Storm Front

Book 2: Alex Morgan Thriller

by Leo J. Maloney

Genres: Political Thrillers; Terrorism & Assassination Thrillers; Vigilante Thrillers

Synopsis

The second installment in acclaimed Black-Ops thriller author Leo J. Maloney's spin-off series featuring Alex Morgan, daughter of Zeta operative Dan Morgan.



STORM FRONT



Ares, an insidious challenger to the Zeta group, is sowing conflict around the world, orchestrating an explosive endgame. Identifying the next target as a cruise ship on the Coral Sea, Zeta sends undercover operatives Alex Morgan and Alicia Schmitt to avert catastrophe. Infiltrating the crew and passengers is easy for the skilled agents—but also for the fortified and highly trained extremists, who topple security and gain control of the ship.



The attackers' demands: inconceivable. Their threats: immediate. As a massive storm bears down off the Australian coast, Alex and Alicia are outnumbered, outgunned, and out to sea. In full chaos mode, Alex shores up her last defenses, unaware that someone close to her could shift the odds in her favor—or against her. Ares has every advantage in this operation, but they have overlooked one key thing. Never underestimate a Zeta agent . . . especially one whose last name is Morgan.

Release date: January 25, 2022

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 400

Sample

Highest Praise for Leo J. Maloney and His Thrillers

Arch Enemy

“Utterly compelling! This novel will grab you from the beginning and simply not let go. And Dan Morgan is one of the best heroes to come along in ages.”

—Jeffery Deaver

Twelve Hours

“Fine writing and real insider knowledge make this a must.”

—Lee Child

Black Skies

“Smart, savvy, and told with the pace and nuance that only a former spook could bring to the page, Black Skies is a tour de force novel of twenty-first-century espionage and a great geopolitical thriller. Maloney is the new master of the modern spy game, and this is first-rate storytelling.”

—Mark Sullivan

“Black Skies is rough, tough, and entertaining. Leo J. Maloney has written a ripping story.”

—Meg Gardiner

Silent Assassin

“Leo Maloney has done it again. Real life often overshadows fiction and Silent Assassin is both: a terrifyingly thrilling story of a man on a clandestine mission to save us all from a madman hell bent on murder, written by a man who knows that world all too well.”

—Michele McPhee

“From the bloody, ripped-from-the-headlines opening sequence, Silent Assassin grabs you and doesn’t let go. Silent Assassin has everything a thriller reader wants—nasty villains, twists and turns, and a hero—Cobra—who just plain kicks ass.”

—Ben Coes

“Dan Morgan, a former Black Ops agent, is called out of retirement and back into the secretive world of politics and deceit to stop a madman.”

—The Stoneham Independent

Termination Orders

“Leo J. Maloney is the new voice to be reckoned with. Termination Orders rings with the authenticity that can only come from an insider. This is one outstanding thriller!”

—John Gilstrap

“Taut, tense, and terrifying! You’ll cross your fingers it’s fiction—in this high-powered, action-packed thriller, Leo Maloney proves he clearly knows his stuff.”

—Hank Phillippi Ryan

“A new must-read action thriller that features a double-crossing CIA and Congress, vengeful foreign agents, a corporate drug ring, the Taliban, and narco-terrorists . . . a you-are-there account of torture, assassination, and double-agents, where ‘nothing is as it seems.’”

—Jon Renaud

“Leo J. Maloney is a real-life Jason Bourne.”

—Josh Zwylen, Wicked Local Stoneham

“A masterly blend of Black Ops intrigue, cleverly interwoven with imaginative sequences of fiction. The reader must guess which accounts are real and which are merely storytelling.”

—Chris Treece, The Chris Treece Show

“A deep-ops story presented in an epic style that takes fact mixed with a bit of fiction to create a spy thriller that takes the reader deep into secret spy missions.”

—Cy Hilterman, Best Sellers World

“For fans of spy thrillers seeking a bit of realism mixed into their novels, Termination Orders will prove to be an excellent and recommended pick.”

—Midwest Book Reviews

Chapter 1

The valves had given her hell. The motorcycle was an eight cylinder, with thirty-two individual valves, and fifteen of them were shot. Of course, with a bike like this there were virtually no spare parts anywhere in the world.

All of the available components were attached to the four Morbidelli 850s in existence. Three of those bikes were in museums, and this one was a temporary resident of Morgan Exotic Motorcycle and Car Repair.

Alex’s shop was less than a year old, and six months after it opened, she’d gotten a panicked call from a local collector who had purchased the motorcycle. He had brought it to his garage and had immediately started the bike. The Morbidelli had run for less than five seconds before the engine blew.

After years on display, the engine should have been drained and refilled; then the pistons should have been hand lubricated and hand cranked before starting. It was a rookie but understandable mistake. One of the most valuable motorcycles in the world, the Morbidelli occupied a rare space between a marvel of handmade Italian engineering and a work of art—one that looked sleek and slightly futuristic even though it was as old as she was.

And, of course, Alex had a soft spot for Italian motorcycles.

