Forbidden (Morgan Cross #12)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Morgan's muscles tensed, the mechanical click of a gun's hammer setting into place slicing through the thumping bass from below. At the top of the stairs, she and Derik met the steely gaze of a man who seemed to have stepped out of a shadowy mythos, his visage a canvas of ink and contorted flesh—horn implants jutting from his forehead like a creature from an arcane ritual. The gun in his hand was unwavering, its intent clear and lethal. Behind him, Davy's eyes were wide with panic, his presence dwarfed by the stature of the heavily tattooed figure.

"Rog," Morgan deduced instantly, her voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins. She held up her badge, ensuring it caught the dim light trickling in from the stairwell. "FBI. Lower the weapon. This doesn't need to go any further."

Her words hung between them, a fragile bridge over an abyss of potential violence. Derik remained silent beside her, his body coiled tight, ready for whatever might come. Morgan knew the importance of maintaining control, her past hardships having honed her ability to navigate the treacherous waters of human confrontation. Her dark eyes locked onto Rog's, conveying a calm authority that belied the chaos of the situation.

"Nobody needs to get hurt," she continued, her tone even but firm. "We're here on official business. Let's talk this out."

The standoff lingered, a palpable force in the cramped space at the club's apex. Rog's eyes scrutinized them, searching for deceit or weakness, but Morgan offered none. She stood her ground, her resolve as unyielding as the tattoos that marked her own journey through darkness and back into the light. Rog's grip on the gun loosened incrementally, the threat not gone but diminished under the weight of her assurance.

"Talking," Rog finally grunted, the word rough-edged but not entirely dismissive.

Morgan's heart hammered in her chest as Rog's hand, decorated with inked symbols, hesitated above the trigger. Time stretched, each second a standoff between life and death. Then, slowly, the barrel of Rog's gun dipped downward, his distrustful gaze never leaving Morgan's face. She could almost feel Derik tensing beside her, ready to spring into action if needed.

"Elizabeth," Rog said, the name carrying a weight of confusion. "You're saying she didn't just fall? That it was murder?"

"Exactly," Morgan replied, her voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins. "Her death wasn't an accident. It's part of something bigger, a series of events we're piecing together."

For a moment, silence hung heavy in the air, laden with the gravity of the revelation. The tattoos on Rog's face seemed to shift with his changing expression, a mask that couldn't quite hide the flicker of genuine surprise—or was it realization?—in his eyes.

Rog's grip relaxed fully, his weapon now pointed harmlessly at the ground. But as the threat waned, Derik's hand moved instinctively towards his own concealed firearm. His movements were swift, a testament to years of training and countless encounters just like this one.

"Derik," Morgan said sharply, her voice low but commanding. She caught his eye and gave a subtle shake of her head. Now was not the time for further aggression. They needed answers, not a firefight.

He paused, his green eyes meeting hers, a silent conversation passing between them. This was their dance—a choreography of trust and decision-making played out in the field. Derik's hand withdrew from his weapon, though his posture remained alert. She might have forgiven his past betrayal, but the scars ran deep, and in moments like these, old doubts resurfaced. Yet Morgan stood firm, projecting an aura of certainty that suggested she knew exactly what she was doing.

The moment passed, the air slowly shedding its charge of impending violence. Rog's curiosity had been piqued, and with the gun no longer an immediate threat, they had an opportunity. A door had opened, albeit slightly, and Morgan intended to step through it, to pry from Rog the information that could lead them closer to the truth.

Morgan eyed the man before her, weighing her options. "Can we have a civil conversation?" she asked, meeting Rog's gaze with a steady, unflinching demeanor. The charged atmosphere hummed with taut potential, but she held it at bay with the force of her presence and the gravity of her request.

Rog regarded her for a moment longer, his inked face unreadable. Then, with a curt nod, he motioned toward a door nestled in the shadows. He led the way into a back room, far removed from the cacophony of the club's dance floor. As the door shut behind them, the thumping bass became a distant murmur, replaced by a hush that felt like entering another world.

The room was an eclectic mix of worn comfort and calculated disarray. Couches, their patterns long faded and fabrics frayed, were arranged in a loose semicircle, facing a coffee table scarred with rings from forgotten drinks. The walls bore marks where posters had once hung, and the dim light cast everything in sepia tones, as if the very space were steeped in nostalgia.

"Sit," Rog said tersely, gesturing broadly to the seating arrangement. He then sank heavily into the largest couch, its cushions sighing under his weight. His eyes lingered on Morgan and Derik, reflecting a wariness born of a life lived on the fringe, always watching for the wolf at the door.

Davy remained by the entrance, his posture stiff, the whites of his eyes stark against the room's dimness. He seemed a bystander in his own territory, caught between the familiarity of Rog's authority and the intrusion of these federal agents.

