The Rickenbacker Causeway arched over the dark, choppy waters of Biscayne Bay like the skeletal remains of some colossal sea creature. Below, where the Reaper's third victim had been discovered, the air was thick with the smell of salt, diesel, and the cloying sweetness of decay that the tide hadn't quite managed to wash away. Dexter, dressed in dark, functional clothing that allowed him to blend into the deeper shadows beneath the bridge, moved with a ghost's silence.
He'd parked the rented sedan a discreet distance away, approaching the site on foot, his senses alive, cataloging every sound, every flicker of movement. The official police tape was gone, but the area still hummed with a residual wrongness, a stain on the atmosphere that only someone like him could truly perceive. He knelt by the concrete piling where the body had been found, his gloved fingers tracing patterns in the grime, searching for overlooked minutiae. The Reaper was sloppy, but even a sloppy killer left traces. A faint indentation here, a scuff mark there. Not much. But enough to confirm the Reaper's lack of finesse.
Amateur hour, the Passenger hissed with disdain. He has the brutality, but none of the poetry.
Dexter was so engrossed in his silent communion with the scene, so focused on the echoes of violence, that he almost missed it – the subtle crunch of gravel behind him, too deliberate for a stray animal, too quiet for a curious civilian.
He didn't whirl around. He didn't tense. Years of conditioning, of being both hunter and hunted, had taught him a different kind of reaction. He simply… became still. Part of the shadows. He slowly rose, turning as if he were merely stretching, his eyes already scanning, assessing.
And there he was.
Leaning against a far piling, half obscured by the inky blackness, was a figure. Tall. Imposing. The faint, distant glow from the Miami skyline caught the glint of something metallic – a watch, perhaps, or the buckle of a belt. But it was the silhouette, the unmistakable aura of contained violence, that sent a jolt of icy recognition through Dexter.
Doakes.
He wasn't lurking this time. He was waiting. For him.
Dexter's heart hammered a furious rhythm, but his outward demeanor remained preternaturally calm. The Dark Passenger, however, was anything but. It roared, a confused, enraged beast, suddenly confronted by a ghost it thought long vanquished.
"Fancy meeting you here, Morgan." Doakes' voice was a low, rasping growl that seemed to vibrate through the damp concrete. It was rougher than Dexter remembered, scarred like the rest of him. He stepped forward, out of the deeper shadows, and the faint light illuminated his face. The burns were more visible now, a permanent, angry testament to the explosion Dexter had indirectly caused. His eyes, though, were the same – hard, unblinking, boring into Dexter with an intensity that could strip paint.
Dexter allowed himself a small, almost imperceptible intake of breath. "Doakes," he said, his own voice carefully neutral, betraying none of the turmoil within. "I thought you were… otherwise engaged. Permanently."
A humorless sound, something between a scoff and a snarl, escaped Doakes' lips. "Yeah, well, surprise, motherfucker." The iconic line, delivered not with the explosive anger of old, but with a chilling, almost weary deadliness. It was the sound of a man who had walked through hell and brought a piece of it back with him. "Turns out I'm harder to kill than you thought."
"Evidently," Dexter conceded. He kept his hands loose at his sides, visible. Doakes hadn't drawn a weapon, not yet. But Dexter could feel the coiled tension in him, the readiness to explode. "What brings you to this… scenic spot? Taking in the midnight air?"
"Cut the shit, Morgan," Doakes said, taking another step closer. He stopped about ten feet away, a predator's assessing distance. "I know you're not the Reaper. Too sloppy. Too… loud."
Dexter raised an eyebrow, a flicker of genuine surprise. "You don't think I'm capable of a little… theatricality?"
"This ain't theater, Morgan. This is a goddamn mess. And it stinks of you, even if it ain't your direct handiwork." Doakes' eyes narrowed. "So, why are you here? Nostalgia? Or are you looking to critique the new talent?"
"Perhaps I'm simply a concerned citizen," Dexter offered, the lie tasting like ash in his mouth.
Doakes actually laughed then, a short, harsh bark that echoed under the causeway. "Concerned citizen? You? That's richer than a goddamn triple-fudge sundae. You wouldn't know concern if it bit you on your psycho ass."
"And you, Doakes?" Dexter countered, his voice hardening slightly. "What's your angle? Playing vigilante? Or did you just miss our little chats so much you couldn't stay away?"
The air crackled between them, thick with unspoken history, with years of suspicion and near-misses. Two apex predators, face to face in the urban jungle, the ghosts of their shared past swirling around them like the fetid bay air.
"I'm here," Doakes said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, "because this Reaper is making noise. And noise attracts attention. Attention this city, and certain… people… don't need." His gaze was unwavering. "And you, Morgan, you're the king of attracting the wrong kind of goddamn attention."
"So, you're what? Cleaning up the mess?" Dexter asked. "Protecting my good name?"
"Fuck your name," Doakes spat. "I'm trying to figure out who's pulling the strings. And why they're using your old playbook." He paused, his eyes searching Dexter's. "Unless… you're telling me you franchised your operation before you took that little boat trip into the hurricane?"
The tension was a living thing, coiling tighter with every word. Dexter could feel the Dark Passenger urging him, He knows too much. He's a threat. End it. But another part of him, the coldly logical part, the part that Harry had tried to instill, recognized the precariousness of the situation. Doakes was a wild card, but he also possessed information, a perspective from outside the system that might be… useful.
"My methods are my own," Dexter said finally, his voice flat. "This Reaper is an aberration. An insult."
"Glad we agree on something," Doakes grunted. He shifted his weight, his hand unconsciously drifting closer to his side, where Dexter knew a weapon would be concealed. "So, what now, Morgan? We gonna dance? Or are you gonna tell me what the hell brings Dexter Morgan back from the dead and sniffing around my city's fresh kills?"
The question hung in the air, heavy and menacing. The distant hum of Miami seemed to fade, leaving only the sound of the lapping water and the strained breathing of two men who were, in their own twisted ways, mirror images of each other's darkness. The reunion was complete. The next move was anyone's guess.