“Launch!” Weinberg exclaimed. “Launch now!”
The first of the guards had reached the tree line to Morgan’s distant left, but Conley was waiting for him and took him out with four discharges of his Beretta Storm .45. Morgan ran again, leaving the position he’d given away while Diesel took out another hostile with his sniper rifle.
Morgan took cover behind a boulder and lifted the bulky Stinger surface-to-air launcher he had carried with him onto his shoulder. The tactical nuclear missile lit up with a deafening roar, shooting a jet of blue fire into the lawn.
“Ready to neutralize the weapon,” said Morgan. “Cover me.”
“Aim carefully,” said Diesel. “We’ve got one chance at this.”
Morgan was taking aim when something blocked his view—two commandos entering the forest directly between him and the missile.
Damn it.
“Need backup!” he called out. He laid aside the launcher. His sniper rifle would be of no use at such close quarters. He unholstered his Walther PPK nine millimeter and crouched behind the boulder.
“Morgan, you need to take out that missile!” said Conley.
He heard the cracks of the men’s footsteps—they were flanking him on either side of the stone. He transferred his weapon to his left hand and unsheathed his combat knife with his right. It was a stupid, desperate move, but it was his only option.
Morgan emerged from behind the boulder, the two hostiles no more than three yards away. As he raised his left hand to shoot and drew his right to make the throw, gunfire rang out from his right and a single shot on his left, and the two men collapsed inward.
“That works too,” said Morgan, sheathing his knife and holstering the PPK.
“You said you needed backup,” said Diesel.
“You’re welcome,” said Lily.
“Appreciated,” he said, picking up the rocket launcher. The missile began rising in the air. One shot. That’s all that stood between him and the detonation of a nuclear weapon on the homeland.
Morgan pulled the trigger. The rocket fired out of the cylinder, burning bright, and hit the missile between two of its rear fins. The steel cylinder exploded in a red fireball that rose up past the roof. What was left of the missile flew two hundred feet to land on the far end of the lawn.
Morgan smirked.
“Spread out!” he yelled. “We’re taking Weinberg tonight!”
“Cobra, Cougar, flank the house on—”
A single distant gunshot rang out, and Diesel cried out in pain. “I’m hit!” he said. “I took one in the leg.”
By eyeballing the rough angle of entry, Morgan knew the bullet had come from the house. He looked through the scope of his rifle and found the shooter, positioned at the attic window above the central cornice. All he could see were pale, feminine hands.
“That’s Lena Weinberg,” said Morgan, back against a broad maple.
Lily’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll get her.”
“Hold that thought.” Morgan took a shot. He had no hope of making it, but he hit the window, shattering the glass, and saw her withdraw.
“How many hostiles left on the ground?” Morgan asked.
“Three,” said Conley.
Another gunshot. “Two,” corrected Diesel.
“You two fend them off,” said Morgan. “I’m off to get Weinberg.” He looked at Lily. “Let’s go together. Ready?”
Without responding, Lily took off across the lawn. He sprinted after her, keeping his distance, dodging left and right at random intervals. He made it across the grass in ten seconds flat and reached the safety of the front door, where Lena couldn’t shoot them from the balcony.
Lily opened the door and walked in, Morgan following. The house was filled with hunting trophies and bodies of taxidermied critters, which filled the spacious entrance hall with ominous shadows.
“Morgan!” came Weinberg’s voice from beyond a door ahead.
Morgan turned to Lily. “Go find Lena!” He stepped forward, rifle in hand, to take cover behind a grandfather clock. “Weinberg!” he shouted. “You’re not leaving this house alive if you don’t come out with your hands up right goddamn now.”
“I have a different idea,” said Weinberg. “You might have taken my Anse, but I am not defenseless, you know.”
Automatic fire tore through the door, from at least six guns. Morgan hugged the wall and let the clock take the brunt of it.
“You are the one who will die, I think,” said Weinberg.
Lily ran upstairs. She heard heavy footsteps coming from the balcony and along the upstairs corridor, toward the back of the house. She only saw a dark shadow of Lena Weinberg disappearing into a dark threshold—no, not entirely dark. There was a flickering light inside. Lily ran headlong down the hall, gun drawn, and into the door after Lena.
She heard the low whistle of wood flying through the air before something hit her hand, knocking the handgun onto the floor. Before she could react, another blow caught her in the back and sent her flying forward on her knees. In the dim light, which emanated from a fireplace in the far wall, she saw as her eyes adjusted the upraised aristocratic chin of Lena Weinberg and her cool, deadly eyes. She was holding a quarterstaff in both hands.
“I thought you might come,” she said. “I’ve been reading up on you. I didn’t know who you were then, but I do now.”
She swung the staff. Lily rolled out of the way just as it whipped by her and thwacked the hardwood floor.
“Poor little orphan girl,” Lena said. “Out for revenge on the man who killed her parents.”
