having cast off her megaphone, came dashing from the left and tripped one of the men, sending him reeling to the ground. This gave Morgan the opening he needed to fire at the other guard. Three bullets perfectly placed in the man’s chest, and he was down. Although there was the risk of him having a bulletproof vest, Morgan couldn’t chance a head shot causing collateral damage on any innocent bystander.
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 Morgan took off running again toward Lukacs, who was by now at the edge of the square.
Morgan charged as hard and fast as he could. Someone crashed into him, sending his Walther flying. Morgan rolled to his feet to face his new attacker. It was the young man in the red coat. But instead of flashing an annoying smile, he was pointing a Beretta M9 directly between Morgan’s eyes.
“I always give my enemy a moment to think,” he said, “of their last words.”
Morgan darted his gaze all around the smugly grinning killer. His team was scattered. None of them could help. The man was too close for him to run, but too far for him to attack and survive.
“Think of any?” the man in the red coat sneered.
Morgan turned his hand and raised his middle finger.
“Eloquent,” the man chuckled and shrugged, tightening his finger on the Beretta’s trigger.
Then the sound of a gunshot filled Morgan’s ears.
Chapter Two
Dan Morgan knew he wasn’t dead. The dead never hear the sound of the gun that shoots them.
His daughter, Alexandria “Alex” Morgan, however, grimaced at the sharp smell of gunpowder. Body still humming from the Heckler and Koch MSG90 sniper rifle recoil, she watched through the scope as the man in the red coat fell to the ground. The blood from his chest wound mingled with the color of his outerwear and started spreading onto the cobblestones.
“Hell of a shot, Alex,” she heard her father saying in her ear.
“Compliments later, Dad,” she murmured. “We got to spot Lukacs.”
As people drained from the square, Alex scanned the space, looking for their target or his other men, but the survivors had disappeared from sight. She’d taken out two others before nailing Red-Coat, as Morgan and his team were discovering.
Morgan sniffed in appreciation of his daughter’s burgeoning skill and his superior’s previous doubts. Bloch had been concerned about putting Alexon on this mission. She had hedged her bets by ordering Alex to nest in the hotel room overlooking the square, where Bloch did not expect the younger, female Morgan to see any action.
Both father and daughter would have enjoyed seeing Bloch eat crow...if the rest of the assignment hadn’t become such a hash.
“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 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
