Deep Deceit: A Detective Morgan Foster Vigilante Justice Thriller Read online

  Bill didn’t look back as he stepped onto the dock and into the darkness.

  5

  Morgan padded down the hallway with bare feet, checking to make sure the doors and windows of the house were closed and locked before she went to bed. From behind her, she could hear the tap of Bo’s nails on the tile. Why the big boxer followed her around all day long, she had no idea, but it gave her a sense of security and comfort. People didn’t deserve dogs, that was for sure, she thought.

  She stopped for a second at the door to Danny’s bedroom. It was open. She flipped the light on, staring inside. It was neat, unused. There was a stack of folded laundry on the edge of his bed, the bedspread pulled up, the pillows fluffed and placed carefully at the headboard. Drawing in a deep breath, Morgan could still smell the scent of her son, the combination of sweat, deodorant, and shampoo that seemed to follow him around. Morgan glanced down at Bo. He seemed to be looking for Danny too. But he wasn’t there. Danny had been gone for the last month at college. Florida State. He wanted to try his hand at finance, though Morgan wondered if that major would stick or not.

  Closing the door behind her, she heard a click of the knob in the doorframe. She looked down at Bo as he looked up at her, “He’ll be home soon, boy. We just have to keep ourselves busy in the meantime.”

  The month since Danny had been at college had been both the longest and the shortest of her life. It was the first time since Danny’s dad, Peter, had died that she was actually alone, without Danny rustling through the house. Even though Peter had been gone for years, much of the grief already gone, washed away by time and distance, Morgan still felt like her chest had been left with a gaping wound, one that could never be filled. She had been trying to fill it, though, but it was a miserable process. She’d started volunteering at the local animal shelter where she had gotten Bo, walking the dogs occasionally, helping out where she could. It seemed it was a different pack every time, the cutest dogs getting swiped up by families and taken home to a pile of new toys and brand-new food and water dishes. Some of the other dogs seemed to stay at the shelter for a long time. She felt bad for them. They’d been left behind just like she had. Everyone she knew had something in their lives to keep them occupied — Amber had her work as a detective, Sylvia was busy dissecting corpses of the Medical Examiner’s Office, and Danny was off on the great adventure that was called college.

  But not her.

  Morgan pressed her lips together and closed her eyes, pushing the thought away. Now was not the time to begin wallowing in despair. Staring at Danny’s door for another second, Morgan sucked in a breath and then walked toward the family room where the TV was on, a football game in the background. She’d turned it on a couple of hours before, although she had absolutely no idea who was playing.

  Slumping down on the couch, she patted the seat next to her. Bo jumped up, putting his head in her lap. She had just started to watch the game when she heard a knock at the door.

  Frowning, Morgan jumped up, Bo scrambled for the door, barking, and growling. Morgan opened a drawer in the kitchen and pulled out her pistol, gripping it tightly. Before Danny left for college, she’d left it locked up, but now that she was alone, she kept it close by at all times. She wasn’t going to become a target again. Never again.

  Walking to the front of the house, Morgan looked out the window. Duncan.

  Opening the door, Morgan stood in the doorway, “What are you doing here?” she said, holding the pistol at her side.

  Duncan glanced at her and then down at the gun in her hand, “You have a minute to talk?”

  “I’ve got nothing but minutes,” she said, stepping out of the doorway and letting him in. Morgan stepped outside, checking the front sidewalk to make sure no one else was lurking. After everything that had happened, and now living alone, she wasn’t taking any chances. It was all clear. No one was there. She closed the door and locked it behind her, following Duncan and Bo down the hallway into the kitchen. Setting the pistol on the counter, Morgan stared at Duncan as he turned to face her, the bright light over the kitchen table casting long shadows over him. He looked awful. His normally rosy cheeks above his long gray beard seemed without color, his skin dry and pallid. He stared at the ground for a second and then looked up at her. Something had to really be bothering him if he’d come out this late at night. Morgan frowned, “What is it?”

