by C. J. Lyons
She didn’t mean any insult with her words; they were simply Morgan’s view of the world, colored by her upbringing and lack of empathy. The fact that she’d progressed to the point where she could feel dread or anxiety, much less the unconscious empathy she’d shown the other people present in her imagainary scene, gave Nick hope. Despite the fact that Morgan was the most damaged person he’d ever treated, maybe she still had a chance.
“Why were those people with you on the pond, Morgan?” he asked in a gentle tone.
She waved his words away with a hand. “Fools. Trying to play hero. I don’t need their help.” Her very presence here in his office exposed her lies, but she didn’t seem to notice. “I won’t let them.”
“Won’t let them help you?” Nick probed.
“Won’t let them fall victim to Clint.” She took in a deep breath, her gaze clear once more. A decision made. “Thanks, Nick. That helped.”
“How so? We haven’t come to the reason behind your feelings, merely given them a name.”
“A name is all I need. I already know the reason.” Her smile was not genuine—at least he hoped it wasn’t, filled as it was with teeth and bloodthirsty glee. “All I have to do now is stop Clint. For once and for good.”
Chapter 2
AFTER LEAVING NICK, Morgan approached the Galloway and Stone offices with caution. First, she parked the car she’d borrowed from the long-term lot at the Pittsburgh airport several blocks away from the office’s Regent Square location. Then, she meandered down the sidewalk, taking her time as she glanced at the various art galleries and antique shops, occasionally wandering inside one. It was ten o’clock on a Friday morning, and most stores had just opened for business, leaving her their only customer—making it easy to spot anyone overly interested in her aimless browsing.
Finally, she got a coffee and checked her phone, scanning footage from the cameras she’d placed to spy on the office. Nothing. Was that good or bad? Her father had escaped from prison four days ago; his first act as a free man had been to call her and tell her he was coming for her, and yet…nothing.
Dread, Nick had called it. Should have never have gone to him, let him play his headshrinker games. Nick meant well, but he was used to treating Norms, not someone like Morgan. He didn’t understand that it didn’t matter what she felt or what label you gave it, all that mattered was the end result. She had to focus on that. Forget all the rest. Mumbo-jumbo feelings were for Norms, not Morgan.
She sipped at her coffee—wasn’t sure if you could even call it coffee, she’d ordered some mocha-frothy nonsense that fit with the persona she was wearing, but it did taste pretty good. Not that that mattered, she’d simply needed the distraction for anyone watching the person they would see as a twenty-something blonde wearing dark blue slacks and a cowl neck beneath a hoping-for-spring pink wool coat. Appearances were everything.
The warm drink did its job, removing the chill of the late March morning. Although it definitely didn’t ease Morgan’s mind. She pocketed her phone, not sure whether to be worried or relieved at finding no signs of surveillance.
Dread. Never knowing when the blow could come or which direction it would come from. However you labeled it, Clint had perfected its creation. It’d been her father’s unique signature in his former occupation of sadistic serial killer. She’d spent a large part of her life as the chief object of his emotional manipulation, but until now she hadn’t fully appreciated how much freedom she’d enjoyed while he’d been behind bars.
And now Clinton Caine was free. Ready to pick up where he’d left off. Her mouth twisted as if the coffee had gone bitter.
“Something wrong, miss?” the barista asked, rubbing the March Madness promotional button she wore on her apron. The entire city was gearing up for the Pitt game tonight, especially as it was being held downtown at the Arena. Morgan could tell the woman took pride in her work, was genuinely worried. What luxury—having nothing more than coffee to worry about. It was difficult to even imagine.
Morgan rearranged her face into a bland smile. “No, nothing. I’m just running late.”
“I like your coat. It’s nice to see spring colors.” She nodded to the grey March clouds that made it impossible to tell if it was morning or night—until the sun blazed through them, blinding drivers and pedestrians alike for a few wistful moments before vanishing faster than Punxsutawney Phil seeing his shadow. Typical schizophrenic Pittsburgh spring. Barely above freezing this morning, a high near sixty predicted, and they were calling for sleet and snow again tonight and tomorrow. March Madness indeed.
