Rogue Commander

by Leo J. Maloney

  A short time with an exaggerated proportion of driving violations later, she found him at the curb outside the building that housed SR Holdings, his electronic security start-up.

  “Hey, baby,” she said. “Looking for trouble?”

  “Looks like I found it,” he said, flashing his gap-toothed smile. He made his way around the coupe and into the passenger seat.

  “I wish you’d stay with me,” he said. “There’s no need for you to stay at the hotel.”

  “What’s the glamour in that? I prefer expensive cars, five-star hotels, and nights out on the town.”

  “You would,” he said. “Not that we can’t have all that. You’ve been to my place, Lily. A five-star hotel isn’t an improvement.”

  She let it hang. Eventually Scott took the hint and changed the subject. “You said you needed help with something? Or was that only a ploy to see me?”

  “I did want to see you. But I really do need a favor.” Eyes on the road, she reached into her bag and pulled out the golden card.

  Scott examined it.

  “Fancy,” he said, turning it around. “Looks like real gold leaf. Got a chip embedded there too. Any idea what it is?”

  “None at all. Lifted it from an arms dealer. We’re hoping it’ll give us some idea of where he’s going next. Think you can help us?”

  “I might. I’ve got a friend who has this software, like face recognition but for anything. Searches through millions of online pictures for any object, any image really. I’ve seen it find a particular house from a picture of one corner of a window. I’ll have him run it through the algorithm, see what turns up. Meanwhile, I can run my own analysis, see what I can get from the chip. I’m going to need to go home and get some equipment.”

  “We can afford to take a little break,” she said. “I was hoping we could take this baby down to the track.” She turned the full intensity of her jade eyes and rosy smile on him. “I could give you a few lessons.”

  His eyebrows rose. “Well, as much as I’d love to take that offer,” he replied, “I had something else in mind,” he said. “Something a little more exciting.”

  “Exciting is good.”

  “You’re going to need a special outfit, though.”

  She raised her eyebrows to meet his. “Is that so?”

  * * * *

  “Let me see,” Scott coaxed.

  “I look ridiculous,” she said.

  “You look in-freaking-credible.”

  Lily was wearing a full wingsuit, which resembled a jumpsuit with webbing between the legs and arms so that, with limbs extended, she looked more than a little like a flying squirrel. A ram-air parachute container nestled at the back of the suit against her spine. They were on a rocky promontory overlooking a cliff miles outside the city, the sun low in the sky over the Pacific Ocean. A brisk wind was blowing from inland, and wisps of her crimson hair sticking out of her helmet beat against her face.

  She inched toward the edge of the cliff and looked down. The sheer height made her stomach jump.

  “Chicken?” Scott said, a teasing smile playing on his face.

  Not about to let that stand, Lily pulled her goggles over her eyes and jumped off.

  She fell through nothingness. She screamed in fear and glee as the wind rushed her face and through her hair, in the exhilaration of the free fall.

  As instructed, she opened her arms, and the flaps caught the wind. And then she was flying.

  They glided together, down, under the California sun.

  * * * *

  “I’ll admit you arrange the best dates.” She was speeding down the highway in the little Alfa Romeo, squinting against the sun setting over the ocean. “I’m wired,” she said. “That was such a rush.”

  “I can think of a way to work off that energy.” He laid his hand on her thigh, pulling her dress just a few inches up with his fingers.

  Lily unthinkingly stepped harder on the accelerator—her unconscious mind’s way, she supposed, of saying, oh, yes please.

  She bit her lip and moderated the speed. She turned on the car stereo, and the Turtles’ “Happy Together” came on.

  “Is this the radio?” Scott asked.

  “No, that’s my phone hooked up to the sound system.”

  “You’re kidding me?” He looked like he was holding back laughter.

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “This is the sappiest, cheeriest song in the whole world. It’s, like, for the closing credits of cheesiest rom-coms.”

  “Is there a problem with that?”

  “It’s just that you’re this badass international spy. I figured you’d like music with a little more edge to it, that’s all.” He chuckled and sang along. “So happy togetherrrrr.”

