For Duty and Honor

by Leo J. Maloney

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I must thank my immensely talented team at Kensington Publishing Corp., who work tirelessly to help make my novels the best they can be and are there whenever I have questions or concerns. Thank you to Steve Zacharius, owner of Kensington, who has made me part of the Kensington “family.” There are just not enough words to convey how fortunate I am to have Michaela Hamilton as my editor. Her patience and guidance have been invaluable—she is a very special person.

  I also want to express my appreciation to my literary agent, Doug Grad, as well as to Mayur Gudka, my webmaster and social media consultant. I also want to thank my partner in writing and creating my novels, Caio Camargo. I am so fortunate that you are members of my team and, more important, friends.

  My wife, Lynn, continues to encourage me to pursue my writing career.

  Lastly, I want to thank all of my very loyal fans whose support has helped grow the Dan Morgan series from one novel to six and still writing . . .

  Don’t miss the next exciting thriller starring Zeta operative Dan Morgan

  ROGUE COMMANDER

  Coming soon from Lyrical Underground, an imprint of Kensington Publishing Corp.

  Chapter One

  Dan Morgan stood against the stone back of the Church of Our Lady Before Týn, a lit cigarette dangling between his fingers.

  He didn’t smoke—couldn’t stand the smell, really—but nothing gave him better cover to stand around in the street, out of the way of most people. So he let the reeking thing burn, pretending to puff every few seconds to avert suspicion, and shielding the ember from the autumn wind. It was early October, and the sun was low in the sky even though it was half past ten a.m. None of its rays made it down to the level of Prague’s narrow streets.

  He was in an area reserved for parking, which held the sorts of establishments that grow like weeds on the periphery of the big tourist sites, selling cheap souvenirs and small necessities like water and smokes.

  “Morgan, report in.” This was the voice of Diana Bloch coming over the wireless transmitter in his right ear, terse and all business. The head of Zeta Division, Bloch carried the authority of a natural leader. She was a pain in his ass, but mostly in a good way.

  “Nothing yet.”

  A group of four American college kids stopped as one of them took a picture of the back of the church. One of the couples stood close together, with a sort of awkwardness that told Morgan theirs was a new relationship. The other couple had been together long enough to be more interested in other things, but shared a kiss before they moved along.

  They didn’t give him a second glance. Good. Being invisible had its perks in the business.

  Morgan buzzed with energy, as he always did before a mission. He felt the reassuring weight of his black Walther PPK in its shoulder holster, well hidden under his black trench coat. It wasn’t a popular concealed-carry weapon anymore—too heavy, and not as much firepower as the polymer nine-millimeter pieces that took its place. But he was a man with classic tastes, and he had a soft spot for the gun. It felt solid in his hand, nicely balanced, with light recoil. That, and he could hit a fly in the air at ten paces with it.

  Morgan stood back against the stone of the centuries-old Gothic church, and feigned drawing in smoke from his Marlboro when he caught movement in his peripheral vision. Across the small parking lot, a man emerged from the front door of the Ventana hotel. He had an unhandsome face topped with a receding head of blond hair, with a strong nose but a weak chin that he hid, badly, with a goatee.

  “That’s Pulnik,” said Morgan. “Moving west from the hotel.”

  “Keep your distance,” said Bloch over the comm. “Team, get moving. Stick to the plan. Morgan, do I have to remind you—”

  “You don’t. It’s my damn plan. I’m sticking to it.” Morgan dropped the half-burned cigarette, ground it against the pavement, and set off after the man.

  Their quarry was Havel Pulnik, a sleazy small-time underworld businessman who happened to be second cousin to Enver Lukacs, the evasive big fish they were really after. With no other leads to finding Lukacs, Zeta division had kept Pulnik under surveillance for months. Their persistence finally paid off when one of Lukacs’s people set a meeting with Pulnik in Prague.

  “We’re on the move.” That was Bishop, the leader of the Zeta Tactical Team, somewhere within a two-block radius.

