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

Alex glanced at the pistol on the desk. “He doesn’t look like he needs any protection.”

“I don’t.” Fastia grinned. “But you shall have something to eat, young lady. Then you can go.”

Morgan looked at her and held her eyes. “I’m taking Neika. Hold here for about an hour, then head back North. And be careful on that damn bike.”

“You be careful,” she said.

“Where’d you put that tracker?”

“Under your passenger seat.”

“I’ll leave it there for now.”

Wow, Alex thought. He’s really trusting me. It’s a brand-new day.

Morgan kissed her forehead and squeezed her shoulder. He headed for the door, opened it, and turned back. “Virginia Cigar, huh?” He smirked at Fastia. “Just what I needed. More smoke.”

And then he was gone.

Chapter Twenty

Morgan lay in a thicket of tall wet grass, not moving, just breathing and watching.

Beside him, Neika snuggled close, her soft, steady panting warming his ear. The dawn was just starting to break, the early sun shimmering off the sides of the warehouse half a mile away. It sat in an unmowed clearing, surrounded by dense, lush, forests, with a brick-colored, slanted roof, and a big stencil on its flank that had once said “Virginia Tobacco.” But with the years and the weather the sign now said only “Virgin Toba.”

They had driven through the night, turned west at Richmond, and cruised for another hour along Route 13, which Morgan thought might not be lucky. He’d gassed up the car at a Wawa and gotten himself a greasy burger, more dog food and water for Neika, and they’d cruised on past Hideaway Lake, reaching Tobaccoville before turning north.

Two miles short of the target, he’d driven the Shelby off the slim dirt road and into some trees, wincing as he heard branches scraping the paint. That would mean a day in the garage at some point, but he actually, kind of, looked forward to that. At least it would mean he was still alive.

Then they’d walked, slowly, through the woods in the night, as occasionally Morgan stopped, listened, and went on. Neika mirrored his every move, and he didn’t have to worry about her making noise or barking. She’d done this many times before, in Afghanistan. She was a retired military working dog, and Morgan knew those instincts and that that training would never fade.

He’d chosen a spot at the edge of the woods where the tall trees and thickets gave way to a clearing, and they’d hunkered down and waited for the light. Now he reached into his field jacket pocket for a pair of mini-binoculars, pushed up the edge of his black woolen watch cap, and slowly scanned the warehouse, left to right.

He saw no evidence of recent activity: no vehicles, shipping containers, or overflowing dumpsters waiting for pickup. Granted it was early, but a big facility like that would still have a light or two glowing, and some sort of guard service protecting its wares. Nothing. Just a flock of crows pecking at the gutters.

“What d’ya think, girl?” Morgan murmured.

Neika, her large paws stretched out in the grass, looked at him, whined softly, and licked his face. He wiped her spit off with a glove.

“Okay, let’s take a walk.”

The grass was gleaming, heavy with dew, which soaked the bottoms of his black jeans as they walked. Neika trotted beside him, her eyes bright and her pink tongue lolling. As the side of the warehouse loomed large, Morgan stopped to examine two thick lanes of crushed grass: double tire tracks—something heavy like an eighteen-wheeler— and fresh.

Then he turned as he continued to walk, scanning a full three hundred sixty degrees like the tail-end Charlie in a combat squad. But he saw and heard nothing other than the morning birds in the trees. The warehouse, three stories tall and maybe three hundred feet from stem to stern, had a glassed-in office area at the left-hand corner. That entrance might be alarmed, so he chose a side door at the center of the building’s flank.

It had a standard steel knob with a keyhole. He took out his lock-pick set and then noticed a slit in the jamb exposing the catch. He skipped over the keyhole, opened a flat metal probe, slipped it inside, and tripped the catch. Carefully, he pulled the door open.

No alarms went off. He didn’t know if that was a good or a bad sign. Only one way to find out, he figured and stepped inside.

The space inside was enormous— and empty. There was no machinery, assembly tables, packing crates, or conveyer belts leading to the right-hand wall, where a pair of huge garage doors were pulled down and locked. Slat windows two stories up lined the flanks. Through them early sunlight streamed in shafts, but the vast concrete floor looked broom clean. Barely a wisp of dust curled through the golden haze.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “You could put the friggin’ space shuttle in here.”

Neika sat next to him, her tail flicking.

“I don’t see anything that looks like tobacco leaf racks, do you?”

She looked up at him silently.

“That’s right. No cigar.”

If Virginia Tobacco had ever made smokes, they’d lost their shirts to the no-smoking culture a long time ago and turned to some other line of business. Maybe the place had been “acquired” and used as cover—hell, he’d done that himself with a myriad of business fronts—but cover for what?

Whatever it was, General Collins knew, but he wasn’t at liberty to say. Tomahawks were big-time bullets, some of them nuclear, so they had to be stored in hardened facilities. But the supporting vehicles, radar, and fire-control modules...maybe. He turned and walked across the floor toward the office enclave on the left.

He spotted some oil stains on the concrete, bent down, took off a glove, and ran a finger across the shallow pool. Not congealed. Fresh.

He trotted up three cement stairs, pulled a door open, and entered the office. Neika clambered inside, and Morgan shut the door. But this was