Page 22 of Forbidden

Morgan's gaze followed as agents in tactical gear escorted the last patrons from the building. Their movements were precise, honed by countless drills and real-world operations. A woman in gothic garb sneered at an agent passing by, her eyes defiant. A man hung his head, his posture slumped in resignation. The transition from carefree indulgence to stark reality was written plainly on their faces.

"Looks like quite the party," Derik muttered, though there was no humor in his voice. Just fatigue clouding those green eyes she knew so well.

"Party's over," Morgan replied curtly, her eyes never leaving the unfolding scene. In the back of her mind, the weight of her past pressed against her—the years lost, the quest for vengeance that drove her. But now was not the time for reflection; now was the time for action, for finding the truth.

She scanned the crowd, searching for any sign that might point them to the killer. But under the harsh scrutiny of floodlights, everyone looked guilty of something; it was impossible to discern who could be responsible for the devilish trap that had claimed two lives. Morgan's breath misted in the cool air as she watched the scene unfold. The club's facade, once menacing in its seclusion, was now laid bare and vulnerable; its secrets spilling out into the night like the patrons being escorted into custody. Neon lights within sputtered, casting a surreal glow over the empty dance floor—a contrast to the chaos that had reigned mere hours ago. The agents' boots thudded rhythmically, punctuating the silence with an authority that resonated through Morgan's bones.

She stood with Derik on the perimeter, her senses sharp despite the fatigue that clung to her like the shadows around them. Her eyes, honed by years of experience—and betrayal—flickered from one face to another, searching for the elusive tell that would betray a killer's presence. Derik, equally vigilant, mirrored her intensity, though she noticed the slight tremor in his hand, a silent echo of battles both personal and professional.

The clubgoers, a motley assembly of gothic attire and bewildered expressions, shuffled past. Morgan's gaze lingered on each one, seeking the slightest twitch of fear or flicker of guilt that might differentiate the innocent from the guilty. But frustration knotted in her gut as they all melded into a single tapestry of confusion and irritation, their dishevelment rendering them indistinguishable from one another. The energy that had vibrated the very walls of the club was gone, leaving a void filled with uncertainty and dread.

"See anything?" Derik murmured, his voice barely rising above the murmur of displaced voices.

"Nothing," Morgan replied, her tone clipped. "They're either very good at hiding it, or our killer isn't among them."

Derik's nod was almost imperceptible, an acknowledgment of the complexity that wrapped around their investigation like the city's ever-present smog. Morgan felt a familiar surge of determination stiffen her spine. They were close, she could feel it—the tangle of threads leading back to Elizabeth Harmon and Rachel Marquez was beginning to unravel.

Rog emerged as the last of the club's secrets, his form fighting every step through the club's threshold into the cool night. His arms strained against the cuffs binding his wrists, his legs kicking out in a futile attempt to resist the firm grip of the agents escorting him. The slick pavement was littered with remnants of the raid, and he snarled, twisting his body like a cornered animal desperate for escape.

"Traitor!" Rog’s voice cut the stillness, eyes locked on Morgan. There was accusation and fury in that stare, burning into her with the intensity of someone who felt deceived by an unwritten code. "I had you in my grasp once," he spat, venom dripping from every syllable. "Could've ended you right there... and this is how you repay me?"

Morgan watched, unmoved by the vitriol aimed at her. She'd faced down worse demons in the darkness of her cell, and Rog's anger was but a flicker compared to the infernos she’d endured. "You're not the victim here, Rog," she said, voice flat, devoid of sentiment. "Elizabeth Harmon deserves justice. If you’re innocent, then help us find who in your club isn’t."

His fury morphed, something flashing behind the anger in his eyes—a flicker she couldn't place. It could have been fear, or maybe it was the dawning realization that his world was crashing down around him. With one final grunt of defiance, Rog was hoisted up and thrust into the back of a van. The metal doors clanged shut, sealing him away from the night that had shifted from a hunter's ground to a cage.

The sound reverberated in the air, a signal that this part of the chase had come to an end. Morgan felt the fatigue in her bones, the weight of every decision pressing upon her shoulders. Yet there was no time for rest—not when the real prey was still out there, cloaked in shadows.

