Rogue Commander

by Leo J. Maloney

  He slapped the top of her head, ripping off her wig, and her red mane came tumbling out. But his look of triumph lasted only a millisecond as her left hand slammed up under his crotch. She crushed his scrotum and pulled. He screamed and folded in half. She bolted up as her chair crashed back, and she brought her right elbow down on his neck, smashing his face to the table.

  She caught only a glimpse of Pierre and Antoine, recoiling from her in horror because dead on to the left, Lukacs’s second goon was roaring and pulling a handgun. But she was quicker, her right hand already under her skirt, and her commando blade spun through the air.

  It pierced his throat like a laser. His head snapped back, and his trigger finger clenched. His gunshot banged and flashed as he slammed on his back, and, for an instant, the dancers around them froze as if they were playing a party game.

  “ISIS!” Lily screamed as she reached behind her back, tore the bottom of her pack open, and pulled out her Walther.

  The crowd panicked, yelling and running and diving. She crouched and spun to the right, where Lukacs’s third goon was already charging, a black handgun looming from his fist. She jumped up, gripped the Walther two-handed and double-tapped him with two quick shots to the face. He spun and fell as his handgun clattered away.

  She saw patrons diving to the floor, the DJ girls on the stage running for cover, and Lukacs’s table flipped up on its side as cards and casino chips flew into a cloud. Another gunshot boomed, much louder than hers, and she slammed facedown on the floor behind her table where Pierre and Antoine were curled up like babies, mouths open and bug eyes staring at her in terror.

  “Je suis tellement désolé!” she shouted. “Another time!”

  She jumped up and sprinted for the left side exit, firing her Walther once more at the ceiling as the patrons in front of her split like sheep being charged by a frothing wolf. They were falling all over each other and streaming out toward the main entrance, as she leapt barefoot over squirming bodies. She slammed her shoulder into the exit door and tumbled out into a narrow side street.

  Even then there was no time to catch her breath. She turned right and ran flat out down the sidewalk, as she unslung her pack, stuffed the Walther inside and pulled out a thick wad of Korean Won. She slowed at the corner and waved the cash at an orange taxi with “Haechi Seoul” and a cartoon polar bear stamped on its flank. It screeched to a stop. She dove in the back and stayed low. She was breathing and sweating like a marathon runner.

  “Where you go?” the driver asked.

  “The Hilton, and fast,” she panted. “Big tip!”

  He took off. She peeked up over the back seat. Nothing. Then she straightened up and smoothed her dress and just breathed. She looked at the bottoms of her feet. Her stockings were shredded, and her right foot was bleeding. She licked her fingers and rubbed it.

  “Lily, come in, for God’s sake.” It was Linc in her ear.

  “Here.”

  “Jesus! Didn’t you hear me begging for a sitrep?”

  “I was a tad busy.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Right as Korean rain.” She smiled. “Just another day at the office.”

  He sounded relieved. “Okay, check in when you’re safe and sound.”

  “I’m already safe,” she said as calmly as she could. “I’ll never be sound.”

  Linc laughed and clicked off. She sat back in her seat and watched the nightlife lights and neon signs flash by. And she realized that since landing in Seoul, and right up until now, she hadn’t thought about Scott Renard.

  Not once.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Dan Morgan wasn’t so smart, Alex thought—half between a realization and an accusation.

  He thought he was, especially when he was making all those stupid rules around the house and lecturing everyone else because he had oh-so-much experience. Sure, he could MacGyver stuff together and think fast on his feet, but so could a plumber and a boxer. Half the time he acted like he was some Einstein genius, but in fact he just fell back on all his dumb secrets, which made him think he never had to explain a damn thing.

  Whenever Alex challenged him on something he insisted she do, even after she’d started working for Zeta, he’d get that smug I-know-better look on his face and utter that expression she’d come to hate: “Nike.” In other words, “Just do it.” Disgusting.

  For most of her childhood she’d adored him. Then, when she found out he’d been lying her entire life, she hated his guts—for awhile. That had turned around as he’d started to accept her being an adult and, begrudgingly, a skilled operative. But right now the dislike was flooding back full force.

