Rogue Commander. Leo J. Maloney
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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 the rifle on the hotel room carpet and wiped her fingerprints from it—not expecting any retort from her father and not getting it. After stowing her 9mm Taurus compact automatic in its holster and a stun gun in one of her pockets, she pulled on her coat, pulled up the lapels to obscure her face, and left the room, the hall, the stairway, and the hotel—all the while remembering his advice.
“Insubordination is one thing,” he had told her quietly one day in private. “Insubordination in front of the team is another. That’s like germs. One sneeze, and everybody catches a cold.”
Her old man might have a good point. It certainly might explain Bishop’s behavior. She’d have to give it more thought, but she had bigger fish to fry at the moment.
Alex pushed against the flow of people seeking refuge inside the hotel, then squeezed her way out into the chill air. She couldn’t pick out Lukacs or his men, but every panicked face in the crowd could conceal an enemy.
“Eyes on Lukacs,” she heard in her ear. It was Peter Conley. “He’s moving past the astronomical clock.”
Alex ran toward the square’s old timepiece. As far as she could tell, she was ahead of everyone else. A fantasy flashed before her eyes—Lukacs, in handcuffs, and her, Alex Morgan, bringing him in.
“We have police incoming,” Shepard said. His words went in one ear, the sound of approaching sirens entering the other.
“This mission is already a shit show!” came Bishop’s continued whining. “I’m telling you we need to call it off.”
“This isn’t a democracy,” Bloch snapped as Alex plunged on, regardless of the infighting.
“If we don’t get him now, we might never,” her father said with remarkable restraint. “Move!”
“Just spotted a secondary security team coming in from the southeast,” Spartan said. “I can keep them busy, but I’ll need some help.”
“On my way,” Lily said.
Alex heard gunshots behind her as she ran out of the Old Town Square alongside the town hall. The clock was chiming eleven as she passed. Alex spared a glance at it, just in time to see the mechanical figurine of death coming out of the clockwork door.
Her head snapped forward, catching sight of Lukacs getting into the back seat of a black Mercedes C-Class. She noted the license plate as she ran toward it, elbowing past people as the car pulled out.
But despite her youth and fleetness of foot, it was too far away. She knew she’d never make it. But just as she thought about slowing, she heard the familiar sound of a “rice bike” motorcycle starting to her right. With a glance she was pleased to see that she had nailed the make, a Honda, and model, the CB500F, just by the rev noise. Seemingly as if she intended to go there all along, she grabbed the rider’s leather jacket and stuck her 9mm in his face.
“Need the bike,” she said. “Sorry.”
The surprised man raised his hands and backed quickly away, leaving the Honda motorcycle to topple over. Alex caught it, hopped on, and took off, keeping her thumb tight on the horn to get the frenzied crowd to part.
There was a reason the 500F was nicknamed “Naked.” The sleek little Honda was light, slim, maneuverable, and fast—perfect for street weaving.
“Target in a Mercedes C-Class,” she reported to the team, giving them the license plate as well. “In pursuit on a borrowed Honda cycle.” Alex maneuvered around the people until she cleared the crowd enough to gain some momentum, the bike jolting on the uneven ground.
“Spartan!” Morgan barked. “Cover her!”
Alex heard gunfire over the comm, deciding she wouldn’t hold her breath for back-up. It sounded as if the rest of the team’s hands were full as it was. As she concentrated on their quarry, she saw that the Mercedes was widening the distance between them. That would not do. She leaned down and opened the throttle full.
The Honda shot forward as if she had harpooned the trunk of Lukacs’s car. But just as she was getting close another C-Class appeared from her left, nearly making confetti of her front tire. She just barely managed to stay upright, quickly braking, but not stopping.
“He’s got a decoy!” she said, straining to see the numbers and letters on the second license plate as she weaved through traffic. “Lukacs is in the front car!”
The right back window of the second car rolled down, and a man lifted himself out so that his torso was free in the air. His right hand held onto the hood of the car. In his hand was a Glock semiautomatic.
She banked left hard as he fired, the bullet shattering a store window behind her, and had to make a tight right to avoid a post on the edge of the sidewalk. She zigzagged as he tried to aim. He fired another shot, which she felt skin her left earlobe. If she didn’t do something fast, the next one would nail her.
She didn’t have to. At that moment, the Zeta tactical van roared out of a side street and rammed the decoy car, which spun out and crashed into the storefront of a butcher shop.
Alex drifted right, just missing the van. She lost speed with the maneuver, but she began to pick up again once she was clear of the crash.
“Diesel,” she called through clenched teeth. “You okay?”
“In one piece,” Diesel replied. “Go get Lukacs!”
Alex heard the insistent blare of a car horn coming from behind her, getting louder. A maroon Toyota Camry came speeding down the road, weaving through people and traffic to catch up to her.
That would be her father.
“Alex, clear the way!”
“You clear the way!”
“Got a free hand; need a clear shot. Do as I say!”
Bless the man, she thought. Rather than engage in a familial pissing contest, he gave her a good reason. “I’m faster and closer,” she reminded him. “As soon as you’re clear, I will be too.”
She pushed harder, and pedestrians leapt out of the way. Traffic was light, so Lukacs managed to move fast even in the narrow streets of Prague. Alex followed suit, the old pastel-colored buildings that lined the street blurring from the speed. Her father’s experience came in good stead as he managed to stay close behind her.
They all saw police cars turning into the street three hundred yards down. The Mercedes took a squealing, tire-smoking right onto a pedestrian-only boardwalk, sending passersby scrambling. Alex made the turn, yanking the bike up so the front tire wouldn’t collide with the curb. Recovering, she picked up speed, covering a short distance to a stone archway under a tower.
The Mercedes screeched out onto the Charles Bridge, which had crossed the Vltava River since the late Middle Ages. Alex was right behind him, and somehow, her father was still behind her. Pedestrians parted like the Red Sea to hug the stone guard walls that bordered the bridge edge.
“Out of the way!” Morgan barked over the communicator. “Now!”
He had his hand out the car window, the trademark Walther in his grip. Almost as if they had practiced it, Alex banked right, just as he rapid-fired four times at Lukacs’s car.
The countless hours spent on shooting ranges and obstacle courses paid off. The Mercedes’s back left tire burst. The car swerved left, then right, and plowed straight into the side of the bridge. The heavy stone held firm, crumpling the frame of the Mercedes like it was wrapping paper.
Dan Morgan brought his car to a screeching halt. Alex Morgan drove past Lukacs’s