Page 21 of Forbidden

"Nothing convenient about it, Agent," Rog countered, a sharpness creeping into his tone. "It's just the truth."

Morgan kept her features schooled into impassivity. The skepticism in Rog's laughter hadn't gone unnoticed, nor had the swift certainty in his reply. But pushing him now wouldn't yield anything further; she could sense the walls coming up around him, the telltale signs of a man retreating behind his defenses.

"Thank you," she said instead, injecting a note of sincerity into her voice. "For your cooperation." Her eyes met Rog's, holding them in a steady gaze. "If anything comes to mind... anything at all that might be related to Elizabeth or Rachel... you'll contact us?"

Rog's posture relaxed ever so slightly, and Morgan didn't miss the fleeting look of relief that crossed his features. Suspicion still lurked in the depths of his eyes, but there was a nod, almost imperceptible.

"Sure thing, Agent Cross," he replied, the wariness in his voice tinged with a cautious sort of agreement. "I'll give you a buzz if something pops up."

"Appreciated." Morgan gave him a firm nod, signaling to Derik that it was time to leave. As they did so, a plan began to form in Morgan’s mind. Even if Rog himself was innocent—even if he could be an ally—Morgan knew this place had something to do with the murders. Someone, somewhere in here, connected to this building, knew more.

And they had to find out what that was, before it was too late.

***

Morgan stepped onto the rain-soaked street, Derik close behind. The wet asphalt reflected the neon chaos they had left behind in the club, but the night swallowed it, leaving them in a cocoon of darkness and drizzle. She could feel the weight of Derik's gaze on her, even before he spoke.

"Morgan, what the hell was that back there?" Derik's words cut through the sound of the rain. His frustration was palpable, a living thing that stretched the space between them. "We should've cuffed Rog the moment we had the chance."

She turned to face him, seeing his silhouette edged by the dim light from a flickering streetlamp. His expression was hard to read, but she knew anger when she heard it. Morgan held his gaze, her own steady. "He didn't shoot, Derik," she reminded him, voice flat. "We can't arrest a man for defending his ground. Especially not here in Texas."

Derik shook his head, water droplets flinging from his slicked black hair. "We had something, Morgan. Something more than just suspicion."

"Did we?" Morgan challenged, her tone even. "Or did we have a standoff that could've ended badly for all parties involved?" She took a step closer, closing the distance that frustration had carved out. "Rog's story holds water—at least for now. Witnesses at the club will back him up."

"Even if Rog is lying—"

"Then we find proof, Derik. Concrete proof." Morgan's reply was resolute. "We're better than rushed judgments and shaky arrests. We build our case, and then we make it stick. That's how we win. That's how justice is served."

Derik's silence hung between them, heavy with unsaid words. Morgan knew his mind was racing, replaying the scene over and over, searching for a missed opportunity, a different outcome. But she also knew that deep down, he understood the precarious game they were playing. They couldn't afford mistakes—not with so much at stake.

"Besides," Morgan began, her voice low but carrying enough weight to anchor his drifting attention. "Do you really think I’d let them off so easy? We’re not done here."

He turned toward her, rainwater dripping from his hair, skepticism etched across his features. "Morgan, we can't just barge back in—"

"We won't," Morgan interrupted, her gaze hardening with resolve. "We set up a raid. Tonight."

The words hung between them, stark against the patter of the rain. Derik frowned, processing the turn of events. "On what grounds?"

"Start with operating without a license," Morgan replied, her mind working through the details with practiced efficiency. "And I'll bet my badge they're selling alcohol without proper permits."

A flash of realization lit Derik's eyes. "You think Rog's hiding something more."

"Exactly," Morgan affirmed, a cold certainty settling in her chest. "Whatever's going on in that club, it's bigger than just a few illegal transactions." She could feel it—a tangle of lies and deception that went deeper than the surface, roots entwined with the murders they were investigating.

"Let's get to it, then," Derik said, the edge of his frustration worn down by the prospect of actionable steps. They both knew the importance of building a solid case, and if this was their way in, neither was going to hesitate.

"Call the team," Morgan instructed, already reaching for her phone to coordinate with local law enforcement. "I want every exit covered. No one slips away tonight."

"Got it." Derik pulled out his own phone, his movements swift and sure, a reflection of the trust and understanding that had been tested but never broken.

Morgan watched the street, the shadows thrown by the neon lights stretching long and ominous. The club, hidden now by darkness and distance, held secrets that she was determined to drag into the light.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Morgan stood vigilant, the remnants of the storm lingering in the coolness that wrapped around her like a shroud. She barely registered the cold; her focus was laser-sharp on the chaos before her. The raid had turned the once-lively club into a scene straight out of a police procedural—except this wasn't fiction. This was the gritty reality of her life's work.

The street outside the club glimmered, wet asphalt reflecting the intermittent flashes from the fleet of FBI vehicles. Red and blue lights danced across the buildings, giving the night an eerie, disjointed quality. Derik, beside her, shared the same look of dogged determination. They were a unit, partners in every sense, bound by more than just their badges.

---