Chapter 26 – Morgan
Twenty-Six
That Bitch and I Have Unfinished Business
Morgan
The door exploded inward in a shower of splinters and smoke.
I rushed through the breach with the team, my heart hammering as I took in the scene. Lance, zip-tied to a metal chair, blood seeping through cuts across his chest. Amber standing over him with a knife like some psychotic art project.
Grandfather had vanished in the chaos, probably fled to a backup position the moment the explosions started.
Relief and terror crashed through me in equal waves. He was alive. Hurt, but alive.
"Took you guys long enough," Lance said, his eyes finding mine across the chaos.
Gavin moved fast, tackling Amber before she could react. Her knife clattered across the concrete as he wrestled her arms behind her back.
"Got her," Gavin called out, hauling Amber to her feet.
I rushed to Lance, pulling out the tactical knife from my belt. My hands shook slightly as I cut through the zip ties binding his wrists.
The moment his hands were free, he dragged me to him, ignoring his injuries. His arms came around me like steel bands, and I melted into him, breathing in his scent beneath the blood and smoke.
"Spitfire," he murmured against my hair, his voice rough with emotion. "Jesus Christ, you're here."
I pulled back just enough to look at his face, my hands framing his jaw. "I'm going to kill you for leaving me again."
His smile was pained but genuine. "This time, I left you a roadmap to find me."
I pressed my forehead against his, relief making me dizzy. "Smart man."
"I'm okay," he promised, his thumbs brushing away tears I didn't realize I was shedding. "I'm okay, Spitfire. We're okay."
Before I could respond, Amber twisted in Gavin's grip. Something silver flashed in her hand. A backup blade. She sliced across Gavin's forearm, and his grip loosened just enough.
Amber broke free and bolted for the damaged stairwell.
"Shit!" Gavin pressed his hand against the bleeding gash. "She's rabbiting!"
I was already moving. "I've got her."
"Morgan, wait—" Lance caught my arm, his eyes fierce with worry.
"Is it too much to hope that you'll stay back where it's safe?" he asked, even though we both knew the answer.
"Yes. It is." I checked my weapon. "That bitch and I have unfinished business."
Lance's jaw tightened, but before he could argue, Pierce's voice cut through the chaos.
"Lance, we need you and Hector on your grandfather. We tracked him heading east to the secondary helipad." Pierce appeared beside us, all business. "Morgan, if you're going after Amber, make it quick. We need to be gone before reinforcements arrive."
Lance cupped my face, his touch desperate and gentle. "Be careful, Spitfire. Promise me."
"I promise." I leaned into his touch for just a moment. "Now go."
He kissed me hard and desperate, pouring everything he couldn't say into it. When he pulled away, his eyes burned into mine.
"Come back to me," he said.
"Always."
Then I was running, chasing Amber through the smoke-filled corridors of the compound. Behind me, I heard Lance and Hector moving in the opposite direction, toward wherever grandfather was holed up.
Focus. One psychopath at a time.
Amber was fast, but I knew these corridors now. Pierce had shown us the building schematics during our tactical briefing. She was heading for the eastern stairwell, probably trying to reach the roof for extraction.
Not happening.
I caught sight of dark hair disappearing around a corner and increased my pace. My tactical gear still felt like foreign weight. But at least I was strong now.
And what the motivation of revenge could accomplish.
"Morgan!" Amber's voice echoed from somewhere ahead, light and cheerful like we were playing hide-and-seek instead of hunting each other through a war zone. "I was hoping you'd follow me. We never did finish our conversation at the co-op."
I slowed my approach, using the concrete walls for cover. Through the emergency lighting, I could see her silhouette on the damaged metal balcony above.
"You mean the conversation where you attacked me after months of pretending to be my friend?" I called back, keeping my weapon trained upward. “You called me pathetic," I said, moving closer to the stairwell.
"Because you were." There was no malice in her voice, just matter-of-fact cruelty. "Ordinary little Morgan, clinging to her dead husband's memory. Crying yourself to sleep every night, talking to his picture like he could hear you."
My jaw tightened, but my hands stayed steady. Lance had taught me that anger could be fuel if you controlled it properly.
“I have to admit, you put up more of a fight than I expected. Poor Alex never saw it coming."
My free hand clenched into a fist. "You could have killed him."
"Please. I'm a professional, not a—" She paused, tilting her head with that familiar smile. "Well, maybe a little of both."
I stepped onto the balcony, and immediately felt the structural damage. The explosions had compromised the support beams. Everything shifted slightly under our combined weight.
"Careful," I said, genuine concern flickering through my anger. "This whole thing is ready to collapse."
"You know what the funny thing is, Morgan?" Amber kept her gun trained on me, but her footing was uncertain on the unstable platform. "I actually did start to like you. Toward the end. You're stronger than you look. More resilient. Charles could have used someone like you."
"Lucky for me, Charles is about to have bigger problems."
"Is he?" Amber's expression shifted, predatory interest replacing casual cruelty. "I wouldn't be so sure about that. The old man has more tricks than you know."
"Maybe. But he doesn't have what he wants and he never will. We’ve seen to that."
Amber's eyes widened, focus shifting to the ring for just a split second.
I fired.
The bullet caught her in the shoulder, spinning her around. Her weapon went flying, clattering across the damaged decking. She stumbled backward, hand pressed against the wound, blood seeping between her fingers.
"You bitch," she snarled, all pretense of friendliness evaporating. "Do you have any idea what you've done?"
I advanced carefully, keeping my weapon trained on her. The balcony groaned with every step.
"I've stopped a lying, manipulative psychopath from hurting anyone else I care about."
Amber laughed, the sound edged with pain and genuine amusement. "You think this ends anything? You think shooting me stops what's coming?"
She tried to reach for her fallen weapon, but the movement sent her stumbling backward. The damaged railing creaked ominously under the pressure.
"Careful," I warned. "That railing won't hold much more."
For a moment, something like the old Amber surfaced. Vulnerable. Almost human. "Morgan, I—"
The railing gave way.
Amber grabbed desperately at the broken metal, her feet scrabbling for purchase on the damaged decking. She hung there, suspended over a drop that would mean certain death on the rocks below.
"Help me." The words came out strained, desperate. "Please, Morgan. I know I lied to you, but we were friends. That part was real."
I looked down at her dangling there, and felt something twist in my chest. Despite everything, the lies, the betrayal, the attack at the co-op, part of me remembered the woman who'd held me while I cried. Who'd brought wine and terrible movies when I couldn't sleep.
Maybe that had been real, in its own twisted way.
I moved forward, extending my hand. "Take it."
Amber looked up at me, and for a moment I thought she might actually accept the help. Might choose redemption over revenge.
Instead, she smiled that familiar, cheerful smile.
"Tell Lance," she said, producing another backup weapon from somewhere, "that Charles sends his regards."
The gun swung toward my head.
I dove sideways just as she fired, the bullet whining past my ear and sparking off concrete. The recoil and sudden movement were too much for her precarious grip.
She fell.
Her scream echoed off the compound walls for what felt like forever before cutting off abruptly against the rocks below.
I lay on the damaged decking for a long moment, breathing hard, staring at the space where Amber had been. My hands were steady, my heartbeat already returning to normal.
She made her choice.
And she had. I'd offered help. Offered a chance for something different. Instead, she'd chosen to try to kill me with her last breath.
Some people can't be saved.
"Morgan!"
I turned to see Atticus rushing onto the balcony, his face tight with concern. He dropped to his knees beside me, hands checking for injuries.
"You're okay," he said, and it wasn't a question. More like he was convincing himself. "You're fine. Let's go get your husband."
Time to end this once and for all.