Fight Dirty

PROLOGUE

Even as she fell, arms flailing against gravity, cereal, milk, and orange juice tumbling with her, she thought she was dreaming.

Ever since she’d arrived at the ReNew Adolescent Treatment Center, most of her dreams ended this way: a nightmarish hurtle through space, followed by jerking awake, eyes wide, gasping for breath, heart pounding so hard her pulse throbbed from fingers to toes.

A stunned hush filled the room as fifty-one other adolescents watched her fall to the floor, creating a colorful collage of her breakfast. One knee hit the blue linoleum. Hard. She bit her tongue against her cry of pain.

Rule Number One: No Names do not speak unless they are spoken to.

Her hand slapped onto a mushy pile of cornflakes and OJ, saving her from slamming face first, but even the pain couldn’t breach the numb exhaustion that made her brain clumsy and slow to admit reality.

This is all just a dream, a seductive voice whispered. Any second now, her alarm would go off, Mom would shriek at her to get her lazy ass out of bed, Now!, or best of all, Dad would be home, rumbling at Mom, telling her to take it easy on the kid.

How could it be a dream? The thought as sluggish as the rest of her body.

Rule Number Seven: No Names do not sleep without permission.

The other kids were a khaki blur surrounding her. Like her, they had no name, no identity, no reason to exist. Beyond them brightly colored posters mocked her with exhortations to ReJoice! and ReFresh Your Spirit!

Chairs scraped back and footsteps thudded, blood-red spots appearing in her peripheral vision as she thought about getting up, but the idea felt too far away to actually do anything about it. Part of her wanted to roll over, pull warm, soft covers up over her head, and ignore the dream.

Another part of her, the area of her brain in charge of survival, shouted at her that this wasn’t a dream and she needed to move, to run, run, run!

Rule Number Four: No Names do not leave or enter a room without permission.

Laughter cut through the fog. She looked up. Surrounded by a sea of red. Too late to save herself. Because this was no dream.

This was hell.

CHAPTER ONE

The prison guard pressed his palm against Morgan’s ass as he waved his wand over her body. She smiled. It wasn’t an Oh baby, so very glad you pulled me aside for this special security screening smile—although, sheep that he was, he obviously thought so. No, she smiled because she knew that if she wanted, she could kill him.

You sure you’re a lawyer, Ms. Wilson? he asked, his palm sliding over her hip. The name on her ID was Amy Wilson, twenty-two, residing at 515 Gettysburg Street, Pittsburgh, PA 15206.

Her real name was Morgan Ames. And since her real age was fifteen, she waited, assessing her avenues for escape. The guard’s next words would decide if he lived or died.

They were in the administrative section of Rockview State Penitentiary’s maximum-security wing. There weren’t that many doors between her and freedom. The men guarding them didn’t worry her, not as much as the electronically controlled locks. Men she could kill in seconds, but it would take longer to overcome those damn locks.

After she’d passed through the metal detector and had her bag examined, the guard had ushered her to a private screening room. It was small, no windows, walls made of standard construction materials. If she killed him, she’d have to keep it quiet—sound would carry easily through the walls. Beyond them was the reception area where, even though it wasn’t quite eight in the morning, women and children waited to be allowed visitation time with their own favorite maximum-security inmate.

The guard, oblivious to his precarious fate, held her breast in his hand as he ran the wand over her outstretched arms. She felt his heat through the silk of her bra and blouse, scented his testosterone rising.

A part of her hoped she’d have to kill him. It was the dangerous side of her, the one she was struggling to control so she didn’t end up in a place like this, surrounded by steel bars and razor wire. The part of her that had killed before—and enjoyed it.

You’re much too pretty to be a lawyer.

Her smile didn’t waver. His words had just saved his life—although he’d never know it. I’m just a paralegal. Have to get our client’s signature, so we can meet a filing deadline.

I knew it. Like I said, too pretty—and too nice. He released her and stepped in front of her. I get off in a few hours⁠—

The hard part wasn’t not killing him; it was not laughing in his face. But Morgan was good at what she did. It was why she could as easily pass for twenty as for twelve. It was all in the attitude and the costume. Match them to your audience’s expectations, and no one doubted the rest.

I’d love to, she said, raising her left hand to grab her leather attaché, letting the overhead light flick against the gold band on her ring finger. A band that was almost a match to the guard’s own. But my husband has plans. You might know him. He’s state police, was in the barracks here for a while, Tom Wilson?

The guard’s leer morphed into a grudging nod of respect. Prison guards depended on state troopers for a lot of things, including saving their bacon in the case of a riot. No way in hell would one ever cross a trooper. Sure, I know Tom. Tell him I say hi.

