Don’t You Dare: (Morgan Young 3)

by Nicholls, Adam

By the time she’d gotten back to the car, both men had vanished. Erika had watched them get back into their own car—car, not plural—and at that exact moment she knew she was in trouble. There was no time to fuel up, even after paying for it, so she’d sat and contemplated her options until she realized there was only one.

  She’d had to leave.

  Fast.

  There wasn’t much of a race. The Mustang far outgunned whatever shitmobile they were driving, and Erika had laughed the whole way there, leaving both the cop and Morgan in the dust. It wasn’t until she was far up the long stretch of road that the engine had started to cough and stutter, the last remnants of gas filtering through the system. She’d had just enough time to pull the car safely to one side of the road, and after that… well, that was when she saw her pursuers and knew there was nothing left to do but run.

  “Everything all right back there?” the driver asked.

  Erika snapped out of her deep thoughts at the too-friendly sound of his voice. She met his eyes in the rearview mirror and nodded, then turned back to watch the world pass by the window. The blurred image of the trees kept her eyes busy while her mind settled back into thoughts of Mason. That perfect bastard was no longer hers; everything she’d wanted from him and everything she had was now gone. Her home had been abandoned, as had her safe place to take her victims. All she had left was one inept property and a single idea—an idea that flooded her mind like a poison, clouding and obscuring every straight thought.

  Morgan Young had to pay.

  Yes, Erika knew it was all down to him. There was a certain amount of police involvement, but it was his fault this had happened, and it wasn’t the kind of thing she could just let go. Sooner or later, he had to pay for his snooping. And the way Erika saw it, sooner was always better. At least it was when it came to murder.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The man they’d rescued from the trunk had been officially identified as Mason Black, the private investigator from San Francisco who’d had way too much bad luck already to end up here. Morgan had read his file countless times, unlike Gary who’d only skimmed it and moved on to the next huge folder in the pile. Now, that knowledge would come in handy, and it was the only reason Gary let Morgan sit in on the interview, despite Captain Bray’s unease.

  All it’d taken was an ambulance and two paramedics, and Mason was able to stand. At least that’s what the reports said. He’d demanded water, food, and a shower at the police station, and three hours later he was in a spare MPD training uniform—a white tee with one sewn-in badge—waiting at the table. His hair was still a mess, but now it was clean. The god-awful stench of urine and excrement had gone, but Morgan still caught sight of some dirt under his nails. It seemed the job hadn’t been thorough enough, but he understood. There was a lot of the man to clean.

  “I just need to ask you some questions,” Gary said, taking a seat.

  Morgan pulled out the small metal chair beside him, watching Mason.

  “I bet,” Mason said. “But can we keep it quick? I have a family to get home to.”

  “Of course.”

  Gary opened a file and pulled out some sheets of paper. There was a handwritten statement that had made its way onto a bunch of different pages. Morgan, who’d already read them while he was waiting for the room to become available, kept busy by introducing himself.

  “It’s really a pleasure to meet you,” he said, watching Mason’s head snap back to him. “I’m Morgan Young. I’ve actually spoken to your daughter.”

  “You spoke to Amy?” he asked, scowling.

  “And Diane. But it was Amy who hired me.”

  “You’re not a cop?”

  Morgan shook his head. “Private investigator, like you were. Well… not exactly like you. I’ve been studying your work since I took the case, and I have to say I’m quite impressed. All this stuff with the Lullaby Killer is really quite amazing.”

  Mason seemed to shrink at the mention of the Lullaby Killer. Blood rushed to his cheeks, but it wasn’t clear if it was from anger or humiliation. There was one obvious emotion, however: discomfort. It was the kind of discomfort one could expect from the most personal of questions, and Morgan wondered if he’d struck a nerve. He didn’t mean to—it was intended as a compliment, no matter how it’d come out.