  Morgan walked thirty feet behind Pulnik. The streets were teeming with tourists from all nations. He could recognize the people from warmer climates because they were bundled up as if they were in the Himalayas in the dead of winter. As he passed a souvenir shop, Morgan caught sight of Spartan. She had a good four inches on him, her close-cropped blond hair hidden by a dark gray beanie. She was looking through postcards from a rack, oriented so she could steal glances at their quarry. He then caught sight of Bishop, walking a distance ahead of Pulnik. Spartan set off a few seconds after Morgan had passed, walking on pace with a group of Germans who seemed to be going out for a stroll rather than oohing and aahing at the sights.

  “Looks like he’s moving toward the plaza,” said Spartan. “Good call.”

  Morgan walked on the cobblestones, worn smooth over the years. Prague had the old world elegance of Europe, with its picturesque hodgepodge of architectural styles—all of them, unlike the utilitarian bent of American engineering, with an eye for beauty. The condition of the buildings, however, betrayed the country’s Soviet past. They did not have the polish, the fresh paint and recent renovations, found in England or Germany.

  Morgan liked Prague, though. The city had character. A gloomy character, sure. Nothing more appropriate for the city of Franz Kafka. But anywhere he went, at least in the old city, he felt yes, I am in Prague.

  After a short walk Morgan followed Pulnik into the historic Old Town Square. Now, here was a main attraction. The perimeter of the sprawling square was lined with restaurants with outdoor tables, where tourists braved the cold and sat with hot drinks. Others sat on the ground of the square. One young woman was drawing the Old Town Hall, its gothic spires reaching toward the sky. Most were standing around, listening to guides, reading stuff on their cell phones, taking pictures. A band was setting up, with a standing bass, a clarinet, a banjo, and a washboard. Half a dozen people were already sitting in a semicircle, waiting for them to begin playing. A handful of protesters were there, too, demonstrating on the issue of refugees from the Middle East. The younger and more diverse crowd was for; the older and local, against. They kept a tense peace, but Morgan had a feeling things might break out in violence quickly.

  Pulnik was making his way toward the green bronze statue of Jan Hus at the center of the square.

  “Fan out,” Morgan said. “I want people on all sides. We need to see Lukacs coming.”

  “Moving in, northwest corner.” The voice belonged to Peter Conley, Morgan’s old partner from his days in the CIA. There was no one Morgan would sooner trust with his life.

  Morgan walked to the middle of the east side of the square and watched as the others got into position. He surveyed the tourists, who were oblivious to the importance of this moment. The wheels of their world turned, and they were none the wiser. They didn’t know anything about the silent machinery hidden deep in the bowels of their world. All they saw was the surface.

  Morgan was here today to stop one of these cogs from turning. Enver Lukacs was the name of this particular cog—a shadowy underworld player with a finger in every pie. His currency was contacts, joining people who were selling black market items and services with those who would buy them. Weapons, drugs, mercenaries, slaves—Lukacs had it all. If the Zeta operatives got him to turn over what he knew, even just a fraction, they could bring down dozens of illegal operations.

  Everything depended on their success on that day.

  “Hello! American!” It was a slight young man with a local accent. His baby face was draped with scraggly hair, and he had on a dirty red coat over a stained T-shirt.


  Shit. This was all Morgan needed. “I don’t have any money.”

  The man smiled with mock offense. “No! Come on, American friend! I just want to have a conversation!”

  “I don’t have any of that either. Now scram, kid.”

  He went off to bother someone else. Morgan looked at Pulnik, standing by the statue with his hands in his pockets, looking around at the crowd for the man he was there to meet.

  It was Conley who spoke first. “I have eyes on the target. Approaching from my corner.”

  “Keep your distance,” said Bloch. “I want confirmation before we do anything.”

  Morgan leaned against a lamppost at looked at the man now crossing the plaza. He looked like a fashion designer, with a svelte silver-fox thing going on and a stylish designer suit.

  “Positive ID,” said Morgan. “That’s him. That’s Lukacs.”

