The humidity of the Florida Everglades was a familiar enemy, a suffocating blanket woven from heat, decay, and the buzzing drone of a million unseen insects. James Doakes slapped a mosquito on his scarred forearm, leaving a smear of blood – his own, this time. He sat on the rickety porch of a stilt cabin, a relic from a forgotten era of Gladesmen, now his temporary, unwelcome home. It was a world away from the concrete canyons of Miami, but close enough to feel its corrupt pulse. Close enough to smell the storm brewing.
He stared at the cracked screen of a ruggedized laptop, the glow illuminating his grim face. The same Miami news article Dexter had seen was open, the headline – "REAPER OF THE BAY HARBOR" – practically spitting at him. Three victims. Ritualistic. Near the ocean. The details were sparse, but the implication was a sledgehammer blow: Morgan.
Doakes let out a harsh, grating sound that might have been a laugh in another life. "Surprise, surprise, motherfucker," he muttered to the empty swamp around him. He'd known, hadn't he? Deep in the pit of his gut, ever since he'd clawed his way back from the brink of that explosion, a charred, half-dead thing fueled by pure, unadulterated rage, he'd known Morgan wasn't truly gone. Men like Dexter Morgan didn't just die in hurricanes. They were too slippery, too much like the damn cockroaches they hunted.
He'd spent years off the grid, a ghost himself. Healing, in his own brutal way. Hardening. The fire that had once made him shout, made him charge headlong, had been banked, forced inward. Now it smoldered, a patient, dangerous heat. He'd learned to listen, to watch, to move through the shadows just like the man who had haunted his every waking moment and most of his nightmares. He'd even found a certain grim satisfaction in his new existence, a clarity that came from stripping life down to its bare essentials: survival, and the unwavering conviction that one day, he'd settle the score with Dexter Morgan.
This "Reaper," though… this was different. The name was a deliberate, ugly echo. The methods, as described, were a crude imitation. It felt wrong. Sloppy. If it was Morgan, he'd lost his touch, his meticulous artistry. And if it wasn't Morgan… then someone else was playing his sick games, invoking his specter. Either way, it was a mess. Morgan's mess, Doakes thought, a familiar refrain. And it was time to clean house.
He'd been tracking whispers for months, rumors of a new darkness stirring in Miami, something that felt…off. This news report just gave it a name, a face – or rather, the lack of one.
His first instinct, a burning, visceral urge, was that Morgan was back, taunting them all. But the details in the article, the few that were there, gave him pause. "Police baffled." Morgan rarely baffled the police for long with the how; it was always the who and the why that eluded them until it was too late. This sounded amateurish, almost desperate.
"Trying too hard," Doakes grunted, closing the laptop. He stood, his tall frame stiff but powerful. The scars on his face and arms, souvenirs from the cabin explosion meant to silence him, pulled tight. They were a constant reminder.
He didn't have a badge anymore. No resources, no official standing. What he had was a lifetime of experience hunting the worst of humanity, a network of shadows and whispers that sometimes yielded more truth than any police database, and an understanding of Dexter Morgan that no one else on the planet possessed. He knew how the freak thought, how he operated. Or at least, how he used to operate.
His investigation wouldn't start with crime scene photos or lab reports. It would start in the gutters, in the dark alleys and forgotten corners of Miami where the real monsters skittered. He still had a few… contacts. People who owed him. People who feared him. Enough to get a feel for the streets, to hear the names that weren't being printed in the papers.
He went inside the stifling cabin. It was sparsely furnished: a cot, a small table, a cooler. On the table, an old, battered map of Miami-Dade County was spread out, marked with faded ink. He picked up a greasy, well-maintained .45 automatic from under his pillow, checked the clip, and tucked it into the waistband at the small of his back, beneath a loose, dark shirt. He had other tools, of course, acquired over time, none of them standard issue.
His "safehouse," as he ironically called it, had served its purpose. It was time to move closer to the fire. He had a beat-up pickup truck hidden under a camouflage tarp a mile away, its engine reliable, its appearance forgettable.
Before leaving, he paused. He thought of LaGuerta. Her fierce determination, her unwavering belief that Morgan was the Bay Harbor Butcher. She'd been right. And it had gotten her killed. He thought of Deb Morgan, tangled up in her brother's darkness, another casualty. The weight of it all settled on him, not as despair, but as a cold, hard resolve. This wasn't just about Morgan anymore. It was about the collateral damage, the lives ruined, the city still bleeding from the Butcher's reign.
This Reaper was a new infection in an old wound. And Doakes was the only surgeon left with the stomach to cut it out.
He didn't know Dexter was on his way back. He didn't know about the encounter in Chennai. All he knew was that something evil was wearing his old adversary's shadow, and he was going to drag it into the light, kicking and screaming if necessary. And if, by some miracle or curse, Dexter Morgan himself was behind it, or showed his face… well, that would just be a long-overdue reckoning.
He locked the cabin, a futile gesture in this wilderness, and began the trek to his truck. The sun was climbing, the Everglades already a steam bath. The cicadas screamed their incessant song. Doakes ignored it all. His focus was singular. Miami. The Reaper. And the ghost of Dexter Morgan.
"Alright, motherfucker," he said to the oppressive air, his voice a low growl. "Let's see what you got."
He wasn't a cop. He wasn't a hero. He was just a man who'd seen too much, lost too much, and had one last, ugly job to do. He was James Doakes, and he was going hunting. The devil you know, he thought, was always better than the one you didn't. But sometimes, you had to hunt them both.