FOR PENANCE, page 1
FOR PENANCE
(A Morgan Cross FBI Suspense Thriller—Book Eighteen)
B L A K E P I E R C E
Blake Pierce
USA Today and #1 bestselling author Blake Pierce is the author of numerous series in the mystery and thriller genres, spanning 10 years of work, including the Jessie Hunt, Ella Dark, Rylie Page, Faith Bold and Rachel Gift series. Blake's most recent latest releases are the Jenna Graves, Alison Payne, Isla Rivers and Kari Blackhorse series.
Please visit blakepierceauthor.com to learn more, join the email list, receive free books, and stay in touch.
Copyright © 2025 by Blake Pierce. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Jacket image Copyright Kinga Kovacs used under license from Shutterstock.com.
SERIES BY BLAKE PIERCE
KARI BLACKHORSE
ISLA RIVERS
ALISON PAYNE
JENNA GRAVES
THE GOVERNESS
RACHEL BLACKWOOD
SHEILA STONE
FINN WRIGHT
MORGAN CROSS
JULIETTE HART
FAITH BOLD
FIONA RED
DAISY FORTUNE
AMBER YOUNG
CAMI LARK
NICKY LYONS
CORA SHIELDS
MAY MOORE
PAIGE KING
VALERIE LAW
RACHEL GIFT
AVA GOLD
A YEAR IN EUROPE
ELLA DARK
LAURA FROST
EUROPEAN VOYAGE
ADELE SHARP
THE AU PAIR
ZOE PRIME
JESSIE HUNT
CHLOE FINE
KATE WISE
THE MAKING OF RILEY PAIGE
RILEY PAIGE
MACKENZIE WHITE
AVERY BLACK
KERI LOCKE
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
David Marshall watched the autumn sunset paint the Dallas skyline in amber and crimson through his small office window. The fading light caught on his framed credentials—a psychology doctorate earned during his incarceration, certificates from rehabilitation programs that had once saved him, and three modest awards for his work with former inmates. He adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses and returned to organizing his notes from the day's therapy sessions.
His fingers traced the edges of a client file, a small smile tugging at his goatee. Jason, a former drug dealer released just three months ago, had secured a warehouse position and reconnected with his ten-year-old daughter after years of estrangement. The little girl had drawn her father a picture, which Jason had proudly shown during their session. David had felt that familiar warmth spread through his chest—the quiet validation that rehabilitation worked, that people could change. It was the same system that had transformed him from a desperate man who'd embezzled to cover his mother's medical bills into the counselor he was today.
The silver pendant at his neck—his mother's cross—caught the light as he leaned forward to make a final note in Jason's file. She hadn't lived to see him free, but he liked to think she would be proud of the man he'd become.
David closed the manila folder and added it to the meticulously arranged stack on his desk. Each represented someone walking the difficult path he once traveled—former inmates navigating the treacherous terrain of freedom after years behind bars. He understood their struggles in ways other counselors couldn't, had earned their trust through shared experience.
He glanced at his watch. The cleaning service wouldn't arrive until eight in the morning, but he was done for the day. David packed his leather satchel, carefully placing his therapy notes and appointment book inside, when the electronic chime of the front door sounded despite the "CLOSED" sign illuminated in the window.
"Hello?" he called, zipping the satchel closed. Probably one of his regulars in crisis. It wouldn't be the first time. He raised his voice to reach the reception area. "I'm still here! Come on back."
Heavy footsteps approached down the hallway—deliberate, measured. A man appeared in his doorway, silhouetted against the dim light of the corridor. David didn't immediately recognize him, though something in the visitor's posture—a certain tension in the shoulders, a watchfulness in his stance—suggested a former inmate.
The stranger stepped into the office. He was well-dressed in dark slacks and a button-down shirt, clean-cut with neatly trimmed hair, and carried what looked like a portfolio tucked under one arm. When he smiled, the expression seemed practiced, calculated. It never reached his eyes, which remained cold and evaluating.
"Can I help you?" David asked, his instincts prickling with unease. He discreetly pressed the button under his desk that would lock the file cabinet—a security measure for client confidentiality.
"I hope so," the man replied, closing the door behind him with a soft click. "I've heard good things about your work."
David's posture straightened, his professional mode engaging despite his discomfort. "I'm sorry, the office is closed," he said, more firmly this time. "But if you need help, I can schedule you for tomorrow. First appointment is at nine."
"This can't wait," the man replied, his voice unnervingly calm. He moved further into the room, setting his portfolio on the visitor's chair rather than taking a seat himself. "We need to talk about rehabilitation, Dr. Marshall. About how people like you fool yourselves into thinking monsters can change."