He yanked the door open and escorted her down the hall to the first of several locked sally ports leading to the secure interview rooms. Idiot never looked back. Despite his uniform and swagger, he was just another sheep, milling about, doing what he was told without thinking. Morgan’s smile turned genuine.

The prison corridor was empty except for the two of them and the invisible eyes watching via the cameras positioned overhead. Industrial-grade vinyl flooring and featureless beige walls muted their footsteps. Fluorescent lights flickered above, trying in vain to give the appearance of cheerful sunlight, but the feeble attempt was overwhelmed by the all-consuming stink of sweat and desperation that wept from every surface.

He unlocked the steel door to an interview room. The room was the size of a walk-in closet, no windows except the one in the door, the only furniture a steel table bolted to the floor—a bar running across its top on one side—and two lightweight chairs. There was a bright-red panic button on the wall beside the door and another on the visitor’s side of the table. Otherwise the walls were bare.

He’s on his way, the guard said, his tone now surly, as if she’d purposely wasted his time. You know about Caine, right? He used to take girls like you, hold them captive underground in the dark, torturing them, raping them—you name it, he did it. His eyes tightened, holding back his own rapacious fantasies. He’s gonna love you; you’re just his type.

With that he left, locking her inside to await the arrival of a serial killer.

Morgan played her role for the overhead camera—video only, audio recordings weren’t permitted, a violation of prisoners’ rights. Funny world where men like Clinton Caine had rights. That’s what happened when you let sheep run things.

She sat down and smoothed out her skirt, a lovely teal and charcoal houndstooth wool-silk blend, bought, not shoplifted, from the South Hills Galleria. Now that she was on her own, Morgan was beyond petty thievery.

She’d just unpacked her folders with the fake legal documents when the door opened. A man’s shadow slid into the room even as he remained at the threshold, flanked by two guards, waiting for permission to enter. Permission was granted in the form of one of the guards giving him a shove, forcing him to stumble inside. He wore the orange jumpsuit of a maximum-security prisoner—as if she wouldn’t have figured that out from the handcuffs that restrained his wrists behind his back and the shackles around his ankles.

He must have done something to piss them off. Last time she’d visited, a few months ago, they’d had the handcuffs in front so that he could at least walk upright with some semblance of dignity.

For the first time ever, he looked older than his actual fifty-two. His hair was unwashed, uncombed, silver streaks marring the chestnut-brown curls always certain to attract the ladies. His face was pocked with red sores, pustules with ugly yellow crusts. One guard unlocked one of his handcuffs, swiftly bringing his hands to the front where the cuffs were wrapped around the bar running the length of the table and snapped shut again with a click.

The prisoner sat down, his gaze never leaving Morgan. His eyes. They hadn’t changed. Two holes burnt into the darkest night sky. Glaring, blazing, yet absolutely indifferent.

Clinton Caine knew what it cost Morgan to come here, to allow herself to be locked inside a cement-block and glass-walled room, trapped behind the razor wire and steel fences surrounding the state penitentiary’s maximum-security housing unit. He didn’t care. Clint didn’t worry about anything except Clint and his ridiculous fantasies of regaining his own freedom.

He remained silent until the guards left and the door closed behind them. Then he leaned forward as if reading the papers she slid across to him. What’cha bring me, little girl? Better be something worth the cavity search this visit’s gonna cost me.

Morgan hid her cringe. His tone was the same one he used when goading fish—his word for the women he kidnapped and killed. A tone that promised no amount of effort would ever be enough to earn a reprieve. His way of reminding her that she existed solely to please him.

He didn’t realize that only two things kept him alive: the prison guards monitoring them outside the interview room and Morgan’s promise to herself that she’d give up killing.

Good thing, because there was no one she’d rather see dead than this man. Clinton Caine. Her father.

His gaze flicked from the papers to her suit. Better not be using my hard-earned money for all that fancy crap. This new lawyer is already costing me plenty.

How easily he forgot that while he’d enjoyed himself torturing fish, it was Morgan who had taught herself the skills needed to steal identities and get them money to live on. Didn’t matter. To him, it was all his. The world belonged to Clinton Caine, along with everyone and everything in it.

If you’d stop firing your lawyers— she protested.

That’s got nothing to do with you, he snapped. What I want to hear from you is some good news. He shook his head, mocking her. You don’t call, you don’t write. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’d forgotten me, were gonna leave me here to rot.

He reached a hand to take the pen she was holding, caressing her palm intimately, reminding her of what they’d shared. All those women . . . all that blood.

