Page 26 of Forbidden

"Alive," he said, and that single word sparked a wildfire of possibilities in Morgan's mind. "Get there. Now."

"Understood," she replied, her voice a blade of ice as she ended the call. The victim's survival was a double-edged sword; an opportunity for invaluable insight, yet also a sign of escalation. Or perhaps desperation.

Derik was already moving, gathering his badge and gun. No need for words now; they both understood the stakes. They had to get to the hospital, to the victim, before the fragile thread of life slipped from grasp. This was their chance, a break in the pattern, and Morgan felt the relentless drive that had propelled her through ten years of wrongful imprisonment surge anew.

It was time to act, and they would not falter.

***

Morgan entered the brightly lit hospital room, the hush of the space enveloping her. Jacob Finch, the victim, lay propped up in bed, his form a contrast to the vitality she remembered from his employee photo. Bandages swathed his head, and the stark white casts imprisoning his limbs seemed to mock the fragility of human life. Morgan's heart clenched at the sight, her FBI training doing little to shield her from the raw empathy that surged within.

The soft beeps of monitors punctuated the silence, serving as a grim metronome to Finch's shallow breaths. The morning light fought against the closed blinds, trying in vain to brighten the room where Finch's battered body rested. It was quiet, too quiet for someone who had cheated death only hours ago.

"Agent Cross," greeted the officer by the bed, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Officer," Morgan acknowledged him with a nod. She stepped closer to the bed, her eyes scanning the injuries that marred Finch's features. The bruising along his jawline, the pallor of his skin; every detail etched itself into her memory. "Has he been conscious?" Morgan's question cut through the stillness, her gaze never leaving Finch.

"Once, briefly," the officer replied. "He was disoriented, in pain. They've got him sedated now."

Morgan's jaw set, tension radiating through her. A living witness, yet still so far out of reach. She studied Finch's face, wondering what secrets lay behind those closed eyelids. What had he seen? What could he reveal about the person who had left him for dead?

"Crashed his bike right into a construction site," the officer continued, pulling Morgan back from her thoughts. "First responders found the symbol nearby. Knew right away it wasn't an accident."

The symbol. That damned mark of a killer enjoying his grim theatrics. Morgan's mind raced with the implications. This was no random act—it was a message, a calling card left by someone reveling in chaos and fear.

"Keep us posted," she instructed, her tone leaving no room for delay the moment Finch could speak.

"Of course, Agent Cross," the officer acknowledged with a nod.

She turned away from Finch's still form, catching Derik's gaze. No words needed to pass between them; their shared determination was palpable. They exited the hospital room, the antiseptic smell of the corridors now mingling with their resolve.

Outside, the sun cast long shadows across the parking lot, the morning brightness deceptive in its promise of a new day unmarred by the previous night's horrors. Morgan slid into the passenger seat of their standard-issue FBI sedan, the cool leather a sharp contrast to the warmth of Derik's presence beside her. He started the engine, the hum of the motor a soft backdrop to the silence that enveloped them. That silence wasn't awkward—it was filled with a mutual understanding that conversation would do little to advance their cause at this moment.

The roads were slick with the remnants of last night's rain, the sky scrubbed clean, leaving behind a crispness in the air that seemed at odds with the grim reality of their investigation. As Derik navigated the streets toward the bike path where Finch's life had nearly been snuffed out, Morgan felt the undercurrent of tension pulling at her insides. It coiled around her like a living thing, whispering that evil never rested, and neither could they.

The city passed by in a blur of movement and color, but Morgan's thoughts remained sharply focused on the path ahead. With every turn of the wheels, they drew closer to the place where the killer had laid his trap, where he had left his mark—a signature of his malevolence waiting to be uncovered by those willing to look.

Derik pulled off the main road, guiding the car onto a quieter street that led to the bike path. The serene surroundings stood in contrast to the violence that had occurred mere hours ago. Morgan stepped out of the car, the gravel crunching under her boots as she surveyed the scene—a picturesque route marred by an invisible stain of bloodshed.

"Let's see what we can find," Derik said, scanning the area with the same intensity as Morgan's.

"Agreed," Morgan responded, her mind already cataloguing the details of the scene, preparing herself for whatever clues might await them. She took a deep breath, feeling the cool air fill her lungs. This was where the hunt continued, where they would pick up the trail of a killer who believed himself to be a master of fate.

And Morgan was determined to prove him wrong.

***

Morgan stepped out of the sedan, her boots sinking slightly into the dew-soaked grass that bordered the bike path. The morning sun cast dappled shadows through the leaves, a mosaic of light and dark that seemed almost purposeful in its design. She noted the idyllic scene with a critical eye, aware that beneath this natural beauty lay a narrative far more sinister.

Beside her, Derik's gaze followed the winding path, his face set in a determined frown that mirrored Morgan's own feelings. Here, at this bucolic fork in the road, Jacob Finch had nearly met his end, and it was their job to decipher the silent story told by the disturbed earth and altered signs.

"Look," Derik said softly, pointing toward a cluster of trees where the foliage thinned. They moved closer, their steps careful and measured. The joggers and cyclists that passed seemed blithely unaware of the two FBI agents scrutinizing their everyday route, their minds surely untouched by the darkness that now enveloped Morgan's every waking thought.

The symbol loomed ahead, an aberration on the landscape. It was crudely rendered in black spray paint, stark against the rough bark of an oak tree. It appeared almost like a wound, an infection spreading its tendrils into the wood, an intentional desecration by someone who wanted to leave a mark of chaos in this pocket of calm.

Morgan's jaw tightened as she studied the sign—a pentagram encased within a circle, deliberate and mocking. Her mind worked methodically, piecing together the killer's possible movements, imagining him here under cover of darkness, laying out the final touches of a deadly trap.

"Finch would've come from that direction," she murmured, nodding toward the north bend of the fork. "It was still dark. He might not have seen anything until it was too late."

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