Page 4 of For Vengeance

Morgan's mind flashed to her father—gruff, cautious, a woodsman after a lifetime running from his past. She could see his weathered face, the scruffy brown beard, the eyes so like her own. She thought of what Cordell might do if he ever actually found him. The man before her was capable of anything.

How does he know these things? Derik? Mueller? Who might pay the price for Cordell's obsession? The questions pressed against her skull, demanding answers she didn't have.

"You framed me for murder," she said, each word precise and cutting. "Sent me to prison for ten years. Destroyed my career, my reputation, my life. All because of something that happened with my father forty years ago?" Morgan's grip tightened on her weapon, knuckles whitening. "This is about Mary Price, isn't it?"

Something flickered across Cordell's eyes—pain, rage, an emotion so raw it momentarily stripped away his composed exterior. For a split second, Morgan glimpsed the true Richard Cordell, the man behind the power and manipulation, a wounded creature driven by decades-old grief and obsession.

"Your father took everything from me," he said, voice suddenly tight, vibrating with barely contained emotion.

"My father didn't kill Mary Price," Morgan shot back, the words charged with conviction. "You did."

Cordell's jaw clenched, a muscle twitching beneath the skin. His hands, resting on the arms of the chair, curled into fists so tight the knuckles blanched white.

"Is that what he told you?" he asked, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "That I killed the woman I loved more than life itself?" He leaned forward, mask slipping further, revealing the obsession that had driven him for four decades. "John Christopher pulled that trigger. John Christopher watched her bleed out on that warehouse floor. And John Christopher let them cover it up, let them call it an accident, when he knew—he knew—what he'd done."

The bourbon on the table remained untouched as tension thickened the air between them, heavy and suffocating like the moments before a summer storm. Morgan searched Cordell's face, looking for deception but finding only conviction. Was it possible the story she'd pieced together over months of investigation was incomplete or wrong?

No. The thought was firm, anchoring her against doubt. Cordell is manipulating you. That's what he does. That's what he's always done.

"You've had your revenge," Morgan said, fighting to keep her voice level. "You took ten years of my life."

"Ten years?" Cordell's voice was suddenly sharp, the cultured façade cracking to reveal the rage beneath. "I've lived with this for forty. Forty years of knowing the man who murdered Mary walks free, lives his life, raised a daughter." His voice broke slightly on the last word. "And it's not enough. It will never be enough until John Christopher faces justice."

He stood slowly, straightening his immaculate suit jacket with a practiced motion. Skunk rose with him, stretching briefly before padding over to Morgan's side, finally recognizing the threat in the room. The pitbull pressed against her leg, a warm, solid presence in a world suddenly turned unstable.

"You have one week to consider my proposal," Cordell said, composure regained, once again the cold, calculating puppetmaster. "After that, things will get much worse for everyone you care about."

Images flashed through Morgan's mind: Derik's body, blood spreading across his kitchen floor. Mueller, found dead in an "accident" like Thomas. Her father, tortured for days before being allowed to die. The scenarios played out in vivid, technicolor detail, products of an imagination honed by ten years of prison nightmares.

"I'll kill you before you hurt anyone else I care about," Morgan said, rising to her feet, gun still aimed at his chest. She meant every word. If it came to it, she would put a bullet in Cordell's brain and accept whatever consequences followed.

Cordell smiled, the expression never reaching his eyes. "So many have tried." He moved toward the door with measured steps. "One week, Agent Cross."

The threat hung in the air, nearly tangible in its weight and implication. Morgan remained frozen in place, gun still raised as Cordell let himself out as silently as he'd arrived. The soft click of the door closing echoed through her living room like a gunshot.

She held her position for long minutes after he'd gone, muscles locked, breath shallow, waiting for some other attack, some hidden trap to be sprung. Eventually, the burning in her arms forced her to lower the weapon, though her finger remained near the trigger.

With mechanical movements, she cleared the house, checking each room, each closet, searching for Cordell's men, for listening devices, for any trace of his intrusion. She found nothing, which was somehow more unsettling than finding something would have been.

Finally, she returned to the living room and sank onto the sofa, the adrenaline crash leaving her limbs heavy and trembling. Skunk pressed against her side, his solid presence a silent comfort. Morgan buried her fingers in his short fur, finding solace in his warmth, his steady heartbeat.

She stood there for what felt like hours, adrenaline coursing through her veins, the weight of Cordell's threat hanging in the air like smoke.

Her father had offered to surrender himself once before, believing it was the only way to end this. She'd refused then. But now, with Derik's life on the line, with the memory of Thomas's blood on her hands, doubt crept in like a shadow.

What if Cordell really knows? What if he finds him? What would I do to keep everyone safe? The questions circled in her mind like vultures, offering no answers, only more pain.

Time was running out. Cordell had made his move, stepping out of the shadows at last. Whatever game they'd been playing had entered its final phase.

One week.

Seven days to find a way to destroy Richard Cordell before he destroyed everything she had left.

CHAPTER TWO

The digital clock on Morgan's microwave read 3:17 AM, its green glow the brightest light in her darkened kitchen. She'd made coffee an hour ago, but the mug sat untouched beside her, gone cold. Across the kitchen table, Derik looked as exhausted as she felt, his normally crisp appearance disheveled from the late hour. His dark hair fell across his forehead, and the shadows under his green eyes had deepened. Still, his presence steadied her in ways she couldn't articulate.

"I think we've checked every inch of this place," Derik said, running a hand through his already mussed hair. They'd spent the last two hours searching for listening devices, cameras, anything Cordell might have left behind. "How the hell did he get in without tripping a single alarm?"

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