“It was revenge before,” said Lily. “Now, I just want the pleasure of seeing you dead.” They circled each other. Lena lunged, and Lily dodged again.
“Oh, the cold-blooded killer. Quite a departure from the Monte Carlo floozie, don’t you think, Miss Randall?”
“And you’re not quite the proper lady you pretend to be, are you?”
“It is entirely proper for a lady to learn to defend herself,” Lena said.
Lily scanned the room for a possible weapon. She spotted one: a basket of canes near the door through which she had come in. She stepped back as Lena advanced again, keeping Lily away from the door. This was going to take some risk.
Lily feinted forward and left, and Lena swept her quarterstaff at her. Lily then rolled right, and in one fluid motion as she got up, she picked up a cane from the basket.
“Well done!” Lena laughed. “Perhaps we are more evenly matched than I thought.”
The cane had a nice heft to it. Lily practiced swinging it a few times as Lena looked for the right moment to pounce. Lily made the first move, striking low at Lena’s legs, and missing. Lena landed a sharp blow against Lily’s left arm, and she cried out in pain.
Lena swung down this time, and Lily rolled away. Not backing down, Lena swung again, and this time Lily parried with her cane. However, with the blow, the cane seemed to break, suddenly much lighter in her hands. She was about to toss it aside when she looked at it and was surprised.
Lena’s blow hadn’t broken the cane, merely unsheathed the sword that was hidden inside.
“Oh, this should be interesting,” said Lena. She pressed forward, sending blow after blow. Lily knew the sword-cane couldn’t parry one of those blows, so she was left to dodge one after the other. At one point she nearly lost her balance, and Lena took advantage of it to kick her in the chest. Lily knocked against a table, dropping a number of unseen objects backward toward the flickering fire. Again the staff came down, and Lily dodged aside.
“You know, there’s more to Gunther and me than meets the eye,” Lena said, pressing forward. “Gunther, the playboy, is infinitely more than that.”
“A psychopath and a terrorist?” asked Lily, lashing out with the sword but coming up short.
“Gunther has the vision,” Lena said, offended. “The grand ideas. I admit, he is better at that than me. But he would be nothing without me. He would have accomplished little, because
he has no knack for the practical. I was the planner. The one who took care of business.”
The light in the room had grown brighter. Risking a look, Lily turned her head to the fireplace and saw that the cloth from the table she had knocked down had fallen into the flames, which had spread to the carpet and the drapes.
“Do you think I care about the dynamics of your sick little family?” said Lily.
“I do have a point, you idiot girl.”
“That being?”
“Who do you think killed your parents? I mean, do you really think Gunther would concern himself with trifling details? Two insignificant British journalists? I arranged for the accident.”
“Bitch,” Lily said through gritted teeth.
Lena laughed. “I suppose I am. Does it make you angry? Does it make your face hot, your blood boil? Do you want to kill me more than ever now?” She swung the quarterstaff, and Lily narrowly avoided having her skull crushed.
The fire seemed to be galloping now. This old house was ripe for the flames, full of dusty tapestries and hardwood.
“I just wanted to see your face when I told you,” Lena said. “Before you die.”
She launched an attack. Lily rolled under it, getting on the other side of Lena—the side near the door. Lightning quick, she slashed at Lena’s calves. The woman bellowed in pain but did not even stumble. Lily backed out the door, letting Lena swing at her furiously but ineffectively. She was getting enraged and tired. Hers was a heavier weapon that Lily’s, and its weight was taking a toll.
With the next swing, Lily evaded easily and stuck again, opening a deep cut in Lena’s right arm. Lily’s anger was fading, leaving her alert. She saw that downstairs, Morgan was pinned down by several gunmen. The steady gunfire kept him from coming out.
Another blow from Lena, another dodge. Lily tipped a heavy chair with her foot and pushed it against Lena. It was enough to make her stagger back. Lily slashed at her hands, so that she dropped her staff. Then Lily kicked Lena against the banister and plunged the sword into Lena’s heart. She gasped, more surprised than in pain. Blood gushed out of her chest, and she went limp.
“Weinberg!” Lily hollered into the cavernous entrance hall to the house. “Your sister is dead. I killed her. I wanted you to know that before you die.” She shoved Lena’s body over the railing. The corpse flipped over and fell on the antlers of a mounted deer, hanging with her arms out and the sword sticking out of her chest, with an expression of wide-eyed horror.
“Lena!” It was a nearly animalistic wail. Weinberg ran into the hall, screaming, and stood in front of his sister’s body, looking up at her. He turned around, with a handgun aimed at Morgan.
Morgan shot a single bullet, which caught Weinberg square in the center of the forehead. He tipped forward and fell on the floor with a thud.
“You’ve got two choices,” Morgan yelled out to Weinberg’s gunmen. “You can stay where you are, following the orders of a dead man, so I can pin you down in this house until you burn to death. Or you can toss your guns and come out with your hands up.”
