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

a line even Cougar wouldn’t cross? Then they passed the open door to the Zoo, where Conley was standing there, watching and brooding.

“Et tu, Cougar?” Morgan accused as he passed.

“I’m a cog in the wheel, brother,” Conley said. “Just like you.”

Morgan ignored his partner as the Tac team dragged him out into Zeta’s main hallway. He vaguely noticed the faces of others: Shepard and Karen looking pouty and ashamed while Kirby stood there with folded arms and a disgusting victorious smirk.

But all he really saw was the coterie of strangers bunched at the end of the hall—four FBI agents in suits and three more in SWAT gear backing them up. Diana cruised up beside him. He lifted his chin in defiance.

“That’s a lot of cop muscle for one tired old spook.”

“Don’t make this hard,” she muttered. “You won’t be there long.”

But Morgan wasn’t sure about anything now, not even that melodrama back in the cage. Those doors at the end of the hallway led out to the underground garage, where the FBI dudes probably had an armored Bearcat vehicle waiting. For all he knew, they’d be taking a long ride down to D.C., and by the time he got out he’d be wizened and gray.

Then the doors at the end of the lobby burst open, and a very tall man wearing an army full-dress uniform came stomping his way through the feds. He had stars on his epaulets and lots of ribbon bars, and he was trailing two younger officers who looked like guys on temporary duty from Delta.

But the most stunning thing about the vision was that Alex was right there along with the general, and she was dressed like that first day she’d interviewed for school. Diesel and Spartan stopped dead in their tracks, and Morgan squinted at the general’s black nameplate.

Margolis.

The general marched straight up to Diana. “That’s enough of this nonsense, Ms. Bloch. This man is not the enemy.” Then he looked Morgan over, up, and down. “Come on, you poor, sorry son of a bitch. Let’s go get the real lowlife traitor.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

Six thousand feet above the Golden Gate Bridge, Scott Renard’s private jet burst from a cloud.

It was a Bombardier Challenger 605, with an ice-blue skin, fire-red winglets, and the italicized letters SR on the sides. Inside the spacious nine-passenger cabin, the décor was all black leather and chrome, as if a Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost had been turned inside out. And much like everything else Renard owned, you could talk to the aircraft and it would do your bidding or, if elucidation were required, talk back.

“Feet dry,” said the voice inside the large, lush cabin. It had the same female lilt as Scott’s house.

“Give me the cockpit,” Scott said. He was half-reclined in a puff leather chair, facing aft, where Lily was ensconced in the bathroom. Between him and there, Chilly and Hot Shot faced one another across a round chrome table, happily devouring freshly grilled steaks.

“Flight deck here,” reported Scott’s chief pilot.

“Morning, Bobby,” said Scott. “Plane says we’re over land.”

“Roger that—welcome home. Want us to set her down in Frisco?”

“Not yet. Just cruise around for a while. What’s your bingo?” Scott asked, a reference to fuel consumption.

“Got about a thousand nautical left, enough for a Sunday drive.”

“Okay, just stand by.”

“Yes, sir,” said the pilot, and the Challenger winged over into an easy elliptical glide.

The door to the aft bathroom opened, and as Lily emerged, Scott sat up and smiled his gap-tooth smile. He’d brought her some clothes that fit her style, but they looked much different on her than the rack. Her lithe legs were snuggled in tight black jeans, with a roll-neck crimson sweater on top, and black running shoes on her feet. Her red hair was freshly washed and combed, so her mane fell loose to her shoulders. Whatever she’d been through, she looked like she’d left it behind—along with that Hallstatt outfit, which was now bunched up in a bag like a souvenir.

“Wow,” Scott said as Lily walked up the aisle.

Chilly, whose back was to Scott, looked up from his steak, and Hot Shot twisted his head around.

“Can I second that?” Chilly asked.

“You may, as long as that’s all.”

Chilly dipped his gelled red head. “Then wow, dude.”

“I’ll just say you clean up real nice, ma’am,” Hot Shot said. Some military habits die hard, such as addressing all men as sir and all women as ma’am.

“Thank you, lads.” Lily dipped her head as she passed them.

“Yes,” Scott said. “From Dorothy to Emma Peel in a flash.”

“Who’s that?” Chilly asked.

“Never mind. You’re too young.”

Lily flopped down into a chair across the aisle from Scott’s.

“How’d you sleep?” he asked.

“Like the dead,” she said, “though with a few fitful dreams. One of them was about a girl who’s infatuated with a nerd in wolf’s clothing. But then it turns out it’s the other way around. He’s a wolf, posing as a nerd.”

Scott grinned. “Sounds like a fairy tale.”

“Or a nightmare,” said Lily, but then her smile widened. “With a happy ending.”

A young woman emerged from the forward cabin, carrying a tray with two glasses of orange juice. Her outfit was “flight attendant casual”—just jeans and a blazer with an “SR” lapel pin. She had freckles, brown hair in a ponytail, and large, heavy glasses. Renard never hired to impress his clients—only based on resumes, nothing else. She set the juice down on their respective tables.

“Thank you, Susan.”

“You bet. Anything else?”

“Not for now.”

She went back to the galley. Lily sipped her juice and regarded Scott as if seeing him for the first time.

“We’re going to have to have a long talk, young man,” she said.

“Later. At the moment, we’re going to war.” He looked over at Chilly and Hot Shot, who were now plunging their steak-stained forks into steaming eggs and arguing the merits of the book version and TV adaptation of Game of Thrones.

“You there,” he snapped. They both dropped their forks and sat up like obedient dogs. “You’ve got