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

Navy peacoat had ragged holes punched in the front, her blonde hair was a greasy mess, and her left sleeve was gone—replaced by her arm, which was encased in a green plaster cast.

But the Smith & Wesson revolver clutched in her right fist was gorgeous, and it was aimed directly at Collins’s head.

“Well, well,” Collins said. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

Morgan turned back around and looked at the general. The Doberman rose to his feet and growled at Schmitt.

“Better tell your dog to stand down, General,” Schmitt said. “Trigger pull’s faster than fur.”

Collins ignored the comment. “I thought my people took care of you.” He kept his revolver trained on Morgan.

“The miracle of Kevlar,” Schmitt said. “They left me for dead. I won’t make the same mistake with you.”

“Somebody throw me a bone,” Morgan said.

“He put you onto me Morgan,” Schmitt said, without taking her eyes or her gun off Collins, “because he knew I wasn’t sure if he was dirty or clean. He was hoping I’d panic and try to kill you, and you’d kill me instead. He’d already given you Virginia, and he figured you’d work that out and do whatever he needed.” She narrowed her eyes at Collins. “Now put the piece down, General. Slowly.”

Collins’s gray eyes narrowed back. “You pull that trigger, I’ll pull mine, and Morgan here’s gone.”

“So?” Schmitt said. “I barely know him.”

“That’s harsh,” Morgan said.

Collins laughed.

Morgan pressed his thumb on the pepper spray button and fired a thick stream at the Doberman’s face as he launched himself out of the chair to the right. Collins’s brain made a primary-threat decision, so he fired a shot at Schmitt, but she was already ducking. The bullet splintered the hallway jamb as she went down.

The dog was yelping and spinning in circles as Morgan dropped the tube, spun left, and slammed into Collins’s chest at the same time he jetted his right hand out to grip Collins’s gun wrist. But Collins reached over his head with his left, grabbed the bronze lamp from the table, and clanged it off Morgan’s skull.

Half-blinded, drooling, and snarling like a demon, the Doberman went for Schmitt—slamming her into a wall. Collins banged Morgan’s head again with the lamp, but Morgan wouldn’t let go of his wrist. So he dropped the gun, kicked Morgan off him, and charged for the porch door. The Doberman was on top of Schmitt, trying to tear her throat out. She cracked him on the skull with her revolver butt until he went limp, then squeezed out from under him and scrambled up.

“Don’t lose him!” Morgan yelled as he gripped his ringing head with both hands. They saw Collins outside, vaulting over the porch rail. That “retired old general” crap was just an act.

“I’ll cut him off from the rear!” Schmitt charged through the den, out through the glass doors, and went after Collins.

Morgan pulled the front door open and staggered down the stairs into the front yard. He felt hot blood crawling through his hair and running off his jaw, but he ignored it as he starting loping off to the right. He heard the sound of a gunning engine, and then the double gate at Collins’s front brick wall splintered off its hinges as a black van burst through the opening and swerved to a stop on the lawn.

It was one of Zeta’s tac vehicles. Morgan stopped running as the doors flew open, and Bishop, Spartan, and Diesel jumped out.

“Perfect timing!” Morgan gasped as he shot his finger off to the right in the direction of Collins’s flight. “Collins just took off that way.” He started running toward them and the van. “Back in the truck. Let’s get him.”

Then he froze. Bishop was pointing a Taser pistol at him.

“We’re not here for him,” he said to Morgan. “We’re here for you.”

“What the ever-loving fu—”

Then Bishop fired. The darts plunged into Morgan’s chest, and the high voltage twitched him like a marionette.

He went down hard. And this time, he didn’t get up.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Lily woke up, naked, in what appeared to be Austria.

She lay there just breathing, staring at a pink stucco ceiling, fully convinced she was dreaming. Then she steeled herself for the awful truth, lifted her head from a thick down pillow, and looked around. She blinked, hiked herself up on her elbows, and the thick flowered quilt nestling her fell away from her nude breasts.

“I’ve bloody well died,” she whispered. “And hell is a brothel.”

She was lying on a king-sized bed, with curled brass bars at the head and foot, in the middle of a very large room. The walls were of textured pink stucco, the moldings and doors were made of chunky chestnut, and the tall windows were obscured by long lace curtains. To her left was a cushy, purple divan, and at the far wall beyond was a dressing table that looked like an antique from Salzburg.

Above that on the wall was an oval mirror ringed in brass cherubs, with a framed sign that said “Wilkommen.”

She looked to her right, where a small bedside table held a lamp, a crystal water pitcher and glass, her false passport, and her cell phone. Just beyond that was an ornate wooden chair with a high curved back, carefully arranged with some clothes: a sleeveless red dress, long-sleeved white blouse, modest pink bra and bikini-cut panties, and a pair of high black leather boots.

She looked at the bottom of the quilt, where her turned-up feet were making a small tent, and carefully curled her toes. The bottoms of her wounded soles felt stiff, encased in something. She threw off the quilt and stared at a pair of medical pressure stockings running all the way up to her knees.

Well now, that’s very attractive.

She swung her legs to the right and sat up, feeling a little woozy. So she took a long pull from the water glass. Tasty, refreshing, as if from a mountain stream. Then she stood, using the high mattress as