Arch Enemy Read online

  Highest Praise for Leo J. Maloney and His Thrillers

  TWELVE HOURS

  “Fine writing and real insider knowledge make this a must.”

  —Lee Child

  BLACK SKIES

  “Smart, savvy, and told with the pace and nuance that only a former spook could bring to the page, Black Skies is a tour de force novel of twenty-first-century espionage and a great geopolitical thriller. Maloney is the new master of the modern spy game, and this is first-rate storytelling.”

  —Mark Sullivan

  “Black Skies is rough, tough, and entertaining. Leo J. Maloney has written a ripping story.”

  —Meg Gardiner

  SILENT ASSASSIN

  “Leo Maloney has done it again. Real life often overshadows fiction and Silent Assassin is both: a terrifyingly thrilling story of a man on a clandestine mission to save us all from a madman hell bent on murder, written by a man who knows that world all too well.”

  —Michele McPhee

  “From the bloody, ripped-from-the-headlines opening sequence, Silent Assassin grabs you and doesn’t let go. Silent Assassin has everything a thriller reader wants—nasty villains, twists and turns, and a hero—Cobra—who just plain kicks ass.”

  —Ben Coes

  “Dan Morgan, a former Black Ops agent, is called out of retirement and back into a secretive world of politics and deceit to stop a madman.”

  —The Stoneham Independent

  TERMINATION ORDERS

  “Leo J. Maloney is the new voice to be reckoned with. Termination Orders rings with the authenticity that can only come from an insider. This is one outstanding thriller!”

  —John Gilstrap

  “Taut, tense, and terrifying! You’ll cross your fingers it’s fiction—in this high-powered, action-packed thriller, Leo Maloney proves he clearly knows his stuff.”

  —Hank Phillippi Ryan

  “A new must-read action thriller that features a double-crossing CIA and Congress, vengeful foreign agents, a corporate drug ring, the Taliban, and narco-terrorists . . . a you-are-there account of torture, assassination, and double agents, where ‘nothing is as it seems.’ ”

  —Jon Renaud

  “Leo J. Maloney is a real-life Jason Bourne.”

  —Josh Zwylen, Wicked Local Stoneham

  “A masterly blend of Black Ops intrigue, cleverly interwoven with imaginative sequences of fiction. The reader must guess which accounts are real and which are merely storytelling.”

  —Chris Treece, The Chris Treece Show

  “A deep-ops story presented in an epic style that takes fact mixed with a bit of fiction to create a spy thriller that takes the reader deep into secret spy missions.”

  —Cy Hilterman, Best Sellers World

  “For fans of spy thrillers seeking a bit of realism mixed into their novels, Termination Orders will prove to be an excellent and recommended pick.”

  —Midwest Book Reviews

  ALSO BY LEO J. MALONEY

  Termination Orders

  Silent Assassin

  Black Skies

  Twelve Hours

  Arch Enemy

  A DAN MORGAN THRILLER

  Leo J. Maloney

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Highest Praise for Leo J. Maloney and His Thrillers

  ALSO BY LEO J. MALONEY

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Chapter 94

  Chapter 95

  Chapter 96

  Chapter 97

  Chapter 98

  Chapter 99

  Chapter 100

  Chapter 101

  Chapter 102

  Chapter 103

  Chapter 104

  Chapter 105

  Chapter 106

  Chapter 107

  Chapter 108

  Chapter 109

  Chapter 110

  Chapter 111

  Chapter 112

  Chapter 113

  Chapter 114

  Chapter 115

  Chapter 116

  Chapter 117

  Chapter 118

  Chapter 119

  Chapter 120

  Chapter 121

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Teaser chapter

  Teaser chapter

  Teaser chapter

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Copyright Page

  With respect and honor I dedicate this book to the Mission K9 Rescue organization that has recognized and aided thousands of military and contract working dogs. These canines have served valiantly alongside their human counterparts to keep our country safe. The dogs and their handlers are heroes and should be treated as such.

  Chapter 1

  Dom Watson kept his gaze fixed on the watch face, gold against black, as the second hand ticked toward twelve. His striped button-down was soaked through with sweat, clinging like ice to his lower back. He tapped a pen against the desk, drawing his eyes away just enough to cast them up and down the open-plan office, the row of cubicles holding plants and word-a-day calendars and Dilbert comics. All that stupid, workaday normality, dead for the weekend. Watson wasn’t going to miss it.