“Thanks.” Morgan snuggled deeper into the soft wool of the ankle-length coat. She was certain the color had a pretty-girl name like rose cream or rose blush, and she’d only stolen it because it fit with the blond persona. Ordinarily, as herself, she’d never wear a coat that would attract attention like this one, but when you wanted people not noticing or remembering your face, sometimes a diversion like a pretty pink coat was necessary. If anyone ever asked, Morgan had practically crafted the barista’s testimony for her: blond, early twenties, in a pretty pink coat, acted like a secretary or maybe a salesperson for one of the upscale Regent Square boutiques.
She finished her coffee, left a generous tip to further cement her persona, and left, the sun following her movements, breaking free of the clouds in a golden blaze.
Morgan reached for her sunglasses—her favorite fashion accessory. Who wouldn’t like socially acceptable camouflage that allowed you to spy on others without revealing your own gaze? Not to mention sharp-edged lenses that could double as mirrors or cutting instruments, along with flexible lengths of wire perfect for picking locks or poking out an eye, depending on the needs of the moment. The ultimate survival tool, she’d wear her sunglasses day and night if it were practical. In fact, the few times she’d played a persona who was blind, she had. It had been glorious, hiding in plain sight, the world unfolding before her, unwitting and vulnerable.
Clint had loved using her in the role of blind cripple, setting her to surveil a target. What do you see? he’d urge her. Look past the surface. Who do you see? What are they really? Can you see them? Can you really see?
She flinched against his seductive whisper but couldn’t resist the urge to circle the block one last time, making sure there was no sign of Clinton Caine or any of the other two maximum security prisoners who had escaped with him. You shouldn’t be here, his voice echoed through her mind. You don’t belong—unless you want me to find your friends? Pay them a visit?
The voice in her head might be his, but the doubts were hers and hers alone. She shouldn’t be here—she should be halfway around the world by now. Far away from anyone she cared for, leading Clint even farther away from them. And yet…she’d tried to leave, twice she’d made it all the way to the state line, she’d told herself she could keep an eye on her friends from a distance, safer that way for everyone…and twice she’d turned back, returned to Pittsburgh.
Her first instinct—after running—was to hunt Clint alone. Find him, kill him, return to her life, and forget she ever had a father. But with the FBI, US Marshals, State Police, a handful of county sheriff’s departments along with numerous local police departments searching for him and the other escapees and coming up empty, she realized she’d have to make him come to her. And somehow protect her friends while she did it.
Which meant coming home. This morning’s session with Nick had only served to cement her resolve.
It was the kind of plan that wasn’t really a plan at all: embracing the dread, playing the role of sacrificial lamb, waiting for Clint to pounce. It was the kind of plan she hated. Morgan much preferred playing the role of the wolf stalking its prey rather than Judas goat.
But it was the only plan that would allow her to keep an eye on the people she cared about and make certain that if anyone was ensnared by Clint, it would be her, not them.
Scouring the approach to Jenna Galloway’s building, nodding in approval at the tw
o unmarked police vehicles watching the main entrance, she finally entered the ground floor art gallery, sidled into the narrow passage that led to the storage area, disarmed the lock, pushed through the door to the private stairwell, then jogged up the steps, one hand on the pistol in the pocket of her coat.
At the Galloway and Stone Security Consultants’ door, she paused to remove her sunglasses and wig, shaking free her dark curls. Plastering on another disposable smile, she entered.
“About time you showed up,” Jenna Galloway called from behind her desk in her office across from the reception area. “Figured you’d be hiding under a rock somewhere with your dad on the loose. Or halfway to Argentina.”
That was Jenna being nice. Despite the fact that Morgan knew her deepest secrets and was the closest thing to a female friend Jenna had. Morgan didn’t mind. She didn’t need Jenna to like her, merely to be there when Morgan needed her. “Belize,” she corrected cheerfully. “No extradition, and they speak English.”
