Rogue Commander Read online

  “Hold. Not yet.” Morgan kept his eyes on Lukacs and Pulnik, who were still having their conversation. But then Lukacs pulled him close. Morgan watched, silently swearing, as Pulnik’s mouth popped open, his eyes widened, and he grabbed at his own belly.

  Morgan couldn’t see the stabbing clearly, but he did see blood as Pulnik bent double. Lukacs casually eased him down to sit against the low ledge around the statue.

  “Damn,” Bishop seethed. “Morgan, call it off.”

  “The mission doesn’t change.” Morgan was not going to let Lukacs get away. “Target’s moving out. Lily, that’s your cue.”

  On the far side of the plaza, Lily pulled a megaphone from her pack and turned it on with an earsplitting whine.

  “Wake up, sheeple!” she screeched, her voice amplified and flattened by the megaphone. “The Illuminati run your lives!” Lily was really selling the insanity, and people took notice. “The reptilians have invaded the highest level of government!” Tourists moved toward her or rubbernecked to get a look at the crazy girl. “They want us for our blood!”

  That was the Zeta team’s cue. They moved in on Lukacs’s security. Lukacs had left Pulnik on the ground and was moving back from the direction he had come from. As he turned, Lukacs’ eyes met Morgan’s, and they held his stare long enough for the message to come across as clear as a New York glass of water.

  “Goddamn it!” Bishop exploded. “I told you this was a bad idea. Didn’t I goddamn tell you?”

  “Too late now,” Morgan snapped. “Move!”

  They had lost the element of surprise, but Pulnik was losing his life. Morgan heard the sound of Conley kicking the sniper’s hotel door in as Lukacs’s security drew their guns. Morgan couldn’t spare the attention to see what was going on. He heard gunfire, then screaming, as he ran straight for Lukacs.

  There was just one problem. Two guards were converging on him, fast, from the left and right. Morgan turned his run evasive, reaching for his Walther.

  Lily, having cast off her megaphone, came dashing from the left and tripped one of the men, sending him reeling to the ground. This gave Morgan the opening he needed to fire at the other guard. Three bullets perfectly placed in the man’s chest, and he was down. Although there was the risk of him having a bulletproof vest, Morgan couldn’t chance a head shot causing collateral damage on any innocent bystander.

  He took the man’s gun and tossed it to Lily, who had come weaponless.

  “I owe you!” she said and ran off to help out Spartan, who was struggling to fight off two of Lukacs’s security guards. Then Morgan took off running again toward Lukacs, who was by now at the edge of the square.

  Morgan charged as hard and fast as he could. Someone crashed into him, sending his Walther flying. Morgan rolled to his feet to face his new attacker. It was the young man in the red coat. But instead of flashing an annoying smile, he was pointing a Beretta M9 directly between Morgan’s eyes.

  “I always give my enemy a moment to think,” he said, “of their last words.”

  Morgan darted his gaze all around the smugly grinning killer. His team was scattered. None of them could help. The man was too close for him to run, but too far for him to attack and survive.

  “Think of any?” the man in the red coat sneered.

  Morgan turned his hand and raised his middle finger.

  “Eloquent,” the man chuckled and shrugged, tightening his finger on the Beretta’s trigger.

  Then the sound of a gunshot filled Morgan’s ears.

  Chapter Two

  Dan Morgan knew he wasn’t dead. The dead never hear the sound of the gun that shoots them.

  His daughter, Alexandria “Alex” Morgan, however, grimaced at the sharp smell of gunpowder. Body still humming from the Heckler and Koch MSG90 sniper rifle recoil, she watched through the scope as the man in the red coat fell to the ground. The blood from his chest wound mingled with the color of his outerwear and started spreading onto the cobblestones.

  “Hell of a shot, Alex,” she heard her father saying in her ear.

  “Compliments later, Dad,” she murmured. “We got to spot Lukacs.”

  As people drained from the square, Alex scanned the space, looking for their target or his other men, but the survivors had disappeared from sight. She’d taken out two others before nailing Red-Coat, as Morgan and his team were discovering.

