“How?” Jenny wondered. “I don’t get it.”
“Your husband adores you.” Diana smiled, reached out, and touched the back of Jenny’s hand. “Frankly, I’m a bit envious.”
Jenny felt the tears well up in her eyes. A stranger telling her this meant more than Dan’s assurances ever could.
“You see, every intelligence professional has an emergency plan.” Diana withdrew her hand and went on. “If he has been turned, as we say in the business, that plan would be some sort of escape route involving his true masters. But because of how Dan feels about you, I knew he’d never leave you behind. So, I used you to discover his last-ditch intentions.”
“His locker, you mean?”
“Yes. And the emergency contact information he left for you. You see, Dan had you reach out to us. If he were dirty— and I’m sorry to use that term—he would have had you contact someone else instead.”
“But, he didn’t know,” Jenny sputtered. “I mean he didn’t know I was doing any of this. You made me do it, or you got me to, anyway, and he wasn’t actually doing anything wrong at all.”
“That’s right.” Diana smiled and placed her sunglasses back on. “When he left you that message, he was anticipating something in the future. And, he was leaving you in the hands of the only other people he trusts. I hope, Jenny, that you view that as a priceless gift. I know I do.”
Jenny wiped the tears from her cheeks. Diana rose up from the bench, picked up her museum bag, and motioned for Jenny to join her. Still feeling shaky, Jenny got up. Diana took the crook of her elbow, and they started strolling in the direction of the park’s exit gate. A flock of pecking seagulls fled from their feet and winged away through Old Ironsides’ masts.
Jenny was overcome with what she’d just heard—frightened and thrilled and ecstatic all at once—but beyond being a loving wife, she was also a dedicated mother.
“What about Alex?” she blurted. “Don’t tell me you’re suspicious of her too.”
“Oh, no worries there.” Diana grinned as she led Jenny out into the big, bad city. “She’s too smart for her age, an Olympic marksman, terribly rebellious, and a royal pain in the ass, just like your husband.” She squeezed Jenny’s elbow. “I adore her.”
Jenny Morgan found her footing, realizing that her relief was not making her weak but was actually making her strong. Although she had been figuratively and literally leaning on the spymaster, she now found they were walking side by side in harmony and balance.
“So, is that it?” Jenny wondered. “Now I just go back to my life, without my husband and daughter, and you go back to yours with them?”
“Not quite,” Diana said with understanding of Jenny’s situation. “No, Mrs. Morgan. If you would be so kind, and brave, there’s just one more thing I’d like to ask you to do...”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Morgan slept from Boise to Denver.
There were no trains running that route, so he’d dumped the Jeep in a long-term lot in Idaho, scribbled a note that said “Sorry about that, charge my card,” and hoofed it over to the Greyhound station. The bus to Colorado was a day-long trip, so he’d passed right out and wallowed in dreamless slumber—the first good rest he’d had in a week.
At Denver International Airport, he gambled on the TSA’s habit of glossing over men with military IDs in favor of frisking old ladies and boarded a Nashville flight, where he picked up the Shelby, and then Neika. She wasn’t too pleased with her stay in the kennel and gave him the furry cold shoulder at first—but one that quickly thawed as they drove all the way back up to Andover.
It was late at night when they walked in the door. At that point he didn’t care whether Zeta was watching the joint or not. He’d found the ordnance, he had the proof, and all was right with the world—except Jenny wasn’t home. The house felt cold and empty, which didn’t improve his mood.
But he left her an adoring note, put Neika to bed, and folded his aching carcass back into the Shelby for one more midnight ride. He figured if Paul Revere could do it, he could too. At least he wasn’t on horseback, and the Cobra had a heater. He chuckled mirthlessly as he drove away. No, Zeta would be looking everywhere but his home for him. He bet they wouldn’t have anybody watching Collins’s place, either.
Sure enough, he saw no one waiting and watching on the block behind the general’s house in Brookline. He was there, alone, clutching a mini-can of pepper spray. The last time, that Doberman had come out of nowhere. This time the beast would get a stinging surprise. He took a breath, lunged like a high school hurdler, and took off across the neighbor’s mushy lawn.
