“So, your mother mentioned there’s a boy you’ve been seeing,” he said, as casually and good-naturedly as possible. He expected her to roll her eyes and clam up, but he was surprised to find not a hint of annoyance in her voice.
“His name is Dylan, Dad. He’s a good guy, and I like him a lot.”
“That’s great, sweetie. I’m happy for you.”
“And if you promise to behave,” she said, “I might even bring him home to meet you.”
He grinned and sipped his coffee. It was steaming hot, and it made him realize how cold he was. “How did you two meet?”
“An APS event.”
“APS?”
“You know,” she said. “Americans for a Peaceful Society. Remember I told you I joined up?”
“Oh, the peaceniks . . .” said Morgan, chuckling, He sipped more coffee.
“I think the preferred term is pacifist, Dad,” she said, with an edge of irritation to her voice.
“In the sixties they called them hippies.” He had meant the comment to be good-natured, but he knew immediately it was the wrong thing to say at the wrong time.
Alex scowled. “I guess it would be too much to ask for you to take me seriously.”
Morgan frowned. Things seemed to have taken a turn rather quickly. “I didn’t mean . . .”
“I know what you meant,” she said dryly. “I know how much respect you have for people like—well, people like me, I guess.”
“Of course I respect you, Alex,” he said. “But you have to admit, this whole pacifist thing tends to be a bit . . . unrealistic, don’t you think?” He was trying hard not to anger her, to humor her, this new passion of hers, but he could tell he wasn’t doing a very good job of it. So much for being a master of deception, he thought.
“Dad, do you know what’s happening out there? Do you know how many soldiers are dying in our wars? How many civilians? Just innocent bystanders, at home, going to work or to school? Do you know, Dad, what our government does to terror suspects, many of whom turn out to be innocent?”
He nodded. He wanted to tell her he knew more than she could imagine. He wanted to tell her things he had not only heard about but seen. Instead, he bit his lip and let her continue.
“So maybe APS is a small ripple in a big pond. So maybe I can’t change the world. At least I’m doing something.”
Dan bit down harder, doing his best to keep from saying something he might regret. “Maybe, Alex. But the truth is, there are evil people in this world. People who would much rather you and I and everyone we know be dead. It’s not like we go to war just for the fun of it. The people who make those decisions always weigh everything carefully, to make sure it’s really, absolutely necessary.”
She scoffed. “Right. And even then, it still never seems to solve anything, does it?”
“Isn’t it ironic,” Morgan said, grinning in an attempt to change the tone of the conversation, “that we’re fighting over this?”
One of the eggs in the skillet let out a loud pop. Alex sighed. “How about you go sit down, I’ll bring breakfast in a minute, and we’ll forget I ever mentioned anything?”
It may not have been much, but it was a peace offering of sorts. Morgan took it as an opening. “Truce, then?”
“Truce.”
“Hey, listen,” he said. “I was saving this until after breakfast, but, you know, the Bruins are playing at the Garden this Friday. I thought you might like to go, too.”
“Yeah, Dad,” she said, with a measure of genuine excitement in her voice, though still tempered with her irritation. “I’d love to.” Sports had always been their bond; whatever the arguments between them, this common ground brought them together. He wondered if it would be enough as she grew older and drifted further and further away. He wanted to tell her that he loved her, that he would do anything for her happiness.
“Okay, then,” he said instead, and he turned to walk into the dining room. The table was set for breakfast for two, the silverware slightly askew but with pretensions of luxury, like linen napkins clumsily folded into fans, and a copy of the Boston Globe sitting neatly next to his plate. What a sweet kid, he thought, even if she was a little misguided by her own naivety. He sat heavily into the chair, relieving his knees with a sigh, and shivered at the chill of his damp shirt against his skin as he leaned back.
He picked up the paper and flipped through to the National section, which had a long piece on Lana McKay, an up-and-coming senator from Ohio who was making waves in Washington. A fresh face in politics, she had been catapulted into the national spotlight in the past year by her powerful appeals to ethics and political reform. She was bold, had a reputation for getting things done, and had emerged as a presidential hopeful in the next election. Morgan knew well how political fads came and went, and he knew even better that politicians sang a radically different tune inside their cabinets than they did to the press. But even he thought there might be something to this one.