  They sat in uncomfortable silence until Gary finished reading, finally setting down the pages and closing the file. “Right. You should know, the woman who held you captive is named Erika Givens. We have officers and techs exploring her home right now. Is there anything out of the ordinary we can expect to find?”

  Mason smirked. “Yeah, an underground bunker.”

  “Like a safe room?”

  “More like a metal dungeon.” Mason reached for his bottle of water and emptied it, crunching up the plastic when he was done. “There’s nothing safe about it. She kept talking about the others too, like I wasn’t the first person she’d had down there. I’m no genius, but considering this is the first you’ve heard of it, I’m willing to bet they didn’t live to tell the tale.”

  “Lucky you got out, then.”

  “I’ve had worse.”

  Morgan crossed his arms and thought back through the files. How much had this man endured that the trauma of captivity was so easily washed away? Surely he wasn’t so completely unaffected by recent events that this didn’t faze him? “You seem quite relaxed.”

  “Why shouldn’t I be?”

  “Some psychopath was targeting you. She tricked you into coming to Washington and then kept you in her… how did you put it? Dungeon.” Morgan licked his lips and wished he had some of that water. He knew he was pushing his luck, and that only made his body heat up like he’d been set alight. “I don’t know about you, but that would make me nervous as hell. Makes me wonder why you’re so calm.”

  “What are you accusing me of?”

  “Nothing at all. Just trying to figure you out.”

  Mason sighed and scratched his stubble, tossing the empty bottle to one side. “Look, you’ve read my file. You know about my past. There’s only so many things a man can endure before it gets old. A younger version of me might even want to stick around and find this bitch, but I’m too long in the tooth to go chasing weirdos. You know what I really want?”

  “What’s that?” Gary asked, reminding them of his presence.

  “I want to go home and see my family.”

  “We’re not stopping you,” Gary said.

  “This guy is.” Mason pointed at Morgan. “It’s great that you admire me. I’m even flattered. But can we just get on with the tedious questions so I can get back home? It’s been a long few days, and I’d kill for some fresh air.”

  Morgan sat in silence. The truth was, he was a little embarrassed. There was something overly authoritative about Mason Black, something that couldn’t be read in a police file. Thinking back, he’d expected a certain amount of bravado, but he sure never expected to feel so emasculated by the man’s sheer bluntness. On the other hand, he couldn’t blame him—if Morgan had been through what Black’d been through, he wouldn’t want to hang around either. A steak dinner and a night in a soft bed would be more than welcome.

  “Perhaps you can wait outside?” Gary mumbled, leaning in close to Morgan.

  “What? Why?”

  “It’d just go a lot smoother.”

  Morgan craned his neck to stare him down. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “I’ll fill you in, don’t worry.”

  “I shouldn’t have to—”

  “Please,” Gary said.

  As well as feeling embarrassed, Morgan felt as though he’d been removed from his own case. He hadn’t forgotten that his access into this room had been an act of courtesy, but to be evicted now only made him feel further apart from Gary. He couldn’t take it to heart—not if he wanted to keep their friendship intact, at any rate—so he did the only thing he could.

  He stood and went for the door.

  Before he
closed it, he got one last look at Mason Black, expecting some kind of smug grin. But Mason didn’t acknowledge him at all. There wasn’t so much as a nod of the head to say goodbye, and after all he’d done to track him down, Morgan expected something more. It made him feel as though he’d been wasting his time, but as he shut the door and made his way back to the police precinct lobby, he reminded himself of one important fact.

  Regardless of the lack of gratitude, he’d saved that man’s life.

  But Erika Givens was still out there.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The lobby was bustling with busy police officers, and Morgan sat quietly for as long as possible. It killed him that secrets were being unraveled upstairs, and he wasn’t there to listen in, but given the circumstances he understood. That didn’t mean he had to like it.

