Fight Dirty (2 page)

“Don’t let me down, baby girl. You know someday I’ll be out of here and we’ll be together again. Together forever.” The door behind him opened, and two guards entered. “You do as I say. Get the job done. Fast.”

The guards unlocked his wrists from the table and pulled them behind his back, forcing him to bend forward, inches from her face. He had new wrinkles around his mouth, highlighting the pimples between the stubble of his salt-and-pepper beard. But the fiendish gleam in his eyes was enough to make her grip the edge of the table so hard her hands went numb.

Morgan held his stare without blinking or flinching. Clint was the only person on the planet who had ever inspired fear in her, and she refused to let him see it. It took all her strength to deny him that pleasure, acid filling her mouth, her throat too tight to swallow, eyes burning from not blinking.

He smiled again. Rolled his tongue across his upper teeth as if tasting an exquisite morsel.

“I’ll see you soon,” he promised as the guards led him away. “Real soon.”

Once the door clanged shut behind him, Morgan slumped, head down onto the table, arms wrapped around her chest tight, forcing herself to stop shaking.

Should’ve just killed the bastard
, she thought as her teeth clenched in a death grip.

CHAPTER 2

J
enna Galloway buttoned her black blazer and turned to look in the mirror. She frowned, fingers raised to brush the hair above her ear, debating whether to pull her hair back or leave it down. Left down looked too casual, made her seem young, inexperienced. Pulled back, she looked like a librarian, her red hair contrasting starkly with her pale skin.

Couldn’t even blame it on poor lighting. Her loft occupied the entire top floor of her Regent Square building, the windows and skylights inviting the morning sun in from every angle to dance across the exposed brick and heart pine floors.

Andre Stone appeared behind her, wrapping his strong arms around her body and pulling her to his chest. Six two, solidly muscled, skin darker than midnight—except for the pale, twisted scars that marred his perfection. In Afghanistan h
e’d
received burns on over 60 percent of his body along with other injuries. That was two years ago, but every day he pushed himself through a punishing set of stretches and exercises, fighting against the scar tissue determined to twist his flesh into useless knots.

He was in constant pain, Jenna knew. Yet somehow the pain had become part of him, a challenge that propelled him to rise above rather than allow defeat. Andr
e’s
pain and scars made him appear more of a hero than any uniform ever would.

When it came to dressing for their new careers as security consultants, Andre had it easy; h
e’d
look appropriately intimidating in anything. Today he wore a simple long-sleeved black polo over his compression garment—the specialized shirt designed to keep his burn scars from becoming hypertrophied—and khaki cargo pants. He appeared every inch the battle-tested former marine that he was.

“Leave it down. And not the black,” he said, sliding Jenn
a’s
blazer from her shoulders and tossing it onto the bed. “Makes you look pasty.”

“More than a corpse at a viewing,” she agreed. Red hair and pale skin always made dressing for success a challenge. Sexy she could do. Kick-ass federal agent she could do. But CEO of a fledgling security firm?

“I think the corpse would look less sallow.” Andre unbuttoned Jenn
a’s
white oxford shirt. “The white doesn’t help, either.” He caressed the bare flesh of her belly with one hand, the other teasing her through her bra.

A surge of pleasure rocked her. “You trying to help me impress our new clients or get laid?”

He grinned. “Any reason I can’t do both?”

“Yeah. That clock on the wall. Robert Greene and his wife will be here in twenty minutes.”

“Plenty of time.” He nuzzled her neck. She inhaled his unique mix of musk and testosterone, then turned to kiss him properly, allowing him to enfold her in his embrace.

Damn it. She was happy. Jenna didn’t do happy—or even worse, contented. She didn’t trust happy. And contented scared the crap out of her.

Before Andre, the most sh
e’d
allowed herself was the release of a one-night stand, maybe two. Not this. Three months o
f . . .
blis
s . . .

She hid her frown by trailing her lips down his throat, wondering when she was going to blunder into the next minefield. Her life was littered with them, secrets like IEDs scattered past, present, and future. When would one surface and destroy everything?

When would Andre figure out that she wasn’t the person he thought she was? That she was a fraud, anything but the capable, confident, competent woman she pretended to be.

Who would get hurt the most? Her or Andre? Sh
e’d
never had to worry about someone else before. Jenna had enough on her hands just taking care of herself.

