When the dump truck turned left onto Crystal Lake Road, its driver had the pedal to the metal. Half a mile later, it swerved hard to the right, then left again, and was bearing straight down at the gate when the young sailors in their blue digital cammies saw it.
The lieutenant yelled, “Scatter!” and his team threw themselves to the left and right, but he stood his ground and opened up with his rifle. A couple of bullets punched high through the truck’s windshield, and then he disappeared as the beast flattened the fence, exploded the water barriers in bursts of spray, and took out the central booth and its columns. A pylon shot up and split the green tile roof, which yawned open at the sky like a roaring dragon.
Collins’s van came next, bouncing over the fallen gate like it was nothing more than chicken wire. The fallen lieutenant’s sailors, enraged by just having seen him crushed into pulp, took knees on both flanks and opened fire. But Collins had prepared for all that and had had the Chevy up-armored at a chop shop.
Bullets scarred the heavy Plexiglas windshield and punched through the skin, but didn’t get any farther. The side windows were already open, the Koreans’ bristling AK barrels exploding white light from both flanks, and they mowed down the sailors as if the van were a rocketing frigate. However, as instructed, they left one alive.
Collins drove on, feeling nothing. Five million dollars was a shit ton of money. He knew from his youth that once you picked up the gun, you took your chances and, one way or another, would get paid until you eventually paid it back with your life.
He glanced in the rearview mirror. The big rig was roaring through the shattered gate, hard on his heels. He’d never been to Groton before, but he knew where to go from a DoD classified map, and he curved to the right and took a left on Tang Avenue. The dump truck had pulled off the road and stopped. Two Koreans were out there waving him down. He roared right past them.
Let ’em run.
He didn’t need to get to the bunkers themselves. That would have just meant drama. The Tomahawks were already targeted to those coordinates, and a thousand feet up on the left was a big soccer field and a red clay running track—no power lines above to mess with the birds. Five more minutes, then fire and exfil. Too easy. Then they’d race south to the mouth of the Thames, where Bishop had anchored the boat they had secretly bought. Maybe he’d use him as his bodyguard in the Alps. Or maybe he’d just kill him.
Sirens were going off all over the base—blue lights spinning and flashing off buildings. They were almost at the field, and he glanced over at the Korean in the seat next to him. The kid was grinning, pumping his fist. Collins grinned too—until a high-caliber bullet punched through the windshield and exploded the kid’s head.
Alex Morgan, lying flat in the open back of an MD500 “Little Bird” helicopter, worked the bolt on her Accuracy International L115A3 sniper rifle, resighted it, and fired again. But the freezing wind and rotor wash were screaming through the helo and making it buck, and she saw her second 8.59mm bullet smack through the passenger van’s windshield just above the driver’s head.
“Damn it, Cougar, hold it steady!” she yelled through her throat mike.
Peter Conley, who was flying the bird left-seat with no copilot, grunted back. “I’m holding this bitch as hard as I can!”
He had just swung the bird into a broadside hover, twenty feet high and two hundred feet from the front of the van. He looked down to the right, where the van was taking evasive action as it bounded over a red clay track and slewed right into a soccer field. Then he saw gun barrels thrusting from the side windows, straight up. He pulled power, banked the bird ninety degrees to the left, and then forward as a web of red tracers just missed the rotor.
“Jesus!” Alex howled as the floor tilted up and she slid backward. If she hadn’t been wearing a harness clipped to a D ring on the floor, she would have zipped straight out. Behind her, standing on the skids, Tac team operators Dizzy and Rip were jerked to the ends of their safety harnesses, wide-eyed and staring at the spinning ground.
Morgan’s bird, another black MD500, showed up next. It came screaming down from the north along Tang Avenue at fifteen feet and a hundred knots, with Morgan and Spartan perched on the right skid while Diesel and an antitank gunner named Pipe were on the left. All of them had switched out their M-4 rifles for Springfield Armory .308 SOCOMs, because Morgan had a hunch they’d be facing AKs. They were all wearing wind goggles and MICH helmets, but no night vision, because he knew the base would be well lit.
