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

Handcuff me to a pipe in my own house? Man, you’re gonna pay big time for that.

She drove the Kawasaki Ninja down I-95, just south of Baltimore, with the night coming on. That made her glad she’d worn her full leathers. Her father surely figured she’d just give up on this Collins thing and skulk back to the office with her tail between her legs. Wasn’t going to happen. If he didn’t want her around, then he should never have let her join Zeta.

I’m your pissed-off partner now, big shot, like it or not.

She smiled inside her helmet and glanced down at her console, where her iPhone was gripped in a rubber mount. The navigator app was on, showing her the route to Arlington. But it wasn’t live; it was a replay of the route her dad had taken two days before. She’d figured out long ago that she couldn’t really trust him, at least in terms of “sharing.” So, she’d gotten a hold of Bobby Zaks, that genius nerd from school, told him what she wanted, and paid him good money.

Bobby got a burner phone, stripped everything off it, and loaded up an app he’d hacked from Uber. It was the back end of the software that tracked their drivers and could replay anyone’s route. Then he added a pirated mirror-image app and linked the burner to Alex’s cell.

Late one night, when her dad and mom were snoring, she’d sneaked down to the garage and climbed into his Cobra—gluing the burner and a power pack right under the passenger seat. She knew the batteries wouldn’t last forever, but she figured she’d check on it and repeat the exercise whenever necessary. Stroke of luck, it was humming along like a glee club tonight.

“You’re not so smart,” she said aloud in her helmet, and she added, “Daddy.”

It took another hour to weave her way down to Arlington. Traffic around the D.C. area was always a bear, but eventually she was cruising through clusters of quaint brick homes—many of them sporting American flags, Marine Corps pennants, or black MIA/POW banners.

The neighborhood was something of a military reservation, from which people went off to serve, spent scant time in their ordered homes, then returned to retire, and, eventually, die. The gardens were so manicured they stood at attention and the mailboxes were freshly painted while brass door knockers and house numbers were polished to a gleam in the night.

Alex looked at her navigator, then coasted down a street called Zumwalt, which vaguely rang a bell: some navy admiral or something. The long lane was dark and quiet, with light-pole lamps glowing yellow at distant intervals, and cars, many with government license plates, parked at the curbs or tucked into driveways.

The target house was halfway down on the right. When she got closer, she killed the engine and toed the bike up to the mailbox. The house was chunky and all brick, with white windows, blinds pulled, and a single lamp glowing over the slate stairs. She looked at the number on the box, took off her gloves, and punched up a Zeta app on her phone that reverse-checked addresses and phone numbers. She typed in “206 Zumwalt Street, Arlington, VA,” and after a moment got a pop-up: “Schmitt, Alicia, Commander USN.”

Alex’s brow furrowed. A female naval officer. Somehow she’d expected to find General Collins at this address.

Dad, you better not be having an affair with some navy bimbo half your age, ’cause if I find you doing the horizontal tango in there, I’ll shoot you both.

Alex got off the bike, leaned it on the kickstand, took off her helmet, and shook out her smooth, short russet hair. She left her helmet on the seat, opened a saddlebag, and pulled out a large UPS envelope. As she stepped to the sidewalk and turned for Schmitt’s door, she glanced down the street. Among other vehicles, there was a dark blue Econoline van, light off, parked and dark. Her dad had taught her to never trust vans.

She trotted up the stairs and rang the bell. The door opened a crack, with a chain lock holding it. One blue eye and some blonde hair appeared in the narrow opening. The eye blinked.

“Yes?”

“Hi there,” Alex said brightly. “I have a package for Alicia Schmitt.”

“What’s the package?”

Alex dropped her voice. “I’m the package, Commander. May I come in, please?”

The eye blinked once more; then the door closed and the chain rattled. It opened again, so Alex stepped inside and palmed it shut with her left hand.

Alicia Schmitt had retreated ten feet into her living room. She had neck-length blond hair that Alex imagined was usually wrapped up tight in a bun, a small nose, no lipstick, and her blue eyes looked shadowed and fatigued. She was slim and athletic, but she was wearing a Navy peacoat, all buttoned up. Alongside her right thigh she held a matte stainless steel revolver. Alex looked down at it. “That’s a Lady Smith,” she said. “I like it, but it’s only a 5-shot. Not enough ammo for my taste.”

Schmitt stared at her face. “What are you carrying?”

“Shrouded hammer three fifty-seven, right-ankle holster under my boot. Same problem, only five rounds. Want it?”

“No,” Schmitt said. “If that’s what you’re here for, you would’ve used it by now.” She cocked her head at a navy-blue couch. “Have a seat, but sit on your hands.”

“Thanks.” Alex walked over to the couch, her leathers creaking. She dropped the UPS envelope on the cushion and sat on her upturned palms.

“Who are you?” Schmitt asked as she sidestepped over to the door, replaced the chain, and checked the lock.

“Alex Morgan.” She glanced over the living room. It was very orderly and somewhat prim, with throwback brocade chairs and doily-covered end tables—as if Schmitt had inherited the place from her grandmother.

A few framed pictures of Schmitt in dress uniform stood on a closed, upright piano, along with one of her hunting with an older