Morgan chose a spot on a loveseat, the springs creaking as she settled in. She crossed one leg over the other, her pose casual but alert. Her tattoos were visible beneath the sleeves of her jacket. She needed Rog's trust, or at least his cooperation, and she knew vulnerability often served better than force.

She made no move to pull out her badge again; the point had been made. Instead, she mirrored Rog's direct stare, offering him the respect of equals—if not in law, then in survival. Derik took a seat next to her, his body language taut, a coiled spring of readiness despite Morgan's silent command for calm.

"Thanks," she began, her voice maintaining its even timbre, "for the talk." It wasn't gratitude she felt, but diplomacy demanded its own kind of performance.

Rog shifted in his seat, the leather of the couch protesting under his weight. "I suppose I owe you an apology for the gun," he began, his voice a gravelly drawl. He didn't stand to offer his hand, nor did the lines of tension around his eyes soften. "But let's not dance around the fact that this is Texas. I'm within my rights to protect my home."

Morgan noted the distinction—home, not business. The tattoos covering her arms seemed to tingle with the charge in the air, a silent echo of her own readiness to defend. She leaned back, fingers tapping a silent rhythm on her knee.

"Your home?" Derik interjected, his tone sharper than Morgan would have liked. "That doesn't give you the right to pull a weapon on federal agents."

"Derik," Morgan cut in before Rog could rise to the bait. Her gaze was steady, unblinking as she held Rog's attention. "We're not here to argue about your gun." She watched him, waited for the subtle drop in his shoulders, the release of a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. "Why so defensive, Rog? You expecting trouble?"

The man's tattoos twisted with his frown, the horns on his forehead casting deep shadows across his eyes. "Trouble finds its way here often enough," he answered with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Had my share of punks trying to play stick-up. They think the ink and metal make us easy targets."

"Badges don't change that," Morgan said, her voice even, but her mind was ticking, cataloging every detail—the way his eyes flickered to the door, the subtle clench of Davy's jaw. Fear or guilt, it crawled beneath the surface.

"Never had much use for trust." Rog’s words were a low rumble, almost lost beneath the thrumming bass from below. He settled back, arms crossed, a fortress of flesh and bone.

"Trust isn't what we're asking for," Morgan replied, her own stance mirroring his relaxed posture despite the coiled readiness that hummed through her. "Just answers."

Rog regarded her for a long moment, the silence stretching tight between them. Then he nodded once, curt and final. "Fair enough. But understand this—I've got nothing to hide."

Morgan angled her body toward Rog, the club's pulsating bass vibrating through the floorboards beneath their feet. "Elizabeth Harmon," she began, her voice steady. "How did she end up in your world?"

"Elizabeth…" Rog's face softened for a moment, revealing a trace of something akin to fondness. "She was curious, hungry for the knowledge we had to offer." He leaned back against the wall, arms still folded across his chest. "Didn't look the part, but that girl had an edge to her—sharp as a knife."

"An edge?" Morgan probed, her gaze unwavering.

"Indeed," Rog said with a nod. "She could see through the facade most people wear. Started creating emblems for us, symbols that meant something more than just ink on skin."

Morgan reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a crisp photo, pushing it toward Rog. The symbol from the crime scenes stared back at them, ominous and cryptic. "Like this one?"

He studied the image, his brow furrowing. "No," he replied, shaking his head, a lock of hair falling over his tattooed forehead. "Never crossed my path before. Elizabeth had talent, but that's not her work."

"Are you certain?" Morgan pressed, watching him closely.

"Positive." Rog met her gaze squarely, his response carrying the weight of sincerity. "I'd remember something like that. Sure, it might bear some relation to imagery here, but it’s not exact."

Morgan nodded slowly, sliding the photograph back into her pocket. Her instincts screamed to dig deeper, but she kept her expression neutral, unreadable. She produced another photo, this time of Rachel Marquez, and held it out to him. "And her? Rachel Marquez. Any chance you've seen her around?"

Rog glanced at the picture, then back at Morgan, his face impassive. "Doesn't ring a bell."

A hint of irritation flickered behind Morgan's eyes, quickly masked. "You're sure about that?"

"Look, Agent Cross," Rog said, his tone edging toward impatience. "People come through those doors every night. But her?" He pointed to the photo. "Wouldn't forget a face like that. Never seen her."

Morgan absorbed his words, her mind racing yet outwardly calm. Doubt lingered, but she tucked it away for later scrutiny. Rog might be telling the truth, or he might be a convincing liar. Only time would reveal which.

Morgan's gaze sharpened as Derik leaned forward, his voice cool but edged with skepticism. "Alibis for the night of the murders," he said, eyes locked on Rog's heavily inked face. "Can you provide them? Where were you last night?”