The automatics came sliding from the door into the hall, then the five men, single-file, with their hands up. Lily jogged down the stairs and took one of their rifles. They marched out of the house, where the spreading conflagration would soon consume the bodies of the two Weinbergs, into the cool night air.
Chapter 69
Morgan walked up the stairs to the temporary Zeta offices on Charles Street. He opened the outer door with a key, which seemed quaint and antiquated, and walked past the empty reception and through the unfurnished, undecorated halls to Bloch’s office. He knocked.
The door opened, and there was Bloch, as unruffled as usual. Although, Morgan observed, not quite: her movements showed a certain stiffness from the wound that still hadn’t healed. Bloch winced as she motioned for him to sit down. Morgan knew she must be in a lot more pain than she showed.
She took her seat. “How are you, Morgan?”
He exhaled. “Well. My daughter’s safely at home. And I went to see Bishop in the hospital. He tells me he’ll be out by the end of the week.”
“And up and about in no time,” said Bloch.
“So why am I here?” asked Morgan. “Am I getting chewed out?”
Bloch chuckled. “Nothing like that. I’d just like to let you know a couple of things. First, Elizabeth Randall has proven a capable and valuable agent. We have invited her to stay with us as a permanent addition to the team, and she has accepted.”
“Glad to hear it,” said Morgan. “I’ll be glad to have her watching my back, and I think she’ll be better off having someone sensible watching hers.”
Bloch raised an eyebrow at the adjective, but said nothing. “Then there is the matter of your daughter.”
“Oh,” said Morgan, casting a sidelong glance at nothing in particular.
“Yes,” said Bloch. “She knows not only about our existence, but also the location of our headquarters.”
“Look, I’m sorry, I—”
“That’s not what this is about,” Bloch broke in. “I’m not here to talk about you, Morgan. I’m here to talk about her.”
“Wait, what?”
“She has proven resourceful in a crisis. She has demonstrated valuable skills in the field. And, as I understand it, she herself is interested.”
“Absolutely not,” said Morgan. “I won’t allow it. Jenny would kill me.”
“I am not asking you, Morgan. The offer will be extended to her, and if she accepts, she will begin training. I am merely informing you so that you don’t break down my door later and tell me I didn’t warn you.”
Morgan slumped in his chair. “I don’t even have the energy to fight you on this,” he said. “Or her. I suppose I brought this on myself by starting to teach her in the first place.”
“She’s a talented young woman,” said Bloch. “She deserves her chance to do what she wants to. And what I suspect is what she will do best.”
“That girl can do whatever she wants,” he said.
“And it surprises you that she chose to follow in her father’s footsteps?”
Morgan chuckled, then sighed. “What now, Bloch?”
“Now, we rebuild,” she said. “Bigger and better. Zeta’s far from over, Morgan, and it will take more than Gunther Weinberg to stop us.”
Morgan laughed. “I don’t know how many more of them I can survive,” he said.
“I know you, Morgan. And for you, the answer will always be ‘as many as it takes.’ ”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank my agent, Doug Grad of the Doug Grad Literary Agency in New York, for all his hard work, dedication, and guidance over the past three years. His knowledge of the industry has been a huge help and he is a pleasure to work with.
I would also like to thank my local publicist, Skye Wentworth of Skye Wentworth Public Relations in Newbury, Massachusetts, who has encouraged me to follow my dream and has worked hard to get many radio and newspaper interviews as well as book-signing events.
I also want to thank my good friend and bestselling author John Gilstrap, who has been a mentor to me since we met three years ago. He has provided me with invaluable advice.
A very special thank-you to my editor at Kensington Publishing, Michaela Hamilton. Michaela has had faith in me, guided me, and fought for me and helped me to write the best book I possibly could. She is not only my editor, but a true friend.
Special thanks, too, to Caio Camargo, whose input has been essential in the writing of the Dan Morgan thrillers.
Coming soon from e-Pinnacle
TWELVE HOURS
A Dan Morgan Thriller—e-Book Exclusive!
Kippy Goldfarb / Carolle Photography
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
LEO J. MALONEY was born in Massachusetts, where he spent his childhood, and graduated from Northeastern University. He spent over thirty years in black ops, accepting highly secretive missions that would put him in the most dan
gerous hot spots in the world. Since leaving that career, he has had the opportunity to try his hand at acting in independent films and television commercials. He has ten movies to his credit, both as an actor and behind the camera as a producer, technical adviser, and assistant director. He lives in the Boston area. Visit him at www.leojmaloney.com.
E-PINNACLE BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2014 Leo J. Maloney
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any 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. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
PINNACLE and the P logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
First electronic edition: September 2014
ISBN: 978-0-7860-3610-3
ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-3611-0
ISBN-10: 0-7860-3611-7
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