  Handcuff me to a pipe in my own house? Man, you’re gonna pay big time for that.

  She drove the Kawasaki Ninja down I-95, just south of Baltimore, with the night coming on. That made her glad she’d worn her full leathers. Her father surely figured she’d just give up on this Collins thing and skulk back to the office with her tail between her legs. Wasn’t going to happen. If he didn’t want her around, then he should never have let her join Zeta.

  I’m your pissed-off partner now, big shot, like it or not.

  She smiled inside her helmet and glanced down at her console, where her iPhone was gripped in a rubber mount. The navigator app was on, showing her the route to Arlington. But it wasn’t live; it was a replay of the route her dad had taken two days before. She’d figured out long ago that she couldn’t really trust him, at least in terms of “sharing.” So, she’d gotten a hold of Bobby Zaks, that genius nerd from school, told him what she wanted, and paid him good money.

  Bobby got a burner phone, stripped everything off it, and loaded up an app he’d hacked from Uber. It was the back end of the software that tracked their drivers and could replay anyone’s route. Then he added a pirated mirror-image app and linked the burner to Alex’s cell.

  Late one night, when her dad and mom were snoring, she’d sneaked down to the garage and climbed into his Cobra—gluing the burner and a power pack right under the passenger seat. She knew the batteries wouldn’t last forever, but she figured she’d check on it and repeat the exercise whenever necessary. Stroke of luck, it was humming along like a glee club tonight.

  “You’re not so smart,” she said aloud in her helmet, and she added, “Daddy.”

  It took another hour to weave her way down to Arlington. Traffic around the D.C. area was always a bear, but eventually she was cruising through clusters of quaint brick homes—many of them sporting American flags, Marine Corps pennants, or black MIA/POW banners.

  The neighborhood was something of a military reservation, from which people went off to serve, spent scant time in their ordered homes, then returned to retire, and, eventually, die. The gardens were so manicured they stood at attention and the mailboxes were freshly painted while brass door knockers and house numbers were polished to a gleam in the night.

  Alex looked at her navigator, then coasted down a street called Zumwalt, which vaguely rang a bell: some navy admiral or something. The long lane was dark and quiet, with light-pole lamps glowing yellow at distant intervals, and cars, many with government license plates, parked at the curbs or tucked into driveways.

  The target house was halfway down on the right. When she got closer, she killed the engine and toed the bike up to the mailbox. The house was chunky and all brick, with white windows, blinds pulled, and a single lamp glowing over the slate stairs. She looked at the number on the box, took off her gloves, and punched up a Zeta app on her phone that reverse-checked addresses and phone numbers. She typed in “206 Zumwalt Street, Arlington, VA,” and after a moment got a pop-up: “Schmitt, Alicia, Commander USN.”

  Alex’s brow furrowed. A female naval officer. Somehow she’d expected to find General Collins at this address.

  Dad, you better not be having an affair with some navy bimbo half your age, ’
cause if I find you doing the horizontal tango in there, I’ll shoot you both.

  Alex got off the bike, leaned it on the kickstand, took off her helmet, and shook out her smooth, short russet hair. She left her helmet on the seat, opened a saddlebag, and pulled out a large UPS envelope. As she stepped to the sidewalk and turned for Schmitt’s door, she glanced down the street. Among other vehicles, there was a dark blue Econoline van, light off, parked and dark. Her dad had taught her to never trust vans.

  She trotted up the stairs and rang the bell. The door opened a crack, with a chain lock holding it. One blue eye and some blonde hair appeared in the narrow opening. The eye blinked.

  “Yes?”

  “Hi there,” Alex said brightly. “I have a package for Alicia Schmitt.”

  “What’s the package?”

  Alex dropped her voice. “I’m the package, Commander. May I come in, please?”

  The eye blinked once more; then the door closed and the chain rattled. It opened again, so Alex stepped inside and palmed it shut with her left hand.