She took a deep breath from her belly, squelching the panic before it got a foothold, just the way Nick had taught her. Released it slowly, took another.

Andre wasn’t fooled. H
e’d
never made it past high school, but he was smart—especially about people. Sometimes he scared her, how much he could read between words spoken out loud. He knew she had secrets, but he was also patient. Giving her time, spac
e . . .
respect.

It twisted her heart, his oh-so-loving patience. Some days she thought she hated him for i
t . . .
but really, she hated herself. A familiar refuge, easy to return to, hard to walk away from, those lifelong feelings of self-doubt, self-loathing.

As if reading her heart, Andre gently disengaged from her, sliding his palms down her arms until their hands joined. “Ther
e’s
nothing to be worried about. You’ll be fine.”

“So says the man actually able to dress himself.”

He chuckled and moved to her closet, returning with a peacock-green silk blouse. “Try this.”

She put it on and turned back to the mirror. “Better. But shouldn’t I wear a jacket?”

“You’re not a US postal inspector anymore, Jenna. You don’t take orders; you give them. Back then you wore a jacket because you needed the pockets to carry shit—now you’re the boss; you’ve got people for that.”

After Jenna resigned from the US Postal Inspection Service three months ago, sh
e’d
used her former federal agent status to push through a business license while Andre oversaw the conversion of the loft below her apartment to office space, and Galloway and Stone, Security Consultants, had been born. Sh
e’d
only been with the USPIS for two and a half years, lucky that sh
e’d
lasted that long, but i
t’d
been enough to garner her some positive press and enough notoriety to hopefully attract high-profile clients.

“You’re going to start carrying my purse for me?” she asked, smoothing the blouse. It did look good.

“Sorry, clashes with my ensemble.”

They hadn’t anticipated opening their doors for another few weeks until a frantic call from the head of Pittsburg
h’s
largest energy firm had provided them their first client. Their offices were still half-finished, but the reception area and the small client room at least had walls, even if no furniture except for some hastily rented tables and chairs.

“Green
e’s
going to think we’re amateurs,” she said, fussing at her hair and finally adding a clip to pull back one side. She smiled, liking the asymmetry.

“No, h
e’s
not.” He moved to stand beside her. “H
e’s
going to see a pair of competent security experts ready to handle any job he has. I
t’s
not about us impressing him; i
t’s
about him impressing us enough that we’ll take his job before we’re even officially open for business.”

He had a point. She joined hands with his, stood up straight.

“We’re ready.” Jenna worked to convince herself as much as Andre.

“Of course, we are,” he replied, no trace of doubt in his voice. Exactly what she loved most about him. No one had ever believed in her before—not even herself.

Well, no one except a teenage psycho-killer, Morgan Ames. For some reason Morgan had chosen Jenna as her role model, to the point where she stalked Jenna obsessively. Morgan had also saved Jenn
a’s
life once, risking her own, but Jenna tried not to dwell on the implications of that. She didn’t like the idea of owing Morgan—liked even less the idea of Morga
n’s
delusions that she was now responsible for Jenn
a’s
life and happiness.

Thankfully, Morgan had vanished. It had been weeks since Jenna had seen her. Maybe the little psychopath had finally gotten bored and drifted off to greener pasture
s . . .
Jenna could hope.

“Now wha
t’s
wrong?” Andre asked, one hand smoothing across Jenn
a’s
cheek and clenched jaw.

She hadn’t told him everything about Morga
n’s
past. Although Andre was no dummy, he knew there was something wrong with the girl. Jenna turned her face into Andr
e’s
palm, kissing the puckered burn scar there. Why upset him? Morgan was gone. Andre was here. Jenna was happy. Wasn’t that enough to deal with without adding the chaos that was Morgan to the mix?

She pulled him down to her and kissed him deeply. “Nothin
g’s
wrong,” she murmured. “Everythin
g’s
perfect.” She broke away, took another deep breath, and glanced at the clock. “Showtime.”

They headed downstairs to their offices on the second floor. Pride warmed her, just as it did every time she glimpsed the frosted-glass door with their names on it in bold lettering. No one giving her orders, no protocols to adhere to, no bosses to answer to.

Andre allowed her the honor of opening the door. She walked inside, expecting the smells of drywall and paint, anticipating the sight of a few folding tables and chairs scattered around what would eventually become their reception area.

