They had driven through the night, turned west at Richmond, and cruised for another hour along Route 13, which Morgan thought might not be lucky. He’d gassed up the car at a Wawa and gotten himself a greasy burger, more dog food and water for Neika, and they’d cruised on past Hideaway Lake, reaching Tobaccoville before turning north.
Two miles short of the target, he’d driven the Shelby off the slim dirt road and into some trees, wincing as he heard branches scraping the paint. That would mean a day in the garage at some point, but he actually, kind of, looked forward to that. At least it would mean he was still alive.
Then they’d walked, slowly, through the woods in the night, as occasionally Morgan stopped, listened, and went on. Neika mirrored his every move, and he didn’t have to worry about her making noise or barking. She’d done this many times before, in Afghanistan. She was a retired military working dog, and Morgan knew those instincts and that that training would never fade.
He’d chosen a spot at the edge of the woods where the tall trees and thickets gave way to a clearing, and they’d hunkered down and waited for the light. Now he reached into his field jacket pocket for a pair of mini-binoculars, pushed up the edge of his black woolen watch cap, and slowly scanned the warehouse, left to right.
He saw no evidence of recent activity: no vehicles, shipping containers, or overflowing dumpsters waiting for pickup. Granted it was early, but a big facility like that would still have a light or two glowing, and some sort of guard service protecting its wares. Nothing. Just a flock of crows pecking at the gutters.
“What d’ya think, girl?” Morgan murmured.
Neika, her large paws stretched out in the grass, looked at him, whined softly, and licked his face. He wiped her spit off with a glove.
“Okay, let’s take a walk.”
The grass was gleaming, heavy with dew, which soaked the bottoms of his black jeans as they walked. Neika trotted beside him, her eyes bright and her pink tongue lolling. As the side of the warehouse loomed large, Morgan stopped to examine two thick lanes of crushed grass: double tire tracks—something heavy like an eighteen-wheeler— and fresh.
Then he turned as he continued to walk, scanning a full three hundred sixty degrees like the tail-end Charlie in a combat squad. But he saw and heard nothing other than the morning birds in the trees. The warehouse, three stories tall and maybe three hundred feet from stem to stern, had a glassed-in office area at the left-hand corner. That entrance might be alarmed, so he chose a side door at the center of the building’s flank.
It had a standard steel knob with a keyhole. He took out his lock-pick set and then noticed a slit in the jamb exposing the catch. He skipped over the keyhole, opened a flat metal probe, slipped it inside, and tripped the catch. Carefully, he pulled the door open.
No alarms went off. He didn’t know if that was a good or a bad sign. Only one way to find out, he figured and stepped inside.
The space inside was enormous— and empty. There was no machinery, assembly tables, packing crates, or conveyer belts leading to the right-hand wall, where a pair of huge garage doors were pulled down and locked. Slat windows two stories up lined the flanks. Through them early sunlight streamed in shafts, but the vast concrete floor looked broom clean. Barely a wisp of dust curled through the golden haze.
“Jesus,” he muttered. “You could put the friggin’ space shuttle in here.”
Neika sat next to him, her tail flicking.
“I don’t see anything that looks like tobacco leaf racks, do you?”
She looked up at him silently.
“That’s right. No cigar.”
If Virginia Tobacco had ever made smokes, they’d lost their shirts to the no-smoking culture a long time ago and turned to some other line of business. Maybe the place had been “acquired” and used as cover—hell, he’d done that himself with a myriad of business fronts—but cover for what?
Whatever it was, General Collins knew, but he wasn’t at liberty to say. Tomahawks were big-time bullets, some of them nuclear, so they had to be stored in hardened facilities. But the supporting vehicles, radar, and fire-control modules...maybe. He turned and walked across the floor toward the office enclave on the left.
He spotted some oil stains on the concrete, bent down, took off a glove, and ran a finger across the shallow pool. Not congealed. Fresh.