He hit the brick wall at full tilt, slammed his palms to the top, and vaulted over into Collins’s backyard.
No dog. Things were looking up.
He crouched in the shadow of the wall, scanning the old colonial. The house was dark, except for one soft light in the downstairs den that seeped out to the right and onto an empty side porch. Collins was expecting him, so he wouldn’t be facing the general’s nasty . 38 Python. He trotted softly across the back lawn and tiptoed up the back stairs. The door was supposed to be unlocked. It was.
Morgan slipped inside, closed the door quietly and stood in the darkened hallway, just listening. The low strains of something classical, maybe Beethoven, wafted in from the den beyond, but he heard nothing else. He opened his jacket and walked.
Collins was sitting on the sofa just below the front bay window, the blinds drawn tight. Next to him on a side table his . 38 gleamed in the dim light of a bronze lamp, along with a tumbler of Scotch, no ice. The general was dressed in laced leather boots, twill trousers. And one of those L.L. Bean oil jackets with a corduroy collar. He was freshly shaven and looked a lot healthier than during their last tête-à-tête.
Morgan nodded. “General.”
Collins nodded back. “Dan.”
Morgan walked past him to the side of the window, tipped the edge of one blind down, and peered out with one eye. “I don’t see your tail.”
“They’re out there,” Collins said. He picked up his tumbler and sipped. “Probably making a pizza run.”
Morgan walked back and took a seat across from Collins in a puffy, flowered old chair. “You going duck hunting, Jim?”
“Nah.” Collins smiled, but it didn’t touch his eyes. “Was thinking about going outside for some air.”
Morgan glanced to his right. The sliding glass doors to the porch were partially open, and a cold breeze drifted inside. He leaned to the right, dug into his left-hand coat pocket, and pulled out the three plastic file cards with the chips inside. He stretched his hand out. Collins leaned forward and took them.
“Well done.” Collins slipped the chips into his hunting jacket. “You were always a good soldier.” He took another swig of Scotch and put it down.
“Well, you always had my back.” Morgan sat back and twirled the pepper spray tube in his fingers.
Collins looked at it. “Whatcha got there?”
“Lipstick. With a kick.” Morgan smiled, but a tiny alarm was going off in his gut. It was something about Collins’s stiff demeanor. “Figured I might run into that dog again.”
Collins smiled back, raised his voice, and called out, “Otto.”
Morgan heard something clicking on the floor of the kitchen. Then the huge muscled Doberman walked into the den. It was the same canine that had nearly torn his foot off, if not his ass. It turned toward Morgan, stared at him, and growled.
“Platz,” Collins said to the dog. It sat. The general looked at Morgan again. “Otto only speaks German.”
“He’s your dog?”
“Affirmative.”
“You didn’t mention that last time.” Morgan looked at the dog. “Guten Abend.” The dog bared his teeth—they were long, white, and sharp. When he turned back to Collins, the general was pointing the .38 at his chest. Mo
rgan’s pulse quickened. “Looks like you forgot to mention more than just that.”
“Sorry about that, Morgan. Fortunes of war.”
It wasn’t a good sign. People tend to get fatalistic when they’re about to kill you. He understood immediately that he’d been betrayed and used, and it was like a mule kick in the balls, but he wasn’t going to show it.
“So what’s in those chips, Jim?” Morgan asked. His action options were flipping through his mind, but they were few. That . 38 barrel looked like a tank cannon, and it was rock steady in Collins’s right fist. “They’re not property logs, are they?”
“Nope,” Collins said. “They’re launch codes.”
“Nice.” Morgan hissed. “You sent an old friend into a dragon’s mouth to commit a federal crime.”
“Friend?” Collins made a noise that sounded like a tire going flat. “I don’t have any friends. I sent a subordinate who took pride in never questioning his own judgment. And it was a federal crime even if I had told you the truth, Einstein.” Collins’s expression went granite cold. With his thumb, he pulled the revolver’s hammer back. He was ready.
