Page 15 of Damian
The porch groaned under my weight, but the door was locked, no sign of tampering. I slid the key from my vest, turned it slow, and pushed inside.
The air smelled of stale coffee and paper.
“Morgan?” I called, low, controlled.
No answer.
Then a creak from the kitchen. I swung in fast—rifle raised—only to find her crouched by the table, files stacked in neat piles around her, the satellite phone clutched in her hands.
Her eyes were wide, red from unshed tears. Relief flashed there when she saw me, then gave way to something sharper—anger, fear, determination all tangled together.
“You took too long,” she whispered.
I lowered the rifle, but my pulse didn’t slow. I scanned the room. Everything looked in place, but the air carried a tension that didn’t belong.
“What happened?” I asked.
She swallowed. “A car slowed outside. Headlights swept the yard. They didn’t stop, but…” Her voice faltered. “It wasn’t you.”
My jaw locked. I crossed to the front door and went outside, checked the tracks in the gravel lane. Fresh treads, shallow. A sedan, maybe two hours old. Close enough to be a warning, far enough to leave me guessing.
River slipped in behind me, eyes narrowing. “Recon, you think?”
“Or bait,” I muttered.
I turned back to Morgan. She sat straighter now, like she wanted me to believe she hadn’t been terrified. The recorder blinked red in her pocket, half-hidden by her trembling hands.
“You should have stayed upstairs,” I said. The words came out harsher than I meant.
Her chin lifted anyway. “And what? Pretend it wasn’t happening? I stayed with the files. I kept working.” She shoved the folder toward me, pages covered in her looping notes. “Bright Shores. Caldwell. Hub 9. And Raine Carter’s name is forged all over it.”
Cyclone came in then, silent as a ghost, scanning the perimeter one last time before nodding. Clear—for now.
I set my rifle down, crouched until I was eye level with Morgan. Up close, I could see the way her shoulders trembled even as she tried to hold them steady.
“You did good,” I said, softer. “But from now on, you don’t open that door, you don’t move, and you don’t breathe a word unless it’s to us. Understand?”
Her eyes glistened, but she nodded. “I understand.”
I held her gaze for a beat longer, then straightened. The storm was tightening around us—Hub 9, Caldwell, forged names, Luthor’s shadow stretching wider than we’d thought.
And Morgan Tate, trembling but unbroken, was right in the middle of it.
I looked to Cyclone and River. “We lock this place down. No one in or out until we know if that car was just passing by—or watching.”
River gave a grim nod. Cyclone was already checking the locks.
I turned back to Morgan. She hadn’t looked away.
The fire in her eyes told me she wasn’t just along for the ride anymore.
And God help me, that scared me more than the car outside.
15
Morgan
Icouldn’t stop thinking about Ruby.