“Diesel,” he said through his throat mike as the wind whipped his cheeks. “You and me on that van.”
They both opened up from each side of the Little Bird, raking the van below stem to stern, but it just kept going as if they’d pinged it with BBs.
“Damn thing’s armored,” Morgan said. “Pipe, can you take it?”
“Negative,” said the antitank gunner. “I ain’t got a shot.”
“Zipper.” Morgan spoke to the pilot, a young Peter Conley protégé. “Take it hard around and set her down.”
“Roger.” Zipper heeled the bird over to the right, careening around the field’s perimeter.
Spartan, facedown with her boots on the skid and her head hanging down, twisted around and looked past the tail boom, where the eighteen-wheeler was just thundering onto the soccer pitch. “Cobra,” she said. “I got eyes on the launch vehicle.”
“Shit,” Diesel said. “Light her up?”
“Don’t bother,” Morgan said. “That’s armored too. Zipper, hustle up and set her down.”
“Hang on for a hard one!” Zipper grunted as he straightened it out on the far side of the field. He raced at ten feet over the whipping grass, pulled the pitch nose up, and slammed it down on the skids.
Morgan, Spartan, Diesel, and Pipe had already unclipped their carabiners. They jumped from the skids, spread out in a flying wedge, and charged straight across the field toward the van—their gun barrels spouting flame as their spent shells spun through the air.
Behind them, the helo lifted off again and disappeared while, over to the left, Conley’s bird touched the grass. Dizzy and Rip jumped off and hard-charged it straight at two Koreans who were sprinting up Tang Avenue from the abandoned dump truck.
Collins slammed on the van brakes, grabbed his.45-caliber handgun, popped the door, and rolled out onto the wet grass as the eighteen-wheeler roared close by on his left, then slid to a stop fifty feet on. It was facing south, but that didn’t matter. The Tomahawks had minds of their own. Bullets were punching into the van, but all the doors flew open and the North Koreans rushed into the field, firing and screaming. Collins rolled onto his stomach and crawled toward the launch truck as he fumbled for his MBITR—yanking it off his belt.
“These bastards are all kamikazes!” Morgan yelled in his mike above the gunfire. “Go flat!”
In the middle of the field, all the Zetas went prone, taking long breaths and squinting into their red dot sights as the Koreans came on. They looked wild and crazy, fully erect, marching forwards, yelling war cries and spraying their AKs at the black-clad Zetas spread out in the grass.
Spartan took one in the legs. He smashed down on his face but kept firing, and she hit him again. Diesel shot one in the throat, and that was that. Morgan dropped one center mass, but the dude got up, and he had to hit him again.
Then his bolt locked back, and just as he was switching magazines, the Korean on the far-right flank spotted him and came charging, his AK barrel spitting yellow flame, the bullets whip-cracking just over his head.
I ain’t gonna make it, he thought as he slammed the fresh magazine home. And then the Korean’s head snapped back, he dropped his AK, sank to his knees, and folded flat back. Morgan twisted his head around and looked up as Conley’s Little Bird floated by, with a long sniper barrel poking from its cargo bay. Alex. He grinned. He couldn’t help himself.
“Damn
, I’m hit.” It was Rip’s voice in his ear, and he looked left, where the kid was rolling back and forth in the grass. The Korean who’d shot him was coming on fast to finish him off, but Spartan whipped around and shot him sideways in the head.
“Cobra!” Alex’s voice startled Morgan in his ear. “You better do something. That truck’s getting a hard-on!”
Morgan twisted around and looked at the truck. Something was rising from the cargo bay, a canopy of camouflage netting sliding slowly off toward the back. Launch tubes...Shit!
“Alex,” he said. “You got eyes on Collins?”
“Negative. He might be in the van.”
Morgan spun left again. But either he was out of ammo or his AK had jammed. He was coming straight for Diesel and pulling a knife from his chest rig. Diesel got up and looked at him. Morgan heard him say, “Nah, don’t feel like dancing tonight.” And he shot him.
“Pipe!” Morgan said over the comms. “Take that van!”