Instead she was greeted by a mahogany receptionis
t’s
desk sitting across from an intimate cluster of leather chairs gathered around a circular Brazilian heartwood coffee table—the same one sh
e’d
flagged in an interior design magazine. Beyond it, the consultation room, the only room with the drywall finished, had also been miraculously furnished exactly as she had imagined.

She turned to Andre. “Did you do this?”

He shook his head in confusion. Before he could answer, a petite, dark-haired woman emerged from the back office, her arms filled with file folders and steno pads. She wore a sophisticated designer suit and looked like any twenty-something executive assistant.

Except this woman—girl, really—was no on
e’s
assistant.

Jenna knew better than anyone that Morgan Ames was a natural born killer.

CHAPTER 3

J
enna,” Morgan said brightly, although her attention was on Andre. He was the wild card here. Jenna, well, Jenna would do what was best for Jenna. She always did, which made her ridiculously easy to manipulate. And right now what was best for Jenna would be to follow Morga
n’s
lead.

“I’ve got the small office ready for the Greenes.” She handed Jenna the client files before turning to the coffeemaker in an alcove opposite the reception area. “Andre, I think you’ll like this.” She handed him a steaming cup of coffee. “I
t’s
your favorite blend. Kona and Sumatra Gayo.”

He took the cup, holding it in front of him, ready to drink it or use it as a weapon. He never fully dropped his guard around Morgan—only showed how smart the man was. She smiled at him. It was so good that Jenna had him. After all, it wasn’t as if Morgan could always be around to protect Jenna. Mostly from Jenn
a’s
own poor judgment and need for drama.

“Morgan—” Jenna started before she stopped and glanced inside the smaller office, now also furnished exactly according to Jenn
a’s
plans with intimately placed dark-red leather love seats and chairs.
Confessional chic
,
Jenn
a’s
notes had read,
a place where clients can confide their darkest secrets.
Morgan thought it was a bit melodramatic, but no one had consulted her, and right now it was all about keeping Jenna happy.

Jenna stumbled, then finished, “Why—how—what the hell?”

This was the fun part, plunging off the cliff without a net. Morgan lived for this, relished the exhilaration that rushed her veins, adrenaline hitting harder than the purest cocaine.

She had no idea how much Jenna had told Andre, and it was Andre sh
e’d
have to win over. She knew how Jenn
a’s
mind worked—very much like her own, only dosed with unhealthy amounts of anxiety and self-doubt. Jenna would see the advantages to having her around. Not just to make use of her skills but also to keep an eye on her.

Not unlike the deal Morgan had made with their mutual therapist, Nick Callahan.
Wouldn’t you rather know where I am and what I’m doing?
sh
e’d
asked at her first session with him. Easy choice for anyone who knew what she was capable of.

“Thanks again for letting me work here, earn money for college,” she told Jenna, mimicking a schoolgir
l’s
gush of enthusiasm. “I hope I’ve got everything set up just the way you wanted. I followed your plans exactly.”

Plans that existed solely on Jenn
a’s
laptop and scribbled in a notebook kept upstairs in her loft. Jenn
a’s
eyes widened, and she glanced up at the ceiling, then raised an eyebrow. Anger sparked for a moment, replaced by fear.

That hurt. Not really, it took a lot more to actually dent Morga
n’s
armor, but surely, after all the work sh
e’d
done, Jenna could show a touch of gratitude?

Andre set his coffee down without tasting it. “You did all this?”

He meant the question for Jenna, was looking to her to clue him in on how she wanted to handle Morgan. If Jenna was okay with her being here, h
e’d
tolerate Morga
n’s
presence. Just like her, Andre lived to make Jenna happy.

For totally different reasons, of course. Andre, poor guy, was in love. Hopeless case—yo
u’d
think a battle-scarred marine would guard his heart better. Morgan wanted something more than silly hormonal-driven emotions from Jenna.

Jenna was the key to Morga
n’s
future.

If Morgan was to survive without killing in this world drowning in sheep and fish, she needed someone to anchor her, keep her from getting bored, and provide her with entertainment—even if it came in the form of a job.

Psychology 101. Far easier to quit an established habit working with a partner who was as devoted to your success as you were. Nic
k’s
counseling was helpful, but Morgan knew she needed more than his psychobabble to get what she wanted.