Morgan looked past him, counting the blocks in the concrete wall. Her therapist had taught her to focus on what she wanted long term rather than giving in to her immediate impulses. Delayed gratification. As she counted, imaginary blood sprayed the whitewashed blocks. A pretty arterial spray in the shape of a butterfly.

Wouldn’t that be lovely?

Why did you call me here? she asked, blinking hard to erase her bloodstained fantasy.

My smart new lawyer says the same as the other two, that those damn witnesses could sway a jury. Poison them against me. Clint bent closer to her, his breath wafting across the steel table between them, bringing with it the stench of rot and decay.

She pulled her pen from his grasp and tapped the stack of folders before her, redirecting his attention, hiding her disgust.

Masks. Morgan was a pro at slipping masks on and off at will. Clint didn’t even notice the mask she wore now. Not that of a bored paralegal sent to do her boss’s dirty work. No. Right now she was concentrating on not jabbing her pen into his jugular.

Veins were better targets than arteries. No muscle in their walls. Hit them, wrench your blade back and forth to shred them, and no amount of pressure would stop the gush of blood that followed.

You listening to me, girl? Clint demanded.

Morgan peered through her vision of gorgeous scarlet ribbons flowing from his neck, clashing with the orange prison jumpsuit.

Sorry, she muttered. Only Clint could make her feel weak or the need to apologize for it. No one else. With the rest of the world she was fearless, relentless, capable of anything.

To Clint she was his little girl, eager to please and obey.

I said start with those two Feds, he snarled, a spray of saliva accompanying his words. She kept her gaze focused on the table, didn’t remind him that he’d gotten caught not by brilliant police work but by his own greed and refusal to curb his sadistic impulses.

Jenna Galloway and Lucy Guardino. He savored the names of his targets, a smile growing like a cancer on his face. Start with them, and this will all go away. We can go back to having fun. Just a dad and his baby girl going fishing.

Clint’s victims, his fish, they weren’t people, not to him—not to Morgan, either. But she was out of the fishing business. For good.

No way in hell was she going to end up trapped in a steel and concrete cage like Clint. Morgan twisted her fingers around her pen until her nails blanched white. No. Way. In. Hell.

It was the reason she’d given up killing. Too risky, even if her last few kills had been bad guys.

The rush of power that came with taking a life, that hadn’t changed—in fact, it had gotten stronger, like an addiction, especially when added to the glow of satisfaction when she’d saved Jenna Galloway’s life a few months ago. Clint didn’t know that little detail. No way was Morgan going to tell him. About how she’d inserted herself into Jenna’s life or that she was seeing Lucy Guardino’s husband, Nick Callahan, for counseling as she embarked on her new path of self-restraint and nonviolence. Well, maybe violence if circumstances called for it, but definitely nonkilling.

You can do it. Clint’s head bobbed, eyes half-closed as he imagined Morgan carrying out his orders. Get close. Use your blade. Have fun like I taught you.

His voice turned to singsong. Good thing his hands were cuffed to the metal bar at the tabletop, otherwise they’d be down at his crotch.

I have to go, she said, shuffling the folders and pushing the button to summon the guard.

He didn’t answer, his eyes now totally closed, head weaving in time with invisible screams. Then he jerked his chin once more and opened his eyes, his stare resting on her with the pull of the sun. No way to avoid it, no way to break free.

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 TWO

Jenna Galloway buttoned her black blazer and turned to look in the mirror. She frowned, fingers raised to brush the air 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 he’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. Andre’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; he’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 Jenna’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 Jenna’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 she’d allowed herself was the release of a one-night stand, maybe two. Not this. Three months of . . . bliss . . .

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? She’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. He’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, space . . . respect.

It twisted her heart, his oh-so-loving patience. Some days she thought she hated him for it . . . but really, she hated herself. A familiar refuge, easy to return to, hard to walk away from, those life-long 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. There’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, she’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. She’d only been with the USPIS for two and a half years, lucky that she’d lasted that long, but it’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 Pittsburgh’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.

Greene’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, he’s not. He moved to stand beside her. He’s going to see a pair of competent security experts ready to handle any job he has. It’s not about us impressing him; it’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 Jenna’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 Morgan’s delusions that she was now responsible for Jenna’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 pastures . . . Jenna could hope.

Now what’s wrong? Andre asked, one hand smoothing across Jenna’s cheek and clenched jaw.

She hadn’t told him everything about Morgan’s past. Although Andre was no dummy, he knew there was something wrong with the girl. Jenna turned her face into Andre’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. Nothing’s wrong, she murmured. Everything’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 receptionist’s desk sitting across from an intimate cluster of leather chairs gathered around a circular Brazilian heartwood coffee table—the same one she’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 one’s assistant.

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