had Mueller. I had support that Rivers lacked. Without that..." She let the sentence trail off, unwilling to fully articulate how close she might have come to a similar path during her darkest moments after prison.

They turned onto her street, now transformed by the presence of FBI vehicles and the yellow crime scene tape surrounding her modest home.

Neighbors watched from porches and windows with the morbid curiosity that violent death always seemed to inspire.

Agents in windbreakers moved purposefully between vehicles and her front door, carrying evidence bags and equipment.

"Cordell's ultimatum is halfway expired," Morgan said as Derik parked across the street, shifting the conversation to the other threat hanging over her. "Three days until he expects my answer about my father."

Derik turned off the engine but made no move to exit the vehicle, creating a small bubble of privacy amid the activity surrounding her home. "Do you have a plan?"

Morgan nodded, decision crystallizing as she spoke. "We use his obsession against him. Set a trap with my father as apparent bait, while ensuring his safety with every resource at our disposal."

"Morgan—" Derik began, concern evident in his voice.

"It's the only way," she interrupted gently.

"Cordell won't stop. He's spent decades planning his revenge.

The only way to end this is to make him believe he's won, then catch him in the act.

" She reached across the console to take Derik's hand, the connection grounding her amid the chaos of her circumstances.

"I won't risk my father's life. The setup will be controlled, every contingency planned for.

But we need to draw Cordell out, force him to expose himself and his network. "

Derik's fingers tightened around hers, his expression troubled but resigned. "It's dangerous."

"So is waiting for Cordell to make his move," Morgan countered. "This way, we control the variables, we set the stage, we determine when and where the confrontation happens."

They sat in silence for a moment, weighing the risks against alternatives that seemed increasingly limited.

Through the windshield, Morgan watched the forensic team exit her home with evidence containers—pieces of Nathan Rivers being cataloged, documented, removed from the scene of his final judgment.

"We'll need Mueller's support," Derik finally said, implicit acceptance in his words. "And a location we can fully secure, personnel we absolutely trust, contingencies for when—not if—things go sideways."

Morgan nodded, relief washing through her at his willingness to follow her lead, even into dangerous territory. "We start planning today. Three days isn't much time, but it's enough if we move quickly."

As they finally exited the vehicle, Morgan took a moment to look at her home—now a crime scene, the interior bearing physical evidence of the violent struggle that had ended Rivers' vigilante crusade.

Yellow tape marked it as a place where death had visited, where justice and vengeance had collided with bloody consequence.

Rivers' final words echoed in her mind as she approached the house, her silent vow taking shape with each careful step: she would not let her pursuit of Cordell transform her into someone like Rivers.

The line between justice and vengeance remained thin—a boundary she had approached during her darkest moments after prison, a threshold Rivers had crossed with methodical certainty.

She would hunt Cordell with every resource at her disposal, would use every legal means to bring him down, would even skirt the edges of protocol when necessary.

But she would remain on the right side of that critical line.

Not because the system was perfect—she knew better than most how deeply flawed it could be.

But because abandoning it entirely meant becoming what she fought against—someone who placed personal conviction above collective law, someone who delivered judgment without accountability or review.

As Morgan crossed the threshold into her violated home, stepping carefully around the evidence markers that documented Rivers' final moments, she felt the weight of dual responsibilities pressing down on her: ending Cordell's decades-long vendetta while ensuring her methods never mirrored those of the vigilante who had died on her living room floor.

The challenge ahead was daunting, the stakes impossibly high, the margin for error non-existent.

But Morgan Cross had survived wrongful imprisonment, had rebuilt her life from ashes, had faced death more times than most could comprehend.

One more battle—perhaps the most important of her life—awaited.

And this time, she would be ready.