Jenna was perfect. She had so much at risk—more than Andre or their new business. If Morgan failed and was caught by someone like Nic
k’s
wife, FBI Agent Lucy Guardino, Morgan knew things about Jenna that would send Jenna to prison. Probably for the rest of her life.

Now that was motivation. Morgan liked the simple math. No emotions necessary, just an old-fashioned horse trade. Sh
e’d
help Jenna—with both Andre and the business—plus protect Jenn
a’s
secrets, while Jenna would help her stop killing.

Made perfect sense. But would Jenna buy it?

She watched Jenn
a’s
expression go from frightened to merely wary. Knew sh
e’d
won.

Jenna turned to Andre, a fake smile stretching her face. “I figured w
e’d
need the help with our first case, and Morgan was available. Guess I was right. Great job, Morgan.”

Morgan smiled. No wonder her father had called it fishing. Was there anything more fun than conning people who knew they were being played yet still couldn’t resist the bait?

“Thanks,” Morgan said in her role of the eager assistant. “I’ve got all the supplementary background material on Robert Greene and his wife there.” She gestured to the folders in Jenn
a’s
other hand. “Along with financials, recent company security issues, plus everything I could find on his daughte
r’s
death and the ReNew facility.”

Andre raised an eyebrow at that. “Really? We couldn’t get anyone to talk to us about ReNew after Mr. Greene called and asked if w
e’d
take his case.”

“What did you find?” Jenna asked eagerly, flipping through the pages. “Think ther
e’s
enough for us to pursue the case? I was worried w
e’d
have to tell him no.”

Translation: Jenna hated to see their first big client get away. Green
e’s
daughter had killed herself the same day her parents signed her out against the therapis
t’s
advice from the ReNew facility. He and his wife couldn’t accept that they might be responsible for their daughte
r’s
death and wanted to bring criminal or civil action against ReNew.

Unfortunately there was no criminal case, and no lawyer would pursue a civil action without evidence—and without a way around the shields that protected ReNew since it was owned and operated by a church.

But, the more Morgan dug into the ReNew operation, the more it creeped her out. Not an easy thing to do.

“Still looks pretty skimpy.” Jenna glanced at the clock. “He’ll be here any minute. What do you think, Andre? Should we even bother with the meeting?”

Morgan suppressed an eye roll at Jenn
a’s
indecision and anxiety. Jenna was all about appearances; she loved playing the cocky, kick-ass investigator, but it was just a charade designed to mask her insecurities and poor judgment. Exactly what had almost gotten her killed last December. Good thing she had Andre and Morgan around to save her from herself.

Andre slid the file from Jenn
a’s
hand, turning to the photo of Green
e’s
daughter, BreeAnna. Morgan didn’t see anything exceptional about the girl. Brown—almost, not quite, blonde hair; brown eyes—almost, not quite, symmetrical; full lips that almost, not quite, masked a slight overbite. She was the kind of girl adults would smile kindly at, remarking about how someday sh
e’d
grow into her own—whatever the hell that meant.

“Kid was only fourteen,” Andre said. “Don’t you think someone should find out why she killed herself?”

Jenna didn’t seem convinced. “Maybe I should call him, cancel.”

The buzzer from the door downstairs rang.

“Okay, then. Guess we’ll see what he has to say.” Jenna brushed her hands together, ready to do business—Jenna was always better when she had something to quiet her perpetual-motion mind. A lot like Morgan that way, only Jenna didn’t fear boredom as much as she feared her own memories. And secrets. So many secrets.

Morgan was slowly unraveling the tapestry of lies that concealed Jenn
a’s
secrets. It was for Jenn
a’s
own good. She would never use what she knew against Jenna; she only wanted to protect her. Jenna was her friend. Well, as close to a friend as Morgan had ever had. Morgan wasn’t sure if their bond included anything like the kind of love Norms—her term for the sheep (those who milled around, living their bland, ordinary lives) and fish (the weak, victims, easy prey)—felt for each other, but her best bet to get what she wanted meant making Jenna happy. And wasn’t that what friends did for each other?

Jenna didn’t make it easy. But that was Jenna. She never made it easy for anybody.

She and Andre retreated to the smaller, more intimate office, while Morgan opened the door to Robert Greene and his wife, Caren. Interesting that it was the dad pushing this investigation—the mom barely showed up in any of the notes from the attorneys Greene had consulted before coming to Galloway and Stone.