He trotted up three cement stairs, pulled a door open, and entered the office. Neika clambered inside, and Morgan shut the door. But this was no tobacco factory shipping and accounting center; it was a sophisticated security and control room. Three large flat screens were mounted above a semicircular steel desk, with DVR sets, UHF radios, intercom mikes, and shotgun racks—empty. He touched a pair of padded office chairs, dented but cold. He looked at the floor; there were recent caster runnels in the dust.
Morgan reached into one of his pockets and took out a small baggie with his earpiece and miniature battery inside. He fired it up and tucked it deep in his ear. It crackled.
“Cobra?” It was Lincoln Shepard’s voice, echoing inside some large space. “Is that you?”
“It’s me, Shep. How copy?”
“Five by five, and it’s about friggin’ time.”
“Missed me, huh? What’s your twenty?”
“I’m at Faneuil Hall, picking up some gourmet brew.”
“Good,” Morgan said. “Who’s on this comm?”
“You, me, and God,” Shepard said.
“For some strange reason, I believe you,” Morgan said. He heard Shepard’s footsteps, pacing, and a vendor in the market calling out something about cheese.
“Listen, Cobra,” Shepard whispered. “You’re way, way out in the cold. The boss put the firm on alert about you.”
“The boss with the bra? Or the one she answers to?”
“The latter, so that means both. They’d shoot me for telling you this, but they’ve got air tactical, so you’d better get the hell out of there.”
Morgan’s eyes narrowed a little. He reached down and ruffled Neika’s head. “How do they know where I am?”
“ISR,” said Shepard.
That meant Intelligence, Surveillance, and Reconnaissance; in short, a drone.
“They’ve got a drone on me? I’m flattered.”
“Well, get yourself a white Subaru. That Shelby sticks out like a turd in a punchbowl.”
Morgan laughed. “You’re getting pretty gnarly for a geek. Got your laptop?”
“Of course. But don’t ask me, Cobra. I gotta get back to the office...”
“Open it up. I need some help here.”
“Shit.”
Morgan heard Shepard cursing under his breath as he found some sort of flat surface and flipped his laptop open.
“All right,” Shepard said. “Now what?”
“I’m looking at a security rig, three flat screens, modules, probably some sort of digital recording mechanism. I need all the tapes, probably seventy-two hours.”
“That’s all?” Shepard was no doubt rolling his eyes. “Okay, where’s the server?”
“Big thing under the desk here.”
“Tell me it’s got a USB port.”
“It does.”
“And tell me you’ve got a charging cord for your cell phone.”
“Course I do,” said Morgan. “I’m an aging millennial.”
“Turn on your cell and plug it into the server,” Shepard instructed. “But the minute you do, you’re gonna be naked, just sayin’.”
“I’ve been working out. I look pretty good.”
“No offense, Cobra, but there’s something seriously wrong with you.”
Morgan powered up his cell and plugged it in. All three flat screens flickered and came on. Surveillance videos showing different angles of the warehouse and its exterior appeared, first at normal speeds and then they started
to flash by in streams as Shepard controlled the replay.
Most of what Morgan strained to see showed no activity other than deer walking by in the grass outside and a couple of squirrels on the warehouse floor. But then he caught the fleeting image of a large trailer truck, which was instantly gone as Shepard downloaded everything and the monitors went blank.
Morgan looked up at the office ceiling, where a fluorescent light fixture was vibrating. Then he heard that familiar sound: helicopter rotors.
“Got all that?” he asked Shepard.
“Yes. May I go now?”
“Yeah, and when you get back to the office run through it for me. Think license plates.”
“Jesus, Cobra. If they catch me I’m toast!”
“Yeah? Well, they’ll burn me. You know I’m not asking for my health.”
There was just a moment’s hesitation. “Understood,” said Shep. “Stay low.”
Morgan pulled the earpiece out, dropped it in his pocket, and did the same with his cell and the cord. There was no mistaking the sound now as the windows rattled and the grass outside flattened like waves in a typhoon.
Neika looked up at him, emitting agitated whimpers and trembling. He looked down at her and smiled. “It’s all right, girl. They’re friends.” Friends with guns—which were loaded, with any luck, with either sedative darts or rubber bullets.
