From Black Ops veteran Leo J. Maloney comes a nonstop thrill ride straight into the secret world of covert agents . . .
Rogue Commander
Four-star general James Collins has been accused of stealing a cache of Tomahawk missiles—and reaches out to his friend, CIA veteran Dan Morgan, for help. But Morgan is playing with fire. The Zeta Division, chasing down a black-market middleman, discovers a connection to a North Korean military officer—and one of his team winds up a prisoner in Pyongyang. As Morgan takes a series of escalating risks, it becomes clear that a global plot is already in motion—and if they can’t stop it, an unimaginable number of innocent civilians will be slaughtered . . .
Visit us at www.kensingtonbooks.com
Highest Praise for Leo J. Maloney and his thrillers
Arch Enemy
“Utterly compelling! This novel will grab you from the beginning and simply not let go. And Dan Morgan is one of the best heroes to come along in ages.”
—Jeffery Deaver
Twelve Hours
“Fine writing and real insider knowledge make this a must.”
—Lee Child
Black Skies
“Smart, savvy, and told with the pace and nuance that only a former spook could bring to the page, Black Skies is a tour de force novel of twenty-first-century espionage and a great geopolitical thriller. Maloney is the new master of the modern spy game, and this is first-rate storytelling.”
—Mark Sullivan
“Black Skies is rough, tough, and entertaining. Leo J. Maloney has written a ripping story.”
—Meg Gardiner
Silent Assassin
“Leo Maloney has done it again. Real life often overshadows fiction and Silent Assassin is both: a terrifyingly thrilling story of a man on a clandestine mission to save us all from a madman hell bent on murder, written by a man who knows that world all too well.”
—Michele McPhee
“From the bloody, ripped-from-the-headlines opening sequence, Silent Assassin grabs you and doesn’t let go. Silent Assassin has everything a thriller reader wants—nasty villains, twists and turns, and a hero—Cobra—who just plain kicks ass.”
—Ben Coes
“Dan Morgan, a former black ops agent, is called out of retirement and back into a secretive world of politics and deceit to stop a madman.”
—The Stoneham Independent
Termination Orders
“Leo J. Maloney is the new voice to be reckoned with. Termination Orders rings with the authenticity that can only come from an insider. This is one outstanding thriller!”
—John Gilstrap
“Taut, tense, and terrifying! You’ll cross your fingers it’s fiction—in this high-powered, action-packed thriller, Leo Maloney proves he clearly knows his stuff.”
—Hank Phillippi Ryan
“A new must-read action thriller that features a double-crossing CIA and Congress, vengeful foreign agents, a corporate drug ring, the Taliban, and narco-terrorists...a you-are-there account of torture, assassination, and double-agents, where ‘nothing is as it seems.’ ”
—Jon Renaud
“Leo J. Maloney is a real-life Jason Bourne.”
—Josh Zwylen, Wicked Local Stoneham
“A masterly blend of Black Ops intrigue, cleverly interwoven with imaginative sequences of fiction. The reader must guess which accounts are real and which are merely storytelling.”
—Chris Treece, The Chris Treece Show
“A deep-ops story presented in an epic style that takes fact mixed with a bit of fiction to create a spy thriller that takes the reader deep into secret spy missions.”
—Cy Hilterman, Best Sellers World
“For fans of spy thrillers seeking a bit of realism mixed into their novels, Termination Orders will prove to be an excellent and recommended pick.”
—Midwest Book Reviews
Books by Leo J. Maloney
The Dan Morgan Thriller Series
Termination Orders
Silent Assassin
Black Skies
Twelve Hours
Arch Enemy
For Duty and Honor
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
Rogue Commander
The Dan Morgan Thriller Series
Leo J. Maloney
LYRICAL PRESS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
Copyright
Lyrical Press books are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp. 119 West 40th Street New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2017 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.
All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund- raising, and educational or institutional use.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Special Sales Manager:
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Attn. Special Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
LYRICAL PRESS Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
Lyrical Press and the L logo are trademarks of Kensington Publishing Corp.
First electronic edition: October 2017
ISBN-13: 978-1-61650-979-8
ISBN-10: 1-61650-979-1
First print edition: October 2017
ISBN-13: 978-1-61650-980-4
ISBN-10: 1-61650-980-5
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
This book is dedicated to my family
and my dearest friends
who are in my circle of 10.
Chapter One
Dan Morgan stood against the stone back wall of the Church of Our Lady Before Týn, a lit cigarette dangling between his fingers.
He didn’t smoke—couldn’t stand the smell, really—but nothing gave him better cover to stand around in the street, out of the way of most people. So he let the reeking thing burn, pretending to puff every few seconds to avert suspicion, and shielding the ember from the wind. It was early October, and the sun was low in the sky even though it was 10: 30a.m., so none of its rays made it to the level of Prague’s narrow streets.