  “Get in position,” said Bloch. “Diesel, I want you on alert. You need to arrive with the van just as they reach the street with Lukacs while Lily provides a distraction.” That would be young, green-eyed Lily Randall, femme fatale. Morgan caught sight of her coming in from the far side, her auburn hair glistening in the morning sun. “We need to attract as little attention as possible.”

  The jazz band broke out into a Dixieland rendition of “When the Saints Go Marching In.” The singer’s voice suggested he’d been a heavy smoker since age five. The effect wasn’t exactly beautiful, but hell if it didn’t work.

  A semicircle of tourists formed, although most went about their business without a glance at the musicians. Something nagged at the corner of Morgan’s mind before he was fully conscious of what it was.

  “Hold positions,” he said. “Lukacs’s got company.”

  “Where?” Bishop asked.

  “Tall bearded guy over by the church. Short and stocky next to the tour group on the north side. Red hair by the lamppost, near the southwest corner. And another sitting on the far side of the statue.”

  “The bastard brought a security detail.”

  “Bishop. Conley.” It was Bloch. “Scan the windows for snipers. If he brought this much backup, I get a feeling he won’t be stopping there.”

  Morgan looked at the rows of windows that surrounded the plaza. Two churches, two hotels, a museum, and a government building. All old and elegant.

  “Got one,” Bishop said. “White building, north side, fourth floor. Third window from the left.”

  “That’s bad news,” said Lily.

  Morgan watched the band as they launched into a rollicking performance of “Mack the Knife.” “The sniper’s in a hotel,” he said. “Shepard, think you can get me room access?”

  Shepard was their resident computer genius. There was hardly any computer system he couldn’t crack. “Already working on it,” came his cocky, insouciant voice.

  “Conley—”

  “On my way.” Peter Conley moved toward the hotel entrance. After working together so many years, he and Morgan had a nearly psychic connection.

  “I don’t like this.” It was Bishop. “The mission is getting riskier by the second. I think we need to call it off.”

  “You’re running point on this, Morgan,” said Bloch. “It’s your call.”

  Morgan squinted into the cloudless blue sky. Then he looked at Lukacs, who was talking closely with Pulnik.

  “Everyone get in position,” Morgan said. “We’re moving in as soon as Lukacs breaks away from Pulnik.”

  “What about his security people?” Bishop demanded.

  “You fan out with the team. I want one of us on every guard. Bind their hands with disposable cuffs and drop them. Lily, you go ahead with the distraction on my mark. We’re going to need perfect timing on this.”

  “And Lukacs?” Bishop asked.

  “I’ll take care of Lukacs,” said Morgan. “Extraction van ready?”

  “I’ll move out on your mark,” Diesel answered. “Pick you up on the southeast corner.”

  Morgan watched as the team moved through the crowd as naturally as any tourists, betraying no sign of their purpose.

  “I’m in position at the sniper’s door,” said Conley. “Shepard, how close are you to getting access?”

  Shepard scoffed. “I’m in, big guy.”

  “Morgan, we’re waiting for your signal,” said Bloch.

  “Hold. Not yet.” Morgan kept his eyes on Lukacs and Pulnik, having their conversation. Then Lukacs pulled his companion in close, and Pulnik gasped, eyes wide, grabbing his belly.

  Morgan couldn’t see it clearly, but there was no doubt. Lukacs had stabbed him. Blood seeped out as Pulnik bent double. Lukacs eased him to sit against the low ledge around the statue.

  “Are you seeing this?” said Spartan.

  “This is not right,” said Bishop. “Morgan, call this off.”

  “The mission doesn’t change.” Morgan was not going to let Lukacs get away. “He’s moving out. Lily, that’s your cue.”

  On the far side of the plaza, Lily drew a megaphone from her pack and turned it on with an earsplitting whine.

  “Wake up, sheeple!” she screeched, her voice amplified and flattened by the megaphone. “The Illuminati run your lives!” Lily was really selling the insanity, and people took notice. “The reptilians have invaded the highest level of government!” Tourists moved toward her or rubbernecked to get a look at the crazy lady. “They want us for our blood!”

