CHAPTER ONE
FBI agent Morgan Cross pushed open the door to the boxing gym, a faint creak echoing in the quiet as she stepped into the almost sacred space. The dim overhead lights cast long shadows across the sea of heavy bags and rings, the scent of sweat and leather permeating the air like incense in a church dedicated to the pugilistic arts. This was a place of release, of raw energy and primal combat, and it had been far too long since Morgan had set foot in such an arena.
With each step deeper into the gym, the outside world—the case files, the hidden agendas, the corruption that had once threatened to suffocate her—faded into the background. Here, there was only the promise of catharsis, of expelling the pent-up aggression that had been simmering beneath her composed exterior for months. Tonight was about reconnecting with the part of herself that knew how to fight back, the part that had survived a decade in prison and emerged hungry for retribution.
In the change room, the fluorescent light buzzed overhead, casting stark illumination over the benches and lockers. Morgan's movements were methodical as she retrieved her hand wraps from her bag—long strips of cloth that would serve as both protection and a weapon. She sat on a wooden bench, the cool surface a contrast to the heat that already began to build within her at the anticipation of the workout ahead.
Each pass of the wrap around her hands was like a mantra, steadying her thoughts, focusing her energy. There was a rhythm to it, one that she fell into with ease, the muscle memory of years spent training before life had violently shoved her down another path. But even as her mind calmed, her body told another story; muscles tensed, coiled like a spring, ready to unleash fury upon the punch bags that awaited her.
She thought of her father, Christopher Cross—no, John Christopher—as she secured the Velcro on her wraps. He had been a man of secrets, a ghost from her past now given flesh and form through the revelations of his true identity. He had been FBI, like her, but he had run, hidden away from that life, and ultimately from her.
Now, with Richard Cordell's shadow looming over her once more, the connection between her father's flight and her own framing felt like a knot she couldn't untangle. Her father had hidden everything about him from her; his past, even his real name. But he was dead now, and Morgan was left to try to patch what he’d left behind for her to figure out. Cordell had been her father’s superior—and, as new information had come out, Morgan had realized that Cordell was likely the one who framed her for murder, who caused her to spend ten years in prison, going in thirty and coming out on the other side forty. Cordell had been her father’s superior… it seemed he wanted her father gone, and now he wanted Morgan gone too. To punish her for something she had no idea about.
The thought filled her with anger. The FBI, the conspiracy of it all…
She still didn’t understand why they were trying to get rid of her. Why just a few nights ago, she received a phone call, warning her to resign—or else.
She knew she should tell her partner, Derik. Since they were together now—as more than partners or friends—he was owed some sort of explanation, and yet Morgan couldn’t help but draw more distance between them. Being around her would only get him hurt, and he’d already been hurt enough. And so Morgan had told him, just days ago, that she had to do this alone, that he had to stay out of it. Derik had agreed, and Morgan hoped he’d truly listen to her this time.
Morgan tried to shove those thoughts aside. Right now wasn't for unraveling the past. It was for shedding the weight of unanswered questions and the itch for revenge that clung to her like a second skin. As Morgan rose from the bench, her fists clenched and unclenched, a silent declaration that she was ready—not just to train, but to fight back against whatever darkness awaited her beyond the gym's walls.
Morgan squared off against her opponent, a hulking figure whose shadow loomed over the canvas like a storm cloud. She faced him with the resolve of a seasoned fighter, her dark eyes locked onto his with an intensity that belied her lean frame.
The bell clanged, a sharp sound that cut through the gym's ambient noise, and she launched forward.
***
Hours later, Morgan stepped out of the gym, the stinging coolness of the autumn air contrasting sharply with her sweat-drenched skin, although she was satisfied that she’d won her matches tonight. Her breath formed small clouds that dissipated quickly in the night. The parking lot was nearly deserted, the only sounds were her footsteps and the distant hum of the city. She approached her car, an unremarkable sedan that had served her well over the years, its familiarity a small comfort.