Pipe got up on his knees, pulled a LAW tube from the rig on his back, popped it open, dropped it on his shoulder and fired. A long gout of flame spat from the back and the rocket hissed across the field and blew the van into a roofless mess of flaming seats and hissing tires.
Morgan was already up, pounding across the field. His knee was screaming, and the heavy SOCOM was slowing him down, so he dropped it on the run and pulled a Browning Hi-Power from his thigh holster.
The eighteen-wheeler loomed in front of him. One last Korean burst from the left side of the cab and came running around the front. Morgan dropped him with a doubletap on the run. Then he saw Collins.
The general was hunkered down near the truck’s rear bumper, his back toward Morgan, gripping an MBITR module in his left hand and punching its keys. But as Morgan came on, Collins sensed his presence. He spun around with a .45 at the end of his arm, and both men stopped at ten paces, muzzle to muzzle.
“You’re getting to be a pain in my ass, Dan.” Collins was breathing hard, his flushed cheeks streaked with sweat.
“Feeling’s mutual, Jim. But it’s over. So put it down.”
“For what?” Collins scoffed. “A noose at Leavenworth?”
Morgan glanced to left and up. Conley’s bird was sliding broadside into position, hovering a hundred meters out. He could see Alex’s sniper barrel glinting, and the rotor wash was fluttering the grass. Then his eye caught something else. It was a red car, racing along Tang Avenue toward him. But he focused back on Collins as it crossed over the clay track and eased to a stop, facing him and Collins at twenty feet. The flames from the burning van flickered in its windshield.
The door opened, and Bishop got out. He was gripping a black .357 Desert Eagle. But he didn’t point it at Morgan. He was training the barrel on the car.
“Well, lookie here.” Collins grinned. “It’s the flip side of fate.”
“That’s me,” Bishop said as he walked slowly backward and aligned the handgun barrel with the trunk. “The grim stinking reaper. Now Morgan, drop the piece and send the general over to me.”
“Right, asshole.” Morgan snarled. “For what?”
“For your wife,” Bishop said. His smile was now triumphant.
Morgan glanced down at the license plate and a wave of nausea rushed up to his throat.
“Dad, that’s our car!” Alex’s desperation moaned in his ear.
“Bullshit,” Morgan to Bishop said. “So you jacked her car. Think I’m gonna fall for that?”
“Tell you what,” Bishop said. His barrel was now angled straight down at the trunk. “I’ll fire one round, and then you can decide if I’m bullshitting.”
Spartan, Diesel, and Pipe had appeared around the rear of the burning van. They all had their weapons trained on Bishop.
“You slimy traitor,” Spartan called out.
Bishop laughed. “That’s all you got, Spartan? I’ll be far away and filthy rich while you’re still trying to figure out if you’re a girl.”
“You’re bluffing,” Morgan called out to Bishop. “Show her to me.”
“Dad!” Alex pleaded in his ear. “I can take him!”
“No,” Morgan snapped to Alex as his gun still pointed at Collins. “His finger might twitch.”
“Fair enough,” said Bishop. “But first, guns on the ground.”
Morgan looked over at his team. He nodded. They reluctantly bent and put their SOCOMs on the ground. Bishop raised his chin at Morgan.
“You too.”
Morgan had no choice. He cursed and leaned over, letting the Hi Power fall. Bishop grinned wider and walked around to the Camry’s rear bumper. With Collins still pointing his .45 at Morgan’s head, and everyone else with their hands empty, he was top dog now. Alex wouldn’t try for a shot with him hovering over her mother. He tipped the barrel of his Desert Eagle up and thumbed the trunk button on the key fob.
It opened, and the last thing he saw was the gaping maw of a twelve-gauge shotgun. It exploded two feet from his face. He snapped back and went airborne in a spray of lead pellets and gore.
Morgan ducked as Collins fired the .45. The round singed his hair, but he dove under the gun and hit Collins with everything he had. The general went down on his back. Morgan gripped the barrel and wrenched it out of his hand, but it slipped from his fingers and went spinning off as Collins snapped his shin up and connected with Morgan’s groin.
