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

no tobacco factory shipping and accounting center; it was a sophisticated security and control room. Three large flat screens were mounted above a semicircular steel desk, with DVR sets, UHF radios, intercom mikes, and shotgun racks—empty. He touched a pair of padded office chairs, dented but cold. He looked at the floor; there were recent caster runnels in the dust.

Morgan reached into one of his pockets and took out a small baggie with his earpiece and miniature battery inside. He fired it up and tucked it deep in his ear. It crackled.

“Cobra?” It was Lincoln Shepard’s voice, echoing inside some large space. “Is that you?”

“It’s me, Shep. How copy?”

“Five by five, and it’s about friggin’ time.”

“Missed me, huh? What’s your twenty?”

“I’m at Faneuil Hall, picking up some gourmet brew.”

“Good,” Morgan said. “Who’s on this comm?”

“You, me, and God,” Shepard said.

“For some strange reason, I believe you,” Morgan said. He heard Shepard’s footsteps, pacing, and a vendor in the market calling out something about cheese.

“Listen, Cobra,” Shepard whispered. “You’re way, way out in the cold. The boss put the firm on alert about you.”

“The boss with the bra? Or the one she answers to?”

“The latter, so that means both. They’d shoot me for telling you this, but they’ve got air tactical, so you’d better get the hell out of there.”

Morgan’s eyes narrowed a little. He reached down and ruffled Neika’s head. “How do they know where I am?”

“ISR,” said Shepard.

That meant Intelligence, Surveillance, and Reconnaissance; in short, a drone.

“They’ve got a drone on me? I’m flattered.”

“Well, get yourself a white Subaru. That Shelby sticks out like a turd in a punchbowl.”

Morgan laughed. “You’re getting pretty gnarly for a geek. Got your laptop?”

“Of course. But don’t ask me, Cobra. I gotta get back to the office...”

“Open it up. I need some help here.”

“Shit.”

Morgan heard Shepard cursing under his breath as he found some sort of flat surface and flipped his laptop open.

“All right,” Shepard said. “Now what?”

“I’m looking at a security rig, three flat screens, modules, probably some sort of digital recording mechanism. I need all the tapes, probably seventy-two hours.”

“That’s all?” Shepard was no doubt rolling his eyes. “Okay, where’s the server?”

“Big thing under the desk here.”

“Tell me it’s got a USB port.”

“It does.”

“And tell me you’ve got a charging cord for your cell phone.”

“Course I do,” said Morgan. “I’m an aging millennial.”

“Turn on your cell and plug it into the server,” Shepard instructed. “But the minute you do, you’re gonna be naked, just sayin’.”

“I’ve been working out. I look pretty good.”

“No offense, Cobra, but there’s something seriously wrong with you.”

Morgan powered up his cell and plugged it in. All three flat screens flickered and came on. Surveillance videos showing different angles of the warehouse and its exterior appeared, first at normal speeds and then they started to flash by in streams as Shepard controlled the replay.

Most of what Morgan strained to see showed no activity other than deer walking by in the grass outside and a couple of squirrels on the warehouse floor. But then he caught the fleeting image of a large trailer truck, which was instantly gone as Shepard downloaded everything and the monitors went blank.

Morgan looked up at the office ceiling, where a fluorescent light fixture was vibrating. Then he heard that familiar sound: helicopter rotors.

“Got all that?” he asked Shepard.

“Yes. May I go now?”

“Yeah, and when you get back to the office run through it for me. Think license plates.”

“Jesus, Cobra. If they catch me I’m toast!”

“Yeah? Well, they’ll burn me. You know I’m not asking for my health.”

There was just a moment’s hesitation. “Understood,” said Shep. “Stay low.”

Morgan pulled the earpiece out, dropped it in his pocket, and did the same with his cell and the cord. There was no mistaking the sound now as the windows rattled and the grass outside flattened like waves in a typhoon.

Neika looked up at him, emitting agitated whimpers and trembling. He looked down at her and smiled. “It’s all right, girl. They’re friends.” Friends with guns—which were loaded, with any luck, with either sedative darts or rubber bullets.

The rotor sounds settled to a steady thwop. Morgan opened the office door, stepped down to the warehouse floor, and stopped. Neika sat beside his left leg, a low growl buzzing from her throat.

Bishop, Spartan, and Diesel were standing in the center of the space, Spartan taking point, with Bishop and Diesel flanking. They were all wearing tactical vests—Kevlar, Morgan assumed. They carried no long guns, only pistols in thigh holsters. Spartan’s arms were bare, displaying her angry tattoos. They didn’t look pleased.

“Time to come home, Cobra,” Spartan called out, her low voice echoing off the walls.

“Thanks for asking,” Morgan said. “But I’m still on sabbatical.”

“It’s not a request.” Bishop stepped forward. “Like now, buddy.” His large bald head gleamed in the shafts of light.

Diesel took a step to his left, opening up the triangle. His black hair looked a little wild and crazy from the rotor wash. “Boss put the place on alert ’cause of you. So just chill and get on the chopper.”

“Can’t do that,” Morgan said. “I left my car with the valet, and he looked kinda slimy.”

“You gonna make this hard, Morgan?” Spartan puffed herself up, and Morgan saw her fists ball.

“Ahh, so it’s a Mexican standoff.” Morgan smirked. “But it looks like I’m short of amigos.” They’d clearly been told not to use their weapons; otherwise, they’d have drawn them right off the bat. He kept his hands away from his holstered Walther. “Been awhile since we sparred in the gym. Who’s first?”

“We’re not playing games, smart-ass,” said Spartan. “We’re bringing you back.” She started moving forward, then Bishop and Diesel joined her.

Morgan reached down, took a good, strong grip on Neika’s leather collar, and said, “Guard.” She instantly jumped to her feet, straining forward and baring her icepick canines, growling and slathering drool. The trio stopped in their tracks and stared at her.

“Y’know,” said Morgan. “Everybody thinks these bomb dogs are passive. Truth is when