Page 1 of Forbidden

PROLOGUE

Rachel Marquez's feet hit the path in a steady beat, her breath puffing out in time with her steps in the chilly fall evening. The Dallas cityscape was a hazy vision in the distance, its lights beckoning with the promise of comfort and rest at the end of her run. Running was Rachel's sanctuary from her hectic job; it was where she sorted through her thoughts and let work tension drain away with each stride.

As she approached the final stretch, anticipation for the familiar sight of the road leading home quickened her pace. The soft glow of street lamps stood like beacons guiding her back to comfort, to safety. But tonight, something was amiss. A harsh glare cut across her path—a construction sign blinking an insistent warning in the darkness: "NO ENTRY: CONSTRUCTION ZONE."

The sign hadn't been there yesterday. Confusion knit her brow as she slowed to a jog, then a standstill. She knew there was a lot of construction in this area, but she didn’t know it had extended to this street. The red flashing light painted the ground at her feet in stark, jarring strokes. Oh, well—it looked like she’d just have to take another route back. She was far from home, but she was sure if she just took the next street, she could navigate her way back to her usual route home.

With a reluctant glance at the forbidden trail, Rachel turned away, her feet carrying her onto another street.

The new path was dimly lit, the streetlights sparse and their beams feeble against the encroaching night. Houses, once alive with evening activity, now stood silent, their windows dark. Rachel's footsteps echoed louder here, the sound a hollow reminder that she was far from her well-worn track.

Her breath fell into disarray. She missed the comforting rhythm of her usual run, the assurance of knowing each twist and turn by heart. This street was a stranger and carried with it a sense of isolation that clawed at her confidence with invisible fingers.

Keep moving, she thought to herself, trying to shake off the feeling of being out of place. The farther she ran from the trail, the stronger the desire to return. But the sign barred the way, unyielding in its silent command. If she turned back to the trail, she’d have to take the whole thing back, and she was too tired. This was supposed to be the quicker way. And so, with every step into the unfamiliar, Rachel kept moving.

Here, it was just shadows and silence, a quiet suburban neighborhood that felt eerily still. The houses around her stood tall and quiet, their windows dark. She missed the comforting presence of porch lights and the faint hum of television sets from open windows. She could feel the solitude seeping into her bones, making each step heavier than the last. There were no comforting sounds of distant cars or the rhythmic barking of neighborhood dogs—only the occasional crunch of gravel underfoot, a stark reminder of her solitary presence. It felt as if the very air had stilled, waiting for something unseen.

With a deep breath, she tried to expel the creeping dread, replacing it with the resolve that marked her days working tirelessly at the gym as a personal trainer. This was just another obstacle to overcome, another test of her willpower. She pressed on, her pace relentless against the encroaching doubt.

The more she ran, the more pervasive the construction became. Hadn’t she avoided the signs? Why was there still more? It seemed as if the neighborhood itself was under siege by bulldozers and backhoes, the skeletal frames of half-built structures rising out of the rubble like monuments to change. Despite the disarray, there was an absence of warning signs or barricades, leaving the path open.

Rachel's pulse quickened as she navigated through the debris-strewn zone. Her steps became brisk, almost defiant in response to the environment. She wove between stacks of concrete blocks and metal rods jutting out from the ground like the limbs of fallen giants. Each shadow cast by the moonlight through the incomplete buildings stretched long and distorted across her path, a tapestry of light and dark that played tricks on her vision.

"Almost through," she whispered, her voice a small sound swallowed by the vast silence. Comforted by the thought of emerging back into her regular route, Rachel hastened her pace. She was a creature of habit, and the disruption of her routine only fueled her desire to reclaim it. She was close now, she could feel it—the anticipation of returning to familiarity propelled her forward with renewed vigor.

Out of nowhere, the ground turned traitor. It shook like a vibrating wire, shooting panic through her backbone. Her gut urged her to halt, to find balance on the unstable earth. Yet inertia pushed her onward, her body lagging behind the immediate need of her awareness.

With a harsh snap, the road fractured, revealing a vast void underneath her.

She fell.

Her scream was a sharp blade slicing through the night, snuffed out as the abyss consumed her. Terror clawed at her throat, her mind scrambling to comprehend the swift transition from solid ground to empty air. Darkness enveloped her, thick and suffocating.

When her body met the ground, it was with a brutal force that drove the air from her lungs and sent pain radiating through her body. A symphony of agony played across her nerves, crescendoing in a silent scream as she crumpled upon impact.

Rachel lay broken, the pulse of pain a cruel reminder that she was still alive. Above her, the world she knew—a world of order and light—had vanished, leaving only the oppressive embrace of the night. Her life, once defined by routine and predictability, had been shattered in an instant.

As consciousness waned, a figure materialized above her—a silhouette etched against the faint glow of the distant city lights. Her vision blurred, but she clung to the sight, the outline of the man burned into her fading awareness.

She thought, maybe, he might help her. But he simply stood watch as the shadows claimed her. As blackness took over, she thought she saw two horns protruding from his head, and was sure this must all be a dream.

CHAPTER ONE

FBI agent Morgan Cross pushed open the door to the boxing gym, a faint creak echoing in the quiet as she stepped into the almost sacred space. The dim overhead lights cast long shadows across the sea of heavy bags and rings, the scent of sweat and leather permeating the air like incense in a church dedicated to the pugilistic arts. This was a place of release, of raw energy and primal combat, and it had been far too long since Morgan had set foot in such an arena.

With each step deeper into the gym, the outside world—the case files, the hidden agendas, the corruption that had once threatened to suffocate her—faded into the background. Here, there was only the promise of catharsis, of expelling the pent-up aggression that had been simmering beneath her composed exterior for months. Tonight was about reconnecting with the part of herself that knew how to fight back, the part that had survived a decade in prison and emerged hungry for retribution.

In the change room, the fluorescent light buzzed overhead, casting stark illumination over the benches and lockers. Morgan's movements were methodical as she retrieved her hand wraps from her bag—long strips of cloth that would serve as both protection and a weapon. She sat on a wooden bench, the cool surface a contrast to the heat that already began to build within her at the anticipation of the workout ahead.

Each pass of the wrap around her hands was like a mantra, steadying her thoughts, focusing her energy. There was a rhythm to it, one that she fell into with ease, the muscle memory of years spent training before life had violently shoved her down another path. But even as her mind calmed, her body told another story; muscles tensed, coiled like a spring, ready to unleash fury upon the punch bags that awaited her.

She thought of her father, Christopher Cross—no, John Christopher—as she secured the Velcro on her wraps. He had been a man of secrets, a ghost from her past now given flesh and form through the revelations of his true identity. He had been FBI, like her, but he had run, hidden away from that life, and ultimately from her.

Now, with Richard Cordell's shadow looming over her once more, the connection between her father's flight and her own framing felt like a knot she couldn't untangle. Her father had hidden everything about him from her; his past, even his real name. But he was dead now, and Morgan was left to try to patch what he’d left behind for her to figure out. Cordell had been her father’s superior—and, as new information had come out, Morgan had realized that Cordell was likely the one who framed her for murder, who caused her to spend ten years in prison, going in thirty and coming out on the other side forty. Cordell had been her father’s superior… it seemed he wanted her father gone, and now he wanted Morgan gone too. To punish her for something she had no idea about.

The thought filled her with anger. The FBI, the conspiracy of it all…

She still didn’t understand why they were trying to get rid of her. Why just a few nights ago, she received a phone call, warning her to resign—or else.

---