A chill crawled up David's spine. He kept his expression neutral, though his heartbeat quickened. He'd faced hostile clients before—anger was part of the healing process. His hand inched toward the desk phone. "Change is always possible. That's the foundation of the work I do."
The visitor's eyes tracked the movement of David's hand, and his mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Is it, though? Or is it just a convenient lie you tell yourself?"
David's fingers brushed the edge of the phone, but the visitor's next movement was a blur of calculated violence. In one fluid motion, the man pulled a serrated hunting knife from inside his portfolio and lunged across the desk.
"Wait—" David gasped, throwing up his arm in defense and stammering back. His head struck the credenza behind him, sending framed certificates crashing to the floor.
The attacker was on him in seconds, eyes now alive with a terrible hunger that had been hiding behind the practiced smile. David managed one scream before a blade sliced over his throat. The silver pendant at his neck—his mother's cross—caught the last crimson ray of sunset.
In his final conscious moment, David Marshall understood the terrible truth: some monsters don't change. They just learn to wear better disguises.
CHAPTER ONE
Special Agent Morgan Cross paced across the concrete floor of the abandoned warehouse, each step of her combat boots echoing in the cavernous space. Dust motes swirled in the weak beams of evening light filtering through broken windows, catching on the exposed pipes and rusted metal beams overhead. The air smelled stale—a mixture of mildew, rust, and abandonment that clung to her nostrils. Her fingers twitched with nervous energy, a habit she'd developed during her decade in prison when stillness invited attention. The tattoos that crawled up her arms beneath her jacket sleeves—stark reminders of the years stolen from her—felt especially prominent tonight.
A rat scurried across her path, disappearing into the shadows. Morgan barely flinched. After ten years in a cell, vermin didn't bother her anymore. What bothered her was waiting—the suspended animation between action and consequence that reminded her too much of waiting for a parole board decision, or for lights out on a day when you knew trouble was coming.
She glanced at Assistant Director Mueller, who stood by a dust-covered window, checking his watch for what must have been the fifth time in as many minutes. His silver mustache twitched with obvious irritation, the only tell in his otherwise composed demeanor. Despite his impeccable s
For a man who had spent decades climbing the FBI hierarchy, playing political games and avoiding career-ending mistakes, allying with a formerly disgraced agent to pursue corruption within the Bureau itself was unprecedented. Morgan still wasn't entirely convinced of his motives, but she'd learned to read people in prison—a skill that had kept her alive—and Mueller's determination seemed genuine.
"He'll be here," Morgan said, not for Mueller's benefit, but to quiet her own doubts. Her voice sounded unnaturally loud in the empty warehouse. She knew her father better than anyone. If John Christopher said he would come, he would. The man who had raised her alone in that cabin in the woods, who had taught her to track animals and trust her instincts, had never once broken a promise to her.
Until he'd disappeared and let her believe he was dead.
Morgan pushed away the flare of resentment. There would be time to sort through those complicated feelings later. Right now, they needed to focus on the task at hand: bringing down Richard Cordell, the man responsible for framing both her and her father, the puppet master who had orchestrated the destruction of their lives from the shadows.
Morgan's partner, Derik Greene, leaned against a structural pillar several feet away, his green eyes constantly scanning between her and the entrance. Even in the dim light, she could see the dark circles under his eyes, the slight dishevelment of his usually perfectly slicked-back hair, the tension in his jaw that spoke of clenched teeth. Unlike her constant movement, Derik maintained a practiced stillness—the calm of a man who had learned to control his external reactions through years of sobriety meetings and high-pressure situations.
Their eyes met briefly across the warehouse. Morgan saw the question there—a silent "Are you okay?"—and gave a short nod in response. They had developed this wordless communication during their years as partners, before her imprisonment, and had somehow picked it up again after her release, despite the complicated history between them. Despite his betrayal, forced by blackmail from the same people who had framed her. Despite everything left unsaid when their professional partnership had evolved into something far more personal—lovers first, and partners second.
A sharp gust of wind rattled the windows, sending a shower of dust from the rafters. Morgan instinctively looked up, years of hypervigilance making her assess potential threats from all angles. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the occasional distant sound of traffic and the soft creak of the building's aging structure. Morgan felt her heart hammering against her ribs. After everything—the frame job, ten years behind bars, Thomas's murder—they were finally closing in on the man responsible. Richard Cordell would pay for what he'd done to her and to her family.