  “Shut up! Tosser.”

  He ran his fingers through her hair, pulling it back, and stopped. “What’s that on your temple?”

  Crap. She hadn’t concealed it with makeup as well as she had hoped. “Nothing.”

  “Was it from the base jumping? Did you hit something when you landed?”

  “You know I didn’t. I had it already. Minor work injury.” She turned her high beams on him. “I’m a badass international spy, remember?”

  “That looks pretty nasty. What happened?”

  “Scott, you know the deal. Don’t ask, don’t tell. That’s the only way this is going to work.”

  “Well, I hate the deal. The deal sucks. I can’t believe I let you go off into danger on your own—”

  “Let me? What, now you’re going to pull out the apron and housecoat?” she teased. “Is Scott Renard going to go toe to toe with a bunch of hardened mercenaries to protect his lady’s honor?”

  “You could stand to say that in a slightly less emasculating way,” he mockingly pouted.

  “If you weren’t being so ‘masculated,’ I wouldn’t have to emasculate you now, would I?”

  The multimillionaire turned to look out of the windshield. Lily could see that behind the slick veneer and cocky self-assurance wealth and success brought was still an insecure nerd. It made her like him even more.

  “Let’s not dabble in shop talk, all right?” she suggested with a grin. “I came here to see you to get away from all that.”

  He chuckled with appreciation and relief. “Fine. Let’s get back to my place. We’ll see what we can turn up on your golden ticket.”

  Chapter Seven

  Morgan arrived at his house, a two-story ranch in the Boston suburb of Andover, Massachusetts.

  Alex had her own apartment now that she was drawing a paycheck. It felt strange not having her around anymore, but it was also great that he and Jenny had the house to themselves. No matter how often his work took him away from home, he always craved being back in Jenny’s arms. With Alex off doing her thing, he wouldn’t have to wait.

  Morgan opened the front door and walked right into the middle of a ladies’ book club. Eleven pairs of eyes turned to face him.

  “Dan!” said Jenny, standing. “I didn’t know you were coming!” She hugged him tight. Her warmth was cruel, mocking his desire. He felt the urge to order everyone to leave.

  “We were just discussing When the Horses Wild Ran. Keri was just about to talk about the symbolism in—”

  “I’m going to go take a shower,” he interrupted. Then, with the best smile he could muster, he said, “Please make yourselves at home.”

  He wasn’t lying—at least about half of it. He took a quick shower, pulled on a pair of jeans, buttoned up a shirt, and went back downstairs. The club, thankfully, was on a break. He wasn’t sure how much Horse symbolism he could take. Jenny was having an involved conversation with two other guests, one of whom he knew to be their next-door neighbor, Cynthia. So he went to the kitchen to raid the refrigerator instead.

  He heard the clicking o
f heels, and a woman he didn’t know came in after him. Her skin was tanning-bed orange—looking like a warning poster for melanoma. Her lips were plumped with Botox, and he wondered whether she didn’t also walk around with a perpetual pout on top of that. Her hair was calculatedly messy—blond highlights clashing against reddish-brown straw.

  She flitted her fake eyelashes as she shot him an “Oh, hello there.” She had a glass of sangria in her hand. “Would you like a drink? Oh, look at me, offering you a drink in your own home!”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Well, you must be Dan.” She pronounced his name with two syllables more than it could carry. “I’ve heard so much about you. I’m Steffani. That’s two f’s and an i. Enchantée.” She held out her hand. He knew she meant for him to kiss, but he shook it instead.

  “So where did you run off to?”

  “Traveling,” he said, “For work.”

  “Oh yes? What business are you in?” He held back the urge to laugh at how transparent her feigned interest was.

  “Cars. Classic. Vintage. Especially American muscle cars from the fifties and sixties.”

  She reached out her hand and put it on his shoulder. “I like American muscle...cars.” She emitted a high-pitched laugh, like she had said something hilarious.

