Raven’s Mark (Bourbon and Blood #1)

Prologue

RAVEN

The warehouse reeks of gun oil and sunbaked concrete, the kind of heat that never fully leaves a building in El Paso, just sinks into the walls and waits.

I work my way along the side of a shipping container from the west, Glock drawn, breathing slow and measured.

My partner, Alex Morrison, is clearing the north side.

Agent Ryan Holt is converging from the east entrance.

Six months we've been chasing this gun trafficker, and tonight he finally made a mistake.

A confidential informant called it in two hours ago: he'd be here, moving a shipment.

We should have waited for backup. ATF protocol is clear on that point, but I made the call.

By the time additional units arrived, our target would be in the wind.

Morrison and Holt backed me without hesitation.

Six months of dead ends and cold trails will do that to a team.

It makes you hungry. It makes you stupid.

I'm starting to think it made us both.

The warehouse is wrong. Too quiet. No voices, no movement, no heavy scrape of crates being loaded.

Nothing but the faint rustle of my own body armor against my shirt as I move.

My boots find silence on the concrete as I sweep between stacked pallets, muzzle tracking left, then right.

Overhead, industrial light fixtures hang dark and dead.

The few that still work throw long shadows across the floor, the kind that could swallow a man whole.

I round another corner and find more of the same. Empty space. No vehicles, no people, not so much as a footprint in the dust. This place hasn't seen activity in weeks.

There's a scuff of a shoe behind me that's way too close for comfort.

I spin, my Glock drawn, and find Morrison five feet away. His weapon is raised and steady, but he's not clearing the room and he's not covering a threat.

He's aiming at me.

Our eyes lock. "Alex?"

I see it in his face before my brain can fully process it. No hesitation, no conflict, just the cold, settled look of a man who's already made his decision. This is my partner. Five years of working side by side, of him teaching me how to read a room, how to work a suspect, how to survive this job.

And he's going to kill me.

"Raven, get down!" Holt's voice cuts through from my right.

I drop as Morrison's finger tightens on the trigger.

Holt fires twice, the shots punching through the warehouse silence like hammer strikes.

Morrison staggers backward, his gun slipping from his fingers and clattering against the concrete.

His eyes widen in surprise as he sees blood streaming onto his vest. He raises his hand to the wound in his neck trying to staunch the flow, then he stares back at us.

His mouth opens but nothing comes out. His knees buckle and he folds forward, hitting the ground face-first.

The ringing swallows everything. My vision tilts, steadies, then shifts again. Holt moves past me with his weapon still trained on Morrison, kicks the gun clear across the floor, and crouches to check for a pulse.

"He's gone." Holt looks at me, his jaw tight. "You okay?"

"He was going to shoot me." My voice sounds like it belongs to someone else, flat and far away, like I'm hearing it through water.

"Yeah. He was." Holt holsters his weapon and keys his radio. "This is Agent Holt. Agent down at the warehouse location. Agent Morrison is deceased. Agent-involved shooting. We need a full response team, immediately."

I lean back against a pallet; the concrete floor cold beneath me. Morrison is fifteen feet away, facedown, still. Holt saved my life. One more second, maybe less, and I'd be the one bleeding out on this floor.

The next several hours blur together in a haze of procedure and fluorescent light.

First responders arrive, then local police, then our own people.

Evidence techs photograph Morrison's body from every angle, document his weapon and the blood spatter, and bag Holt's service weapon for ballistics.

I give my statement three times, each telling identical because the truth is simple: Morrison had his weapon trained on me, and Holt shot him to save my life.

Director Alvarez shows up as they're finishing.

He's in his early fifties, graying at the temples, with the kind of steady, authoritative presence that makes people trust him on instinct.

He pulls Holt aside first and speaks with him quietly for several minutes while I sit on a crate and try to stop my hands from shaking. Then he comes to me.

"Agent Holt confirmed Morrison drew on you. He saved your life." His hand settles on my shoulder, firm and reassuring. "It's a clear case of justified use of force, Agent Bishop."