She absently traced the outline of a tattoo on her left forearm through her jacket sleeve—a phoenix rising from ashes, the first ink she'd gotten after her release. A reminder that she had survived, that she had emerged from the fire transformed but unbroken.
"He's late," Mueller muttered, breaking the silence as he glanced at his watch yet again. "If he doesn't show in the next ten minutes—"
"He'll be here," Morgan repeated, more firmly this time. "This isn't exactly a coffee shop meet-up, Director. He's been off the grid for years. He'll be cautious."
Mueller gave her a measured look but didn't argue. Morgan suspected he was still adjusting to the new version of her—harder, more direct, less concerned with Bureau politics and chain of command. Prison had stripped away her patience for bureaucratic niceties.
A faint sound from the side entrance made all three of them tense. Morgan's hand instinctively moved toward her holstered weapon as footsteps approached, slow and deliberate. She drew a slow breath, steadying herself. The moment of truth had arrived.
She felt Derik shift to a more alert position behind her and heard Mueller's sharp intake of breath. Everyone in the room knew what was at stake. If John Christopher had been followed, if Cordell's men had tracked him here, they could all be walking into an ambush.
The side door creaked open slowly, and Morgan's muscles coiled, ready for action if needed. A shadow appeared in the doorway, pausing there as if assessing the situation before committing to entry.
John Christopher emerged from the shadows, looking somehow more weathered than she remembered from their meeting in the woods just the other day. He moved with the careful deliberation of a man who had spent years expecting an ambush, his beard unkempt and streaked with gray, his flannel shirt and canvas jacket dusty and worn. But his eyes—her eyes, people had always said—remained sharp and alert, constantly assessing potential threats.
He carried himself differently than the father she remembered from childhood—the straight-backed woodsman who had seemed ten feet tall in her young eyes, invincible and all-knowing. This man was slightly stooped, as if the weight of decades in hiding had gradually bent his spine. The calluses on his hands spoke of manual labor, of a life lived rough and ready, away from the comforts of civilization.
"John Christopher," Mueller breathed, his usual composure cracking at the sight of the man who had been presumed dead for so long. “It’s really you. Son of a bitch.”
Morgan’s father stopped several feet away, maintaining a distance from the group. His gaze lingered on Morgan, softening momentarily in a way that made her throat tighten unexpectedly. She saw a flicker of pride there, maybe even love, beneath the wariness.
"It’s good to see you again, Morgan," he said, his voice rough from disuse, like gravel being turned over. Then his eyes hardened as he turned to Mueller. "Can't say the same for Bureau leadership."
Morgan watched Mueller bristle but hold his tongue. This wasn't the time for old grudges, not when they needed each other. The history between these two men was complex—former colleagues turned adversaries by circumstances neither could have predicted. Mueller had believed the official story about John Christopher for decades, until Morgan's own case had forced him to reconsider everything he thought he knew about the Bureau he had served his entire adult life.
"Thank you for coming," she said, taking a step toward her father. The distance between them felt both physical and emotional—a chasm created by years of deception and absence. "We need to talk about Cordell."
John nodded, his posture still guarded. "Didn't have much choice. You asked me, Morgan." His eyes flicked toward the windows, the doorways, the shadowed corners of the warehouse. Old habits, Morgan recognized. The same ones she had developed in prison.
"We've secured the location," she assured him, recognizing his concern. "Swept for bugs, posted lookouts."
"Never secure enough," John muttered, but his posture relaxed marginally.
Morgan had seen how he'd been living since faking his death. Deep in the woods, isolated and off-grid, with multiple escape routes and security systems designed by a man expecting enemies. A generator for minimal electricity, well water, hunting and fishing for most of his food. A life reduced to the basics of survival, devoid of human connection or comfort.
Morgan was still trying to reconcile this wary fugitive with the father who had taught her to fish and track animals, who had bandaged her knee when she fell from a tree and told her stories by firelight. A man who had read her "The Hobbit" chapter by chapter on winter nights when snow piled high around their cabin, who had taught her to identify constellations, who had helped her build her first treehouse.
That man seemed worlds away from the hardened survivor who stood before her now, his eyes constantly moving, fingers never straying far from what she suspected was a concealed weapon beneath his jacket.
“So you really trust this guy?” John asked, nodding at Mueller.
Morgan hesitated, locking eyes with Mueller. They’d had their share of differences over the years—for a long time, Morgan was sure Mueller believed she’d gone to prison rightfully. That she was a bad seed. But they’d mended their distrust, and Mueller had become her only ally deep in the FBI aside from Derik. She had no choice but to trust him.