  Morgan sniffed in appreciation of his daughter’s burgeoning skill and his superior’s previous doubts. Bloch had been concerned about putting Alexon on this mission. She had hedged her bets by ordering Alex to nest in the hotel room overlooking the square, where Bloch did not expect the younger, female Morgan to see any action.

  Both father and daughter would have enjoyed seeing Bloch eat crow...if the rest of the assignment hadn’t become such a hash.

  “Anyone got eyes on him?” Morgan asked.

  A chorus of negatives came over the radio. Alex made one last survey of the square. “I’m no good up here anymore. I’m moving out.”

  “You stay where you are,” her father said.

  “Make me.” She set the rifle on the hotel room carpet and wiped her fingerprints from it—not expecting any retort from her father and not getting it. After stowing her 9mm Taurus compact automatic in its holster and a stun gun in one of her pockets, she pulled on her coat, pulled up the lapels to obscure her face, and left the room, the hall, the stairway, and the hotel—all the while remembering his advice.

  “Insubordination is one thing,” he had told her quietly one day in private. “Insubordination in front of the team is another. That’s like germs. One sneeze, and everybody catches a cold.”

  Her old man might have a good point. It certainly might explain Bishop’s behavior. She’d have to give it more thought, but she had bigger fish to fry at the moment.

  Alex pushed against the flow of people seeking refuge inside the hotel, then squeezed her way out into the chill air. She couldn’t pick out Lukacs or his men, but every panicked face in the crowd could conceal an enemy.

  “Eyes on Lukacs,” she heard in her ear. It was Peter Conley. “He’s moving past the astronomical clock.”

  Alex ran toward the square’s old timepiece. As far as she could tell, she was ahead of everyone else. A fantasy flashed before her eyes—Lukacs, in handcuffs, and her, Alex Morgan, bringing him in.

  “We have police incoming,” Shepard said. His words went in one ear, the sound of approaching sirens entering the other.

  “This mission is already a shit show!” came Bishop’s continued whining. “I’m telling you we need to call it off.”

  “This isn’t a democracy,” Bloch snapped as Alex plunged on, regardless of the infighting.

  “If we don’t get him now, we might never,” her father said with remarkable restraint. “Move!”

  “Just spotted a secondary security team coming in from the southeast,” Spartan said. “I can keep them busy, but I’ll need some help.”

  “On my way,” Lily said.

  Alex heard gunshots behind her as she ran out of the Old Town Square alongside the town hall. The clock was chiming eleven as she passed. Alex spared a glance at it, just in time to see the mechanical figurine of death coming out of the clockwork door.

  Her head snapped forward, catching sight of Lukacs getting into the back seat of a black Mercedes C-Class. She noted the license plate as she ran toward it, elbowing past people as the car pulled out.

  But despite her youth and fleetness of foot, it was too far away. She knew she’d never make it. But just as she thought about slowing, she heard the familiar sound of a “rice bike” motorcycle starting to her right. With a glance she was pleased to see that she had nailed the make, a Honda, and model, the CB500F, just by the rev noise. Seemingly as if she intended to go there all along, she grabbed the rider’s leather jacket and stuck her 9mm in his face.

>   “Need the bike,” she said. “Sorry.”

  The surprised man raised his hands and backed quickly away, leaving the Honda motorcycle to topple over. Alex caught it, hopped on, and took off, keeping her thumb tight on the horn to get the frenzied crowd to part.

  There was a reason the 500F was nicknamed “Naked.” The sleek little Honda was light, slim, maneuverable, and fast—perfect for street weaving.

  “Target in a Mercedes C-Class,” she reported to the team, giving them the license plate as well. “In pursuit on a borrowed Honda cycle.” Alex maneuvered around the people until she cleared the crowd enough to gain some momentum, the bike jolting on the uneven ground.

  “Spartan!” Morgan barked. “Cover her!”

