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

they train MWDs at Lackland, the first thing they do is teach them to rip flesh.”

“Calm her down,” Spartan snarled.

“Oh, she’s calm,” Morgan assured them. “She’s just hungry, and she doesn’t like you.” He crouched down and spoke to Neika as she shuddered and made unholy sounds in her throat. He pointed at Spartan. “Don’t go for that one. She’s got no balls.” Then he pointed at Bishop and Diesel. “But those two, girl, they’ve got nice big scrotums. You can rip ’em right off.”

Bishop and Spartan’s eyes went wide and their fingers twitched toward their guns.

“By the way, boys and girls,” Morgan warned, “she’s gonna hurt you. But if you hurt her, I’ll kill you, and slow.”

“Screw you, Morgan,” Spartan raged. “You’re coming with us!” and then she charged, which was exactly what Morgan knew she’d do.

He commanded, “Hold!” in Neika’s ear, twisted her collar to the left, and released her. She exploded from his grip in a blur of muscle and fur, charging right past Spartan for Bishop. He tried to spin and run, but the hundred-pound dog launched off the floor and hit him like a sledgehammer, sinking her teeth in his triceps as he screamed and went down.

Spartan slammed into Morgan just as hard, but he’d already squatted and jammed his open right hand up into her pubis, gripped her spiky blond hair with his left, straightened, and flipped her over his head. He was already spinning back for Diesel as he heard Spartan slam to the floor. Her head bounced once on the concrete.

Diesel came on in a Krav Maga stance, fists beside his head, legs slightly parted and pigeon-toed. Morgan feinted to the right, took Diesel’s swing, blocked it with his left and kneed him hard in the gut.

Diesel hissed out a groan and bent over as Morgan slammed the back of his neck with his left elbow, looped his right arm around his neck and fell flat back on the floor, slinging both legs around Diesel’s trunk and squeezing with everything he had.

Morgan gripped his right wrist with his left as Diesel writhed and kicked and wind-milled his arms, trying to reach Morgan’s head. But Morgan kept his face tucked down tight as he increased the crush on Diesel’s carotid and watched Neika dragging Bishop across the floor as she tore his clothes and his skin, and he cursed and screamed, “Get her off me!”

Morgan grunted in Diesel’s ear. “Go to sleep, bro.”

“Fuuuck yooou,” Diesel wheezed as the blood drained from his brain.

“Maybe later, though you’re not my type. Just tap out.” But he kept on squeezing until Diesel went limp. Morgan flipped his head back upside down to check on Spartan. She was just coming to, moaning and holding her skull.

He squirmed out from underneath Diesel and got up. Neika was still working Bishop over, and he was curled up in a ball. Morgan walked over, his bad knee aching and his lungs heaving, but he grinned as he bent to Bishop’s fetal form, pulled his comrade’s handgun from his thigh holster, dropped the magazine, ejected the round, and slid them both across the floor. Better not to get a bullet in the back—some folks got riled up by dogs.

He gripped Neika’s collar and said, “Out.” She released her bite on Bishop as if a switch had been thrown and sat, grinning and panting and looking up at Morgan for approval. He ruffled her head and said, “Good girl!” He patted his left thigh, and she followed him as he made for the side door.

“My goddamn arm, Morgan,” Bishop groaned behind Morgan’s back.

“Well, don’t pull that three-to-one shit on me,” Morgan said as he stepped outside with Neika and slammed the door.

The Lakota helo was sitting on the rippling grass about a hundred feet away in the clearing, its black rotors spinning as it idled. Morgan took out his Walther and aimed it at the gleaming cockpit and the form of the pilot sitting behind it. The pilot raised his hands, and then Morgan saw his wide grin. It was Peter Conley. Morgan grinned back and put up the pistol. Cougar gave him a snappy salute as he and Neika trotted by.

Morgan looked down at the shepherd and smiled as she kept pace with his strides, her long tongue lolling. “Girl, I owe you a bone.”

She smiled back and barked as they ran for the car.

Chapter Twenty-One

She was a lithe blonde with hazel eyes, her tow-colored tresses roped in a perfect braid to her midback and her tortoise-shell glasses offering an air of proud intellect.

Her gray suit was modestly cut, the double-breasted jacket revealing only the top of a buttoned-up tangerine blouse, the skirt hem exposing just half her knees. Her stockings were plain, her shoes flat black and made for walking, and her fingers that gripped the brown Marks & Spencer briefcase showed no rings. She wore no jewelry, except for a brushed-steel Tag Heuer watch, and she carried no purse.

With a glance at her purposeful gait, it would be hard to tell if she were gay, or straight, or neither at all.

Inside her breast pocket, her British passport announced her as Rosalind Stone, as did a pack of glossy business cards in a silver case. They stated her employer as Thales, a military communications company, of which she was an assistant vice president of sales. But her given name was Lily, and she was approaching Zijin Cheng, the Forbidden City in the heart of Beijing, the People’s Republic of China.

“I see you’re on the move,” Lincoln Shepard said deep in her ear. “So it’s showtime.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“You’re not gonna talk to me much today, are you?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Fair enough. I like quiet girls,” Shepard said. “So, listen up. Bloss wants you to get eyes on Hyo and see if you can find out what he’s up to, but she says keep it low risk and then just exfil. Copy?”

Instead of answering, Lily muttered “Bloss?”

“You like it?” Shepard replied. “I made it