“What about General Margolis?” Morgan returned, grasping at straws.
“That bastard’s next.”
“And then you, Jim.” Morgan raised his chin in defiance. “Whatever the hell’s gotten into you, think it over. You pull that trigger and the people I work for’ll strip your skin from your bones.”
“I’m scared,” Collins sneered. “They couldn’t even find you, and you might as well have been covered in neon.” Then he tipped his gun barrel down and up. “And don’t bother going for your piece. What did I always teach you? Trigger pull’s always faster than draw.”
“What’d I ever do to you?” Morgan said. “Is this some beef I missed?”
“Nope. You’re a good troop. Honorable, brave, loyal to the point of stupid. I just needed a dupe who could execute the task, which you always did. But now you’re a loose end.”
“You’re bruising my ego. What are you gonna do with those missiles?”
“That’s need-to-know,” Collins said, “which you don’t. And if you’ve got a last prayer, now’s the time to say it.”
Morgan took a deep breath and nodded, as if resigned to his fate. Collins wasn’t going to issue one of those long, exculpatory speeches like the villains always did in the movies. He lowered his head, his calf muscles bunching as he envisioned his only option. He’d start the prayer, then launch himself to the left, and try slapping the revolver off-center. He didn’t expect to make it, but it was his only chance.
He was just on the verge of exploding from the chair when a female voice from behind echoed Collins’s last words.
“If you’ve got a last prayer, General, it’s time for you to say it.”
Morgan lifted his face and twisted around. Standing in the gloom of the hallway was Commander Alicia Schmitt, and she looked like hell. Her Navy peacoat had ragged holes punched in the front, her blonde hair was a greasy mess, and her left sleeve was gone—replaced by her arm, which was encased in a green plaster cast.
But the Smith & Wesson revolver clutched in her right fist was gorgeous, and it was aimed directly at Collins’s head.
“Well, well,” Collins said. “Look what the cat dragged in.”
Morgan turned back around and looked at the general. The Doberman rose to his feet and growled at Schmitt.
“Better tell your dog to stand down, General,” Schmitt said. “Trigger pull’s faster than fur.”
Collins ignored the comment. “I thought my people took care of you.” He kept his revolver trained on Morgan.
“The miracle of Kevlar,” Schmitt said. “They left me for dead. I won’t make the same mistake with you.”
“Somebody throw me a bone,” Morgan said.
“He put you onto me Morgan,” Schmitt said, without taking her eyes or her gun off Collins, “because he knew I wasn’t sure if he was dirty or clean. He was hoping I’d panic and try to kill you, and you’d kill me instead. He’d already given you Virginia, and he figured you’d work that out and do whatever he needed.” She narrowed her eyes at Collins. “Now put the piece down, General. Slowly.”
Collins’s gray eyes narrowed back. “You pull that trigger, I’ll pull mine, and Morgan here’s gone.”
“So?” Schmitt said. “I barely know him.”
“That’s harsh,” Morgan said.
Collins laughed.
Morgan pressed his thumb on the pepper spray button and fired a thick stream at the Doberman’s face as he launched himself out of the chair to the right. Collins’s brain made a primary-threat decision, so he fired a shot at Schmitt, but she was already ducking. The bullet splintered the hallway jamb as she went down.
The dog was yelping and spinning in circles as Morgan dropped the tube, spun left, and slammed into Collins’s chest at the same time he jetted his right hand out to grip Collins’s gun wrist. But Collins reached over his head with his left, grabbed the bronze lamp from the table, and clanged it off Morgan’s skull.
Half-blinded, drooling, and snarling like a demon, the Doberman went for Schmitt—slamming her into a wall. Collins banged Morgan’s head again with the lamp, but Morgan wouldn’t let go of his wrist. So he dropped the gun, kicked Morgan off him, and charged for the porch door. The Doberman was on top of Schmitt, trying to tear her throat out. She cracked him on the skull with her revolver butt until he went limp, then squeezed out from under him and scrambled up.
