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

collar. Her heart started pounding like crazy as she came away from the wall.

He strode right up to her and looked down. “Mrs. Morgan,” he said. It wasn’t really a question, but her shoulders sagged with relief. He knew who she was, so he wasn’t just some mugger, even though he had a voice like a hoarse panther.

“That’s me,” she said. “Where’s Ms. Bloch?”

“She’s not coming,” Bishop said. Then he reached inside his jacket, pulled out a huge handgun, and pressed the barrel right into her chest. “But you are.”

“Oh my God,” she gasped and jerked back against the stone as her knees started shaking.

“First things first,” he said. “Give me your cell phone.”

She had no idea why she did it, but instead of giving him her iPhone from her left-hand pocket, she pulled out the old dead one from the right. He snatched it from her trembling fingers, stuck it in his pocket and gripped her elbow, hard. Then they walked toward her car.

“Give me your keys.”

“What do you want?” she sputtered. “Who are you?”

“I’m a man on a mission, and you’re my insurance policy. The keys, now.”

She handed them over, and he popped the Camry’s trunk. Then he stood back and waved the black automatic. “Get in.”

“No!” She shook her head madly as the tears sprang to her eyes.

“I’ll drop you right here,” he snarled. “Then your husband and Alex won’t have to haul your corpse so far.”

She was shaking like a leaf as she looked at the black maw of the trunk. But she somehow managed to hike one foot over the bumper and folded herself inside. He looked down at her once more, smiled slightly, and slammed it shut. She had sobbed like a child.

And now she was here, on her way to only God knew where.

They were moving fast; she could tell that much. At the beginning, that man who called himself Bishop had stopped a few times at some lights. But after that there were no more stops, and the car zoomed faster. She heard the deep bellows of truck horns twice, like ships out there in the night.

They were on some highway, maybe 495? But was it south toward Rhode Island or north to New Hampshire? She couldn’t tell. Who was he? Did he really know Dan and Alex? Or was he some vengeful villain from Dan’s past? There were plenty of those, she was sure.

It doesn’t matter! You’re a hostage. He can pull off the road at any minute, take you out into a field, and kill you! Or worse...

“You’re my insurance policy,” he’d said. Did that mean some sort of exchange? and with whom? Was this some sort of a ransom thing? and who’d want her back except Dan?

Call him!

She suddenly remembered her cell phone, and she squeezed her left arm between the ceiling and her up-thrust left hip—fumbling in her jacket pocket. She got it out and cradled it to her chest like a precious, blessed amulet. She managed to squeeze her trembling right fingers to the screen and swipe it, and the soft yellow glow on her face nearly made her cry again.

Then she froze. She’d heard nothing from up front through the trunk until now—no radio, talking, or even a cough. But now she heard that man called Bishop talking to someone on his own phone.

“Roger, General. I’m thirty minutes out. And I’ve got a package you’ll like.”

General? General who? She couldn’t hear the other person talking, so her kidnapper was using an earpiece. Was he some sort of army guy? But why would a soldier do something so horrible like this? and then...

“That’s right,” he said. “Morgan’s wife.” And he laughed but said nothing else.

Sweet Jesus! Call Dan! She started to tap out his cell number, but her mind was a swirling fog. She flubbed it, cursed, and started again. Then she stopped. What’s Dan going to do? You can’t even tell him where you are, and you’ve only got less than half an hour now!

Oh God...

She froze as she remembered. She switched hands, clutching the phone in her right as she snaked her left arm back over her hip and butt cheek. Her fingers scrambled into the trunk’s rear shelf until they gripped something. The shotgun!

She’d completely forgotten that she’d stuffed it in there. But so what? She had no idea how to use it, except as some sort of club. Even if he opened the trunk and she swung it, he’d just shoot her or beat her to death with it.

You’d damn well better figure it out!

She twisted as much as she could onto her back and dragged out the case, inch by inch. Then she squirmed back around onto her right side until it was stuffed lengthwise, between her knees and her face. By the dim glow of her phone, she unzipped it.

There it was—long, black, gleaming, and totally incomprehensible. She fumbled for the box of shells, tore it open, and they spilled all over the trunk floor. They were green and plastic, with a shiny copper base on one end.

I don’t even know which end goes in where!

She started to sob again, feeling hopeless and helpless. Then she whispered hoarsely, “Shut the hell up!” She stared at her phone. What did Alex say every time she had a question? “Google it, Mom.” No matter what the question was—from archeology to zoology. “Google it, Mom.”

So she did. She tapped on the multicolored “G” app icon, which she hardly ever used. Her thumbs twitched on the digital screen keys until she managed to type out “How to shoot a shotgun.”

A whole bunch of videos popped up. She tapped on the first one, but then the trunk filled with sound. She clutched the phone to her chest and hissed at it, “Hush!” Her fingers pressed madly at all the side keys until the thing got quiet again.

Shit! Did he hear that? Then the car went over some kind of rut, and her head banged the