BooksBarbecue
Back The Lying House
Chapters (103)
  1. Cover
  2. Back Cover Text
  3. Praise
  4. Booklist
  5. Dedication
  6. Epigraph
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. 35
  42. 36
  43. 37
  44. 38
  45. 39
  46. 40
  47. 41
  48. 42
  49. 43
  50. 44
  51. 45
  52. 46
  53. 47
  54. 48
  55. 49
  56. 50
  57. 51
  58. 52
  59. 53
  60. 54
  61. 55
  62. 56
  63. 57
  64. 58
  65. 59
  66. 60
  67. 61
  68. 62
  69. 63
  70. 64
  71. 65
  72. 66
  73. 67
  74. 68
  75. 69
  76. 70
  77. 71
  78. 72
  79. 73
  80. 74
  81. 75
  82. 76
  83. 77
  84. 78
  85. 79
  86. 80
  87. 81
  88. 82
  89. 83
  90. 84
  91. 85
  92. 86
  93. 87
  94. 88
  95. 89
  96. 90
  97. 91
  98. 92
  99. 93
  100. 94
  101. Epilogue
  102. Acknowledgments and a Personal Note
  103. Excerpt

Morrow was with the Miami field office’s violent-crimes squad, positioned with a radio and earpiece and reading her phone on a bench at the edge of the parking lot. Not far from her mind was the 1986 shoot-out at a bank heist in Pinecrest that left two FBI agents dead and five others wounded. She was wearing body armor under a baggy sweatshirt.

Eight minutes after the bank opened, Morrow and others watched a Ford SUV and a GMC pickup truck arrive and park. Two men got out of each vehicle. Two of the four were wearing overalls, while the others looked like construction workers and carried sports bags or large backpacks over their shoulders as they walked across the parking lot to the branch.

When the men entered, police casually moved unmarked cars to block the parked pickup and SUV to hinder their escape.

At that moment, Morrow noticed something in an adjacent parking lot. Through a landscaped island holding a stand of palms and a dense, waist-high hedge, she saw a paneled van, driver’s window down and a bare arm resting on the frame. She casually walked closer, spotting the tailpipe jitter of an idling engine. She requested an urgent check of the Florida tag.

Moving closer, Morrow now clearly saw the driver’s tattoo, a shield bearing the number 1666, a known supremacist, prison-gang symbol.

Her radio crackled.

The van’s plate had come back: stolen out of Tampa.

Her radio then transmitted a static-filled update that all four suspects had been arrested without incident. Morrow’s pulse quickened, her eyes sharpened on the van’s driver. This was the getaway vehicle. Morrow called for backup, pulled out her chained badge, then drew her weapon, aiming at the driver’s head.

“FBI! Put your hands outside the window now!”

The driver, Caucasian, in his early forties, with a scarred face bearing teardrop tattoos, eyed Morrow without moving. A siren yelped. Two unmarked Fort Lauderdale units appeared within inches of the van, doors opened, shotguns aimed at the driver.

He cursed, then got out as ordered, got down on the ground on his stomach. Morrow pulled his arms behind him, snapped handcuffs on him while he growled at her.

“I would’ve enjoyed killing you, you—”

“Shut up!” Morrow said, then read him his Miranda rights.

Standing up and catching her breath, Morrow felt her phone vibrate.

A text from Addison, her ten-year-old daughter.

Mom, Dakota just invited me to her birthday party sleepover can I go? Please, please, please!

Morrow exhaled and closed her eyes.

She needed a coffee.

Some twenty miles north of Miami on twenty acres of reclaimed wetland, the FBI’s South Florida headquarters ascended seven and six stories in an H-shaped complex of undulating glass and aluminum.