  “I can send you a catalog,” he said. “Excuse me. I need to go find Jenny.”

  Leaving Steffani-with-two-f’s-and-an-i behind, he cut into Jenny’s conversation. “Pardon me, ladies. Could I borrow my wife for one second?”

  Jenny looked from him to the ladies. “Excuse me, girls.”

  As soon as he got her two steps away, he said, “I need your help with something. Upstairs.”

  “Of course,” she said casually, following him up the stairs and into the bedroom. As soon as she had shut the door, he pounced and kissed her, pushing her against the wall. She ran her hands through his hair and his back, feeling his flexing muscles.

  “I didn’t know you were having the Real Housewives over,” he whispered between kisses.

  “Oh, hush, you,” she said and did it for him with her lips.

  “So how was your mission?” she said huskily. “Get a lot of bad guys?”

  “I don’t want to talk about them. I’m more interested in this one bad girl.” He ran his hands under her shirt.

  “Dan,” she complained through an irrepressible grin. “My guests. They’ll—”

  He kissed her neck, and she moaned softly, grabbing his shirt to pull it up over his head.

  * * * *

  That night found Morgan in Brookline, in a neighborhood that was pure old money, filled with colonial houses with broad yards. It was some of the most expensive suburban square footage in the country.

  The afternoon with Jenny—especially her awkward return to the party, adjusting her clothes and pretending they hadn’t been doing what they were just doing—was now a glowing, but regretfully fading, memory.

  He drove his Shelby Cobra down Heath Street, where Collins lived. Some two hundred feet from Collins’s gate was a car parked on the street. He made out two men sitting inside as he passed.

  He knew a stakeout when he saw one. Morgan drove on.

  “We have company,” he said. “Collins’s house is being watched.”

  “To be expected,” Bloch said in his ear. “Find your own way in.”

  “Gonna have to be the backyard. Shepard, a little help?”

  “Take your next right,” the IT wiz instructed. “Park three hundred and fifty feet along—there’s a dark spot there with no security camera coverage. You’re going to have to run through the yard of another house, then jump the fence to Collins’s place.”

  Morgan parked where Shepard suggested and approached the house. This wasn’t exactly a high-crime area. The area was surrounded by a low brick wall. Morgan braced against a sycamore tree and hoisted himself, straddled the top of the wall, then pushed off, and landed on the other side.

  He ran along the yard and took cover behind the tool shed. “How am I doing?”

  “So far, so good,” Shepard said. “But you’re not there yet.”

  Morgan looked around the corner of the shed, estimating how far he had to go. The backyard had more open space and was in full view of the back windows of the house.

  That’s when he heard it—the muted pounding of paws on the ground, approaching him fast from the direction of the house.

  Dog. A Doberman pinscher, to be precise. Sleek black coat, ninety pounds of lean muscle, and a bite made to pulverize bone. His bones, to be precise.

  Morgan took off running, moving as fast as he could. He was halfway there when he heard the thump of dog’s paws behind him, getting closer and closer.

  Morgan held his breath. He was going to have to time this to the millisecond. He listened for the steps, and then the final one—when the dog launched into the air—before taking a running leap.

  Morgan dodged faster than the dog was expecting, and the Doberman caught only air. He stumbled as he fell, causing him to tumble and hit a tree trunk with a whimper.

  That gave Morgan the opening to cover the rest of the distance to the fence. As he pulled himself up, he felt a tug at his foot—the dog’s jaw was clamped on his heel. It was growling, pulling. Morgan kicked down, wrenching his foot free, and pulled himself over the fence.

  He took a moment’s rest and then, panting, crossed Collins’s backyard to the door.

  Collins was divorced, never had any kids. He’d inherited the house, an old redbrick colonial, from his family. Too large for one man to live in alone, Morgan thought. He examined the windows, but they were solid wood, and all were locked. So he went to the back door and picked the deadbolt. He stepped inside and shut the door behind him.

  “I’m in,” he murmured.