  His eyes met hers. There were lines of worry etched all over his face. “Can I get a glass of water?” he said softly, as though his mouth was so dry it was hard to get the words out. He clearly wasn’t ready to tell her what was going on. Not yet.

  Morgan nodded, “Sure.” She walked toward the kitchen cabinets, pulling open a door and grabbing a yellow plastic cup from one of Danny’s baseball tournaments and filling it with water. Her gut told her there was something wrong, very wrong. It wasn’t like Duncan to stop by unannounced, especially not at night. The look on his face told her something was eating at him. She set the cup down on the kitchen table and pointed toward an empty chair, “Come on over here. Have a seat. What’s going on?”

  As Duncan sat down, carefully bending his body to lower himself onto the chair, Morgan noticed he moved like every bone in his body ached. He took his baseball cap off, rubbing what was left of the thinning gray hair on the top of his head. From a pocket in his shirt, he pulled out a piece of white copy paper folded into quarters. He stared at it as he unfolded it, glancing at Morgan as he did. “I’m not very good with technology. Never have been. Just not my thing. On a whim, I decided to check my email today and I found this.”

  Morgan furrowed her eyebrows as Duncan pushed the piece of paper toward her. There were only a couple of lines of writing on it. From the information at the top, she could see it was an email sent to Duncan’s email account at the range from someone named Billy B. “Who’s Billy B?”

  “The son of a guy I used to serve with. Did you read the email?”

  “Not yet. Give me a sec. Trying to get my bearings here.” Morgan scanned the message, it read, “Hey Uncle Duncan, long time no see. Have been camping. Saw a turkey vulture. Hope to be home for the holidays. Reach out if you can. I could use your help. Billy.”

  Morgan stared at the piece of paper for a second, trying to make sense of the message. It was fairly basic as far as she could see. “Okay, I read the message. I’m sorry, Duncan, I don’t get it. Something has obviously got you upset, but I’m not sure what it is.”

  Duncan took a sip of water and then cleared his throat, “That message is from Bill Bryce, the son of Joe Bryce. I used to serve with him. Really good guy. We got each other out of a bunch of scrapes back in the day. I’ve known Billy his whole life. But Billy never emails me. Never. I haven’t heard from him in a couple of years.”

  “So, why is he emailing you now and talking about camping?”

  Duncan reached across the table and put his finger on the paper. His cuticles were raw and torn. “Those words — those are code words his dad and I used to use. Vulture and camping, in particular. The kid’s in trouble, Morgan.”

  Morgan blinked, waiting for her mind to catch up. “How can you be so sure? What does Billy do for a living, exactly?” As the words came out, she knew she sounded like a detective, or like the detective she used to be. She frowned. Why was Duncan being so vague?

  Duncan pressed his lips together and glanced at the table before looking back up at her, “Nobody ever told me directly, but if I had a stake my life on it, I’d bet he’s CIA.”

  “CIA?” Morgan said, raising her eyebrows. “If that’s the case, why is he reaching out to you? No disrespect, of course, but it’s not like you are active duty anymore.”

  Duncan shook his head, his beard swinging wildly from left to right. With a sudden burst of energy, he pushed his way out of the chair he was sitting, the feet scraping on the floor. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, his voice booming off the walls of her house, “That’s the thing. I don’t know, Morgan! What I do know is the kid’s in trouble. When his dad died, I told him I’d keep an eye out for him the best I could. Not much I can do if he’s busy sneaking all around the globe, but he reached out to me for help. That means he’s in real trouble. Probably not the kind he can get himself out of on his own.”

  Duncan was talking so loudly that Morgan had to fight off the urge to cover her ears. His Army Ranger commander's voice had come out from deep inside of him. She held her hands up, “Okay, okay. How about if you start at the beginning? What is it exactly you want me to do?”

  “Help me find him!” Duncan’s voice boomed again. He held his hands up, “I’m sorry. This has been bothering me all day long.” He lowered his voice and sat back down again, looking defeated, “I think this is my fault…”

  Morgan shook her head, “How is this your fault, Duncan? Last I checked, you don’t work for the CIA.”