He was in a tiny area reserved for parking, which held the sort of places that grow like weeds on the periphery of big tourist sites. They didn’t catch torrents of tourists, just the runoff—selling cheap souvenirs and small necessities like water and smokes.
“Morgan, report in.” It was Diana Bloch’s voice coming over the wireless transmitter in his right ear. As always, she was terse and all business. Everything about Bloch, the head of Zeta Division, carried authority. She may have been a pain in his ass, but even Morgan, who could also be a pain in the ass, acknowledged it was mostly in a good way.
“Nothing yet.”
A group of four American college kids stopped as one of them took a picture of the back of the church. One of the couples stood close to each other, with a sort of awkw
ardness that told Morgan theirs was a new relationship. The other couple had been together long enough to be more interested in other things but shared a kiss before they moved along.
They didn’t give him a second glance. Good. Being invisible had its perks in the business.
Morgan buzzed with energy, like he always did at the start of a mission. He felt the reassuring weight of his black Walther PPK in its shoulder holster, well hidden under his black trench coat. It wasn’t a popular concealed weapon anymore—too heavy and not as much firepower as the polymer nine-millimeter pieces that many favored. But he was a man with classic tastes, and he had a soft spot for the gun. It felt solid in his hand, nicely balanced, with light recoil. That, and he could hit a fly at ten paces with it.
Morgan leaned back against the stone of the centuries-old Gothic church and feigned drawing in smoke from the Marlboro when he caught movement in his peripheral vision. Across the small parking lot, a man emerged from the front door of the Ventana Hotel. He had a coarse face, a receding head of blond hair, and a strong nose, but a weak chin that he hid, poorly, with a goatee.
“It’s Pulnik,” said Morgan. “Moving west from the hotel.”
“Keep your distance,” said Bloch over the comm. “Team, get moving. Stick to the plan. Morgan, do I have to remind you—”
“You don’t. It’s my damn plan. I’m sticking to it.” Morgan tossed the half-burned cigarette and ground it against the pavement, then set off after the man.
Their quarry was Havel Pulnik, a sleazy small-time underworld businessman who happened to be the second cousin of Enver Lukacs, the evasive big fish they were really after. With no leads to Lukacs, Zeta Division had had Pulnik under surveillance for months while he had begged his family to have Lukacs contact him. His persistence, and theirs, had finally paid off when one of Lukacs’s people set a meeting with him in Prague.
“We’re on the move.” That was Bishop, the leader of the Zeta Tactical Team, somewhere within a two-block radius.
Morgan walked thirty feet behind Pulnik. The streets were teeming with tourists from all nations—he could tell the people from warm climates, who were bundled up as if they were in the Himalayas in the dead of winter. As he passed a souvenir shop, Morgan caught sight of Spartan. She had a good four inches on him, her close-cropped blond hair hidden by a dark gray beanie. She was looking through postcards on a rack, positioned so she could catch glances of their quarry.
Morgan then caught sight of Bishop, walking a ways ahead of Pulnik. Spartan set off a few seconds after Morgan had passed, walking on pace with a group of Germans who seemed to be going out for a stroll rather than gaping at the sights.
“Looks like he’s moving toward the plaza,” Spartan said. “Good call.”
Morgan walked on the cobblestones, worn smooth over the years. Prague had old-world elegance, with a picturesque hodgepodge of architectural styles—but all, unlike the utilitarian bent of American engineering, with an eye for beauty. The condition of the buildings, however, betrayed its Soviet past. They did not have the polish, the fresh paint, or the recent renovations found in England or Germany.
Morgan liked it, though. The city had character. A gloomy, character, sure. Nothing more appropriate for the city of Franz Kafka. But anywhere he went, at least in the old city, there was no mistaking that, yes, he was in Prague, all right.
It was a short walk before Morgan followed Pulnik into the historic Old Town Square. The perimeter of the sprawling tourist attraction was lined with restaurants with outside tables, where tourists braved the cold with hot drinks. Many others sat right on the ground. One girl was drawing the Old Town Hall—its gothic spires reaching toward the sky. Most were standing around, listening to guides, studying their smartphones, or just milling about, taking pictures of the old buildings that marked the square’s edges. A band was setting up, a standing bass, a clarinet, a banjo and a washboard, with a half-dozen people already sitting in a semicircle, waiting for them to begin. A handful of protesters were there too, demonstrating about refugees from the Middle East. The younger and more diverse crowd was for, the older and local against. They kept a tense peace, but Morgan had a feeling things could break out in violence quickly.
Pulnik was making his way toward the green bronze statue of Czech philosopher Jan Hus at the center of the square.
“Fan out,” Morgan said. “I want people on all sides. We need to see Lukacs coming.”