  The wait was torture. Every time the door swung open and a cold blast of air swept over his legs, Morgan jolted his head to one side. He hoped to see Erika Givens in handcuffs, being dragged through the precinct, screaming like a banshee. It came from the other side too; every swing of the gate that led to the back offices pricked his ears. He’d never felt so unlike himself, and although he longed to find the answers to some of his questions, he knew Rachel and their baby were waiting at home for him.

  He had to give in.

  An hour had turned into two, and two had become sundown. There was only so long he could sit and wait for something that might not even happen, so Morgan headed outside into the cool air, which he found shockingly refreshing for a change. It was like being struck with a blast of caffeine, his eyes opening wide immediately.

  But the wait didn’t end there: he needed a cab.

  Morgan pulled out his phone to make the call. He swiped his thumb up the screen as he scrolled through the competing cab companies, trying to decide which one was more likely to be trustworthy. Unfortunately, every one of them only had two-star ratings.

  “Damnit,” he muttered.

  “Something wrong?”

  Morgan turned to the voice, having to do a double take when he saw Mason Black beside him. It occurred to him this was the first time he’d seen him standing up, and although Mason had a wider chest and muscles that breached the hem of his borrowed clothes, they were of equal height. It went to show how easily one could be fooled by illusions.

  “Uh… just needed a cab.”

  “Maybe we can share one.”

  “Where are you going?”

  Mason shrugged, grinding his jaw from side to side and looking up the street. “No idea. They won’t let me have my car back. Not yet anyway.”

  “Why not?”

  “Psycho Bitch drove it, so they’re taking it into evidence.”

  Morgan nodded understanding. In truth, he was surprised it took him this long to realize that it wouldn’t be as simple as grabbing his keys and heading home. “Right. Makes sense. There’s bound to be a hotel or something nearby.”

  “Bound to be.”

  They stood in silence, waiting for a car that hadn’t even been summoned yet. Morgan kept his eyes down, staring at the phone in his hand but not really using it. All he could think of was how awkward it was to be at this man’s side. It wasn’t until now that he put it down to a sense of inferiority—Mason Black had survived the most exciting and illustrious of careers, whereas Morgan felt like he’d barely skimmed through a couple of tough cases. If there was ever a way to feel like less of a man, this was it.

  “Planning on calling that cab anytime soon?” Mason said. “It’s freezing.”

  “Yeah, sorry. I…”

  Then it struck him. He wasn’t less of a man at all. Hell, he wasn’t anything but competent, and with competency there had to come confidence. “You know what? I don’t want to share anything with you. I stuck my neck out to get you home safe, and the least you could do is show me a little appreciation. You can make out you’re the tough, gruff detective all the livelong day, but next time you’re in an interview room brooding, remember me as the reason you’re still alive.”

  Mason reeled back, apparently as shocked as Morgan was. “Whoa, easy now.”

  “Sorry. It just pisses me off that you can be so cold about it.”

  “And you want gratitude.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  Mason watched him with assessing eyes that were too glazed over to offer empathy. Finally, when he spoke, he at least offered something. “Okay, I get that. I might not seem it, but I really am grateful. Tell you what—let me buy you a beer.”

  “I don’t drink,” Morgan lied, desperately craving a bottle of red.

  “Well, now you do.”

  The next thing Morgan felt was a hard, viselike grip on his shoulder. It dug in deep, but he kept himself from yelping and allowed himself to be escorted across the street by Mason, the man who—in spite of their equal height—seemed five feet taller all of a sudden. All the while, Morgan kept his mouth shut, regretting having ever opened his mouth.

  An old saying sprung to mind.

  Be careful what you wish for.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The beer was stale. The conversation wasn’t. Nonetheless, Morgan spent the first few minutes paying no attention to Mason’s brags of dominance, and instead kept going back to Gary in his mind, asking him for the inside scoop on what had happened in the office after he’d left. It was suddenly all he could think about: getting the dirt on the man he’d saved. The man who showed no appreciation outside of a flat beer.