I brace myself for what comes next. There should be administrative leave for Holt, an Internal Affairs investigation, mandatory psych evaluations for both of us. That's standard procedure after an agent-involved shooting, no exceptions.

But Alvarez turns back to Holt and says, "You did good work tonight, agent. Take a few days, then come back ready to roll."

Holt nods, though something troubled crosses his face as he walks away.

Alvarez refocuses on me. "You eliminated a dirty agent. Or rather, Holt did. Morrison clearly cracked under the pressure of the job. It happens. Some agents just can't resist the pull of cartel money."

Something about his tone lands wrong, like a note played slightly out of key.

How does Alvarez already know Morrison was dirty?

We're standing in the middle of an active crime scene and the man's body is barely cold.

Unless Morrison had been under investigation long before tonight, and Alvarez already knew exactly what he was.

"Shouldn't we find out why he turned? Who he was working for?"

"Some questions don't lead anywhere worth going, Bishop.

" Alvarez's expression is sympathetic but carries a finality that discourages follow-up.

"Morrison's dead. We may never know what drove him to this, and chasing ghosts won't change what happened tonight.

I suggest you don't waste your energy second-guessing yourself.

You're a good agent, and I want you to take some time, clear your head, then come back when you're ready.

" He pauses, and something shifts in his tone.

"In fact, I'm putting your name forward for a senior investigator position that just opened up. "

The words sound supportive, generous even. But everything inside me is screaming that this is wrong.

My partner just tried to kill me in an empty warehouse, and the director's response is a vacation, a promotion, and a pat on the back? No investigation into Morrison's contacts or his finances? No attempt to understand why a decorated veteran agent would suddenly turn his weapon on his own partner?

My gut is telling me that Alvarez is shutting this down. He's fast-tracking the whole thing, packaging it up neat and clean so it disappears before anyone has a chance to look too closely. Which means he already knows the answers to the questions he's refusing to ask.

"Thank you, sir." I keep my voice level. "I appreciate that."

"Good. Go home, get some rest." He squeezes my shoulder once more, then turns to speak with the lead investigator, effectively dismissing me.

Holt walks me out to my SUV. "Are you okay, Raven?"

"Morrison just tried to kill me." I can hear the sarcasm bleeding through and I don't bother trying to stop it.

"I don't regret taking the shot," he says quietly, grimacing. "If I hadn't fired, you'd be the one in a body bag." His eyes already carry the shadows I've seen settle into other agents after a shooting, that hollow look that takes up residence and never fully leaves, and my sarcasm evaporates.

"Thank you for covering me. I'd be dead tonight if it weren't for you."

He studies my face for a long moment, like he's trying to gauge how close to the edge I really am. "Get some rest, Raven. This kind of thing messes with your head in ways you won't expect."

I pull out of the lot and point myself toward home, my hands steady on the wheel even though the rest of me feels like it's vibrating at a frequency I can't control. The road stretches out ahead of me, dark and empty, and my mind won't stop circling the same thought: Alvarez is covering this up.

Something is deeply, fundamentally wrong here, and there's only one person I trust enough to call right now.

Uncle Robert answers on the second ring. "Raven."

"My partner tried to kill me tonight." The words come out steadier than I expected, but my knuckles are bone-white where they grip the steering wheel.

"We got a tip on our gun trafficking case, a warehouse lead in El Paso, and I pushed to check it out without waiting for backup.

The place was completely empty when we arrived.

No guns, no suspects, nothing but concrete and shadows.

" My jaw tightens as the memory of Morrison's face flashes behind my eyes.

"Then Morrison drew on me. Agent Holt put him down before he could pull the trigger. "

"Are you hurt?"

"No. But here's what has me rattled. Director Alvarez showed up and declared it a justified defense of another agent within minutes of walking through the door.

No administrative leave for Holt or me, no investigation into why Morrison turned or who he was working for.

He dismissed the entire thing like it was a paperwork error and then offered me a promotion.

" The words are coming faster now, tumbling out as the picture sharpens in my mind.

"He's covering it up, Uncle Robert. Whatever Morrison was involved in, I think Alvarez already knew about it. "

"Tell me exactly what Alvarez said. Every word you can remember."