She unlocked the door and slid into the driver's seat, the leather cool against her heated skin. Morgan started the engine, the dashboard lights casting a soft glow on her bruised knuckles. She hadn’t felt the pain during the fight, but now, as the adrenaline faded, a dull ache set in. She flexed her fingers, feeling the tightness of the wrap beneath her skin. It didn’t matter. Pain was a constant companion, one she’d learned to live with.
Pulling out of the parking lot, her mind was still replaying the fight, the rush of landing a solid punch, the clarity it brought. But the calm was short-lived. A prickling sensation crawled along her spine. Years of training had honed her instincts to a razor's edge, and something felt off.
Glancing in the rearview mirror, she caught sight of a vehicle some distance behind her. Its headlights glowed dimly, as if intentionally dulled. It was probably nothing, just another late-night driver taking care not to blind others with their high beams. Yet, the car seemed to maintain its distance almost too precisely.
At the next intersection, Morgan made her turn, watching intently as the other car continued straight, its presence fading into the darkened streets. Her heartbeat, which had quickened at the sight of the car, began to slow once more. She released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, chiding herself for letting paranoia get the better of her.
The city lights flickered past as she drove on, the night deepening around her. The conversation with the anonymous caller echoed in her head—Cordell's threat was like a shadow that loomed, always just out of sight. But Morgan was no stranger to shadows. They had been her realm for far too long, and she knew how to navigate them. With each mile she put between herself and the gym, the certainty settled back into her bones. She would find Cordell, and she would have her answers. Tonight was just another step on that path—a path she was determined to walk to the end.
Morgan's hand tightened on the steering wheel, her knuckles standing out white against the dark leather. She shook her head, trying to dispel the unease that clung to her like the sweat of her recent workout. The paranoia had been a constant companion since the phone call, an insidious whisper that seemed to echo with Richard Cordell's voice. Resign from the FBI or face the consequences. They thought they could intimidate Morgan Cross? She'd show them just how wrong they were.
The dashboard clock glowed 1:07 a.m. as she navigated the nearly deserted streets. Dallas at night held a different kind of energy—a restless quiet that buzzed beneath the surface. It was an energy Morgan understood all too well.
This wasn't the time to lose focus. Not when every move brought her closer to the truth and potentially deeper into danger. She glanced at the empty passenger seat, where her gun lay concealed beneath a black jacket. The weight of the weapon was a silent promise of protection and power.
***
Derik Greene held his breath as he followed Morgan through the night.
His grip on the steering wheel was a lifeline, holding back the tide of emotions threatening to overwhelm him. He kept his gaze fixed on the fading red glow of Morgan’s taillights, the only beacon in the murky sea of Dallas’ nocturnal sprawl. His heart pounded, not merely from the fear of discovery but from a storm of worry and frustration that had become his constant companions.
Derik knew the risks; he understood all too well the consequences of stepping outside the boundaries she’d drawn around her vendetta. Yet, as each road passed beneath the humming tires of his nondescript sedan, the urge to bridge the gap between them grew stronger.
Morgan had become an enigma wrapped in determination, her pain concealed beneath layers of resolve and fortitude. Derik saw through the facade. He'd been there when the walls came down, when the tough-as-nails agent revealed a vulnerability that few could imagine lay beneath her tattooed armor. It was this knowledge, this intimate understanding, that gnawed at him now.
She had pushed him away, insisting it was for his own safety. The irony was not lost on Derik; the once-betrayed guarding her betrayer from the very danger she courted with every breath. Derik had been blackmailed by the men who’d framed Morgan before; they’d leveraged his son against him, the son whose life he wasn’t even in. They’d tried to get him to sell Morgan out, but in the end, he’d found his way back to her, ensuring his son and ex-wife would be safe in another country. It had taken a long time for him to earn Morgan’s trust again, for her to see he was on her side. Even if being with her was more dangerous.
Love, he mused bitterly, was not a thing of logic or self-preservation. It drove him to follow her into the night, to watch over her even as she sought to dismantle the corrupt world that had unjustly stolen years from her life.
