Rogue Commander, Leo Maloney [classic books for 11 year olds TXT] 📗

think that the operatives were the versatile ones. They did what needed to get done. Sometimes it was spying, sometimes extraction, sometimes infiltration, sometimes who knows what. They needed to be flexible, independent, smart, quick on their feet, and constantly develop new skills. Alex realized that the operatives were like interns, only the business they served specialized in killing.

She’d gotten good experience in training. They taught deception from both sides—giving and getting, in other words, how to lie so she would be believed and how to discern lying from truth when someone tried it on her. She also was given stunt driving courses, Krav Maga training from actual Mossad teachers, seminars in explosives, and constant target practice in both shooting ranges and obstacle courses with every kind of handgun, automatic weapon, and sniper rifle.

But the prime lesson she learned was that training and practice were very different from actual field work.

It was a good thing she was working with pros. Lily Randall was formerly MI-5, and, like Alex, a relatively recent addition. Lily was curled up in a corner seat with a book in one hand and a flute of champagne in the other. Peter Conley was her father’s old partner in the CIA. He was now in the cockpit, conferring with the pilots. Her father had said that Conley could fly anything, so his presence on any flight was reassuring.

Speaking of her father, Dan Morgan was hunched over the table, working on his own hobby, building a model Duesenberg SJ Special. The pungent smell of the model glue tickled her nostrils. He had been a spy for the CIA before she was born—sort of a private contractor, the kind who gave the Agency maximum plausible deniability. He’d left after some disagreement he didn’t talk about and was recruited into Zeta a few years back.

That was also around the time Alex found out who he really was—at the tender age of sixteen. Happy birthday to her. Those had been a rough couple of months, but once she had made the decision to shoot a man who had been sent to kill her, her mother, and her father, the transition had gone smoother—at least for her. Her father, already filled with guilt for lying to his family for years—they’d thought he was a classic car dealer—was still not sure he should have brought Alex to Take Your Daughter to Work Day. But once there, there was no turning back.

Above Diana Bloch was Smith, the man with no title and no other name other than perhaps “Mister.” Both Dan and his daughter had initially thought he was merely a recruiter—like a baseball scout for assassins and spies—but it turned out he actually represented the mysterious Project Aegis, the shadowy power behind Zeta. Alex had read up on it. Aegis was the shield of the Greek Gods—Zeus, Poseidon, Hera, and those guys. Zeta was the sixth letter of the Greek alphabet or the sixth star in a constellation.

As far as Alex could tell, their Aegis was not, strictly speaking, a government agency. It was more like they had some bigwigs in government—military and intelligence top brass—plus, she guessed, major financial backers in the private sector. Who they were was kept very close to the chest, though. And she was not about to rattle any cages by prying into it.

“Alex.” Her father had set down his model and was looking at her with that expression he always had when he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. He wasn’t the most communicative person—and a lot of things between them ended up going unsaid because of it. “Back there, with Lukacs. In the apartment.”

To see her father like that had both scared her and pissed her off. It was one thing to see him hurt and kill people in the heat of combat. It was another to see him go so uselessly off the rails. Do that at the wrong time, and everyone’s life would be at risk. But she knew this was the sort of thing he was anxious about—her knowing who he really was, warts and all.

“It’s fine, Dad. Your macho man took over. You felt protective of Lily’s virtue.”

Relief and consternation seemed to mix on his face, but, as usual, he wound up hearing what he wanted to. “People like Lukacs—there’s no other language they understand. And I’ll stop at nothing to help the people I care about. That’s true for Lily and Peter, but it goes double for you and your mother.”

Alex took his words at their face value. It was certainly a language her father understood. “I know how far you’re willing to go,” she assured him with affection. “I’ve seen it before.”

“So you understand?”

“Yes,” she said, breaking into a warm, knowing smile. “I do, Dad.” Maybe more than he did.

He sat back and took a deep breath. “You know, you did well out there. Quick on your feet, remembering your training, working as a team...”

They were interrupted by an alert from the laptop computer which was open at an empty table—an incoming video call from Zeta. Morgan accepted the call, and Diana Bloch’s face appeared—brown hair in a professional short trim, muted, sober makeup, and a face that rarely cracked a smile. Beside her was Lincoln Shepard, his messy black hair sticking in every direction, wearing a Japanese anime T-shirt.

“I trust everyone is having a good flight,” Bloch said. “And I respect your need to rest. But we need to talk about what’s next.”

Peter Conley walked back from the cockpit and asked them, “Any word on Lukacs’s whereabouts?”

“I’ve cast a wide net,” Shepard said. “Not surprisingly, he’s careful. Despite our best efforts, I’m concerned that little worm may wriggle away again.”

“So I want to see Lukacs’s belongings,” Bloch continued. “There might be something useful there.”

Morgan reached into his carry-on, pulled out a bag, and set it on the table. He placed a wallet, a few coins, and a phone on the table.

“The phone’s a burner,” Morgan explained.

“I