The rotor sounds settled to a steady thwop. Morgan opened the office door, stepped down to the warehouse floor, and stopped. Neika sat beside his left leg, a low growl buzzing from her throat.
Bishop, Spartan, and Diesel were standing in the center of the space, Spartan taking point, with Bishop and Diesel flanking. They were all wearing tactical vests—Kevlar, Morgan assumed. They carried no long guns, only pistols in thigh holsters. Spartan’s arms were bare, displaying her angry tattoos. They didn’t look pleased.
“Time to come home, Cobra,” Spartan called out, her low voice echoing off the walls.
“Thanks for asking,” Morgan said. “But I’m still on sabbatical.”
“It’s not a request.” Bishop stepped forward. “Like now, buddy.” His large bald head gleamed in the shafts of light.
Diesel took a step to his left, opening up the triangle. His black hair looked a little wild and crazy from the rotor wash. “Boss put the place on alert ’cause of you. So just chill and get on the chopper.”
“Can’t do that,” Morgan said. “I left my car with the valet, and he looked kinda slimy.”
“You gonna make this hard, Morgan?” Spartan puffed herself up, and Morgan saw her fists ball.
“Ahh, so it’s a Mexican standoff.” Morgan smirked. “But it looks like I’m short of amigos.” They’d clearly been told not to use their weapons; otherwise, they’d have drawn them right off the bat. He kept his hands away from his holstered Walther. “Been awhile since we sparred in the gym. Who’s first?”
“We’re not playing games, smart-ass,” said Spartan. “We’re bringing you back.” She started moving forward, then Bishop and Diesel joined her.
Morgan reached down, took a good, strong grip on Neika’s leather collar, and said, “Guard.” She instantly jumped to her feet, straining forward and baring her icepick canines, growling and slathering drool. The trio stopped in their tracks and stared at her.
“Y’know,” said Morgan. “Everybody thinks these bomb dogs are passive. Truth is when they train MWDs at Lackland, the first thing they do is teach them to rip flesh.”
“Calm her down,” Spartan snarled.
“Oh, she’s calm,” Morgan assured them. “She’s just hungry, and she doesn’t like you.” He crouched down and spoke to Neika as she shuddered and made unholy sounds in her throat. He pointed at Spartan. “Don’t go for that one. She’s got no balls.” Then he pointed at Bishop and Diesel. “But those two, girl, they’ve got nice big scrotums. You can rip ’em right off.”
Bishop and Spartan’s eyes went wide and their fingers twitched toward their guns.
“By the way, boys and girls,” Morgan warned, “she’s gonna hurt you. But if you hurt her, I’ll kill you, and slow.”
“Screw you, Morgan,” Spartan raged. “You’re coming with us!” and then she charged, which was exactly what Morgan knew she’d do.
He commanded, “Hold!” in Neika’s ear, twisted her collar to the left, and released her. She exploded from his grip in a blur of muscle and fur, charging right past Spartan for Bishop. He tried to spin and run, but the hundred-pound dog launched off the floor and hit him like a sledgehammer, sinking her teeth in his triceps as he screamed and went down.
Spartan slammed into Morgan just as hard, but he’d already squatted and jammed his open right hand up into her pubis, gripped her spiky blond hair with his left, straightened, and flipped her over his head. He was already spinning back for Diesel as he heard Spartan slam to the floor. Her head bounced once on the concrete.
Diesel came on in a Krav Maga stance, fists beside his head, legs slightly parted and pigeon-toed. Morgan feinted to the right, took Diesel’s swing, blocked it with his left and kneed him hard in the gut.
Diesel hissed out a groan and bent over as Morgan slammed the back of his neck with his left elbow, looped his right arm around his neck and fell flat back on the floor, slinging both legs around Diesel’s trunk and squeezing with everything he had.
