Page 45 of For Mercy

"Three days," Morgan echoed, something cold and heavy settling in her stomach.She felt the weight of each second ticking by, aware that with every moment lost, Reeves could be plotting his next move.He had been right under their noses, wearing the mask of the bereaved brother so convincingly that she had almost let herself be swayed by his grief.

Almost.

She leaned back, rubbing at the tension knotting her neck and shoulders.Her dark brown hair fell around her face like a curtain, and she pushed it back irritably.Despite the chill of the room, sweat beaded at her temples—the product of adrenaline and a mind racing to connect the dots.

"He's been planning this for months," she murmured, more to herself than Derik.Her eyes were drawn again to the screen, to the bank statements showing withdrawals, the cash transactions too frequent to be coincidental.He had rented spaces, always in cash, never leaving a traceable footprint.Each victim had been chosen with chilling precision, their fates sealed by their past actions—or rather, their inactions.

Darren Reeves wasn't just inflicting pain; he was meting out his own twisted form of justice.

Morgan's thoughts drifted unbidden to her own past, to the years stolen from her, to the betrayal that had landed her in prison.She understood bitterness, the desire for vengeance.But where she had fought to clear her name, to bring down those who had wronged her, Reeves had built traps.He had constructed trials designed to force his victims to face the consequences of their apathy, the same way his sister had faced hers alone.

"Obsessed with justice," she finally broke the silence, her voice tinged with a bitterness born of experience."Or his version of it."

Derik nodded, lines of strain etched into his face.They both knew what was at stake.They both understood that each revelation brought them closer to the man who had turned grief into a weapon, but also deeper into a maze with no clear exit.

"Let's get a list of all the short-term rentals paid in cash within the last year," Morgan said, standing up and stretching the stiffness from her limbs.Her movements were methodical, purposeful, mirroring the resolve tightening within her chest.She wouldn't let another tragedy unfold—not on her watch.

As they began to coordinate with local law enforcement, Morgan's mind was ablaze with the grim tableau of Reeves's vengeance.The trap rooms, the meticulously planned scenarios—it was all coming together in a narrative she wished she couldn't comprehend.

Morgan's thoughts turned to the countless preventable deaths Reeves had witnessed as a trauma nurse.His sister's suicide, a pivotal point of pain that seemed to have set him on this path of righteous fury.Each victim selected as a symbol, a stand-in for those who had bypassed the chance to intervene, to save a life.How many more had looked away?How many more scenes had etched themselves into Reeves' memory, fueling his compulsion to force others to face judgment?

She knew they were missing something crucial, a piece of the puzzle that remained obscured by the chaos of the investigation and their own desperate need to stop the killings.There was no telling how many traps were left or who might be the next to fall into his fatal embrace.

As she reached for another pin to add to the board, a phone rang, slicing through the tension.Derik, stationed at a nearby desk, answered it with his usual clipped efficiency.Morgan watched as his posture stiffened, the hand not holding the receiver clenching reflexively into a fist.

"Cross," he called out, voice sharpening with urgency."A man survived one of Reeves' traps."

She straightened instantly, stepping toward him."Who?"she demanded, her heart pounding a fierce rhythm against her ribs.

"Thomas Bryant," Derik replied, eyes locking with hers."He's alive but barely conscious.They're rushing him to the ER now."

Morgan felt a surge of adrenaline.A survivor meant a witness, a chance to glean insight from someone who had experienced Reeves' twisted version of justice firsthand.But it also meant Reeves would be compelled to close that loose end to ensure no one escaped his verdict.They needed to act fast to protect Bryant and leverage any information he could provide.

"Let's move," she said, already heading for the door, Derik at her heels.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Morgan entered the sterile chaos of the emergency room just as they wheeled him in.The gurney rushed past, a blur of motion and medical urgency, carrying Dr.Thomas Bryant—his body a roadmap of pain and narrowly-escaped death.The harsh lights illuminated his ashen face, each crease and shadow accentuating the proximity of his brush with mortality.His wrists were a mess of lacerations, hands sliced by shards of betrayal, while his skin held the pallor of a man who had danced a duet with the dark.Glass had been his unwilling partner, carbon monoxide the orchestra playing a silent symphony in his lungs, stealing his breath with merciless efficiency until fate or chance had intervened.