“Don’t lose him!” Morgan yelled as he gripped his ringing head with both hands. They saw Collins outside, vaulting over the porch rail. That “retired old general” crap was just an act.
“I’ll cut him off from the rear!” Schmitt charged through the den, out through the glass doors, and went after Collins.
Morgan pulled the front door open and staggered down the stairs into the front yard. He felt hot blood crawling through his hair and running off his jaw, but he ignored it as he starting loping off to the right. He heard the sound of a gunning engine, and then the double gate at Collins’s front brick wall splintered off its hinges as a black van burst through the opening and swerved to a stop on the lawn.
It was one of Zeta’s tac vehicles. Morgan stopped running as the doors flew open, and Bishop, Spartan, and Diesel jumped out.
“Perfect timing!” Morgan gasped as he shot his finger off to the right in the direction of Collins’s flight. “Collins just took off that way.” He started running toward them and the van. “Back in the truck. Let’s get him.”
Then he froze. Bishop was pointing a Taser pistol at him.
“We’re not here for him,” he said to Morgan. “We’re here for you.”
“What the ever-loving fu—”
Then Bishop fired. The darts plunged into Morgan’s chest, and the high voltage twitched him like a marionette.
He went down hard. And this time, he didn’t get up.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Lily woke up, naked, in what appeared to be Austria.
She lay there just breathing, staring at a pink stucco ceiling, fully convinced she was dreaming. Then she steeled herself for the awful truth, lifted her head from a thick down pillow, and looked around. She blinked, hiked herself up on her elbows, and the thick flowered quilt nestling her fell away from her nude breasts.
“I’ve bloody well died,” she whispered. “And hell is a brothel.”
She was lying on a king-sized bed, with curled brass bars at the head and foot, in the middle of a very large room. The walls were of textured pink stucco, the moldings and doors were made of chunky chestnut, and the tall windows were obscured by long lace curtains. To her left was a cushy, purple divan, and at the far wall beyond was a dressing table that looked like an antique from Salzburg.
Above that on the wall was an oval mirror ringed in br
ass cherubs, with a framed sign that said “Wilkommen.”
She looked to her right, where a small bedside table held a lamp, a crystal water pitcher and glass, her false passport, and her cell phone. Just beyond that was an ornate wooden chair with a high curved back, carefully arranged with some clothes: a sleeveless red dress, long-sleeved white blouse, modest pink bra and bikini-cut panties, and a pair of high black leather boots.
She looked at the bottom of the quilt, where her turned-up feet were making a small tent, and carefully curled her toes. The bottoms of her wounded soles felt stiff, encased in something. She threw off the quilt and stared at a pair of medical pressure stockings running all the way up to her knees.
Well now, that’s very attractive.
She swung her legs to the right and sat up, feeling a little woozy. So she took a long pull from the water glass. Tasty, refreshing, as if from a mountain stream. Then she stood, using the high mattress as a brace. She found her footing, walked around the bed, and made her way to the left-hand window. She fingered one edge of the curtain aside and looked down.
“Good Christ,” she gasped.
She was in one of those quaint little towns on the shore of some Alpine lake. There were two long rows of pastel flats, capped with red and black tile roofs, embracing a long, curving lane of rain-washed cobblestone. Multicolored umbrellas hung above outdoor café tables, and at the end of the lane was a beautiful white church with a tall black spire and a Roman numeral clock.
Only one problem. The surrounding countryside looked nothing like any geographical spot she knew of in Europe. Her head swimming, she turned away from the window and pressed her naked cheeks against the wall to steady herself. Then she saw her image in the dressing table mirror, and carefully made her way over there to stare.
Her hair had been washed and braided. Her lips were healed and glossed, and makeup hid the bruises around her eyes. She could still see some welts on her inner arms and thighs, but they’d also been salved and soothed. Her broken fingernails had been preened down and manicured. Even her mound had been trimmed.
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