Page 2 of For Vengeance

"Write."

"Write what? I don't understand." Sweat beaded on Marcus's forehead. "You a cop? DEA?"

The gun pressed harder against his skull. When the distorted voice spoke again, it was barely above a whisper.

"I'm what comes after the system fails."

Marcus hunched over the paper, hand shaking so badly he could barely hold the pen. His mind raced through options. Fight? Beg? Run?

"I..." he started, uncertain what to write.

"Your name," the mechanical voice instructed.

"Please," Marcus whispered. "I got a family. I got a little girl—"

"Start writing."

The gun never moved from the back of his head. Marcus wrote his name, the pen digging deep into the paper, tears blurring his vision. He thought of his daughter, of his mother, of all the faces he would never see again.

"Now, confess."

"Confess what?"

"Everything."

As Marcus formed the first shaky sentence, a strange calm settled over him. He knew with absolute certainty that these were the final words he would ever write.

The only sounds in the apartment were his ragged breathing and the scratch of pen against paper. When he finished, he stared at the confession, at the trembling letters that documented his sins.

"Is that it?" he asked, voice barely audible.

Behind him, the intruder's finger tightened on the trigger.

"No," the mechanical voice replied. "Your executioner is here."

CHAPTER ONE

An untouched glass of bourbon sat on Morgan Cross's coffee table, amber liquid catching the dim light of her living room. The Bulleit Rye—her one indulgence these days—gleamed like liquid fire in the cut crystal tumbler, its smoky aroma teasing her senses. Her service weapon rested heavy in her lap, the familiar weight of the Glock 19 offering little comfort as she stared at the man across from her. Richard Cordell. Seventy-three years old, but still radiating the same intimidating authority that had once made junior agents tremble in the halls of the Hoover Building.

The shadows from the single lamp in the corner carved deep lines into his face, highlighting the imperious arch of his eyebrows and the cruel set of his mouth. Former FBI Assistant Director Richard Cordell. The man who had stolen ten years of her life. The man who had destroyed her father. The man whose reach extended into every dark corner of the Bureau despite his so-called retirement.

How long has he been watching me? The thought slithered through Morgan's mind, cold and nauseating. Has he been laughing at my attempts to find him, to expose him? Has he known every move before I made it?

Cordell sat comfortably in her armchair, as if he owned it. As if he owned her home. His silver hair was impeccable, not a strand out of place. His charcoal suit looked freshly pressed, the expensive fabric catching the light as he shifted slightly. His posture remained ramrod straight despite his age, a reminder of his military background before the FBI. His eyes—cold and calculating, the pale blue of winter ice—never left hers.

Most disturbing of all was Skunk. Her loyal pitbull lay at Cordell's feet, unnervingly calm, as if the greatest threat Morgan had ever faced was nothing more than a welcome guest. Skunk, who normally growled at strangers, who had taken months to trust even Derik, seemed completely at ease with Cordell's presence.

Did he drug my dog? The thought sparked fury in her chest. Or does pure evil just smell like something dogs trust?

"How did you get in?" Morgan asked, her finger resting alongside the trigger guard of her weapon. The tattoos covering her arms—accumulated during those ten long years behind bars—seemed to pulse with her heightened awareness. Each one a memory, a scar, a promise. The most prominent, running down her right forearm: VERITAS. Truth. The thing Cordell had stolen from her, along with everything else.

Cordell's lips curled into the faintest smile, a barely perceptible movement that never reached his eyes. "Does it matter?"

Her mind raced through scenarios, each more unsettling than the last. Had he picked her locks? Did he have a key? Was it possible someone had made a copy during the renovations last spring? Was someone else in the house right now, hiding in the shadows of her bedroom or bathroom? Where were his men? How many snipers had rifles trained on her windows at this very moment? Most importantly, how had he gotten past her security system?

A chill ran down her spine, raising goosebumps along her flesh. She'd upgraded everything after Thomas's murder. Motion sensors. Silent alarms. Cameras with facial recognition. The best money could buy, installed personally by an ex-NSA tech she'd helped in a previous case. Yet Cordell sat before her as comfortably as if she'd invited him for dinner.

He's always one step ahead. Always. The realization burned like acid in her stomach. I've been playing checkers while he's been playing three-dimensional chess.

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