The metallic scent of blood mingled with antiseptic, a sensory reminder of the fragility of life that permeated the air around them.

"Cross," Derik murmured, close enough to share her space but far enough to watch the whirlwind of doctors and nurses descend upon the survivor.His voice carried the weight of their shared history, a shorthand developed through years of partnership and unspoken trust.Their eyes met, a silent conversation passing between them—Reeves had failed this time, but it was a temporary reprieve.The harshness of the hospital lighting carved deep shadows beneath Derik's cheekbones, accentuating the concern etched across his features.It was unlikely the trauma nurse turned executioner would allow his narrative to be disrupted by a living testament to his fallibility.Reeves's pride would demand completion, his warped sense of justice requiring the final period at the end of Bryant's sentence.

"Stay with Bryant," Morgan ordered, her tone brooking no argument, though her eyes softened for a moment as they lingered on Derik.The subtle shift in her expression spoke volumes—a vulnerability she allowed only him to glimpse, a momentary crack in her otherwise impenetrable armor.She trusted him to guard the doctor's fragile lifeline against an enemy who considered finality a virtue, who saw death not as the end but as the ultimate judgment.Turning away, she strode from the room, her mind already cataloging the next steps, calculating probabilities and mapping out the spider's web of Reeves's possible moves with the precision that had made her legendary within the Bureau before her fall from grace.

Her footsteps echoed through the corridor, keeping time with the urgent cadence of her thoughts.Each click of her boots against the linoleum floor was a metronome, setting the pace for this deadly game of cat and mouse they found themselves entangled in.

Outside the hospital, the afternoon sun bore down mercilessly, indifferent to the life-and-death drama unfolding within the manmade caverns of healing.The heat shimmered off the asphalt, creating ripples in the air like distortions in reality—not unlike the twisted mirror through which Reeves viewed his own actions.Morgan dialed the number of the local law enforcement liaison, her voice steady as she laid out their predicament, each word measured and deliberate, wasting nothing."We need eyes on every property rented in cash over the last few months.Short-term leases, storage units, anywhere Reeves could have set up his judgment chambers."

"Understood, Agent Cross," came the crisp reply, laced with the respect her reputation commanded despite—or perhaps because of—her troubled history.Orders were dispatched, and a citywide search commenced.Each possible location held the potential for salvation or disaster—a race against an unseen countdown where the prize was human lives, the forfeit paid in blood and shattered futures.

As the net cast wider, Morgan felt a familiar coil of tension winding tighter within her, a serpent of anxiety and determination intertwined.She scanned the parking lot, cataloging faces, vehicles, movements—anything out of place, any shadow that might conceal a predator.The heat pressed against her skin, but she barely registered it, her focus razor-sharp and unwavering.Reeves was out there, planning his next move, perhaps already implementing it while they scrambled to catch up.

"Find him," she whispered to herself as she paced outside the ER, the words a promise and a prayer.Her eyes scanned the horizon for any sign of movement, any hint of the killer who thought himself an arbiter of fate.The afternoon light cast long shadows across the pavement, stretching like fingers reaching for the sanctuary of the hospital where Bryant fought for his life.Darren Reeves had made a fatal mistake underestimating Morgan Cross, and she intended to return the favor with interest, to show him the difference between his manufactured justice and the real thing.

***

The scent of rust and decay wafted through the air, a tangible miasma of abandonment and industrial decline that coated the back of Morgan's throat with each breath.She stood before the derelict building in the industrial district, a hulking skeleton of concrete and corroded metal that seemed to absorb the waning daylight rather than reflect it.The wind whistled through broken windows, creating an eerie melody that spoke of emptiness and desolation—the perfect stage for Reeves's macabre performances.

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