As the city lights blurred past, reflections dancing across the glass, Derik wrestled with the dual instincts of an agent trained to observe and a lover desperate to act. To intervene could mean shattering the tenuous trust they’d rebuilt, yet to do nothing felt like complicity in whatever fate awaited her at the hands of those who framed her.
He loved her, more than he'd ever admitted aloud, more than he'd thought himself capable after the wreckage of his marriage and the bottomless bottles that had once drowned his sorrows. And so, Derik followed, because to abandon Morgan Cross to fight her demons alone was a betrayal he could not—would not—commit again.
Every turn she took, Derik mirrored, his hands steady on the wheel despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins. The fear of discovery loomed over him like a threatening storm cloud, but it was the thought of those who had framed Morgan catching up to him that sent shivers down his spine. They were merciless, he knew, and wouldn't hesitate to eliminate any threat to their dark designs.
As he navigated the labyrinth of back alleys and main roads, Derik couldn't shake the acute sense of urgency pricking at his consciousness. Something about this night was off, a premonition of danger that gnawed at him relentlessly. Yet retreat was not an option. His resolve was ironclad, fueled by a need to protect, to be there for Morgan even when she refused his help. It wasn't just duty that drove him; it was something far deeper, an unspoken oath etched into his heart.
Morgan's car decelerated, signaling her approach to the desolate pier on the city's outskirts—a place that reeked of secrets and sorrow. Derik eased his vehicle to a halt, leaving a buffer of darkness between them. He watched from his concealed vantage point as she stepped out into the night, her silhouette a testament to resilience and defiance.
She walked with purpose toward the water, her figure gradually enveloped by the abyss. He had no idea what she was doing here—he’d never followed her out here. For a moment, Derik lost sight of her, and his pulse quickened. The quiet of the pier was unsettling, the kind of silence that screamed of things unsaid, actions undone. He strained his eyes, searching for any sign of movement, any hint of her presence.
Derik held his breath, peering through the gloom as a figure detached itself from the shadows of the pier. His heart hammered against his ribs, a silent drumbeat in the still night.
Thomas Grady.
He was unmistakable even at a distance, his posture rigid with purpose as he stepped into the weak halo of light from the nearby streetlamp.
Derik's stomach churned. This was the man who had once been Morgan's nemesis, the architect of her nightmares. Thomas Grady, the cyber security agent who’d briefly worked with them, only to betray Morgan by kidnapping her dog and making her life hell.
Yet here she was, walking towards him instead of fleeing.
Derik's fingers tightened on the wheel until his knuckles turned white. Why would Morgan agree to meet with Thomas? Images of their shared past, laced with betrayal and hurt, flashed through his mind. Hadn't she suffered enough at this man's hands? What game was she playing now, engaging with someone who embodied her darkest days?
He could only watch, powerless, as the two converged upon each other like opposing forces drawn by a twisted fate. Derik's jaw clenched. He knew Morgan's capacity for holding her ground, for facing down her demons, but Thomas Grady was no ordinary demon. He was a ghost from her past that refused to be exorcised.
The pier seemed to stretch out interminably into the darkness, a narrow path that led to an uncertain confrontation. Derik's mind raced with possibilities, each more unsettling than the last. Was this meeting a trap? A reckoning? Or was it part of Morgan's relentless quest to expose the corruption that had ensnared her life?
As they came face-to-face, Derik felt a sense of dread wash over him. The game she was playing was dangerous, the stakes impossibly high. And as much as he longed to rush to her side, to protect her from whatever lay ahead, he understood the necessity of her solitary approach. This was her fight, her chance to unravel the web of deceit that Richard Cordell had woven around her. But it was a fight that could easily spiral out of control, dragging both her and Derik into an abyss from which there was no return.
With every fiber of his being, Derik wanted to call out to her, to warn her of the myriad ways this could go wrong. Yet he remained silent, a sentinel in the darkness, watching as Morgan faced down the specter of her past, alone.