Forbidden (Morgan Cross #12)

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Morgan's boots crunched over gravel as she moved swiftly toward the haphazardly parked vehicle. Derik, a silent shadow, kept pace beside her. The car was an older model, its paint peeling and one tire flat—Elliott Crane's escape had clearly been in haste. She peered through the dust-smeared window, confirming what they both feared; the car was empty. This was just the starting point of their search.

"Damn it," Morgan muttered under her breath. "He's here somewhere."

The flashlights in their hands were narrow beams battling against an ocean of darkness that had swallowed the construction site whole. They moved between dormant bulldozers and backhoes, their metal bodies cold and unyielding beneath her touch. The ground was a minefield of potential missteps—loose stones, scattered nails, and the remnants of the day's labor formed an obstacle course designed by negligence or malicious intent.

As they delved deeper into the construction labyrinth, the sense of urgency within Morgan sharpened. Each metallic groan from the skeletal structures looming overhead, each whisper of wind that sent shivers down her spine, heightened her senses. Elliott could be anywhere, his mind undoubtedly churning with dark thoughts.

Suddenly, a movement caught Morgan's attention—a silhouette shifting in the dim light. Derik saw it too, his body tensing. There, some distance ahead, was the unmistakable figure of Elliott Crane. He was almost feral in his focus, rearranging warning signs with a fervor that spoke of obsession.

"Got you," Morgan breathed, more to steady herself than anything. Her gut twisted, knowing the implications of his actions: he was setting another deadly trap.

"Careful," Derik whispered, his voice low but laced with steel. "Don't spook him."

They advanced, minimizing the noise of their approach. Every step was deliberate, avoiding the debris that littered the site like breadcrumbs leading them to the heart of this madness.

Morgan's hand hovered near her holster. She was ready for whatever Elliott might throw at them. But it wasn't just about apprehending him anymore; she needed to understand him. The pieces of this twisted puzzle—the Satanic symbols, the moved signs—were falling into place, and she knew that Jace's death was the catalyst.

Morgan could feel the weight of her gun in her hand, a familiar and grim comfort. Her eyes locked onto Elliott, who seemed almost statue-like amid the chaos of scattered tools and swaying scaffolding. "Freeze, FBI!" she barked, the command slicing through the silence like a blade.

Elliott's hunched form uncoiled with startling speed, his feet pounding into the gravel as he made a break for it. The decision was instinctual – Morgan and Derik lunged forward in pursuit, their boots crunching on the debris-strewn ground. There was no hesitation, only the resolve that came from years of chasing shadows and monsters masquerading as men.

As Morgan dashed after the fleeing figure, the chase felt like plunging into a war zone of iron and concrete. Elliott moved with an animalistic agility, weaving between the metal ribs of unfinished buildings with a desperation that bordered on madness. Derik was right beside her, his breaths heavy but determined, each step a testament to their shared resolve.

The danger of the construction site loomed around them, threatening to swallow them whole. Piles of bricks appeared out of nowhere, forcing Morgan to swerve sharply to avoid a collision. A misstep here could mean a twisted ankle, or worse. But she could not afford to slow down. Not when every second lost meant Elliott slipping further away, potentially closer to claiming another life.

"Watch out!" Derik shouted as a loose cable whipped out from the darkness just inches from Morgan's head. She ducked, her reflexes honed from a decade of navigating the treacherous terrain of both prison yards and crime scenes.

Chasing Elliott was like trying to catch smoke with bare hands. He darted through a gap between two steel pillars, his body contorting impossibly as he squeezed through. Morgan followed suit, the cold metal grazing her side, a reminder of the narrow margin between success and failure.

The construction site was a minefield, with dangers lurking at every turn. An upturned nail here, a sudden drop there – each hazard a potential disaster. Morgan's training kicked in, her movements calculated and swift, each step measured to avoid calamity.

She could see Elliott now, his back a moving target as he leaped over a stack of wooden planks. His recklessness was a weapon in itself, turning the construction site into a deadly labyrinth designed to disorient and harm. But Morgan was relentless, her mind racing to anticipate his next move, to cut him off, to end this before it could escalate any further.

"Left!" she yelled to Derik as Elliott veered unexpectedly, his silhouette a blur against the backdrop of girders and drywall. They split, Derik taking the longer route around a pit while Morgan risked a shortcut, jumping across the open space with a heart-stopping leap.

Her boots hit the ground on the other side, jarring her bones but not her concentration. The distance between her and Elliott was closing, but so was the margin for error. Loose wires snaked across the path, whispering threats of tripping her up, but she sidestepped them with practiced ease.