  They found a quiet corner where they could talk. Morgan scooched into the booth and kept his sleeves off the sticky table, setting down his glass with no intention of drinking its contents. He was here for the conversation, he kept telling himself, but deep down he knew he was only here because he didn’t have the nerve to say no to his present company.

  “Believe it or not, I really am thankful,” Mason said, taking a sip of the beer. He pulled a face that said he was dissatisfied with the quality and then put it aside. “I’m going to level with you here, just so we’re on the same playing field.”

  Morgan’s ears pricked. “I’m listening.”

  “Well, it’s like this… have you ever been a captive?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “As you know, I have. Let me tell you, there’s nothing more demoralizing or soul destroying as being somebody’s personal property. It takes every ounce of confidence and satisfaction you have, then it hauls it out the window and lets you fall the thirty stories to your death. Only it doesn’t feel like you die.”

  Morgan swallowed a dry lump. It wasn’t enough to make him reach for the beer.

  “It feels like you hit the ground and can’t move. All your bones have turned to mush, and you can’t do anything. All you have left is your voice. You use it to scream over and over, but nobody’s listening. It’s like you landed on the quietest street in the world. And your captor? She just comes down every now and then to make sure you’re still hers—still a nobody.”

  It dawned on Morgan that Mason really had been affected by his capture. The words were deep and cutting, but the truth shone in his eyes like a beacon, summoning just the slightest sense of camaraderie from Morgan. “I don’t understand,” he said, hoping for more.

  Mason fell silent and took another sip. This one made him wince, and he leaned over to sit the glass on the windowsill. It didn’t look like he wanted it back. “What I’m saying is, pushing my chest out back there was the only way to make me feel like I had any kind of control. I used to be a lot more stubborn, going back a few years. For a minute there I wanted to be my former self, even if just for a moment. I guess it made me feel like that bitch hadn’t won. Does that make sense?”

  It did. Morgan completely understood that what’d happened back in the office wasn’t personal—it was nothing more than a simple coping mechanism. “Sure.”

  “What I’m trying to say is that I’m sorry, and I’m really glad you found me.”

  Morgan couldn’t help but smile. �
�Want to drink to that?”

  “Not a chance in hell.” Mason grinned and wiped his eyes. “How are my girls?”

  “You haven’t spoken to them?”

  “I called them from the precinct to let them know I was okay. They gave me all the usual joy and happiness, but they’re getting pretty good at hiding their concern. When you spoke to them, did they sound worried? Hopeful?”

  Morgan remembered Amy’s face. He’d never seen such a loss of faith, but he wasn’t about to tell that to a broken man. Not when everyone on this side of the case had endured the same doubt. “They were concerned, but they knew they’d get you back.”

  “Seems they put a lot of trust in you.”

  “Apparently I was recommended.”

  “As well you should be. Drink to that?”

  “Not a chance.” Morgan smirked. At last, he felt as though the walls had been broken down, and now he was finally being introduced to the real Mason Black. The man who’d single-handedly brought down a number of serial killers. His career history was nothing if not impressive, and now he felt as though he was actually in a room with that legacy.

  And he could relate to him in more ways than he imagined.

  “How long have you been a PI?” Mason asked.

  “Long enough. Starting to realize it’s not the safest job in the world.”

  Mason grunted. “Let me guess, loved ones aren’t comfortable with it?”

  “Actually, Rachel is really supportive.”

  “They always are at first. Then the danger comes.”

  “We don’t all have your experience,” Morgan said. But when the words left his mouth, he realized they actually had a lot in common: they were both family men with a history of dangerous investigations. Where Mason had been a cop beforehand, Morgan had dived straight into the PI business. Regardless of their beginnings, however, they both seemed to have ended at the same place: bedlam. The most popular vacation spot for psychopaths and trauma.

  Mason crooked his eyebrow. “I guess serial killers aren’t the norm for people in our field. I have to admit, when I first started I was expecting more of a comfortable role. You know, finding thieves or photographing proof of adultery.”