  Alicia Schmitt had retreated ten feet into her living room. She had neck-length blond hair that Alex imagined was usually wrapped up tight in a bun, a small nose, no lipstick, and her blue eyes looked shadowed and fatigued. She was slim and athletic, but she was wearing a Navy peacoat, all buttoned up. Alongside her right thigh she held a matte stainless steel revolver. Alex looked down at it. “That’s a Lady Smith,” she said. “I like it, but it’s only a 5-shot. Not enough ammo for my taste.”

  Schmitt stared at her face. “What are you carrying?”

  “Shrouded hammer three fifty-seven, right-ankle holster under my boot. Same problem, only five rounds. Want it?”

  “No,” Schmitt said. “If that’s what you’re here for, you would’ve used it by now.” She cocked her head at a navy-blue couch. “Have a seat, but sit on your hands.”

  “Thanks.” Alex walked over to the couch, her leathers creaking. She dropped the UPS envelope on the cushion and sat on her upturned palms.

  “Who are you?” Schmitt asked as she sidestepped over to the door, replaced the chain, and checked the lock.

  “Alex Morgan.” She glanced over the living room. It was very orderly and somewhat prim, with throwback brocade chairs and doily-covered end tables—as if Schmitt had inherited the place from her grandmother.

  A few framed pictures of Schmitt in dress uniform stood on a closed, upright piano, along with one of her hunting with an older man. There was also a bronze statue of a runner with what looked like a marathon ribbon and medal dangling from its bony shoulders.

  “All right, Alex Morgan,” Schmitt said as the Lady Smith twitched in her grip. “I’m a little wrapped tight these days, so let’s get to the point.”

  “My father was here a couple of days ago.”

  Schmitt dipped her brow. “Your father.”

  “Yes. Mind if I unzip my jacket? It’s kinda warm in here.”

  “Go ahead. Slowly.”

  Alex smiled, unzipped, and stuck her palm back under her thigh.

  “My father and I work for the same organization.”

  “Which would be?”

  “The name’s not important. It’s an NGO.”

  Schmitt sneered. “Nongovernmental organizations are, in the end, all governmental.”

  “Not this one,” said Alex. “But it doesn’t matter. Dad told me about the Collins thing.”

  With that, Alicia Schmitt pulled her chin in and cocked it slightly, her blue eyes boring into Alex. Then she touched a wall switch, which killed the overhead chandelier and left only a standing lamp next to Alex glowing. She touched the blinds on the front bay window, peered out, and looked at Alex again.

  “Collins,” she said. “Means nothing to me.”

  “General Collins,” Alex said. “And yes it does, unless you meant that in a personal way.”

  Schmitt’s pale lips curled up. “Clever girl. What’s a kid like you doing working for spooks?”

  “I’m a college dropout, but I can shoot like Carlos Hathcock.”

  With that, Schmitt laughed. “You’re no dummy. You know your history all the way back to Vietnam.”

  “Dad.” Alex grinned.

  “Right.” Schmitt seemed to relax a little. She pulled a wooden chair over, turned it around, and mounted it backward, but she gripped the revolver draped down over the top spar, still ready. Alex saw she was wearing black running spandex and pro running shoes. “Your dad, so you say.”

  “Dark brown hair, touch of gray, chestnut eyes, boxer’s nose, broad shoulders, and an arrogant attitude.”

  Schmitt nodded. “Sounds like him.” She looked at her watch. “Now listen up, Alex. I was just about to get out of here, and you’re holding me up.” She gestured to a spot near the piano, where Alex saw a heavy black duffel and a navy camouflage backpack. “So, stop screwing around and tell me why you’re here.”

  “My father’s gone rogue from the organization. He’s disobeyed orders to stand down, but this Collins guy was his friend, and he’s determined to clear his name, although I have no idea why it needs clearing. But he’s my dad, and I’m going to help him, even though he bugs the crap outta me half the time. He mentioned that you’re the key to this whole thing, Commander. But a key’s no good unless it turns.”

  “Your dad must be very proud of you.”

  “Ha,” Alex snorted. “You’d be surprised how he doesn’t show it.”

