Page 6

Morgan jolted awake from a nightmare, Cordell's cold blue eyes still burning in her vision as consciousness rushed back.

She sat upright, her heart hammering against her ribs, to find early morning light filtering through the blinds.

Beside her, Derik slept, one arm still stretched across the space where she'd been lying.

Skunk raised his head from the foot of the bed, dark eyes watching her with quiet concern.

The dream clung to her like a second skin—Cordell standing over her father's body, that snake-like smile on his face as he turned toward her, gun in hand.

She'd tried to reach for her weapon, but her arms wouldn't move, her body frozen as Cordell approached.

Then Derik had appeared in the doorway, and Cordell had swung around, firing without hesitation. ..

Morgan pushed away the images, focusing on her breathing.

In prison, she'd learned techniques to manage the panic that came with nightmares—counting breaths, grounding herself in physical sensations.

The cool morning air on her skin. The weight of the blanket across her legs.

The distant sound of traffic starting to build outside.

"Cross," she answered, keeping her voice low to avoid waking Derik, though she knew from experience that the slightest unusual sound would likely rouse him.

"I need you and Greene downtown immediately," Mueller said without preamble. "New case that requires your attention." His tone left no room for negotiation. "Be here in an hour."

The line went dead before she could respond.

Morgan set the phone down and rubbed her eyes, the remnants of her nightmare still clinging to her like cobwebs.

She rolled her shoulders, feeling the tension knotted between her shoulder blades.

Three hours of fitful sleep wasn't nearly enough, but it was more than she'd expected after Cordell's visit.

"Derik," she said, gently shaking his shoulder. "Wake up. Mueller wants us downtown."

Derik stirred, instantly alert in the way only someone with years of field experience could manage. His green eyes opened, immediately assessing her face for signs of distress.

"What time is it?"

"Just after seven. We need to be there in an hour."

He nodded, sitting up and running a hand through his sleep-tousled hair. "You okay?" he asked quietly, noticing the tension in her posture.

"Bad dream," Morgan admitted, already moving toward the bathroom. "The usual."

They moved through their morning routine with practiced efficiency, sharing the bathroom, moving around each other in the kitchen as coffee brewed. The domesticity of it might have been comforting on any other day. Today, it felt like the calm before a storm.

Morgan fed Skunk, her mind still processing Cordell's visit. She needed to tell Mueller, to warn him that Cordell had escalated from shadow tactics to direct confrontation. But first, she needed coffee and whatever semblance of normality she could manage.

"You think it's connected?" Derik asked as he poured coffee into travel mugs. "Mueller's call, coming right after Cordell's visit?"

Morgan considered the possibility. "Could be. Or it could be completely unrelated." She shrugged into her shoulder holster, the leather is well-worn and comfortable against her arms. "Either way, we'll find out soon enough."

Derik handed her a mug, his fingers brushing hers deliberately. "Whatever it is, we face it together."

The simple phrase—their unofficial mantra since reconnecting after her release from prison—steadied her. Morgan took a long sip of the scalding coffee, letting it burn away the last cobwebs of sleep and fear.

"Together," she agreed, checking her weapon one last time before sliding it into the holster.

Forty minutes later, they pulled into the parking garage beneath FBI headquarters in downtown Dallas.

Morgan had insisted on taking separate vehicles—part security measure, part professional appearance.

They might be partners in every sense now, but the Bureau still had its unspoken rules about fraternization.

The morning sunlight barely penetrated the concrete structure, casting long shadows between the parked vehicles.

Morgan scanned the area out of habit, looking for unfamiliar cars, for people who didn't belong, for anything out of place.

Cordell's visit had heightened her already substantial paranoia, leaving her hyperaware of potential threats.

Nothing seemed amiss, but that didn't mean danger wasn't present. Cordell was too good, his network too extensive, for simple precautions to offer real security. Morgan knew they were exposed here, vulnerable in ways they couldn't fully anticipate or prevent.

They took the elevator up to the fourteenth floor in silence, both lost in their own thoughts. The familiar ding as the doors opened onto the field office was oddly comforting—a reminder that despite everything, some routines remained unchanged.

Assistant Director Mueller was waiting for them in the briefing room, his imposing figure silhouetted against the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city.

At sixty-two, Mueller remained physically intimidating—six-foot-four with broad shoulders and a military bearing that commanded respect.

His salt-and-pepper mustache twitched with annoyance as they entered, a sure sign that whatever case he had for them was urgent enough to disrupt his own schedule.

"Before we get to the case," Morgan said, closing the door behind them, "there's something you need to know." She met Mueller's gaze directly. "Cordell paid me a visit last night. In my home."

Mueller's expression darkened, the lines around his eyes deepening with concern. He glanced at the closed door, then moved further away from it, gesturing for them to follow.

"He showed himself?" The question came out as a near whisper, revealing just how significant this development was. "After months of operating through proxies and cutouts, he came to you directly?"

Morgan nodded, then recounted the encounter in detail—Cordell's effortless breach of her security, his ultimatum, the threat against Derik, his demand for her father.

She watched Mueller's face as she spoke, noting the subtle shifts in his expression, the tightening around his eyes when she mentioned Cordell's knowledge of her father.

"Did he mention me?" Mueller asked, tension evident in the set of his jaw. "Does he know we're working together?"

Morgan shook her head firmly. "No. He had no clue who in the FBI might be helping me.

That's our one saving grace right now—he knows I have support inside the Bureau, but not specifically who.

" She paused, letting the significance of that sink in.

"He focused entirely on my father and Derik.

Didn't mention anyone else by name or implication. "

Relief flickered briefly across Mueller's face before his professional mask returned. His family's safety was his primary concern, the reason he'd sent them abroad when he first decided to help Morgan build a case against Cordell.