  Duncan frowned, “The date. He sent the message over a week ago. If he’d just called the shop instead, I might’ve been able to talk to him, but he sent me a blasted email that I only found this afternoon.” He stared at Morgan for a second. “I’m sorry to bring this to you, but I don’t know anybody else that will help.”

  Morgan leaned back in her chair for a second, searching Duncan’s face. He was clearly upset and frustrated at the situation. But what could she do to help? “What is it that you are going to try to do here, Duncan?”

  “I gotta find him, Morgan. I owe it to his dad.”

  Morgan nodded and stood up from the table, walking into the kitchen she got herself a glass of water. She needed a minute to think. Watching the water fill the cup, she knew that Duncan wouldn’t come to her unless he was desperate. He was the kind of man who liked to handle his own business, definitely not the kind to get other people involved. She put her hands on the counter for a second, staring down, her heart skipping a beat. She wasn’t a detective anymore. Sure, she’d helped Amber deal with the Justin Shaner case, but this was something different. A missing CIA agent? That was totally out of her wheelhouse. She felt a knot form in her stomach. Shutting the water off, she turned and glanced down the hallway, seeing Danny’s closed bedroom door. Ever since he’d left the month before, she felt a growing sense of emptiness, an inkling in her gut that maybe there was more for her to do that she just wasn’t doing. Was this it? She sighed, picking up the plastic cup and walking into the kitchen, sitting back down with Duncan.

  “I know it’s a big ask, Morgan, especially given everything you’ve been through, but I don’t have anywhere else to turn. The other guys at the range, they’re not up to speed with stuff like you are. And this kid, he means everything to me. I owe his dad. I mean, I really owe him.”

  The words hung in the air. Morgan searched Duncan’s face. Duncan was a friend, one of the few she had since she moved back to Tampa. The least she could do was hear him out and try to give him a hand. “Okay. Where do we start?”

  6

  Reza Golzar slammed the apartment door behind him rattling a picture of the Supreme Leader that had been hung on the wall nearby. He felt a single trickle of sweat run down his spine. He stood for a second, the heat of his fury at losing Bill Bryce and the temperature of the late summer desert making his blood boil. His team of operatives — they were supposed to be some of the best in the business — had failed him. How was that even possible? Gripping his hands into fists, he took a breath, holding it until his lungs started to burn. His eyes wide, he let it out, forcing himself to relax.

  The murmur of voices inside the apartment filled his ears along with the whoosh of blood. The deep breath hadn’t worked. He focused on what was in front of him, the smell of ginger and cardamom and garlic from the last meal they’d shared before they’d gone out to hunt the American, the musty smell of the old Persian rug on the floor.

  And yet they’d come home empty-handed.

  Reza strode forward into the heart of the apartment. It was just one of the many that his team had access to while they were working, which was always. None of the men, including Reza, were married or had families. Families were a liability. The team worked all the time, night and day, staying at whatever apartment the Iranian Ministry of Intelligence and Security had available. The apartments were stationed throughout the entire country, ready for the intelligence officers to use them as needed. But this one was by far his favorite — with soothing cream walls and mosaic tile on the floor. The heavy wooden furniture had maroon and gold accents, the couches were newer by Ministry standards, with tasseled pillows on each corner. This apartment, in the heart of Isfahan, reminded him of his childhood home, though the apartment they were using was much nicer than anything his parents had ever managed to own.

  Reza bit his lip, the taste of salt and blood filling his mouth. He’d scratched and scraped his way up to being one of the lead investigators for the Ministry of Intelligence and Security, known to the rest of the world as the MOIS, or just “the Ministry.” Reza was one of the most trusted and feared officers in the ranks, and yet he couldn’t find a simple, stupid American.

  From off to the side, he heard one of the men digging through the refrigerator. “I’m starved! Isn’t there any food in here? Why doesn’t anyone bother to leave us anything to eat after we go out hunting?”