No one wanted to risk driving a museum piece, but these motorcycles were meant to be on the road. However, if you took them out, you risked losing a priceless and irreplaceable machine. Of course, if you left them in a museum, you risked losing them to slow decay. It was a legitimate debate, but Alex knew what side of the question she came out on.

She turned the key and the bike roared to life. Her ears told her that the engine was firing perfectly, the new valves completely in tune with the originals. This was not a given. It was one thing to find an expert machinist to precisely duplicate the Morbidelli valves. It was another thing to source steel that was an exact match in density and purity.

The simple solution was to replace all of the valves with new ones. But with a machine like this, Alex wanted to keep as much of it original as possible.

Fortunately, she knew someone who could do both. Her friend on the Renard Tech Formula 1 team had not only come through on the valves, but he had sent over the original Morbidelli mold for the valve cover. How he’d gotten it, she had no idea. None of the original tooling for the bike was supposed to have survived; yet there the mold was, on a shelf in her shop.

Alex’s thinking on the mold was the same as her thinking about the weapon she always had on her person. Better to have the mold for an essential engine part of a priceless Morbidelli motorcycle and not need it, than need one and not have it.

Alex was tempted to take the motorcycle out herself, but she had a schedule to keep. In fact, she was already behind.

The pressure wasn’t from the owner—he was out of town—but from Diana Bloch, who had called a surprise meeting. At Zeta headquarters they didn’t like to use the term emergency for something as mundane as a meeting or a briefing, but Alex had the feeling that whatever was going on was edging into that territory.

Still, this delivery was important, certainly the most important one she had made to date in her cover business. And she knew that this might very well be the most valuable bike that would ever be her personal responsibility.

Alex pulled out the ramp that sat under the truck’s cargo area, and then she pushed the bike inside. Once it was secure, she closed up the back and headed into the cab.

The truck had been a gift from her father. It was a simple fourteen-footer, but her dad had insisted on giving her a brand-new one. And her mother had designed the tasteful logo that appeared on both sides of the cargo area.

Not every agent at Zeta took his or her cover jobs seriously, but she knew her father took his classic car business very seriously. Certainly, her mother was committed to her own interior design business.

Over the years Alex had absorbed the Morgan philosophy that said anything worth doing was worth overdoing. Otherwise, why bother?

The traffic wasn’t bad, and she made the Belmont Hill neighborhood by eleven. If she looked down the long driveways, Alex could get glimpses at the very impressive houses—mansions, really.

Mr. Lacesse’s house was among the most impressive in the area. She entered the security code he had given her, and the gate opened.

She drove past the main house and to the large garage. The house appeared empty, which made sense since Lacesse had mentioned that his wife and children were at Martha’s Vineyard for the week. He had planned to be at the house to take delivery of the bike but had been called away for business.

Alex was sorry he wasn’t there. He had an interesting collection and genuinely understood cars and motorcycles, at least on a historic level. She punched the code he’d given her into the keypad outside the garage, and one of the four large doors opened.

The lights came on automatically to reveal a garage with space for a dozen vehicles. Eight of those slots were filled, three by motorcycles and five by cars. The collection was evenly split between American and foreign models. There was one car—a 1970 Hemi ’Cuda convertible—that she knew her father would love to get his hands on.

Alex unloaded the Morbidelli from the truck and put it in its place. The garage was immaculate, the bay for each car or motorcycle with a small display of original ads, brochures, and memorabilia celebrating the vehicle’s life.

Yes, the owner understood and appreciated what he had. And, more importantly, he had promised to start the Morbidelli once a month and also ride it a few times a year on his driveway if nowhere else.

Alex would have liked to spend some more time enjoying the collection, but she had to go. She locked up and headed for her truck. When she turned the key she saw that it was ten minutes to twelve.

That was perfect. If she went straight to Zeta headquarters she’d be there with a few minutes to spare before for the 12:30 briefing.

The gate opened automatically when her truck approached. Alex had put her turn signal on when the ground rumbled and the unmistakable boom of an explosion hit her ears. A split-second later her truck pitched forward.

Her first thought was that it was the house, but a quick glance in her side-view mirror told her that it had been the garage, from which a small mushroom cloud of smoke was now rising.

There was too much flame and dust on the ground to see clearly, but the damage was bad. She realized the garage and its contents were probably a total loss.

The bike, she thought.

Her instinct was to leap out of the truck, inspect the damage, and check the house to see if anyone was hurt. But her training kept her in place.

The bomb had been timed to go off shortly after she had been scheduled to arrive, when both she and Mr. Lacesse should have been inside the garage. The fact that he was away and she was early had saved both of them.

But either could have been the target.

He was a wealthy fund manager and could easily have powerful enemies, while she had certainly ticked off more than a few people in her time at Zeta.

The thing to do now was to get back to headquarters and make a report. She could get to the bottom of this there, but that wouldn’t happen if she got caught up in a local police investigation.

She almost missed the first gunshot because it was partly obscured by the sound of sirens.

The second bullet hit her windshield. The third hit the side of her truck. Her new truck, she thought angrily.

