“There’s no one you can call to let them know what we’re doing?”

Darby wanted confirmation they were proceeding down the correct path.

“I don’t trust anybody. Neither should you.”

He heard her low, throaty growl of frustration. He closed his eyes again, trying to recall the handler’s face who had set him up so thoroughly tonight.

Strangely enough, he could only picture Darby at the moment she chose to help him. The panic that flooded her eyes had been conquered and set aside with one determined heartbeat.

This woman was more than under his skin and he hadn’t even known her a full hour.




Angi Morgan had several jobs before taking the opportunity to stay home with her children and develop the writing career she always wanted. Volunteer work led to a houseful of visiting kids and an extended family. College breaks are full of homemade cookies, lots of visitors and endless hugs.

When the house is quiet, Angi plots ways to intrigue her readers with complex story lines. She throws her characters into situations they’ll never overcome…until they find the one person who can help.

With their three children out of the house, Angi and her husband live in North Texas with only the four-legged “kids” to interrupt her writing. For up-to-date news and information, visit Angi at her website, www.AngiMorgan.com.

Books by Angi Morgan




Dallas police officer Darby O’Malley—Until recently her only desire has been to work undercover. Now, it’s to clear her younger brother of murder charges. She’s on the edge of losing her job and her brother just might be guilty.

Undercover DEA agent Erren Rhodes—He’s been undercover for six years and he’s ready to get out before he makes a mistake and “gets dead.” When his mentor is murdered, he’s ready for justice.

Academy officer Walter Pike—Darby’s partner asked Erren to deliver the package, but was murdered before he could leave instructions.

Assistant district attorney Brian Thrumburt—Pike told him this case would make his career.

DEA agent John Knighton—Erren’s handler who disappears while watching Erren’s back.

The sergeant major—Denny O’Malley, U.S. Army, retired, and Darby’s father.

Sean O’Malley—Darby’s older brother. The only O’Malley sibling with a boring desk job.

Michael O’Malley—His blood type was found at the scene linking him to Pike’s murder. Shot and in a coma, he has all the answers, but no one can ask him the questions.

Chapter One

Alley. Lexus. Two drug dealers.

The situation read like a bad book: The Auto-Frickin-Biography of Erren Rhodes. He was pathetic. He would dread going through the motions of this meeting, but he was numb. Numb to the filth he dealt with on a daily basis. Numb to the filth he’d portrayed for the last six years. Numb to his filthy shell of a life.

Pike was dead and in the ground. Ambushed. Executed.

No witnesses.

Rhodes was certain no one had seen him at the funeral of his mentor, the man who had kicked his teenage years into shape. He’d stayed out of sight. He’d hung around the edges of the cemetery just as he did the edges of his fictional existence.

It was a dark and stormy night…blah, blah, blah. He’d laugh if it weren’t playing out in front of him like a colorized black-and-white film. It was time to get out of deep-cover work, but not before he found Pike’s murderer. He wouldn’t let the bastard go without justice.

Unfolding his legs, he climbed from the rundown rental he’d taken for the op. His first mistake. He should have insisted on something flashy like the sweet SUV at the end of the alley. Second mistake? This dark real estate. Drug deals went down at steak restaurants. Always in public places. So why was this meet for information set like a bad flick?

Backlit by the car’s headlights, two men came at him, arms extended, guns aimed at his chest. This was not the plan.

“You dudes have been watchin’ too many movies.” Yeah, he was mouthing off like a street thug—something he shouldn’t do but couldn’t help. He knew the drill and placed his hands at the back of his neck when Beavis and Butthead stepped closer. “Holdin’ the barrel sideways like that, empty casings can hit—”

“Shut up, fool.” The gold-toothed, eyebrow-pierced Butthead took another confident step closer.

Six years ago adrenaline shoved him to recklessness. Now it didn’t register. All these guys acted the same. Digging in with pond scum required a dedication he no longer had. His Dallas handler waited around the corner. Like he needed backup for this two-bit op? He could do this in his sleep.

Butthead shoved the barrel of a .357 Magnum under Rhodes’s chin while patting him down.

“You don’t talk ’til we says you talk,” the bleach-blond Beavis barked, nervously shifting from one foot to the other in front of the rental.

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