Morgan gripped his right wrist with his left as Diesel writhed and kicked and wind-milled his arms, trying to reach Morgan’s head. But Morgan kept his face tucked down tight as he increased the crush on Diesel’s carotid and watched Neika dragging Bishop across the floor as she tore his clothes and his skin, and he cursed and screamed, “Get her off me!”
Morgan grunted in Diesel’s ear. “Go to sleep, bro.”
“Fuuuck yooou,” Diesel wheezed as the blood drained from his brain.
“Maybe later, though you’re not my type. Just tap out.” But he kept on squeezing until Diesel went limp. Morgan flipped his head back upside down to check on Spartan. She was just coming to, moaning and holding her skull.
He squirmed out from underneath Diesel and got up. Neika was still working Bishop over, and he was curled up in a ball. Morgan walked over, his bad knee aching and his lungs heaving, but he grinned as he bent to Bishop’s fetal form, pulled his comrade’s handgun from his thigh holster, dropped the magazine, ejected the round, and slid them both across the floor. Better not to get a bullet in the back—some folks got riled up by dogs.
He gripped Neika’s collar and said, “Out.” She released her bite on Bishop as if a switch had been thrown and sat, grinning and panting and looking up at Morgan for approval. He ruffled her head and said, “Good girl!” He patted his left thigh, and she followed him as he made for the side door.
“My goddamn arm, Morgan,” Bishop groaned behind Morgan’s back.
“Well, don’t pull that three-to-one shit on me,” Morgan said as he stepped outside with Neika and slammed the door.
The Lakota helo was sitting on the rippling grass about a hundred feet away in the clearing, its black rotors spinning as it idled. Morgan took out his Walther and aimed it at the gleaming cockpit and the form of the pilot sitting behind it. The pilot raised his hands, and then Morgan saw his wide grin. It was Peter Conley. Morgan grinned back and put up the pistol. Cougar gave him a snappy salute as he and Neika trotted by.
Morgan looked down at the shepherd and smiled as she kept pace with his strides, her long tongue lolling. “Girl, I owe you a bone.”
She smiled back and barked as they ran for the car.
Chapter Twenty-One
She was a lithe blonde with hazel eyes, her tow-colored tresses roped in a perfect braid to her midback and her tortoise-shell glasses offering an air of proud intellect.
Her gray suit was modestly cut, the double-breasted jacket revealing only the top of a buttoned-up tangerine blouse, the skirt he
m exposing just half her knees. Her stockings were plain, her shoes flat black and made for walking, and her fingers that gripped the brown Marks & Spencer briefcase showed no rings. She wore no jewelry, except for a brushed-steel Tag Heuer watch, and she carried no purse.
With a glance at her purposeful gait, it would be hard to tell if she were gay, or straight, or neither at all.
Inside her breast pocket, her British passport announced her as Rosalind Stone, as did a pack of glossy business cards in a silver case. They stated her employer as Thales, a military communications company, of which she was an assistant vice president of sales. But her given name was Lily, and she was approaching Zijin Cheng, the Forbidden City in the heart of Beijing, the People’s Republic of China.
“I see you’re on the move,” Lincoln Shepard said deep in her ear. “So it’s showtime.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“You’re not gonna talk to me much today, are you?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Fair enough. I like quiet girls,” Shepard said. “So, listen up. Bloss wants you to get eyes on Hyo and see if you can find out what he’s up to, but she says keep it low risk and then just exfil. Copy?”
Instead of answering, Lily muttered “Bloss?”
“You like it?” Shepard replied. “I made it up. Combines Bloch and Boss. Nice, huh?” He could practically hear Lily’s eyes rolling and then remembered that the operative was not on vacation. “FYI: it’s a shit storm back here. Cobra’s rogue, working some other angle. At least that’s what we think, and the Wizard’s duly pissed. Got any questions before you’re down the rabbit hole?”
“Uh-uh,” Lily grunted again.
Shepard waited. “Whenever you get like this, I can tell you’re a little tight.”
Lily coughed in her hand and whispered, “and a bit wet.”
Shepard laughed. “You’re so twisted, just like everybody else around here. I’ll keep the comm open till you’re clear, okay?”
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