Was the mother overwhelmed by grief? Controlled by the husband? Morgan wondered at the family dynamics. And where their daughter, BreeAnna, had fit in.

Caren Greene was thirty-four to Rober
t’s
forty-one—a stay-at-home mother until they lost their only child last month. Guess she was just a stay-at-home now.

Morgan took their coats, expensive cashmere, London tailored for him; Italian silk-wool blend with a Hermès scarf for her. He didn’t wear a wedding ring; she did. Care
n’s
gaze never left him, while he barely seemed to notice her, not until she slipped an arm around his waist and leaned her weight against him, threatening to collapse if he didn’t reciprocate. His movements as he draped his arm across her shoulders seemed more reflex than a true offer of comfort.

Were either of them truly grieving their daughter? Morgan couldn’t tell for sure. As if they both wore masks.

Finally something interesting. Were they like her? Fellow non-Norms, sociopaths and narcissists, people beyond the bell-shaped curve, fascinated Morgan. She loved to study them—their failures as well as their successes.

She led them into the consultation room. Jenna made introductions and seated the Greenes on the wine-red love seat while she sat opposite them in a black leather chair. Andre stood, leaning against the wall diagonal to their prospective clients. Morgan took a seat near the door, pretending to take notes, and wondered how Jenna would turn the secondhand gossip Morgan had uncovered about ReNew into a case worth pursuing.

Jenna hated to lose, and no way in hell would she risk disappointing someone like Robert Greene. His energy firm could provide Galloway and Stone with enough work to put them in the black before they even officially opened their doors.

But first Jenna would have to solve the mystery of their daughte
r’s
death—a death the rest of the world had decided was no mystery at all.

Morgan watched in interest as Jenna took the lead. “Thank you for coming, Mr. and Mrs. Greene. I’m afraid we have some bad news.”

That caught them off guard. Caren Greene jerked upright, sliding to the edge of the sofa. “What do you mean bad news? Does that mean you’re not taking the case?”

Her tone was a combination of disbelief and strident entitlement. Her husband placed a possessive hand on her knee as if intent on holding her in place.

“It means that any investigation into the ReNew treatment program would be prolonged and with little hope of gaining you the evidence you need to prove they caused your daughte
r’s
death,” Jenna answered in a level tone.

“She killed herself the day we rescued her from that hellhole,” Caren retorted. “Of course, it was their fault.”

“Yes ma’am. But if you want to pursue legal action against them, you’ll need proof of that.” She glanced at Andre who took his cue.

“That will mean looking into your daughte
r’s
life as well as investigating ReNew. I’m afraid what we’ve found so far isn’t very promising.”

“Surely there have been other incidents,” Robert Greene said. “Students who could act as witnesses—”

Jenna shook her head. “We found several complaints—not unusual given that they serve such a high-risk population of juveniles. However, they were all rescinded by the families involved. And because ReNew is church owned and operated, they aren’t bound by the regulations restricting other schools, so ther
e’s
no official government agency that could justify an inquiry.”

“We know all that,” Greene snapped. “We’ve been through that already with our lawyers.”

“Tha
t’s
why we’re here,” his wife added. “We want you to investigate them. Find whatever proof you need to shut them down.”

Jenna opened the folder Morgan had given her and leaned forward, sliding an eight-by-ten in front of the Greenes. It was a headshot of a distinguished-appearing middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair and a friendly smile.

“Reverend Amos Benjamin. Founder of ReNew.” She tapped a manicured nail on Benjami
n’s
forehead, the exact same spot a sniper would take a kill shot. “H
e’s
fifty-seven years old. Never married. No criminal record. His bio states he has a doctor of divinity, but our research wasn’t able to confirm that.”

“Because the ma
n’s
a fraud,” Caren said, sounding vindicated.

“Because the school closed and all their records were lost in a fire.”

“Convenient.” Greene pushed the photo away in disgust.

“He moved here from Ohio sixteen years ago and established the ReNew Foundation. Built his congregation over the next several years and then bought the land and began the community. He—or rather the church—now owns over two hundred acres, the church, a fellowship hall, the ReNew Treatment Center, and there are fourteen families living on the land in houses leased from the church with the plans to build eight more this year.”