  Now, with seconds to go, he
was itching to have it over with. Eyes on his watch, Breitling, five grand, not that anyone is asking, he fiddled with the plastic and metal gadget in his pocket, tracing its contours with his fingers.

  The two longer hands reached twelve in unison. He held himself still for five more ticks out of some unknown scruple, and then he drew the blue plastic parallelepiped from his pocket. He looked over his monitor and the wall of his cubicle at the dim space beyond. A few screens were still glowing, a few desk lights were still on, but anyone here at the office at 6 A.M. on a Saturday would not be concerned with what he was up to.

  He bent forward in his chair, aligning the little device with the USB port on the CPU that whirred away under his desk and pushed, but it wouldn’t go. Somehow, having been an IT specialist for almost a decade, he still managed to get the orientation wrong more than half the time. He turned the drive 180 degrees in his fingers and held it against the slot. Throughout this process he kept a wary attention, as if inserting a thumb drive into his computer were in itself suspicious in the slightest.

  He was no good at this cloak-and-dagger bullcrap.

  Last chance to give up, he told himself, knowing there was already no going back.

  He thrust against the faint resistance until the device settled. It came to life right away, the once dark circle on its body blinking blue. His computer showed no activity at all, but he knew the little device was hard at work burrowing into the hard drive, laying the groundwork to offer up free access to the company servers to—he didn’t know exactly who, or even whether they were white hats or black hats. He didn’t want to know. They could keep him safe. They were his last hope. That was all that mattered.

  Too anxious to keep seated as the worm did its work, he stood and looked out through tinted floor-to-ceiling windows behind his chair. Even from the seventh floor, Acevedo Tower had a gorgeous view of downtown Boston, of the Custom House still illuminated in the predawn light, dividing the skyscrapers to the right and the dark water of the channel to the left. Little flurries of snow drifted against the window, and he laid his hand against the glass to feel the cold. If there was something he’d miss about this place, it was this view. That and—

  “Hello, Dominic.” He nearly jumped at the singsongy voice coming from behind him. “Goodness, I didn’t mean to startle you!” Violet Zanger, carrying her enormous cat-pattern purse. “Silly me, I forgot my theater tickets for tonight at my desk. I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d swing by. I didn’t think there’d be anyone in the office this early on a Saturday.”

  “Just finishing up some security updates.” Stupid. Stop looking guilty. “You know how it is. Can’t leave until that progress bar reaches one hundred percent.”

  “Well, don’t exhaust yourself. It causes premature aging, you know.”

  “Don’t worry, Violet. I’ll take care. Should be going soon.”

  Her painted-on eyebrows screwed up in a frown of put-on concern. “You know, I’ve noticed that you’ve been looking very tired. Have you been getting enough sleep?”

  “Been sleeping just fine, Violet,” he said, jaw set in irritation.

  “Maybe you need to go to the doctor. You know, I had this friend in college—now what was her name—”

  “Violet,” he interrupted through gritted teeth, “I’m sorry, but I really can’t talk right now.”

  A puzzled expression came over her face, more, he thought, at his daring to interrupt her than any concern about his strange behavior. “What’s going on with you, Dominic? I’m beginning to get very worried.”

  “I’m fine, okay? There’s nothing here for you to worry about, so just go ahead and go home, have a nice weekend, and don’t worry about me.” He was nearly yelling by the end of it, the stress of the day leaking out in spite of him.

  “Well okay then,” she said with a phony beam. “You have a wonderful weekend. Make sure you get some rest. It really looks like you could use it.”

  “Will do, Violet. All right. Okay. Good-bye!”

  He shouldn’t have snapped at her. He shouldn’t have let it affect him like this. She would know something was wrong when he didn’t come in on Monday. He ran his fingers through his short black hair as he watched her waddle to the elevator.

  He glanced down at the device. The blinking circle had turned into a steady, penetrating blue, announcing that its inscrutable work was done. Watson braced his trembling hand and pulled it out. He surveyed his desk with the awareness that it would be the last time. It occurred to him that it should feel more poignant than it really did. He wondered whether there was anything he would regret leaving behind and came up empty. Even from his apartment, all he had taken was a little more than an overnight’s bag worth of stuff—basic necessities and nothing more. Nothing personal, nothing sentimental. There was nothing that he cared about.

