The House of Morgan Books 1-3
Victoria Pinder
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to my husband who kept hearing me talk about the Morgan family when we sleep at night. My dearest husband kept asking who was Peter and John.
Chapter One
John Morgan loaded his Colt M4 Carbine assault rifle as he studied the mansion nestled in the Georgia hills. After a year of digging for information, Frank Hudson was about to be arrested.
His skin prickled as his team moved into position. He frowned and adjusted the rifle by the strap across the back of his FBI wind jacket so he had his hands free.
His cell phone buzzed in his jeans' back pocket. John checked it fast, surprised to see his brother's number. He turned off the ringer, deciding to call Peter once the mission ended. It had to be important for the heir apparent of the House of Morgan to call the spare son. John swallowed and shook his head. Normal families didn't call themselves a dynasty or the House of anything.
With his gaze narrowed, John focused on his job—to arrest his father's associate. Frank was dirty, and he might know more information about John's father, Mitch. Every arrest brought John one step closer to the evidence he needed against the man who'd raised him.
John tipped his chin and nodded at the four men set to break through the door.
His primary team and the local police burst into the house. John stayed back, gun ready, in case an associate of Frank's ran outside.
Agent Wolfson shouted, "FBI. Freeze."
John gestured for more men to enter the house.
No shots were fired.
Just as the surveillance read, Frank Hudson had been home with his wife, Beatrice, and his two adult daughters, Serena and Serenity, who were all used to the best in life and funded through money laundering. Women's screams rang in the air as the last of the law enforcement filled the house.
John tugged his baseball cap over his sandy blond hair and went inside with the third wave to ensure that Frank was in handcuffs.
John lowered his head so Frank might not notice who'd brought him to justice as he rushed in the door. He'd prefer to let the guys who didn't personally know Frank handle the arrest. John's moment would come later, during the interrogation at the station as he let his six foot two frame intimidate from the door.
He'd wasted too much time already. Mitch Morgan had killed his own daughter, John's sister, and he would prove it. Frank's arrest would help Victoria rest in peace, despite what Mitch had done to her.
John clenched his jaw. Unlike Mitch, it had been easy to learn about Frank, his habits, his quirks, his schedule. John's shoulders were tight as he turned into the living room.
Two team members stood over the older gentleman kneeling on the floor, hands cuffed behind his back, with tears in his brown eyes. He cried out to the other agents, "My lawyer will hear of this."
John scowled and shook his head. Frank was done, bringing John one inch closer to learning how deep the House of Morgan had buried itself.
He'd spent a year on this case, on his mission to bring down all of his father's connections. It was airtight. Frank Hudson's charity had laundered money to thicken his wallet. The older man gazed into John's eyes. "John Morgan, is that you?"
So much for waiting. John's spine straightened as he towered over the prisoner. Being the second son in the House of Morgan, who looked like Mitch, meant he'd always be recognized. He took off his cap and stilled. "Yeah, Frank. It's me."
"Why would you do this to me?"
John wouldn't give Frank any clues on this investigation for his lawyers to use. His body tensed as he slammed his fists on the coffee table. "Why did you break the law?"
The old man pleaded in a warbling voice, "John Morgan, I'm friends with your father. That should mean something." He said it as though he expected leniency, for John to look the other way. He imagined his father, twisting his ring as he waited for someone like Frank to bow to his hand.
The House of Morgan owned everyone and everything. His father taught him to never let emotions interfere with business. He chose to ignore how the women all sat in the dining room and focused on his target. John shrugged. "Who isn't a friend with dear old Dad?"
"I'll speak to Mitch, right after I speak to my attorney."
John's mouth curled into a sneer. Perfect. His old man should know he was one step closer to uncovering his crimes. Then he turned on his heel. His footsteps echoed on the polished mahogany floors as John stepped out of the house and into the shadows of the trees outside. He'd interrogate Frank later.
He went to his car and started it up, driving to the local headquarters to report that Frank Hudson was in custody.
His brother's face played in his memory as John made the second turn onto I-285. What had Peter wanted? They hadn't spoken in years.
John's phone vibrated in his back pocket. He reached behind him and stared at Peter's name, again, as he placed it on the console. A coldness inched up his spine. Truthfully, he had no words to say right now. Peter was his father's right-hand man and could be guilty. He could also not be. He clenched the phone. If he didn't answer, he'd spend forever analyzing what Peter might have to say. "Hello."
"John."
Peter's voice struck at some deep memories he'd rather avoid. The back of his neck pinched. Peter had chosen Mitch's life. I shouldn't have answered. "Peter, I'm busy."
"Whatever you're doing can wait."
Once again Peter Morgan thought he could order him around. His left eye twitched. His older brother's forceful answer burned like acid through him. No one told him what to do. He sighed. "No, my life can't wait."
"Dad's dead."
John stepped on the gas and his car took off at high speed. "He's what?"
He took his foot off the accelerator and pressed his lips together. At least no other car was near him on the freeway.
John's heart raced as Peter spoke with crisp syllables. "Dad is dead."
Adrenalin shot through him, electrifying his body. He steadied the wheel. "I don't care."
"I don't either."
No? Peter expected to be next in line and to inherit the entire House of Morgan. Then just as fast as the storm of emotions set off inside him, his body temperature cooled. Peter was too much like their father. John didn't trust him. He'd keep his words and sentences short. "So why are you calling me?"
"You should be at the funeral."
John rolled his eyes as he turned off of the 285. "Why? So you can pretend we have a family?"
"Victoria would want us to be together."
John's breathing hitched at the sucker-punch. Their dead baby sister deserved better than her name in the mud. Though he didn't need to say so, he did anyway. "Vicki's dead."
"I don't know how that happened."