Andre Stone, Jenna’s partner in business as well as in life, came barreling out of his office, paused for a brief second to scrutinize Morgan head to toe, then pulled her into a rib-crushing hug that lifted her from her feet. Surprising, because Andre knew the truth of who Morgan really was, including the fact that from the time she was a child, her father had forced her to participate in his torture and kidnappings as well as teaching her how to kill—and enjoy it.
Andre was a former Marine with his own battle scars—burns over sixty percent of his body accompanied by more difficult to heal psychic wounds—and he’d appointed himself Morgan’s protector. By accepting her into his family, he’d place his life on the line for her. He’d also be the first to put an end to her if she returned to her violent ways, which made Morgan’s relationship with Andre the most honest one she’d ever had in her life.
That was why, despite the fact that she despised being touched and had no clue how to offer affection in return—another problem with growing up being groomed by a serial killer—she not only tolerated Andre’s embrace, she squeezed him back. Just like a normal person would.
During her sleepless vigil over the past few days, Morgan had questioned why she was so determined to even try to pretend to be normal. So far, it’d turned out to be hard work and a pain in the ass.
Except for one bright spot: Micah Chase. Morgan had met Micah when she’d gone undercover in a juvenile detention center. Although Morgan could pass for anything from twelve to twenty-something, she was actually only fifteen, so it’d been an easy role for her to play, exposing the corruption that had led to a girl’s death.
But then she’d met Micah, a seventeen-year-old incarcerated through no fault of his own. Micah, like Andre, wasn’t one of the many sheep that so many Norms were, mindlessly grazing through life. And he certainly was no fish—her father’s word for his victims. Micah was a protector. He’d risked his own life to save Morgan’s. He had no clue who or what she really was, yet she felt like she could tell him anything and he’d understand. Understand her like no one else did.
That scared Morgan. She’d never been to school or had any kind of normal friendships with kids her own age, and here was Micah, offering her the world. All she had to do was decide to accept what he offered.
She’d replayed their single kiss over and over in her mind. Ridiculous, really. She had a sadistic killer on her trail, no time to indulge in fantasies of being a normal adolescent girl. She had to take care of herself. No room to take care of anyone else.
Better to run from Micah as fast as she could—for his sake, if not hers.
For four days, that’s what she told herself. Yet, each evening she’d found herself talking to Micah on the phone, watching him through the cameras she placed around the house he shared with his mothers, and wishing things were different.
Which was why she’d returned to Galloway and Stone, despite the fact that every instinct told her to run, run, run.
Chapter 3
MORGAN HUNG UP her coat, surprising herself with a wistful brush of her hand along its baby soft pink sleeve before turning to follow Andre into Jenna’s office, which currently looked like a military campaign’s war room. The desk was strewn with large-scale topographic maps, the walls and even the windows were plastered with notes and photos and random scraps of paper. All centered on one man: Clinton Caine.
“I’m glad you’re finally back,” Jenna said, leaning over her desk and stabbing a pin into one of the maps. “The reward for your father just went up to one hundred thousand. Fifty each for the brothers.” Clint had been accompanied by two brothers, both serving life sentences, when he’d escaped from a prison transport van.
Morgan looked to Andre for sanity. He grimaced and shrugged as if helpless to control Jenna. Of course he was. Andre was in love with Jenna, and she used that against him any chance she had. Funny thing was, Jenna really did love Andre as well. In her own unique, narcissistic way.
“State and local police, the FBI and US Marshals are all searching for Clint. What makes you think you can do better?” Morgan asked.
“We have a secret weapon.” Jenna tilted her head up from the map, her gaze drilling into Morgan. “You. If you’ve come back to work.” Her words cracked through the air, a gauntlet being thrown down.
“I don’t want anything to do with my father,” Morgan lied. Jenna wanted to capture Clint, grab the glory, cash, and headlines. Morgan wanted him out of her life once and for all. If a maximum security prison cell couldn’t hold him, a deeply dug grave would. “You shouldn’t either. You know what he’s capable of. Leave it to the pros.”