“Moving in, northwest corner.” The voice belonged to Peter Conley, code name Cougar—Morgan’s old partner from his CIA days. There was no one Morgan would sooner trust with his life.
Morgan walked to the middle of the east side of the square and watched as the others got into position. He surveyed the tourists, who were oblivious to the importance of this moment. The wheels of their world turned, and they were none the wiser. They didn’t know anything about the silent machinery hidden deep in the bowels of their world. All they saw was the surface.
Morgan was here today to stop one of these cogs from turning. Enver Lukacs was the name of this particular cog—a shadowy underworld player with a finger in every poison pie. His currency was contacts, linking people who were selling black-market items and services with those who wanted them. Weapons, drugs, mercenaries, slaves—Lukacs had it all. If they got him to turn over even a fraction of what he knew, they could bring down dozens of illegal operations. But that depended on today.
“Hello! American!” It was a slight young man with a local accent. His baby face was draped with scraggly hair, and he had on a dirty red coat over a stained T-shirt.
Shit. This was all he needed. “I don’t have any money.”
He smiled with mock offense. “No! Come on, American friend! I just want to have a conversation!”
“I don’t have any of that either. Good-bye.”
He went off to bother someone else. Morgan looked at Pulnik, standing by the statue with his hands in his pockets, looking around at the crowd for the man he was there to meet.
It was Conley who spoke first. “I have eyes on the target. Approaching from my corner.”
“Keep your distance,” said Bloch. “I want confirmation before we do anything.”
Morgan leaned against a lamppost and looked at the man now crossing the plaza. He looked more like a fashion designer than anything, with a svelte silver-fox thing going on and a stylish designer suit.
“Positive ID,” Morgan said. “That’s Lukacs.”
“Get in position,” Bloch instructed. “Diesel, on alert. You need to arrive with the van just as they reach the street with Lukacs. Lily will provide a distraction.” Lily referred to Lily Randall—young, green-eyed, eminently distracting to any heterosexual male with a pulse.
Morgan caught sight of her coming in from the far side, her auburn hair glistening in the morning sun. “We need to attract as little attention as possible,” he muttered.
The band incongruously broke out into a Dixieland rendition of “When the Saints Go Marching In.” The singer had a voice that suggested he’d been a heavy smoker since age five. The effect wasn’t exactly beautiful, but, hell, if it didn’t work.
A small semicircle of tourists formed, but some went about their business without a glance at the musicians. That nagged at the corner of Morgan’s mind.
“Hold positions,” he said. “Lukacs’s got company.”
“Where?” Bishop asked.
“Tall, bearded guy by the church. Short and stocky next to the tour group on the north side. Red hair by the lamppost, near the southwest corner. And another likely suspect sitting on the far side of the statue.”
“The bastard brought a security detail.”
“Bishop. Conley.” It was Bloch. “Scan the windows for snipers. If he brought this much backup, it’s doubtful he’ll be stopping there.”
Morgan joined the scan, looking at the rows of windows that surr
ounded the plaza. Two churches, two hotels, a museum, and a government building. All old and elegant.
“Got one,” Bishop said. “White building, north side, fourth floor. Third window from the left.”
“That’s bad news,” Lily said.
Morgan shifted his gaze to the band as they launched into a rollicking rendition of “Mack the Knife.” “The sniper’s in a hotel,” he said and called on one of Zeta Division’s resident computer geniuses. “Shepard, can you get me room access?”
“Already working on it,” came the man’s clipped, assured, even cocky, voice.
“Cougar—”
“On my way.” Peter Conley moved toward the hotel entrance. One good thing about working together so many years was that they had a connection that seemed, at times, nearly psychic.
“I don’t like this.” It was Bishop. “This is getting hairier by the second. I suggest a reassess.”
“You’re running point on this, Morgan,” Bloch snapped. “Your call.”
Morgan squinted into the cloudless blue sky. Then he looked at Lukacs, who was talking closely with Pulnik.
“Stay in position,” Morgan ordered. “Move in as soon as Lukacs breaks away from Pulnik.”
“And Lukacs’s people?” Bishop demanded.
“Fan out with the team. I want one of us on every guard. Cuff and drop them. Lily, you go ahead with the diversion on my mark. We’re going to need perfect timing on this.”
“And Lukacs?” Bishop asked.
“I’ll take care of Lukacs,” Morgan said. “Extraction van ready?”
“I’ll move out on your mark,” Diesel answered. “Pick you up on the southeast corner.”
Morgan watched as the team moved through the crowd as naturally as any tourist, betraying no sign of their purpose.
“I’m in position at the sniper’s door,” Conley said. “Shepard, how close are you to getting access?”
Shepard scoffed. “I’m in, big guy.”
“Morgan, awaiting your signal,” Bloch said.
Rogue Commander Page 1