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

straight up as the legs popped out from her ankle ropes. Then she spun to the left, gripped the chair back, and swung it up over her head as she twisted around to the writhing form of the guard on his back. She smashed him with it as if it were a sledgehammer. The legs splintered, and so did his bones. Just as she was taught, she pounded him again and again until he lay still.

Her body screamed at her to collapse or run. She told her body to shut the hell up as she fell to her knees and rifled the guard’s pockets until she found the handcuff key. She freed her right wrist and dropped the cuffs on his chest at the same moment she pulled his blood-spattered pistol from its holster.

She gripped the side of the table and hauled herself up at the same second she swiped up her cell, passport, and ear comm. She wanted to make a beeline for the doorway but had to be satisfied with staggering. She gripped the sill as a wave of bile stung her throat.

I told you to shut the hell up! she internally shrieked, forcing the puke back as she stuffed the cell and passport into the front of her skirt, jammed the comm in her ear, worked the pistol’s action to chamber a round, and sprang out into the corridor—barefoot and gasping for breath.

To the left, at the end of the corridor, moonlight gleamed through a leaden glass window. Her feet felt like concrete, and her legs were on fire, but she ran—seeing that the window was split down the middle with an iron turn-handle in the middle.

She was almost there when one of Hyo’s young officers popped into the corridor from the right. He was carrying some sort of ration box, probably for the guard she’d just killed. His eyes flew wide as he saw her. He froze but not for long. He dropped the box and scrambled for his pistol. But she launched herself at him like a rabid raccoon, hugged him in a death grip, shoved her pistol deep in his belly, and fired.

His head snapped up, and he tumbled back into the wall just below the window. Lily jammed the pistol into her skirt, stomped on his chest, and launched herself up, grabbing the turn handle and twisting. The window flew open, and she scrambled onto the still and looked down.

Blackness. Goddamn blackness. She had no idea how high up she was. Enormous pines whipped in the wind out front. But below her, nothing. She heard shouts from behind her.

Her body started begging again, pleading, screaming.

What did I tell you? she screeched back at it as she jumped.

Chapter Thirty

Zeta headquarters had a coded alert system that was similar to a hospital’s. It sounded like submarine sonar.

A single ping, ringing from the recessed intercom speakers at five-second intervals, meant that all personnel should return to their workstations. Two pings, at closer intervals, initiated an urgent communication to analysts and operators, wherever they were in the world—instructing them to scuttle their current tasks and prepare for action. Three steady pings, with only a second between trios, essentially meant “Get the crash cart.”

It sealed all the access doors, sent tactical operators to the team room to don their gear and weapons, and ordered both drivers and pilots to the motor pool bay.

So far this morning, it had only been two pings. But now Lincoln Shepard raced down the hallway as if his hair was on fire, clutching his laptop—a pair of Bluetooth earphones with a boom mike bouncing askew on his head—as his sneakers flapped against the floor. He’d been the one to call the alarm, choosing the middle of three toggles under his desk, and he had a damn good reason.

He burst through the board room door. Paul Kirby was already there, at the head of the conference table, and Karen was just taking a chair. Bishop, Diesel, and Spartan stood off to the left in a corner, arms folded, all wearing similar leather jackets and the bored expressions of combat vets always being told to “hurry up and wait.” Peter Conley rocked back in a leather chair, his flight boots resting on the arm of another. He was reading a copy of Mad Magazine and chuckling.

Linc slapped the laptop down on the table and covered his boom mike with a trembling fist.

“I got her!” he gushed breathlessly. “She’s out, and I have no idea how, but I got her!”

Kirby leaned forward in his chair. “You’ve got who, Mr. Shepard?”

“Lily, for God’s sake!” Linc slammed himself down in a chair, flipped open the laptop, and hammered away at the keyboard.

Conley put the magazine down, and the Tac team unfolded their arms. Karen covered her mouth with a hand, much like the image of Hillary Clinton when SEAL Team Six killed Osama bin Laden. Kirby was out of his chair, listing forward like a battleship in a rogue wave.

“Sloww. . . dowwn, Shepard,” he ordered. “Facts, not emotions.”

Shepard ignored him and pressed the mike to his mouth. “You still with me, Lily?”

No one could hear her feeble voice through Shepard’s earphones, but he listened and nodded furiously.

“Just hang in. We’re all here. Whatever you do, just keep going and don’t let those bastards get you.”

“Damn it, Shepard!” Kirby snapped. “Put her on hold and report!”

Shepard looked at Kirby and said, “Wait one,” into the mike, then pushed it away from his lips, and muted it again with his hand.

“The aircraft made a hard landing in Dalian, China,” he said. “The Koreans took her to some temple in Dalian Jinlon Forest and worked her over. I don’t know how she escaped, but she did, and she’s friggin’ running through the jungle somewhere, and they’re hot on her trail.” He looked around, his eyes glassy and crazed. “Where’s Diana?”

“Out of the office,” Kirby answered. “I’m in charge here now.” He snapped his fingers to get Shepard’s