Too late, Morgan realized her mistake. Jenna had once been a federal agent, working for the US Postal Inspector Service. She considered her skills as good as or better than “the pros.”
“They’ve got squat, and it’s been four days already,” Jenna snapped. “But I have some leads. I need you to help me narrow them down.”
“What kind of leads?” No way would Clint not cover his tracks.
“Jenna thinks your father will go after his money,” Andre explained. “We know before he was caught that he had caches of cash and supplies hidden throughout the area he covered on his trucking route.”
“We just need you to tell us where they are, and we’ll take it from there.” Jenna challenged Morgan with a stare as she handed her a pen. “After all, you are part of the Galloway and Stone team, right? This would be a big win for the firm.”
Morgan didn’t take the bait. Jenna lowered the pen. “Or maybe you’re worried because you don’t know where your father is. Did you come back so we can protect you from daddy dearest?”
“Jenna—” Andre’s tone was one of admonishment.
“I left to protect you. I didn’t want Clint to go after either of you, thinking he could get to me.” It was true, but Jenna clearly didn’t buy it. Andre did, though. He placed a hand on Morgan’s shoulder and squeezed in encouragement.
“I came back,” Morgan continued, “because I don’t think my father is a threat. If he wanted me, he’d have already come after me.” Another lie. She knew better than anyone how patient Clint could be when it came to baiting a hook and toying with his fish.
If Morgan couldn’t leave, then sending Jenna and Andre on a wild goose chase would be the best way to keep them safe. She took the pen from Jenna. “I think you’re right. He’ll go after his money and then start over. Somewhere safe, another country maybe. Somewhere he can play his games without looking over his shoulder.”
Only problem was, she’d already raided most of Clint’s caches while he was in prison. Another reason for him to come after her. Clint was much too lazy to try to start over. He’d want Morgan and her skills; after all, she was the one who’d originally stolen the money needed to fund his fun and games. Plus, he’d be furious at her betrayal. He’d want—no, he’d need—to see her pay. Dearly and in person.
Jenna narrowed her eyes at Morgan, parsing her words, searching for the lie. But
since Morgan had basically told her exactly what Jenna wanted to hear, she didn’t work too hard at it. “Where should we start?”
Morgan scanned the map. Where would her father have already been and gone? Or better yet, not bother going at all? Places safe enough to send Jenna and Andre while she stayed here as bait.
She circled two spots—one an old money cache, already emptied to pay for Clint’s defense, which he well knew. The second a safe house he hadn’t used in years, mainly food and weapons, little cash, nothing to draw Clint there. It was a cabin up on Tussey Mountain, difficult to get to on foot, impossible by any vehicle larger than an ATV.
Should be good enough to keep Jenna and Andre safely out of trouble for a few days, at least. In the meantime, Morgan was still working out how to set a trap for her father without being caught herself.
Problem was, he knew her too well—he’d basically created her, molded every aspect of her personality until she was his perfect foil. She had to find a way to make him come to her while thinking it was his idea, not hers.
Jenna squinted at the two spots Morgan had indicated. “Middle of nowhere. What’s there?”
Morgan tapped the first. “His bank—money cache. Probably already ransacked,” she added. The best lies began with the truth. She jotted down GPS coordinates and the combination to Clint’s deposit box at the vault. “The second is a safe house. Hunting cabin, really. Only basic supplies. Hard to get to but easy to defend and multiple escape routes.” She glanced at Jenna. “Pretty rough terrain.”
“Think I can’t handle a few trees?” Jenna asked. “I’ve been camping.”
Even Andre scoffed at that. Jenna’s style of “camping” no doubt included a designer wardrobe from Abercrombie and Fitch along with catering from the nearest four-star restaurant.
Jenna glanced up, and he wiped the smirk from his face. “Well, I have. But always start with the money. Fugitive Tracking 101. Besides, the money cache is closer.”