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

courtesy of explaining to me why my husband left our one and only daughter chained up like an animal.”

“It’s classified,” Alex said, getting up and rubbing her wrist where the cuffs held it.

“Young lady, you will tell me what is happening.”

“I can’t—”

“Do not,” Jenny said. “I am your mother, and we are talking about your father. I have had it with being kept in the dark. I have had it with you two disappearing on me. Tell me what’s going on.”

“Oh, all right. We had a bit of a disagreement about an assignment. I mean ‘we, ’ including our bosses at Zeta. I wanted to stop him from doing something stupid, and he went ahead and did it anyway. You know Dad.”

“I certainly do.” Something struck Jenny all of a sudden. A curious absence. “Where’s Neika?”

“Dad took her with him. I have no idea why.”

Jenny’s heart sank. “I think I can imagine, and it doesn’t make me happy.”

“What?”

“Neika was trained as a bomb-sniffing military dog. Your father worked with her on a mission, and I guess he grew attached. That’s where we got her.”

“Yeah,” she said. “That makes sense.”

Alex’s nonchalance was infuriating. “Sense?” she exclaimed. “As in, it’s no surprise that my husband would need a bomb-sniffing dog?”

“Mom, really. I found out Dad wasn’t a classic-car dealer at about the same time as you, remember?”

Jenny controlled herself. “All right, all right, I get it.”

Alex rubbed her wrist. “Good. Thanks. I need to go. I need to take care of this. Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’ll be fine,” Jenny said unconvincingly, hoping her daughter would take the emotional bait.

But instead, Alex just said, “Great. Love you!” Then she disappeared out the door, leaving Jenny there, steaming.

Mrs. Morgan was tired of being shunted aside whenever they went off on their little adventures. She was tired of being kept out of the loop until it was all over, hoping it would work out but being blocked from any information or involvement—as every single day all she dreamed about was, first, standing at her husband’s funeral, and then, maybe even worse, standing at her daughter’s grave.

Standing in the foyer of her house, Jenny made a decision. She didn’t know how. But she knew what she was going to do.

Chapter Thirteen

Morgan parked his car in sight of Alicia Schmitt’s house in Arlington, Virginia, half an hour before dawn—which was scheduled that day for 5:22 a.m.

She was military, which meant she wouldn’t go one day without exercise. And if she was military, it was going to be obscenely early. He knew the type, and from what Shepard had been able to dig up on her, she was definitely the type.

A precocious talent, the decorated veteran had shot up through the ranks of the navy. She’d made commander the year before and was now the youngest woman of her rank. She wasn’t assigned to a ship but served as an executive officer. Whatever work she did was highly classified, and even Shepard couldn’t get to it—at least not fast enough to be useful to Morgan.

He needed to talk to her away from prying eyes. Ringing her doorbell was a bad idea, approaching her at work was out of the question, and it wasn’t unlikely that she was being watched, which meant he was going to have to force a chance encounter.

Right on cue, Schmitt emerged from her house at dawn in sneakers and a green track suit. She took off at a brisk jog as soon as her feet hit the sidewalk. He needed to keep up without attracting attention to himself. He was already dressed as a jogger in muted grays. He let her gain a little distance and then got out of his car.

His bad knee complained for the first hundred yards or so, but after a little bit of warm-up he had no trouble keeping up with her—maintaining the distance while putting cars and trees between them as much as possible.

Within a few minutes they arrived at a park with a sign that read Alcova Heights. Instead of following her outright, Morgan took a parallel path, rounding the tennis courts. She greeted an early guard who was keeping watch. She headed for a wooded area, out of sight of any of the public.

Morgan made his move, cutting across the woods to intercept her. He slowed to a walk, keeping cover behind a thicket as he neared the path. She was approaching, her jogging keeping a steady rhythm on the crunchy leaves, growing louder as she approached. He was going to have to be careful not to spook her. In his mind, he rehearsed what he was going to say, playing out her possible reactions and how he might convince her of his good faith.

Turned out it was unnecessary. When she was on the other side of the thicket, the running stopped. He emerged from behind it, in full view of her, to find her holding a gun aimed at him. It was a Smith & Wesson Model 60 Lady Smith. Matte stainless finish, wood grip, 2.125-inch barrel. .357 Magnum, capacity five rounds, which was four more than necessary to make corned beef hash out of his brains.

“You’re a little big to think you can sneak up on me.”

Schmitt had the face of a woman who was years past taking any shit from men, like she’d hit her quota of leering jokes, drunken passes, and underestimation somewhere around her first tour of duty and decided she was having none of it from anyone.

But even she was surprised when he laughed with honest, self-deprecating, mirth, and said, “Like teacher, like student.”

She instantly recognized he wasn’t being disingenuous or smarmy. “What’s the game?” she asked. “What teacher, what student?” He shifted, and her aim moved to his crotch. “Just so I can decide where to shoot you if you take another step toward me.”

He put up his hands and tried to look as honest as possible. “Student, you. Teacher, General James Collins."

Hearing the name took