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Morgan stood by, her arms crossed and her eyes scanning each agent as they worked. She couldn't help but feel like time was slipping away from them, each second bringing the killer closer to their next victim. It was a race against the clock, and Morgan was determined not to lose.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The darkness of the early morning enveloped Morgan's car as she sped toward Beverly McBridge's house, three other agents following closely behind in separate vehicles. The air was thick with tension, and Morgan gripped the steering wheel tightly, her knuckles turning white.
"Come on," she whispered to herself, urging her car to go faster. "We can't be too late."
As they approached the quiet residential street, Morgan took note of the quaint houses lining the road, each one eerily similar in appearance. But it was the last house on the left that she focused on – the home of seventy-four-year-old Beverly McBridge.
"Here we are," she muttered under her breath, pulling to a halt outside the darkened property.
She glanced in her rearview mirror, seeing the other agents' cars coming to a stop behind her. They all sat, engines idling, waiting for her signal. Morgan knew that somewhere nearby, Derik and his team were investigating other addresses on the list, trying to cover as much ground as possible.
"Alright," she said into her radio, determination etching her voice. "Let's move in."
Morgan's heart pounded in her chest, adrenaline flooding her system as she flung open the car door. Every second mattered now, and she couldn't afford any hesitation. Her boots hit the pavement with a dull thud, and she didn't bother to close the door behind her.
"Move, move, move!" she barked at the agents, who were quick to follow her lead, their faces grim with determination.
The house loomed before them, its seemingly innocent exterior belying the sinister secrets that might lay within. The moon cast eerie shadows over the front yard, making Morgan's skin crawl with unease.
"Stay sharp," she warned her team, approaching the front door with her gun drawn. She banged on the wooden surface, the sound echoing through the stillness of the night. "Beverly McBridge, FBI! Open up!"
But there was no response, just the oppressive silence that seemed to smother her like a heavy blanket. Morgan clenched her jaw and tried the doorknob, finding it unlocked. She exchanged a glance with the agent closest to her, a tall man named Thompson.
"Are you sure about this, Cross?" he asked, his brow furrowed with concern. "What if we've got the wrong house?"
"Every damn second counts, Thompson," Morgan snapped, her eyes scanning the dark interior of the house. "I'm not willing to risk another life on protocol."
With that, she pushed open the door and stepped inside, the other agents following closely behind her. The darkness enveloped them, but Morgan felt more alive than ever. This was where she belonged – chasing down the monsters that terrorized the innocent.
"Keep your eyes peeled, people," she muttered under her breath as they moved further into the house. "The killer could be anywhere."
The creak of the floorboards underfoot seemed deafening in the stillness of the house. Morgan's hand tightened around her gun as she made her way through the living room, the beam of her flashlight illuminating the shadows. Everything seemed in place, but something felt off. She couldn't shake the feeling that they were being watched.
The search continued, Morgan's pulse racing as they moved from room to room. She scoured every corner, every nook and cranny, but there was no sign of the killer – or anyone else for that matter. Morgan sighed in frustration; it seemed her instincts had been wrong.
Despite her disappointment, she didn't give up hope. She had a feeling that this wasn't over yet; they were close to finding something that would lead them to the perpetrator. They just had to keep searching. The agents kept combing through the house, their efforts becoming increasingly frantic as time ticked by without any results.
As they searched, Morgan couldn't help but think of Derik and his team. She hoped they were having better luck at the other addresses, but a nagging doubt clawed at her insides. What if the killer had already struck again? What if she was too late to save Beverly McBridge?
The floorboards creaked under their weight as they crept through the dark house, flashlights casting eerie shadows on the walls. Morgan signaled for her team to spread out and conduct a quiet search of the first floor. Her heart raced in her chest, adrenaline coursing through her veins as she tried to focus on the task at hand. She couldn't shake the feeling that something was very wrong.
"Clear," whispered Agent Thompson from a nearby room, his voice barely audible through her earpiece.
"Same here," came the hushed reply from Agent Kim as she checked another room.
Morgan's flashlight beam darted over a dusty living room, revealing old family photos on the wall and a crocheted afghan draped over an armchair. The place felt hauntingly empty, like it had been abandoned for years. But she knew better – Beverly McBridge lived here, and Morgan was determined to ensure her safety.
"Nothing on this side," muttered Agent Johnson, his tall frame filling the doorway of the last room on the first floor.
"Alright, move upstairs," Morgan ordered quietly, her gut twisting with unease. "Stay sharp."
The agents regrouped and moved cautiously up the staircase, their shoes muffled by the thick carpet. Morgan led the way, her flashlight trained on the dark hallway ahead. As they reached the top of the stairs, a crackling sound filled her earpiece.
"Cross, you need to get up here now," the urgent voice of Agent Thompson said. "We've found something."
Her stomach dropped as she sprinted down the hall, the other agents close on her heels. Each step felt heavier than the last, as if the gravity of the situation was physically weighing her down. What had they found? Was Beverly still alive?