"This is a serious escalation," Mueller said, his voice grim.

He moved to the window, looking out over the city as if searching for threats among the gleaming skyscrapers.

"For him to show his face, to make direct contact after staying in the shadows so long.

.. he must feel either very confident or very desperate. "

"Or both," Derik added. "Men like Cordell don't make moves without calculating every angle."

Mueller's reflection in the glass showed a man deeply troubled. He had put his own career at risk by believing Morgan, by helping her build a case against Cordell. The fact that Cordell hadn't identified him specifically offered small comfort, but they all knew it was likely only a matter of time.

"I'll make some calls, see if we can set up another sting operation," Mueller said, turning back to face them.

"In the meantime, you both need to be extraordinarily careful.

" He paused, tension visible in the set of his shoulders.

"And your father needs to go deeper underground.

If Cordell's making his move now, he might have information we don't."

Morgan nodded, though the thought of her father disappearing completely sent a spike of anxiety through her chest. They'd lost forty years already; the idea of losing contact again, even temporarily, was almost unbearable.

"I can't emphasize enough how dangerous this moment is," Mueller continued, moving back to the table.

"Cordell wouldn't show himself unless he felt the endgame approaching.

He's calculated every move, positioned all his pieces.

" His voice dropped lower. "You need to be prepared for anything from any direction. "

The warning hung in the air, heavy with implications none of them wanted to voice aloud.

They all knew what Cordell was capable of—the reach of his influence, the ruthlessness of his methods.

Thomas Grady's murder had demonstrated that Cordell could strike anywhere, at any time, with deadly precision.

"Now," Mueller said, his tone shifting to formal briefing mode, "we have a homicide that's raising alarm bells downtown.

" He moved to the table and slid a file folder toward them.

"Marcus Rodriguez, a well-known drug dealer operating out of Santiago Heights.

Found dead in his apartment last night, single gunshot to the back of the head, execution-style. "

Morgan opened the file, her trained eyes scanning the crime scene photos.

Rodriguez slumped over a table, blood pooled beneath him, drug paraphernalia scattered around the apartment.

Standard drug-related homicide at first glance—the kind that would typically be handled by local police, not warranting federal attention.

"What makes this one special?" she asked, looking up from the gruesome images.

Mueller's expression tightened. "This." He pulled a plastic evidence bag from the folder, containing a handwritten letter. "Found at the scene. Handwriting confirmed to be Rodriguez's. Written moments before his death."

Morgan examined the letter through the clear plastic.

It appeared to be a confession, detailing Rodriguez's crimes in shaky handwriting that suggested extreme duress.

The pen had dug deep into the paper in places, nearly tearing through it—a sign of the force applied either by Rodriguez himself in his fear, or by his killer forcing his hand.

"Forced confession," she murmured, recognizing the pattern instantly from previous cases. "Someone made him write this before killing him."

"Precisely," Mueller confirmed. "And this is the second such killing in two weeks. Same signature."

Derik leaned forward, now fully engaged. "Second victim?"

"Anthony Rivera," Mueller replied, sliding another photo across the table. "Sex offender. Served time for voyeurism, apparently back to his old habits after release. Found executed in his home, same MO—single shot to the back of the head after being forced to write out a confession of his crimes."

Morgan's mind was already analyzing the pattern, the methodology, constructing a preliminary profile of their unsub. "Serial vigilante," she said, thinking aloud. "Targeting criminals, forcing them to confess before execution. Judge, jury, and executioner rolled into one."

"And with at least one more victim likely in the pipeline," Derik added, his expression grim. "This kind of killer rarely stops at two."

Mueller nodded. "That's our working theory. Dallas PD reached out after connecting the cases. Given the methodical nature and the clear pattern emerging, they thought we might want to get involved before this escalates further."

Morgan continued studying the crime scene photos, noting the precise placement of the body, the clean execution, the meticulous arrangement of the confession in front of the victim. Everything about it spoke of planning, control, and a strong sense of purpose.

"Whoever did this has training," she observed.

"The kill is too clean, too professional for an amateur.

Maybe law enforcement or military background.

" She looked up at Mueller. "And they clearly have access to non-public information about their victims. The confessions include details that weren't in official records or public knowledge. "

"Which is why I want you both on this immediately," Mueller said. "If we're dealing with someone who has connections to law enforcement or access to restricted information, we need to move quickly."

"I want you both at the Rodriguez crime scene immediately," Mueller continued. "See it firsthand before forensics finishes up. Look for anything the techs might have missed."

Morgan gathered the file, her mind already shifting into case mode, compartmentalizing her personal concerns about Cordell to focus on the immediate investigation.

This was how she'd survived prison, how she'd maintained her sanity through ten years of injustice—one problem at a time, one day at a time.

"We'll head there now," she said, standing. "Full briefing once we've seen the scene."

As they moved toward the door, Mueller called after them. "Cross." His voice had softened slightly, the concerned tone of a friend rather than a superior. "Watch your back. With Cordell making bolder moves, there's no telling what might come next."

Morgan nodded, the weight of Cordell's threat settling across her shoulders once more. Seven days. The clock was ticking. But for now, there was work to do, a killer to catch. She would deal with Cordell soon enough.

"Always do," she replied, and followed Derik out the door, the case file clutched tightly in her hand, her mind already racing ahead to the crime scene awaiting them.

As the elevator doors closed behind them, Morgan felt the familiar tension of a new case settling in, a counterpoint to the persistent dread Cordell's visit had instilled.

Two separate threats, two different battles to fight.

And somewhere in between, she had to find a way to protect her father, to outmaneuver Cordell, and to prevent this vigilante killer from claiming another victim.

Just another day at the FBI for Morgan Cross, former inmate, current agent, and perpetual target in a game that had begun long before she was born.