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Now, they justhad to find him.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
Morgan stoodrigid in the humming chaos of the FBI headquarters, her dark eyes dartingacross the sea of agents scurrying before her. The staccato rhythm offingertips on keyboards echoed like a ticking clock, each keystroke a reminderof the race against time. Simon Cartwright, the killer whose shadow loomed overthe city, was out there, and with Rachel King’s life hanging by a thread, thepressure bore down on Morgan's shoulders like a physical weight.
"Instinctand deduction," she murmured to herself, brushing a strand of ink-blackhair from her forehead. Her tattoos, often hidden beneath her clothing, felt asif they were burning into her skin, a stark reminder of the time she had spentbehind bars for a crime she did not commit. She was hardened, yes, but neverdefeated—a survivor through and through.
"Cross?"Derik's voice cut through her thoughts, his tall frame leaning against herdesk. His green eyes were sharp, intense; the same eyes that had once lookedupon her with betrayal now shared only determination and an unspoken apology.The creases of his suit spoke of a professionalism that barely concealed thefatigue that hung on him like a poorly fitted garment—a testament to his ownpersonal battles.
"Cartwright'spattern is clear—he leaves his victims at places of significance," Deriksaid, bringing up images of the crime scenes on the screen. "All vocalagainst the occult, all left in plain sight."
"ExceptRachel hasn't been found yet," Morgan added, her mind racing throughpossibilities. "Which means we still have a chance to save her. But wherewould he take her? Where does he want us to see?"
"Publicplaces," Derik mused, his fingers drumming on the desk. "Parks,monuments... It’s his stage." He paused, a flicker of insight crossing hisfeatures. "But what if he knows we're onto him? What if he changes hisgame?"
Morgan nodded,considering his words. "Split our resources. Send teams to cover allpotential public locations. We'll take the one that doesn't fit the pattern—theone he might choose if he's trying to throw us off."
Derik agreed witha curt nod. "Less public, more secluded."
"Exactly. Wethink like him, we catch him," Morgan asserted, her resolve steeling. Shecould feel the gears in her mind turning, piecing together the fragments of thepuzzle with methodical precision. And then it struck her—a location, a hunch thatgnawed at her with an urgency she couldn’t ignore.
Morgan'sinstincts twitched like a live wire as she scanned the thick tomes ofhistorical sites within the city. The pattern was there, as stark as the blackink that marred her weathered skin—places of significance, each a stone in thegrim mosaic Simon Cartwright was creating with his victims. She pored over themaps, connecting dots that seemed random to an untrained eye. Her gaze haltedat the mention of an underground tunnel—a relic from a bygone era and forgottenby most.
"Derik,"Morgan called out, her voice a low thrum of certainty. "Thetunnels—they're old, hidden. And they straddle a ley line."
Derik leaned overthe map, green eyes narrowing in concentration. "Ley lines... purportedchannels of spiritual energy. It fits Cartwright's obsession with theoccult."
"Exactly,"Morgan affirmed, pushing back from the table, her chair scraping against thefloor ominously. "He's meticulous, methodical. We've been looking where hewants us to look—where it's public. But this," she tapped the map with atattooed finger, "this is where we'll find him. Away from pryingeyes."
"Let's gearup then," Derik said, already moving towards the armory. They gatherednecessities in silence—the weight of their mission eclipsing any need forwords. Flashlights, sidearms, radio units; each item was checked and securedwith practiced efficiency.
Exiting thearmory, Morgan could feel the palpable tension that had descended uponheadquarters. Agents moved with purpose, eyes set and jaws clenched. She shareda nod with Derik, a silent signal that it was time to leave. Their brisk walkthrough the corridors was a testament to their urgency, their strides eatingaway the distance to the exit.
As they burstthrough the double doors of the FBI building, the air outside hit Morgan with achill that wasn't entirely due to the weather. Time was slipping through theirfingers like grains of sand, each second bringing Rachel King closer to a fatethat had claimed four others. Four lives snatched away, four familiesshattered. It wouldn't be five—not if Morgan had anything to say about it.
They climbed intothe unmarked sedan, the engine roaring to life under Derik's expert hands. Asthey sped away from the safety of the familiar, Morgan couldn't shake the imageof Rachel King's face—the latest victim in Simon Cartwright's twisted game. Thecar's tires squealed against the asphalt, a desperate symphony to match theracing of Morgan's heart.
If they werelucky—if the fickle hand of fate dealt them a winning card—Rachel King wouldstill be drawing breath when they found her. And Morgan would make damn surethat Simon Cartwright drew none.
***
The sedan'sheadlights cut through the dusk as Morgan and Derik arrived at the entrance tothe underground tunnel, its gaping maw an abyss against the twilight. Morgan’spulse quickened, the silence of the outskirts a stark contrast to the chaosback at headquarters. They parked beside the overgrown hedge that bordered theforgotten site, the car's engine ticking in protest as it cooled.
"Tooquiet," she muttered, her instincts prickling beneath her skin. Thesurrounding area was deserted, lifeless—not a soul in sight to bear witness,unlike the very public scenes where the other victims had been discovered. Thedarkness of the tunnel loomed before them, offering no promise of Rachel Kingor the man they sought.
"Could bewrong," Morgan added, more to herself than to Derik. She pulled her gunfrom her holster, her tattoos stretching with the movement. Each inked line onher skin was a scar from her past—a past where she'd learned to trust her gutabove all else. And right now, her gut was twisted with doubt.
It was then Derikspoke up, his voice firm and oddly reassuring. "It's our best shot,Morgan." He paused, green eyes reflecting a determination that echoed her ownresolve. "Every cop in the city is swarming the usual spots—parks,monuments, places out in the open. Simon knows this, he won't risk anotherpublic drop."
She looked athim, seeing the fatigue pulling at the corners of his eyes, the weight of theirshared history momentarily forgotten. Derik's loyalty had once faltered, buthere and now, it was steadfast. "He's playing a different game this time,"Derik continued, adjusting the collar of his coat as if bracing himself againstmore than just the evening air. "And this—" he gestured towards themouth of the tunnel, "—is off the grid. It fits the pattern; historical,arcane... it's exactly the kind of place Cartwright would choose."
Morgan consideredhis words, letting the logic seep into her thoughts. The tunnel was indeedhistorical, its origins dating back to a time when such places were veiled insuperstition. And ley lines—the invisible threads said to weave Earth's ancientmagic—ran directly beneath their feet. If Simon Cartwright was the academicthey believed him to be, fascinated by the esoteric and the occult, then thissecluded location was not just a possibility—it was a declaration.
"Alright,"she conceded, the steel returning to her voice. They had come too far to lettrepidation cloud their judgment. Rachel's life hung in the balance, andhesitation was a luxury they couldn't afford. "Let's head in."
With a nod, theystepped toward the tunnel's entrance, leaving the safety of the known behind.The shadows swallowed them whole, the hunt pressing forward into the belly ofthe earth, where secrets lay buried and a killer might just be waiting.
Morgan steppedinto the tunnel's gaping maw, the darkness enveloping her like a shroud. Theair was dense, damp with the scent of earth and mold that clung to thewalls—slick with the passage of time. Her flashlight sliced through theoppressive blackness, an artificial sun in a void that seemed untouched bydaylight. Derik's beam crisscrossed with hers, their movements synchronizedwithout a word.