  Alex heard gunfire over the comm, deciding she wouldn’t hold her breath for back-up. It sounded as if the rest of the team’s hands were full as it was. As she concentrated on their quarry, she saw that the Mercedes was widening the distance between them. That would not do. She leaned down and opened the throttle full.

  The Honda shot forward as if she had harpooned the trunk of Lukacs’s car. But just as she was getting close another C-Class appeared from her left, nearly making confetti of her front tire. She just barely managed to stay upright, quickly braking, but not stopping.

  “He’s got a decoy!” she said, straining to see the numbers and letters on the second license plate as she weaved through traffic. “Lukacs is in the front car!”

  The right back window of the second car rolled down, and a man lifted himself out so that his torso was free in the air. His right hand held onto the hood of the car. In his hand was a Glock semiautomatic.

  She banked left hard as he fired, the bullet shattering a store window behind her, and had to make a tight right to avoid a post on the edge of the sidewalk. She zigzagged as he tried to aim. He fired another shot, which she felt skin her left earlobe. If she didn’t do something fast, the next one would nail her.

  She didn’t have to. At that moment, the Zeta tactical van roared out of a side street and rammed the decoy car, which spun out and crashed into the storefront of a butcher shop.

  Alex drifted right, just missing the van. She lost speed with the maneuver, but she began to pick up again once she was clear of the crash.

  “Diesel,” she called through clenched teeth. “You okay?”

  “In one piece,” Diesel replied. “Go get Lukacs!”

  Alex heard the insistent blare of a car horn coming from behind her, getting louder. A maroon Toyota Camry came speeding down the road, weaving through people and traffic to catch up to her.

  That would be her father.

  “Alex, clear the way!”

  “You clear the way!”

  “Got a free hand; need a clear shot. Do as I say!”

  Bless the man, she thought. Rather than engage in a familial pissing contest, he gave her a good reason. “I’m faster and closer,” she reminded him. “As soon as you’re clear, I will be too.”

  She pushed harder, and pedestrians leapt out of the way. Traffic was light, so Lukacs managed to move fast even in the narrow streets of Prague. Alex followed suit, the old pastel-colored buildings that lined the street blurring from the speed. Her father’s experience came in good stead as he managed to stay close behind her.

  They all saw police cars turning into the street three hundred yards down. The Mercedes took a squealing, tire-smoking right onto a pedestrian-only boardwalk, sending passersby scrambling. Alex made the turn, yanking the bike up so the front tire wouldn’t collide with the curb. Recovering, she picked up speed, covering a short distance to a stone archway under a tower.

  The Mercedes screeched out onto the Charles Bridge, which had crossed the Vltava River since the late Middle Ages. Alex was right behind him, and somehow, her father was still behind her. Pedestrians parted like the Red Sea to hug the stone guard walls that bordered the bridge edge.

  “Out of the way!” Morgan barked over the communicator. “Now!”

  He had his hand out the car window, the trademark Walther in his grip. Almost as if they had practiced it, Alex banked right, just as he rapid-fired four times at Lukacs’s car.

  The countless hours spent on shooting ranges and obstacle courses paid off. The Mercedes’s back left tire burst. The car swerved left, then right, and plowed straight into the side of the bridge. The heavy stone held firm, crumpling the frame of the Mercedes like it was wrapping paper.

  Dan Morgan brought his car to a screeching halt. Alex Morgan drove past Lukacs’s car and swerved to a stop on the far side. Her father took cover behind the door of his sedan, Walther in hand. They had their quarry surrounded.

  The two front doors opened, and a security guard emerged from each one, in black suits and ties, Glocks in hand. They opened fire—at her father. They obviously thought that the young woman on the motorbike was just some thrill seeker—not a well-trained sniper.

  Alex was about to prove them wrong when Lukacs stumbled out of the car on the other side—her side.

  She let him come a short distance away from it, just so he couldn’t disappear back inside. Then she stood up and drew her Taurus automatic.

  “Freeze,” she said calmly.

  He looked at her, first in shock, then with amusement. He straightened, looking at the Taurus like it was a water pistol.