  “No I wouldn’t,” Schmitt retorted before glancing at the hunting picture on the piano. “My dad was proud of me too. Didn’t show it until he was on his deathbed.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m hoping mine won’t wait that long.”

  A car engine came to life somewhere outside. Schmitt stiffened, looked at the front windows and listened. Then she turned back.

  “What’s in the envelope?” she asked.

  “Blank paper.”

  Schmitt nodded in recognition of the gambit. The envelope wasn’t for her. It was for anyone watching from the street. “Okay, Alex. I have no idea if you are who you say you are. But you’re good—I’ll give you that much. Your dad, if that’s who he is, seemed to know about the general and his mentor relationship to me, but the people who are trying to take him down would know that too. They’d also already know what I’m going to tell you, so it won’t matter much.”

  Alex leaned forward on the couch. She felt that Schmitt was trusting her somewhat now, so she pulled her sweaty palms from under her thighs and wiped them on her knees. “Do I need a pen and paper?”

  “No,” said Schmitt. “You just need to tell your father that Virginia isn’t a place. It’s a corporation.”

  “That’s it? Virginia is a corporation? A business entity?”

  “Correct. That’ll give him plenty to chew on.” Schmitt looked at her watch again. “Okay, your session’s over. I’m catching a...” She stopped herself before revealing more.

  “Okay, Commander. Thanks. I appreciate the trust.” Alex rose carefully from the couch, making sure her right hand went nowhere near her boot. The navy officer was clearly jumpy, exhausted, and seriously spooked. “Hey, mind if I use your bathroom before I go? It was a long ride down here, and it’ll be the same going back.”

  Schmitt waved the revolver to the left toward a hallway. “It’s down there, on the left.”

  Alex walked through a slim arched alcove. She saw a door at the back with paned windows and a curtain and the bathroom door to the left.

  “And, Alex,” Schmitt called to her. Alex turned and looked back at her. “If you come out with anything in your hands other than a tissue, I’ll drop you right there. Are we clear?”

  “Extremely.”

  She slipped into the small bathroom and blew out a long breath. Wow, she thought, that poor woman’s nervous as a kitten on a hot plate. She unzipped he
r jacket, wriggled her leathers over her hips, and sat to pee. Virginia. A corporation, not a place.

  She smiled, thinking about her father off on some wild-goose chase, trying to figure out what to look for somewhere here in Virginia, when, in fact, the real target could be a warehouse in Guatemala. It was going to be so much fun to break the news to him, but she’d make him work for it. Maybe she’d handcuff him to his stupid Cobra first.

  She finished her business, buckled back up, zipped up tight, and flushed. Then she froze. She heard a sound from the living room. Someone outside was pounding on the front door, but it sounded less like a fist and more like something metallic. Jesus! It sounded like a SWAT team battering ram. She jerked the door open and stuck her head out.

  Schmitt was nowhere in sight, maybe off to the left or the right, but because of the hallway, all Alex saw was a tunnel and the white front door across the living room floor. It trembled with a thunderous slam. There was a pause, followed by the whole thing exploding. Alex dropped to one knee, her pulse pounding up into her neck. She yanked her .357 from her boot just as two figures in SWAT gear, helmets, and shotguns burst through the door.

  The truth announced itself to Alex like a proud child. Those aren’t cops. Cops would have surrounded the house first and called Schmitt out with a bull horn.

  A gunshot banged from somewhere to the left, the room flashed white, and the first guy collapsed as his knee cap exploded. The second one leapt over the first as his shotgun barrel thundered with smoke and yellow flame. He pumped it for a second shot, but Alex heard Alicia Schmitt scream something, and a double-tap from her Lady Smith sent him flying back out the door.

  Alex jumped up to charge down the hallway, just as two more of the killers clambered inside. She took the first one down with two quick shots to his Kevlar, center mass, and his shotgun went off and shattered the chandelier. The second one ducked, ignoring her, and fired a handgun.

  Alex heard Schmitt scream as she nailed the shotgunner with a bullet to the collarbone. He jerked around and bounced off the wall as if he had been thrown there.