  He made his way through the house, stepping lightly, trying not to make a sound. It was a real old-fashioned, old-money New Englander—with old wallpaper dotted with paintings of ships and harbors in ornate frames. He moved up creaky stairs, making a vague guess about where Collins’s bedroom was. He hoped he wouldn’t startle the old guy too much, then fully realized where he was, who he was sneaking up on, and acknowledged what would happen if Collins had tried the same thing at Morgan’s house.

  Sure enough, when he pushed open the one upstairs door that was closed, Morgan found himself facing down the barrel of a .357 Colt Python snub-nose revolver, held by General James Collins, in a ratty white T-shirt and boxer shorts.

  “Crap on a cracker,” the old warhorse rumbled. “Is that Dan Morgan or the tooth fairy?”

  “Hello, Jim.”

  He didn’t lower the gun. “Are you here to try killing me?”

  “Jesus, Jim, of course not. I’m here to talk. “

  “Last thing I heard you weren’t in the talking business.”

  Morgan shrugged. “I’m not in the breaking-into-houses-in-the-middle-of-the-night business either. You’re being watched.”

  “Yeah,” Collins replied. “I noticed.” He let the gun droop and took a step back. “I’ve also been noticing you since you met my neighbor’s dog.”

  Morgan grimaced. “Any idea who it is? The watchers, not the dog.”

  “Who knows?” Collins shrugged, heading back to sit on the edge of his big wooden bed. “NSA, DoD, FBI? Go ahead. Put together any three letters, and there’s a possibility that’s them.” He emitted a hollow laugh.

  Morgan took a look around. The place was messy, with clothes, books, and papers piled on the nightstands, the dresser, and the floor. “You becoming a hoarder in your old age?”

  “That’s General Hoarder to you, plebe,” Collins retorted wearily. “What do you want, Dan? Pretty certain it’s not whether I wear boxers or briefs to bed.”

  “No,” Morgan said. “Is there any chance we might be able to sit down somewhere?”


  “What, the mattress isn’t good enough for you?” Collins didn’t expect an answer. Instead, he seemed to have a little conversation inside his own mind and grunted, “All right. Come on.”

  Collins grabbed a frayed tartan robe and led Morgan down to the living room without turning on a single light. They sat on dusty couches opposite each other, a fireplace with a marble mantelpiece and brass pokers between them. Collins still held his .357 in his hand.

  “Take a wild guess what I’m here about,” Morgan said.

  “Those goddamn Tomahawks. They’re gonna be the death of me. Are you wearing a wire?”

  “Ear comm.”

  “Turn it off,” said Collins. Without hesitation, Morgan popped the tiny transceiver from his ear and clicked it off, setting it on the coffee table between them. He could just imagine Bloch’s face. He was certain it would give a lemon a run for its pucker.

  “All right,” Collins said. “What do you know?”

  “I know the missiles are gone, on your watch, using your access codes.”

  “So they say.”

  “You’re telling me that’s not the way it went down?”

  “It’s a sham,” Collins said. “A frame. I don’t know how. I don’t know who has my access codes or how they got ’em. But they sure have got me by the short hairs.”

  Morgan had gotten a few lines on his face and gray hairs in the intervening years. But Collins had gotten old. He looked withered.

  “Do you think this has to do with the investigation or Iraq?”

  “Not or,” Collins contended. “And. It has everything to do with it, although maybe not in the way you imagine. They’re both part of a campaign against me. But I have information, a way to clear my name.”

  “Why don’t you bring it to the investigation committee?”

  “Because it’ll take investigating, and I can’t trust them to do it. As you probably know, there’s a lot of ugly politics in the armed forces. You heard of General Sheldon Margolis?”

  “The name is familiar, but I don’t know anything about him.”

  “You’ll know soon enough. He has big ideas. Major player, lots of friends in high places. He’s angling to make a presidential run. But I have dirt on him, which means he needs to get me out of the way. And the bastard might do it, too, if I don’t get some goddamn help.” His flint-hard eyes locked onto Morgan’s. “You gonna be some goddamn help, Morgan?”