  Alex motioned with it to put his hands up. The bastard just smirked and stepped in her direction. “It is not like TV or the movies,” he said reasonably in lightly accented English. “The bad guy does not stop just because you have a pea shooter.”

  He must have heard that term in one of those movies. Okay, I’ll play along.

  “Don’t test me,” she told him, letting her voice shake. She discovered her hands were trembling as well. And he kept walking toward her. “Stop, or I swear I’ll shoot.”

  “Will you now? Your people could have killed me from a window, but you went through all this trouble to catch me alive. So no, I don’t think you will.”

  Alex glanced at her father. He had taken down one of Lukacs’s men but was pinned by the other. Alex had a clear shot to the remaining bodyguard, but she didn’t think she could nail him with all the crumpled metal in the way, and she was even less protected than he was.

  “So? What’s it going to be?” Lukacs said. “Are you going to shoot me now?”

  Movement in her peripheral vision attracted her attention: the Zeta tactical van was barreling down the bridge, its front bumper in splinters from the crash. She shifted her eyes to look fearfully at Lukacs, who was smugly smiling and placing his fingers on the 9mm barrel.

  “Now just give me the gun,” he said, pulling lightly, “ and everything will be just...”

  He stopped when Alex gave him a big, assured, knowing smile—at the same second she pushed the stun gun just under his sternum and thumbed the trigger.

  More than fifty thousand volts clawed into Lukacs’s body. The unctuous a-hole danced like a marionette having a convulsion and then cannoned onto the cobblestones like a tree felled by lightning.

  The Zeta tactical van came to a skidding halt alongside her, sliding the door open before they fully stopped. Spartan took care of Lukacs’s final security guard with a salvo of bullets from her MP5 while Alex and Bishop unceremoniously launched Lukacs inside.

  Spartan hopped in, pulling the door shut as Diesel peeled off toward the far end of the bridge.

  “Team?” Bloch asked. “Report, please.”

  “Bishop here, with Diesel, Spartan, and Morgan Jr. safe and in possession of the package. We’re on our way to switch cars.”

  “Morgan safe,” Dan started and added, in a tone mixing appreciation and realization, “Morgan Senior.” Alex smiled at the acknowledgment. “Nice work,” he told her.

  “They keep underestimating me,” she said quietly. “So they keep losing.”


  “Conley,” they heard Bloch inquire.

  “Here,” they heard the man code-named Cougar reply. “In one piece.”

  But before they could all relax, there was still one team member left to check.

  “Lily,” said Bloch.

  No answer.

  “Lily, come in,” Bloch repeated.

  Silence.

  Chapter Three

  Lily Randall woke up to the rocking of a vehicle, her left cheekbone aching from the hard floor of the van. It wasn’t long before she felt a hard tug on her hair, which pulled her up to a seated position. She tried to fight the person off but found that her arms had been tied behind her back.

  She flailed, trying to wrest herself free, and found herself staring down the barrel of a gun.

  “No,” the man holding it said. “Chill out.”

  She complied, resting against the side of the van as well as she could, given the circumstances.

  The back of the van was windowless, and she was sharing it with three men. The one opposite her, who had threatened her with a gun, looked to be, like her, nearing his thirties. He was wearing a plaid beret covering his shaved head, and when he grinned, she saw that one of his top front incisors looked to be made of gold.

  They spoke in what she supposed was Czech. She had the distinct impression that they were debating whether to kill her.

  Her eyes darted, straining to see the men sitting in front, looking for Lukacs among the occupants of the van. He wasn’t among them. Did the others succeed in capturing him? If so, that gave her a chance to survive this.

  She ventured to speak. “You want your boss back.”

  The man with the gold tooth sneered. “Not boss. No boss.”

  “Still, Lukacs didn’t pay everything up front, did he?”

  The men looked at each other, and she knew she was right.

  “So you want him back. Maybe we can help each other out.”

  Gold Tooth leaned in toward her. “What are you going to do, all tied up?”

  “Call my people. We’ll make an exchange.”