Morgan grunted hard and collapsed as Collins scrambled out from under him, clutched the MBITR, and started sprinting away, across the clay track. Morgan struggled up and chased after him. To his right, he heard the launch tubes lock, and their nose doors clang open.
Collins was running, gripping the MBITR module in his left hand, punching his right fingers at the keys. And then, out of nowhere, headlights blazed from the left, and a beat-up blue Saturn sedan came roaring off of Tang Avenue and hit him dead-on.
Collins’s arms flew up as the bumper cracked him in half. Then his broken body went under, and Morgan saw the MBITR spinning up into the air. He jinked to the right, then left, then stretched out his palms, and caught it.
The Saturn had stopped. Morgan stood there, gasping for breath, clutching the module and staring at the car. One of Collin’s bloody legs was sticking out from under a rear wheel. The driver’s door opened, and Commander Alicia Schmitt got out.
She glanced under the car, then leaned on the roof with her green arm cast, and looked at Morgan. “Better late than never.”
Chapter Forty
Morgan held Jenny for a long time. She couldn’t stop shaking.
There were ambulances and navy security trucks all over the field—lights flashing everywhere and shouting people moving quickly.
He stroked her matted hair and glanced around. Sailors were zipping up body bags, and the two Little Birds had settled at the far end of the field. He saw Alex sprinting toward them with her rifle slung over her back. He caressed Jenny’s head, moved her wet face from the crook of his neck and looked at her.
“Where’d you get the shotgun?” He smiled.
“From your stash,” she sobbed.
“Finders keepers,” he said. “It’s yours.”
Then he held her face and kissed her. Her lips were swollen and salty.
“You’ll just have to forget what you saw,” he said, knowing that the vision of blowing Bishop away would be in her mind forever.
“I didn’t see anything,” she confessed. “I had my eyes closed.”
Morgan laughed. Alex smashed into them both and hugged them so hard he thought she might crack their ribs.
“Mom!” She murmured. “What the hell?”
Jenny both laughed and cried. “Guess you’re a chip off both blocks, huh?”
Bloch’s voice popped in Morgan’s ear. “Morgan, you copy? I need you here for a back-brief. Kudos come later.”
Morgan ignor
ed her and looked at Jenny. “Where’s Neika?”
“At home. Probably eating your slippers.”
“Let’s go get her.”
“Morgan?” Bloch snapped. “Do you copy?”
“Five by five, Diana,” Morgan finally answered. “But that briefing’s gonna have to wait.”
“What? Why? Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
“Disneyworld.” He lied.
He put his arms around Jenny’s and Alex’s shoulders, and they walked off together toward the family car.
Dark Territory
Don’t miss the next exciting thriller starring Zeta operative Dan Morgan
Coming soon from Lyrical Underground,
an imprint of Kensington Publishing Corp.
Keep reading to enjoy an excerpt . . .
Chapter One
Alex Morgan was lying face down on a hillock of freezing Russian snow.
She had been there for more than two hours, barely moving, and now her body was starting to rebel. It didn’t matter that she was stuffed in a cocoon of polypropylene thermals, Icelandic socks, Sorel mountain boots, a bone-white Gore-Tex suit and a polar bear Inuit hat. The temperature had dropped to minus three degrees Celsius. She felt like one of those wooden sticks wrapped in an ice cream bar.
Suck it up, Morgan, she told herself as she tried to stop her teeth from chattering. Just make the shot.
To her left and right were lines of enormous pines, the edge of the forest from which she’d crawled. Their branches speared upwards into an inky sky, needles barely fluttering in the windless night. Below her, out front, the hillock dropped off into waves of avalanche snow before smoothing out at the bottom across a vast plain of unmarred white—maybe three kilometers across and surrounded by more pine-crested hills. A couple of trees in the snow bowl were bent under coats of gleaming ice.
It looked like a scene from Dr. Zhivago, an old movie her father, Dan Morgan, liked—except she wasn’t watching it next to dad on a couch. She was in it, up to her neck.
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