  He shut down his computer and stood, pushing in his chair. He straightened the stuff on his desk one last time, wondering whether they would scrutinize his calendar, the contents of his drawer, looking for any clue to his disappearance. By the time they did, he would be far away, never to return.

  Duffel bag in hand, he walked toward the elevator, but his eyes were drawn to Andrea’s cubicle, across the aisle from his. There was one thing about this place he would miss, after all. He thought about her flowing blond curls streaming down her back, now and then a precious peek at her profile, her delicate upturned nose, and her pouty lips. He remembered how often he would sneak a glance at her during the day as she worked. Now, standing at her empty desk, a whiff of her perfume still lingering, it gave him a pang to remember, and to think that he would not see her again. But maybe he could do something for her. Nothing definite, but maybe something that would allay the creeping guilt of bailing and leaving her behind.

  He tore a page from a yellow legal pad from a nearby desk and, hunched over her chair, scrawled in black Sharpie:

  GET OUT WHILE YOU STILL CAN—D

  Below that, he wrote a phone number and then slipped the sheet into her top drawer.

  That being done, Dom turned on his heels toward the elevator. Standing at his perennial station was the ancient security guard, always a friend, always there.

  “Burt,” he said, in terse greeting. Burt tipped his hat and preempted him in pushing the call button.

  “Late one today, Mr. Watson?”

  “You know it.”

  “Only three more weeks till spring. Maybe you should take that vacation when it comes. You’re not looking so hot, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  “I hear you, Burt.”

  “The elevator on the left’s been acting up for the last hour or so,” he said. “They’ve got it shut down.”

  “Good thing we have two.”

  The elevator car reached the seventh floor with a soft electronic ding, and its doors rolled open. It sagged as Dom, thick with muscle and grit, stepped onto it. A monitor on the elevator wall played a commercial for men’s deodorant as part of the usual endless loop of ads. He pushed the button for the lobby, and the last thing he saw as the doors closed was the name Acevedo International in metallic letters on the opposite wall, shrinking to ceved, then eve, and finally closing on that final v.

  Expecting a momentary weightlessness of downward acceleration, he instead felt a weight on his feet as the elevator went up.

  “Goddamn it,” he said out loud. Something about this unnerved him. The elevator never moved up after being called up to a floor, only down—unless someone had pushed the button for the same floor inside, but in which case the call button wouldn’t have gone dark when the elevator arrived. Did it? He couldn’t remember.

  “Get a grip,” he said to himself, shaking his head.

  Then something in the monitor caught his eye. The image had gone static. There was no ad, nothing except two words, stark white against a black background.

  HELLO, DOMINIC.

  “What the hell?” He rubbed his eyes and looked again. The text on the screen changed.


  YOU THOUGHT YOU WOULD ESCAPE US?

  He looked at the floor display. 9. He pushed 10, 11, and 12. The elevator ran straight through to 13 and kept going. He pushed the button to open the door. Nothing happened. He tried the emergency button. Nothing.

  BUT YOU CAN’T. NO ONE CAN.

  He pushed all the buttons, open-palmed, getting as many as fast as he could. The elevator wouldn’t stop its constant ascent. If anything—could the elevator be going faster? He picked up the emergency phone. Dead.

  YOUR RECKONING HAS COME.

  He banged on the elevator door. “Hey!” he called out. “Help! Get me out of here!”

  GOOD-BYE.

  The screen turned to a commercial for the new Sentra, making smooth turns on a snaking, picturesque road.

  “Hey! Can someone hear me?”

  The elevator was coming up on the twenty-first, the final floor. The counter hit 20, then 21. But the elevator kept moving.

  And then it crashed, knocking Dominic off his feet. The light fixtures were knocked loose, left hanging by their wires. The cables groaned above him as the elevator jerked without moving.

  Then something snapped, and the car went into free fall. Dom was lifted, weightless, off the floor, flailing for a handhold as he hurtled toward the bottom of the shaft.

  Chapter 2

  The car lurched, and Dan Morgan braced himself against the trunk lid. A sliver of light filtered into the sweltering darkness where an accident had opened up a crack between the lid and the body of the decrepit old Dodge. Morgan looked out from time to time, but all he got was the alternating blue and green of sky and canopy.