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

had sat like a stone on his heart for many years. Now, with Gaddafi dead and gone, he slept very well at night.

“Virginia is simply too broad a clue and much too large an area,” he added. Then he raised a finger. “Perhaps it is a woman rather than a place?”

“I thought of that, Kadir,” said Morgan. “But I think Collins would have somehow hinted at that, and this Commander Schmitt didn’t give any indication of that either.”

“Why must people always be so obtuse?” Fastia wondered.

“Folks love secrets,” said Morgan. “They feel like it gives them power.”

“At this point in my life, they only give me a headache.” Fastia returned to his pipe. It seemed to help him think. “And this thing about the missiles, Cobra. As I recall, the Tomahawk is nothing like the American Stinger or the Russian Strela, correct? It is not a shoulder-fired weapon.”

“Not unless you’re a fairytale giant. It’s about eighteen feet long and weighs about three thousand pounds. Usually ship-or submarine-launched, but there are a few vehicle-mounted versions.”

“Ya-Allah,” Fastia intoned. “So then, perhaps that is a help to us. One couldn’t hope to hide something like that in an urban center. Therefore, we should think open areas, perhaps farm country.”

“Unless that’s what they want us to think.”

Fastia waved a finger. “You are always playing checkers in your mind.”

“I know.” Morgan grinned. “Keeps me suspicious— and alive. So, think you could put the word out to your network?”

“I already did, from my office while you were relieving yourself. I asked for any information connecting ‘Virginia’ and heavy ordnance, though I did not mention Tomahawks per se.” He looked down at the smartphone sitting beside him, where text messages were popping up in Arabic. “Everyone seems to think that I am referring to Langley and shoulder-fired missiles. I keep having to reply ‘la.’”

The word meant “no.” Morgan nodded, understanding Fastia’s contacts’ confusion. “I guess it’s a valid assumption since Benghazi.”

Fastia looked at Morgan as he rubbed his white beard and smoothed his neat mustache. “You are out on a limb again, aren’t you, Cobra?”

“Way out.”

“You were like that with the CIA, and it appears you are still like that with your new organization.” Fastia tapped his nose. “What was that old James Dean movie? Rebel Without a Cause?”

“Oh, I’ve got a cause all right.” Morgan grinned. “I’m just a stubborn pain in the ass.”

“It is what I always liked about you. You are relentless—but sometimes foolish as well, I think.”

Morgan shrugged. “Well, it’s tough to teach an old dog new tricks.”

As if on cue, a low canine whine came from the landing below. Fastia had broken with Muslim tradition and allowed Neika into the house but not all the way up here to his most sacred spot. His wife and daughter served meals to him and guests here; no dog would cross the threshold. Morgan sat forward on his pillows and listened.

“She’s trained to only do that when she means it,” he said.

Fastia lifted up his billowy tunic, pulled out a Browning Hi-Power and rested it on his lap. “I shall assume she is simply hungry,” he said before pinioning Morgan with a sharp gaze, “while you check.”

Morgan got up, reached into his shoulder holster for his PPK, walked to the arched doorway, and pushed the door open. He looked down the long narrow staircase to where he’d left Neika leashed to a radiator on the next landing. She was sitting up facing a tall bay window, emitting urgent moans from her throat as her thick tail flicked on the floor. But the window was curtained, and she couldn’t see anything outside.

Morgan reached the landing and ruffled her head. “What’s out there, girl?”

He leaned to the side of the window, pushed the curtain open just a slit, then peered out and down. He could see the Shelby parked across the street where he’d left it, and just behind that, a black Kawasaki Ninja motorcycle....

“Jesus,” he growled and called up to Fastia. “Kadir, it’s my daughter. I’ll be right back.”

“Your what?” Fastia asked, but Morgan was already pounding down the stairs.

He tucked the Walther away as he reached the front entrance, yanked the door open, and quick-marched across the small front yard, instinctively glancing around for any signs of an ambush—his beloved family had been used as bait before. Then he hurried across the street, where Alex was leaning against the trunk of his car, her helmet off, her arms folded, her head hanging down, and her pageboy haircut obscuring her face.

“Alex, what the hell?” he snapped as he stamped up to her. But then she lifted her face and looked at him, and his breath hitched in his chest. Her eyes were glassy, her flushed cheeks shiny with tear tracks, and she was shaking. He reached out and gripped her shoulders and turned her as a spear of panic rushed up to his throat. “Are you all right? Whatever it is, tell me now. Is it Mom?”

She looked at her boots, seeming unable to speak.

“Look at me, Alex,” Morgan said. She looked up. “What are you doing here? How did you find me?”

“I...I was pissed,” she stammered, and then more disjointed phrases tumbled out. “You treat me like some stupid teenager, cuffing me like a perp...I’m on your team, supposed to be your partner, but you won’t let me so I put a tracker on your car.” Her voice warbled.

Morgan glanced at the Shelby and then back at her tear-filled eyes. “I’m sorry.” He bent his knees a bit so their faces were even and he smiled. “And, I’m impressed. Now tell me what happened.”

“Oh God.” She hugged him with such strength that it took Morgan’s breath away, her face buried in his neck. “I went to Alicia Schmitt in Arlington. She let me inside, and we talked. She was really jumpy and packed up to go somewhere. . . But she was cool, and it was all good, and she told me some stuff, and