Dark Impulses arrives in less than one week! The penultimate chapter in The DSA’s first season pits partner against partner, testing everyone’s loyalty to the mission.
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Chapter One
The dripping sound woke her. The small pitter-patter falling along the soaked carpet at her feet sent wave after wave of dizzying echoes into her unconscious thoughts until she was snapped awake. Her first thought landed on the sink: a poorly maintained bathroom basin in a two-star motel on a dead-end road. Of course it was the sink. It wasn’t until Morgan Dunleavy licked her lips that she realized it wasn’t water running from the sink, but blood dripping down her face.
“Where?” she asked to the shadows of the room. The small stream ran from the top of her head, down her nose, and over her lips. She spat as the question left her, which interrupted the steady dripping.
From behind her, light split the dark beige curtains of the motel room. The bed lay upended along the far wall. It matched the state of the rest of the furniture in the cramped space. Morgan fought to breathe, the blood trickling into her mouth and over her tongue. Her eyes struggled to adjust to the moonlight which faded behind the fast moving clouds in the winter sky.
“Zac?” she called out. Her head pounded. Everything hurt. Everything screamed to be noticed and mended. She searched for her medical kit. Her mother had given it to her after Morgan graduated. She always carried it with her. The small bag rested out of sight; it was lost in the darkness, just like everything else.
“No,” a voice growled in response. Two small pebbles of light flickered from the far side of the room. A tapping returned to the background, this time that of a heavy-soled sneaker—red and white with blue laces. Morgan’s eyes widened. They attempted to refocus despite the swelling along her temples. “Your boy toy isn’t here, Morgan.”
Her mind snapped to attention, and the cloud over her thoughts was gone the second his words cracked the darkness. She reached to wipe away the blood and remove the matted strands of dark hair from her face. Her hands refused to obey her. She pulled again, and the force caused her to cry out. Tied hands strained against the chair beneath her.
“Oh, hell.”
The tapping ended and the figure in the shadows stood. His chair flew across the room. It joined the table, the nightstand, and the bed in a crumpled heap. His eyes remained wide lights, and deep red ran along the edges of his pupils. His jaw was clenched, which kept his voice throaty and guttural. She recognized him anyway by the gun in his hand—the same Ruger he always carried.
“Ben,” she muttered as her partner stepped into view.
“You betrayed me!” Ben Riley’s empty hand rubbed at his neck. The other shook with fury, yet his sidearm remained locked on his captive. Morgan tried to lift her hands, to talk to her partner calmly and casually. Zip ties clacked against the wooden frame of the chair. She recalled the struggle from earlier. She remembered the argument that started it, and the blood that followed.
Her blood. She bit back the panic creeping into her chest. “This isn’t…” Ben shook his head as soon as she opened her mouth. She spoke louder. “Ben. You need to listen to me.”
“To your lies?” Spit flew across the air between them. “After what you’ve done to me?”
“I haven’t—”
The gun silenced her, now only inches in front of her face. “You stole my life,” Ben cried. His eyes were a deep, dark red that matched his flushed cheeks. Goosebumps ran up his arms, and both were shaking, matching his uncontrolled anger. “You and Metcalf and the rest. You took everything from me! Do you know how that feels? Of course you don’t.”
He was wrong. She understood what it was like to lose a life you worked so hard to create. The DSA was built for people like them. A second and final chance.
“Ben,” she whispered. “Please…”
The gun cocked loudly. Cold eyes answered her plea. “But you will, Morgan. You will.”
The flare of the muzzle was the last thing Morgan saw. Then the world went dark.