  Now it was their turn to take action. The Zeta team moved in on Lukacs’s security. Lukacs had left Pulnik on the ground and was moving back from the direction he had come from. As he turned, Lukacs’s eyes met Morgan’s, and he held his stare long enough for the message to come across as clear as a tall glass of water.

  “God damn it! They know we’re here! Fall back!”

  “I told you this was a bad idea,” said Bishop. “Didn’t I goddamn tell you?”

  “Too late now,” Morgan said. “Let’s move!”

  They’d lost the element of surprise. Morgan heard the sound of Conley kicking the door in as Lukacs’s security drew their guns. Morgan couldn’t spare the attention to see what was going on. He heard gunfire, then screaming, as he ran straight for Lukacs.

  Two guards were converging on him, fast, from the left and right. Morgan turned his run evasive, reaching for his Walther.

  Lily, having cast off her megaphone, came dashing from the left and tripped one man, sending him reeling to the ground. This gave Morgan the distraction and the opening he needed to fire at the other guard. Three bullets in the chest, and he was down.

  He took the man’s gun and tossed it to Lily, who had come weaponless.

  “I owe you!” she said, and ran off to help out Spartan, who was struggling to fight off two of Lukacs’s security guards. Then he took off running again toward Lukacs, who was by now at the edge of the square.

  Morgan took off at a dead run, pushing as hard as he could. Someone crashed into him, sending his Walther flying, and him almost to the pavement. Morgan spared him a glance before diving for his gun.

  It was the young man in the red coat. His smile was gone. He was holding a Beretta M9, and that Beretta M9 was pointed at Morgan’s chest.

  “Do not even think about going for the weapon,” he said. “Hands up.”

  Morgan’s eyes scanned his surroundings. His team was scattered. None of them could come to his rescue. The man was too close for him to run, but too far for him to attack and survive.

  “Any last words?”

  Morgan turned his hand and raised his middle finger.

  “Eloquent. Now you die.” He aimed the Beretta at Morgan’s heart.

  The sound of a gunshot filled Morgan’s ears.

  Chapter Two

  From the window of her hotel room, Alex Morgan grimaced at the sharp smell of gunpowder. Body still humming from the shot she’d just fired, she watched through the scope of her rifle as the man’s eyes widened in surprise, and he fell to the ground. The blood from his chest wound mingled wi
th the red of his coat and spilled onto the cobblestones.

  “Hell of a shot, Alex.” She heard her father through the comm, but she couldn’t see his lips move.

  “Thank me later, Dad. Right now, we need to find Lukacs.”

  As people drained from the square, Alex scanned the space, looking for their target or his men, but they blended in with the tourists. She’d taken out two of the guards already before Red Coat. Bloch had been worried about putting a sniper rifle in her hands in the field, ordering her to nest in the hotel room overlooking the square, where, Alex suspected, Bloch did not think she’d see any action.

  Ales was going to enjoy making the boss eat her words.

  “Anyone got eyes on him?” Morgan asked.

  A chorus of negatives came over the radio. Alex made one last survey of the square. “I’m no good up here anymore. I’m moving out.”

  “You stay where you are,” her father said.

  “Make me.” She set her Heckler & Koch MSG90 on the carpet. She wiped her fingerprints, stowed her gun in its holster and her stun gun in one of her pockets. Then she pulled on her coat, drawing up the lapels to hide her face, and ran out of the room and down the hall and downstairs.

  She pushed against the flow of people seeking refuge inside, squeezing her way out into the chill air. She couldn’t pick out Lukacs or his men. Every panicked face in the crowd could conceal an enemy.

  “I have eyes on Lukacs.” It was Peter Conley. “He’s moving past the astronomical clock as we speak.”

  Alex took a left from the hotel and ran toward the square’s old clock. As far as she could tell, her position put her ahead of everyone else. A fantasy flashed before her eyes—Lukacs, in handcuffs, and her, Alex Morgan, bringing him in.

  “We have police incoming!” said Shepard. To this prompt, Alex picked out the sirens approaching from the distance.

  “This mission is already a shit show!” came Bishop’s deep voice. “We need to call this off.”