He scanned the article but he couldn’t concentrate on the words; his heart just wasn’t in national affairs at the moment. Then he looked below the fold to find the smarmy mug of Senator Edgar Nickerson smiling at him. He and McKay were shaking hands at some political event. It made sense, of course, for McKay to be seen with the man widely considered to be the most trusted politician in America. But Morgan’s image of her suffered from the association. Nickerson was one of the top players in DC—an old-money aristocrat who had a way of making people trust him implicitly. But Morgan knew better than to believe his public image: the man knew how to play the political game, with a reputation among insiders for masterful behind-the-scenes manipulations that no one ever dared speak of aloud for fear of reprisal.
Morgan decided he wouldn’t let politics spoil what was already not the most pleasant of days, so he turned to the sports page for a March Madness update and was immersed in reading when the doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it!” he called out to Alex. He walked to the foyer and opened the front door to find a narrow-shouldered man with thinning blond hair and nervous eyes. It was a familiar face, and one he thought he’d never see again. It fell somewhat short of being a pleasant surprise.
“What the hell are you doing here, Plante?”
“Hello, Cobra. How are you?” said the man softly, with an edge of anxiety to his voice. “It’s been a long time.”
“There’s no Cobra here,” said Morgan. “Not anymore.”
“Would you rather I called you by your civilian name?” Plante asked. “I can do that, if you prefer.”
“I would rather you tell me what the hell you’re doing at my front door,” said Morgan. “Or are you here just to catch up on old times?”
“I need to talk to you,” said Plante, the apprehension obvious in his tone. “Please.”
“Dad, who is it?” called Alex from the kitchen.
“Just a couple of Jehovah’s Witnesses, sweetie,” he yelled to her. Then he turned back to Plante. “You know what? I changed my mind. I don’t care why you’re here. Get the hell off my property before I exercise my right to shoot you as a trespasser.”
“Won’t you—”
“Listen here,” Morgan interrupted, lowering his voice to a growl. “I don’t work for you anymore. Whatever it is, I don’t care. It’s not my problem. It belongs to you and the rest of the clowns at the Agency.”
“What if I told you it’s a matter of life and death? What if I told you no one else could help us?”
“Jesus, it’s always life and death with you people, isn’t it?”
“You know that better than anyone else, don’t you, Cobra?”
Morgan gritted his teeth. “Listen, Plante, my daughter’s here, and she just cooked my breakfast. So I’m going in, and I’m going to sit down with her and eat, and you’re going to get the hell away from me and my family.”
“You won’t even listen to what I have to say?”
“There’s nothing you can say, Plante. Now, go away.” Morgan
began to swing the door shut.
“Cobra, it’s Cougar,” said Plante. The name stopped Morgan dead in his tracks. “Your old partner, Peter Conley. He’s been killed. I’m sorry to tell you like this. But now you’re the only one who can help us.”
Morgan looked at Plante in shock, then took a deep breath.
“Fine. You can come in. But if I find out you’re bullshitting me . . .”
Morgan stepped aside to let Plante into his home. And just like that, his past had flooded back to wash away his life of suburban tranquility.
Kippy Goldfarb / Carolle Photography
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
LEO J. MALONEY was born in Massachusetts, where he graduated high school and attended Northeastern University. In the mid 1960s, while in the army, he was recruited to become a deep cover black ops contractor for a clandestine government agency.
While serving his country in the secretive world of black ops for over thirty years, he operated several “cover” businesses, including a classic car brokerage, promotions and limousine companies, and a detective agency. He served as a municipal police officer in Revere, MA, and is still a licensed private investigator in the state of Massachusetts.
After leaving his career in black ops, Leo continued several of his cover businesses, and also had the opportunity to act in independent films and TV commercials. Leo has five movies to his credit as an actor, producer, technical advisor, or assistant director.
He lives in the Boston area. Visit him at www.leojmaloney.com.
LYRICAL UNDERGROUND BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2016 Leo J. Maloney
All righys reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in ay form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Ay resemblace to actual persons, living or dead events, or locales is entirely concidental.
LYRICAL PRESS and the Lyrical logo are Reg.U.S. Pat. & Tm Off.
Lyrical Underground is a tradermark of Kensington Publishing Corp.
First electronic edition: March 2016
ISBN: 978-1-6165-0977-4
ISBN-13:978-1-61650-978-1
ISBN-10:1-61650-978-3
Printed in the United States of America
Arch Enemy Page 40