***

Hours later, Morgan's gaze traversed the briefing room, its cold sterility a contrast to the chaos of the club they had raided just hours before. Evidence bags brimming with potential clues lay strewn across tables, while the whiteboard served as a silent testament to their rigorous investigation—notes and diagrams crisscrossing in an intricate web of logic and intuition.

Derik sat beside her, his posture betraying fatigue that matched her own. His eyes now reflected the dullness of overexertion. Yet, there was a resolve in him that Morgan recognized; it mirrored the tenacity within herself—a relentless drive that prison walls couldn't contain and personal betrayals couldn't quench.

The agents on their team had given them the rundown. Videos snagged from confiscated phones played out silent dramas on loop, GPS data pinpointed movements like stars in a constellation, and witness accounts weaved narratives both mundane and revealing. Rog and Davy had been there at critical moments—the timeframe when someone had maliciously guided Rachel Marquez to her death. Her mind latched onto the information, analyzing, processing, searching for the thread that would unravel the mystery.

Neither man appeared to have committed the heinous act with their own hands, Morgan concluded. But the possibility lingered in the air, heavy and unspoken: that another within the club's shadowy embrace might hold the key to unlocking the truth behind the murders.

Morgan’s gaze remained fixed on the evidence spread across the table. Drugs, unlicensed business activities—these were the charges they could make stick for now. But the true crime, the cold-blooded redirection of two innocent women to their untimely ends, remained obscured by the club's shadowy nature. A place without records, where anonymity was currency, had given them a mountain to scale. The complexity of the case gnawed at her, a tangled web spun from layers of deception and half-truths.

"Cross," the agent across from her ventured, breaking the silence with cautious optimism. "We've got some breathing room. The charges we've got will hold those perps for a while."

Morgan's dark eyes flickered toward him, assessing. Buying time was good—it meant they could dig deeper, push harder. But it was also a stark reminder that somewhere out there, the real killer might still be stalking their next victim. The sense of urgency was a dull thud in her chest, a metronome counting down the moments until another life might be shattered.

"Good," she replied tersely, her voice low and steady. She knew as well as anyone that the clock was their enemy now. Every passing second brought with it the risk of fresh horror. They needed a break in the case, a slip in the killer's pattern, something more concrete than the circumstantial mud they were currently slogging through.

She stood up, folding the report with a precise motion and tucking it under her arm. The last agents on the team left the room, their footsteps fading down the hall, the click of their shoes against linoleum a final punctuation mark. In the wake of their departure, silence fell like a heavy shroud over the briefing room. Morgan stood motionless, her gaze fixed on the closed door, while the white noise of air conditioning hummed through the space. She could feel Derik's presence beside her, a silent pillar of shared fatigue and unyielded determination.

The day had stretched into an endless loop of leads that went nowhere, of faces that promised much but yielded little. The tangible weight of exhaustion pressed upon Morgan's shoulders, yet she felt nailed to the spot, unable to concede defeat, unable to let go of the hunt that thrummed in her blood.

"Hey," Derik said softly, breaking the stillness. His voice, usually so clear and decisive, now carried the gravel of too many hours awake, "We should call it a night, Morgan."

She turned toward him, taking in his lean frame and the eyes that seemed to pierce through the shadowy room. His black hair, normally slicked back with precision, now fell in disheveled strands, betraying the chaos of the day. He was right, of course. They were both spent, running on fumes and stubbornness alone.

Morgan's jaw clenched as she considered the mire they found themselves in. Loose ends writhed in her mind like live wires, each one sparking theories and possibilities that refused to be tamed or tied down. But Derik's pragmatism, the very trait that had once driven a wedge between them, now served as a lifeline back to reason.

"Alright," she finally conceded, the word tasting bitter on her tongue.

She took a deep breath, allowing herself a moment to just be—a woman, not an agent—feeling the ache in her limbs and the sting of betrayal that lingered in the recesses of her heart. Derik, for all his past failings, stood with her now, a testament to the possibility of redemption. It was a thought that offered a glimmer of solace in the cold expanse of their profession.

---