The sound of Derik's footsteps faded behind her, his presence a silent reassurance that she wasn't alone in this. Together, they formed a net closing in on Elliott, ready to put an end to the cycle of violence he'd begun. But Morgan knew that catching Elliott was only half the battle—understanding the why behind his actions was the key to unraveling this twisted case. And so she pushed on, driven by duty and the knowledge that in this game of cat and mouse, the stakes were deadly high.

Morgan’s lungs burned as she sprinted up the metal staircase, the sound of her own footsteps competing with the rush of wind that tore through the scaffolding. She could see Elliott just ahead, his form outlined against the fading light, his movements erratic and desperate. The structure groaned under their collective weight—a creaking chorus to the drama unfolding high above the city streets.

"Stop, Elliott!" Morgan's voice cut through the wind, authoritative yet tinged with a compassion born from understanding loss all too well. "This is not what Jace would have wanted!"

Elliott halted at the edge of the platform, teetering as if the wind itself could decide his fate. His back was to her, his shoulders heaving with each labored breath. Morgan moved closer, her gun steady in her hand, ready but hoping it wouldn’t come to that.

"Your brother’s memory doesn't deserve this," Morgan continued, her tone softening. "Ending up here, like this... it’s no tribute. It’s just more pain."

But Elliott spun around, his face contorted with a wildness that sent a shiver down Morgan’s spine despite the adrenaline that flooded her system. His eyes, wide and unseeing, were locked into a vision of the world that Morgan knew she couldn't fully grasp—a dark and twisted landscape painted by grief and madness.

"He promised me," Elliott spat out, his voice laced with a manic intensity, "The dark lord, the master of the nether realm. He said Jace will return, that the sacrifices would tip the scales!"

Morgan kept her posture relaxed in contrast to Elliott’s fervor, an island of calm in the eye of his storm. Yet inside, her heart ached for the broken man before her, so lost in his delusions that he clung to them as the last vestiges of hope.

"Blood won't bring him back, Elliott. You know that somewhere deep inside. This... entity, it's preying on your pain, it's—" she tried to reason, but Elliott’s expression twisted further, his belief unshaken.

"Enough blood can change the world," Elliott declared, his voice breaking. "Jace was pure, the perfect offering. I—I just need to finish what he started."

The sincerity in his voice was haunting. This wasn’t mere fanaticism; it was the cry of a soul torn apart by loss, seeking solace in the impossible. Morgan tightened her grip on the gun, knowing that words were failing, that the abyss into which Elliott had fallen was too deep to be bridged by mere sympathy. But still, she had to try—for Elliott, for the victims, for the semblance of peace that seemed so out of reach.

"Let us help you, Elliott," she implored, taking a step forward. "This ends tonight, but how it ends is up to you."

Morgan's voice cut through the howling wind, her words sharp and clear. "Elliott, it doesn't have to end like this," she said, the scaffolding beneath them groaning in protest against the gusts that whipped around the high-rise skeleton of steel and concrete.

Elliott Crane's silhouette hovered at the edge of the structure, his figure stooped and unpredictable. His lips moved in a silent chant, his eyes reflecting the city lights below with a haunted glow. He was a portrait of a man fractured by grief, standing at the precipice of reason and madness.

"Listen to me, Elliott," Morgan continued, her tone steady despite the turmoil inside her. "Your brother wouldn't want this. You can still make things right."

But as she spoke, she saw the resolve in Elliott's posture. He was a man cornered by his own spiraling thoughts, a mind ensnared in a web of sorrow too dense to escape. With a murmur about a final sacrifice, his voice barely audible against the din of the city, he took one faltering step back into the void.

Time seemed to slow as Elliott's foot left the solid beam, his body tilting backward into nothingness. Morgan's arm shot out, fingers grasping for fabric, for flesh, for any piece of him she might save. It was a futile gesture—Elliott's descent had already begun.

The darkness swallowed him whole, and the night echoed with the terrible finality of his impact far below. Morgan stood motionless, her hand still extended into empty space where moments ago there had been a life teetering on the edge.

There was a hush, a stark absence of sound that seemed to press against her ears. The clamor of the city faded into a distant hum, and for an instant, the world held its breath, suspended in the wake of tragedy.

Morgan's throat constricted, and she forced herself to look down from the precarious height, seeking the broken form she knew lay crumpled on the ground. She couldn't see him from here, but the knowledge clawed at her, a visceral understanding of what had transpired—an end that was neither heroic nor just, but simply human.