The scrape of metal on concrete echoed again through the cavernous warehouse, closer this time. Doakes' hand tightened on the grip of his .45. He'd found Dexter Morgan's confessional journal, the damning photo of Aaron Spencer and his son, the chilling note of vengeance. He knew who the Reaper was: Ethan Spencer, a ghost forged in the crucible of his father's monstrous end and Dexter's dark justice.
Every instinct honed by years in the military and on the streets of Miami screamed at Doakes. He moved with a predator's silence, using the towering stacks of forgotten cargo as cover, his eyes piercing the gloom. The stench of brine, mildew, and old blood was thick, but now there was a fresher, sharper metallic tang in the air, accompanied by the faint, unmistakable scent of fear.
He rounded a stack of rotting crates and saw him.
Ethan Spencer. He was younger than Doakes had pictured, perhaps late twenties or early thirties, with a wiry build and an unnerving intensity in his eyes. He wasn't the hulking brute Doakes might have expected from the brutality of the crime scenes. Instead, there was a febrile energy about him, a disturbing, almost artistic focus as he adjusted a series of restraints on the stained metal table.
And on that table, strapped down, pale and trembling, was a man. Gagged, his eyes wide with terror. He was still alive. Barely. Fresh welts and bruises marred his skin.
Doakes felt a cold rage, different from the familiar fury Morgan always ignited. This was the rage of a protector, a lawman – however far he'd fallen from the badge – witnessing a lamb being led to slaughter.
"Spencer!" Doakes' voice was a whip crack in the silence of the warehouse.
Ethan Spencer spun around, startled, but not panicked. His eyes, when they found Doakes, held no fear, only a strange, assessing curiosity. He held a small, wicked-looking scalpel in his hand, its tip gleaming faintly.
"Well, well," Ethan said, his voice surprisingly calm, almost conversational. "An unexpected visitor. I don't believe we've been introduced. Though, judging by your… intensity… you must be a friend of Mr. Morgan's. Or perhaps, just another admirer of my work?" He gestured vaguely with the scalpel towards the man on the table.
"I'm the man who's going to put you in the fucking ground, you sick piece of shit," Doakes growled, his .45 leveled squarely at Ethan's chest.
Ethan chuckled, a dry, unsettling sound. "So dramatic. So… Miami Metro. You have that look about you. Justice. Retribution. All those lovely, hollow words." He took a step closer to the table, placing a proprietary hand on the captive's shoulder. The man flinched violently. "This one, for example. He understands retribution. Or he's beginning to. He sinned. And now, he atones. It's a beautiful symmetry, don't you think?"
"He's targeting Bratva," Doakes stated, keeping his gun steady. "What did this one do? Forget to pay his dues?"
Ethan's smile widened, but it didn't reach his eyes. Those remained cold, calculating. "The Bratva? Oh, they're merely… convenient. Appetizers. My palate is far more… discerning. They are sinners, yes, in their own crude way. But my true art… my true art is about a deeper cleansing." He leaned closer to his captive. "This one, for instance. A pillar of his community, they say. A devoted family man. But he had secrets. Nasty little secrets. The kind that fester in the dark."
"And you're the judge and jury?" Doakes spat. "Just like your old man?"
The mention of his father made Ethan pause. His smile faltered for a fraction of a second, replaced by a flicker of something unreadable – pain, rage, a chilling fanaticism. "My father…" he said softly, his voice taking on a reverent, almost hypnotic tone. "My father understood the necessity of… pruning the dead wood. He saw the rot in this city, the hypocrisy. He tried to cleanse it. They called him a monster."
"He was a monster, Spencer," Doakes said, his voice hard. "He slaughtered his own family."
Ethan's eyes flashed. "He was misunderstood! He was a visionary! He saw the sin, the corruption, and he acted! He was betrayed by a system that protects the guilty and condemns the righteous!" His voice rose, echoing in the vast space. "And then… then he came." Ethan's gaze was distant, lost in a dark memory. "The Bay Harbor Butcher. He took my father. He took everything."
"So this is about revenge? Against Morgan?"
"Revenge?" Ethan laughed again, a high, brittle sound. "Revenge is such a… pedestrian motive. This is about legacy. My father's true legacy. And Morgan's… perversion of it." He gestured around the warehouse. "The Butcher had a Code. He targeted killers. Admirable, in its own limited way. But my father… my father targeted sin. In all its forms. The liars, the cheats, the abusers hiding behind their masks of respectability. That is the true art. That is the true cleansing."
He looked back at the man on the table. "This one… his sins were legion. And now, he will be made pure. Just as my father would have wanted." He raised the scalpel. "The incision… it's not a brand of ownership. It's a mark of their sin. A testament to their true nature, carved for all the world to see, even if only I am the audience for their final performance."
Doakes felt a profound sickness welling up. This wasn't just a son avenging his father by killing Dexter Morgan. This was a son who had deified his monstrous father, who had embraced Aaron Spencer's murderous madness and twisted it into a grotesque philosophy of his own. Ethan wasn't just continuing a cycle of violence; he was trying to legitimize, to sanctify, the original horror.
"You're insane," Doakes said, his voice flat.
"Am I?" Ethan tilted his head. "Or am I simply the one willing to see the world as it truly is? To peel back the veneer of civilization and expose the maggots writhing beneath?" He took another step towards his captive, the scalpel poised. "My father was an artist of truth. I am merely his apprentice. His second coming."
The man on the table let out a muffled sob, his body bucking against the restraints.
Doakes knew he couldn't let this happen. He couldn't let Ethan Spencer continue his father's horrific legacy. But Spencer was armed, desperate, and clearly unhinged. And Doakes was alone.
"It ends here, Spencer," Doakes said, his finger tightening on the trigger.
Ethan smiled, a beatific, terrifying expression. "Oh, I don't think so, Sergeant." His eyes flicked to something behind Doakes. "The performance is just beginning. And we have a new member in the audience."
Before Doakes could react, a searing pain exploded in his side. He grunted, stumbling, his vision blurring. He hadn't heard anyone approach. How?
He looked down. A dark, slender blade, not unlike the ones on Ethan's workbench, protruded from his ribs. He looked up, his gaze struggling to focus.
Standing a few feet away, a small, almost apologetic smile on her lips, was a woman. Older, her face a mask of quiet sorrow and an even quieter, more terrifying resolve. A woman whose picture he'd seen in an old, cold case file. Nurse Mary's daughter.
No. Not just her.
He recognized her from somewhere else, too. From the periphery of his senses when he'd confronted Morgan. From the background of the chaos.
The Reaper, Ethan Spencer, was not alone in his artistic endeavors. He had a partner. A mentor. A curator.
And she had just plunged a knife into James Doakes.
"Surprise, Sergeant," the woman whispered, her voice as cold and precise as the blade she'd just used. "The student is not the only one with a debt to collect from Mr. Morgan's… associates."
Doakes collapsed to his knees, his gun clattering on the concrete floor. The world was tilting, darkness closing in. The sins of the father… and the sins of the surrogate father, Dexter Morgan… they were all coming home to roost. And James Doakes was caught squarely in the crossfire.