  Reza turned his eyes on the man. He was only a few years younger than Reza, but he hadn’t managed to achieve the same level of success in the ministry that Reza had. By the looks of him, he and Reza could be brothers, his dark hair and sallow skin further tanned after hours sitting in the sun. But he was impulsive. Mouthy. Reza looked at him, “Is that all you can think about right now?”

  The man, Shami, stared at Reza and then cocked his head to the side, “You don’t seriously expect us to go out on a mission and then not feed us? What, am I supposed to starve myself to death because we couldn’t find Bill Bryce? He’s just the latest in your long list of targets.”

  A fresh wave of fury washed over Reza. He drew his pistol from the small of his back and leveled it at the man, pulling off a shot and hitting him dead in the chest. Reza crossed the space, bending over as the man lay on the cold tile floor, gurgling, a trickle of blood coming from the corner of his lip. An open chest wound was bubbling through the thin fabric of his shirt as he lay in a pool of his own blood. “You never speak to me that way. Ever!” Reza shouted, aiming the pistol at Shami’s head and pulling the trigger again, the cacophony of the explosion from the barrel of the gun echoing off the walls. Shami’s head lolled off to the side, bits of skull and brain spread over the mosaic floor of the kitchen, a new rush of blood pooling crimson underneath his body.

  Reza stared at the body for a second and then drew a knife from the butcher block set on the counter. He knew his team. It wasn’t enough to just kill Shami. He had to send a message.

  Using his foot against the man’s jaw, Riza stuck the blade inside of Shami’s mouth, cutting out his tongue. He looked up, seeing the stares of the three remaining men who had failed him. He held Shami’s tongue in his hand and stared at them, “You never show disrespect to your officer like he did! Especially when the mission was an abject failure. None of you should be worried about eating or sleeping or women until this American and his lies and deceit are handled!” He flung the tongue at the man that was standing closest to him, the man sidestepping it in barely enough time to avoid the mutilated tissue from hitting him.

  “Now, clean this up and go pray that we figure out a way to get Bill Bryce.”

  Reza stepped over the body in the kitchen, avoiding the pools of blood on the floor with his dress shoes. He rolled up the sleeves of his navy-blue shirt, turned on the water at the sink until it was scalding hot and washed his hands three times with soap and water before shutting it off and drying his hands on a rough cotton towel nearby.

  Walking outside onto the balcony, he could hear the men moving quietly behind him, the crinkle of plastic being unrolled, the whispers of the men as they worked to clean up the remains of their teammate, left bloody on the floor. Reza fought the urge to look behind him. If he watched what they were doing, they would take it as a sign of weakness, a sign that he had regrets. The fact that he walked right out onto the balcony expecting them to take care of the problem was the way a leader should act. There should be no questions. Reza picked at some of the paint on the decorative railing that fenced the balcony with a trimmed fingernail. He wanted to feel sorry about his little demonstration with Shami, but he didn’t. Shami was out of line and disrespectful. Disrespect wasn’t tolerated in Iran, and especially not in the Ministry. His men needed to do exactly what they were told and show remorse if they were unable to fulfill his requests.

  And that was the situation Reza knew he was in.

  The team had spent the better part of the last week, after losing Bill Bryce’s trail, trying to find any trace of him in Isfahan and the surrounding areas. They’d spent hours interrogating their web of informants, paying money for information and brutalizing a few Reza believed knew more than they did. By now, Reza suspected that Bill had left the country, but not taking the time to scour every inch of Isfahan and the surrounding areas would leave him open to criticism that he couldn’t afford from the Ministry.

  Reza stared down at the narrow street below him. It was nothing more than a two-lane path between arching apartments on either side. The hum of car engines and motorcycles passed below in the late afternoon heat. Men walked together in groups, their voices carrying upward as they talked about their day or escorted women from their family, dressed in hijabs, the headscarves required since 1979, when the religious conservatives took control of Iran after a period of progressive reform. Reza spotted a couple of groups of women moving together, the hems of their skirts swishing across the ground as they moved silently down the street, gathering the necessary supplies for dinner from the market that was just around the corner.