The sound that escaped from Rog was more scoff than laugh, a dry rasp that echoed faintly in the dimly lit back room. "At the club. All night," he stated, with an air of nonchalance. "Plenty of witnesses." He nodded toward Davy, who hovered by the door like a shadow clinging to the wall. "Davy here, always on the door. Didn't step away for a second."

"Convenient," muttered Derik, casting a glance at Morgan. She could see the doubt written all over his expression, the way he held himself ready for any sign of deception.

"Nothing convenient about it, Agent," Rog countered, a sharpness creeping into his tone. "It's just the truth."

Morgan kept her features schooled into impassivity. The skepticism in Rog's laughter hadn't gone unnoticed, nor had the swift certainty in his reply. But pushing him now wouldn't yield anything further; she could sense the walls coming up around him, the telltale signs of a man retreating behind his defenses.

"Thank you," she said instead, injecting a note of sincerity into her voice. "For your cooperation." Her eyes met Rog's, holding them in a steady gaze. "If anything comes to mind... anything at all that might be related to Elizabeth or Rachel... you'll contact us?"

Rog's posture relaxed ever so slightly, and Morgan didn't miss the fleeting look of relief that crossed his features. Suspicion still lurked in the depths of his eyes, but there was a nod, almost imperceptible.

"Sure thing, Agent Cross," he replied, the wariness in his voice tinged with a cautious sort of agreement. "I'll give you a buzz if something pops up."

"Appreciated." Morgan gave him a firm nod, signaling to Derik that it was time to leave. As they did so, a plan began to form in Morgan’s mind. Even if Rog himself was innocent—even if he could be an ally—Morgan knew this place had something to do with the murders. Someone, somewhere in here, connected to this building, knew more.

And they had to find out what that was, before it was too late.

***

Morgan stepped onto the rain-soaked street, Derik close behind. The wet asphalt reflected the neon chaos they had left behind in the club, but the night swallowed it, leaving them in a cocoon of darkness and drizzle. She could feel the weight of Derik's gaze on her, even before he spoke.

"Morgan, what the hell was that back there?" Derik's words cut through the sound of the rain. His frustration was palpable, a living thing that stretched the space between them. "We should've cuffed Rog the moment we had the chance."

She turned to face him, seeing his silhouette edged by the dim light from a flickering streetlamp. His expression was hard to read, but she knew anger when she heard it. Morgan held his gaze, her own steady. "He didn't shoot, Derik," she reminded him, voice flat. "We can't arrest a man for defending his ground. Especially not here in Texas."

Derik shook his head, water droplets flinging from his slicked black hair. "We had something, Morgan. Something more than just suspicion."

"Did we?" Morgan challenged, her tone even. "Or did we have a standoff that could've ended badly for all parties involved?" She took a step closer, closing the distance that frustration had carved out. "Rog's story holds water—at least for now. Witnesses at the club will back him up."

"Even if Rog is lying—"

"Then we find proof, Derik. Concrete proof." Morgan's reply was resolute. "We're better than rushed judgments and shaky arrests. We build our case, and then we make it stick. That's how we win. That's how justice is served."

Derik's silence hung between them, heavy with unsaid words. Morgan knew his mind was racing, replaying the scene over and over, searching for a missed opportunity, a different outcome. But she also knew that deep down, he understood the precarious game they were playing. They couldn't afford mistakes—not with so much at stake.

"Besides," Morgan began, her voice low but carrying enough weight to anchor his drifting attention. "Do you really think I’d let them off so easy? We’re not done here."

He turned toward her, rainwater dripping from his hair, skepticism etched across his features. "Morgan, we can't just barge back in—"

"We won't," Morgan interrupted, her gaze hardening with resolve. "We set up a raid. Tonight."

The words hung between them, stark against the patter of the rain. Derik frowned, processing the turn of events. "On what grounds?"

"Start with operating without a license," Morgan replied, her mind working through the details with practiced efficiency. "And I'll bet my badge they're selling alcohol without proper permits."

A flash of realization lit Derik's eyes. "You think Rog's hiding something more."

"Exactly," Morgan affirmed, a cold certainty settling in her chest. "Whatever's going on in that club, it's bigger than just a few illegal transactions." She could feel it—a tangle of lies and deception that went deeper than the surface, roots entwined with the murders they were investigating.

"Let's get to it, then," Derik said, the edge of his frustration worn down by the prospect of actionable steps. They both knew the importance of building a solid case, and if this was their way in, neither was going to hesitate.

"Call the team," Morgan instructed, already reaching for her phone to coordinate with local law enforcement. "I want every exit covered. No one slips away tonight."

"Got it." Derik pulled out his own phone, his movements swift and sure, a reflection of the trust and understanding that had been tested but never broken.

Morgan watched the street, the shadows thrown by the neon lights stretching long and ominous. The club, hidden now by darkness and distance, held secrets that she was determined to drag into the light.