Alex threw the vehicle into gear and pulled onto the street.

Two more bullets hit her windshield.

That answered her question. Whoever had set the bomb was after her. She hoped they were stationary. The truck was pretty fast for a vehicle of its size, but it wouldn’t be a match for a professional hunting team in a good car or SUV.

Alex floored the gas. She’d find out what she was up against soon enough.

* * * *

Diana Bloch checked her watch. It was just before 9:00 a.m and thus almost time for her call. She buzzed her assistant and said, “Mr. Rand, please make sure I’m not disturbed for thirty minutes.”

She opened a window on her computer and waited anxiously. The time difference meant that it was 2:00 p.m in Antarctica. And with her responsibilities at Zeta and her nephew’s duty schedule, it was difficult for them to find the odd half-hour to keep in touch.

In fact, this was first time in three months that she had been able to speak to him. She waited less than a minute and then promptly at nine the face of the only family she had in the world appeared on her screen. He was a handsome twenty-two-year-old man with a strong jaw and an impossibly straight nose.

He also had Bloch’s sister’s hazel eyes. Though Bloch was always pleased to see him, that first view of her sister’s eyes staring back at her always gave Bloch a start and a twitch inside of her chest.

“Lieutenant,” Bloch said.

“Aunt Diana,” Jeffrey said, smiling broadly.

Bloch could never resist his smile and found herself smiling in a way she never did at Zeta headquarters.

“How are you? How is the posting?” she said. The naval base in Antarctica was as remote a posting as a young officer could get, but Bloch was pleased he was there.

Bloch had started in naval intelligence over twenty years ago and now had been at Zeta for several years. That work had taught her that the world was a far more dangerous and unpredictable place than most people ever realized.

Every once in a while the insanity and chaos that was always there showed itself in a major terrorist attack, or the sudden outbreak of war, but most of the time people carried on as if tomorrow would come as it always had.

And usually they were right.

People in the military knew a bit more, but their actual daily work kept them focused on the tasks in front of them even as they were aware of the threats that were always just under the surface.

But for the last few months everyone in the service and in intelligence agencies was on edge. The threats were bigger and came on more suddenly. And Diana Bloch knew personally how close the globe had come to major world-changing disasters in the last year.

In the current environment and at the insane threat level that had become the new norm, Bloch found herself glad that Jeffrey was in the middle of nowhere. Of course, the environment in Antarctica was plenty dangerous, but they were all known dangers—dangers that could be anticipated and planned for.

“It’s surprisingly busy here, and I don’t mind saying it’s a bit chilly out,” he said, smiling. “On the plus side, the new pastry chef is killing it.”

“Pastry chef?” Bloch asked, surprised.

Jeffrey nodded. “He left a promising career in New York to join up and help us crack codes. He’s had us all pulling double duty tweaking environmental control so he can optimize his puff pastry. I’d complain, but the croissants speak for themselves.”

“I’m glad that the base has its priorities straight,” Bloch said.

“Well, it’s not the primary mission, but it is good for morale,” Jeffrey said.

“Is there anything you need down there?” Bloch asked.

“Nothing. The base is pretty self-contained,” he said.

“I meant…” she began.

“I know what you meant, Aunt Diana, and I appreciate it, but I’m treated well and we are pretty well resourced. We’ll have to make do, and I don’t want to call attention to myself. I prefer the men dislike me for me, not because my aunt has a direct line to the president and can get a hot tub drop-shipped to Antarctica.”

“So you’d like a hot tub then?” Bloch asked.

Jeffrey smiled. “Now that you mention it…”

Before Bloch could respond, a red light flashed on the base station of her desk phone. A second later, her assistant entered the room, his face even more serious than usual.

“Director, we have a situation,” he said.

“Jeffrey, hang on, I may have something here,” she said.

Her nephew nodded and Bloch looked up at Rand.

When she did, she could see that Rand’s expression was stern. Of course, he had six expressions, and all of them were variations of stern. This one was stern with a vertical crease in his forehead.

This meant that one of the Zeta agents was in serious trouble.

“Jeffrey, I have an emergency here,” she said to her screen.

“Of course, Aunt Diana. We’ll talk soon,” he said. Then his face disappeared and her screen went blank.

“Who is it, and what have they gotten themselves into?” Bloch said, waiting to find out which member of her other family was in trouble.

Chapter 2

“There’s been an explosion, a very large one in Belmont Hill,” Rand said.

Bloch ran through her mental list of agent addresses and ongoing operations. She came up blank.

“Alex Morgan was scheduled to deliver a motorcycle to one of her company’s clients there this morning,” Rand said.

So there was a Morgan involved, Bloch thought. Somehow that figured.

“What do we know?” she asked.

“Not much. Fire and police are on the way. Shepard’s people are monitoring police and rescue communications and working on tying into traffic cameras,” Rand said.

“Do we know if Alex is alive?” she asked.

He had only gotten halfway through his headshake when his phone beeped. He checked it quickly and said, “We’ve got some movement on her phone’s GPS.”

“Have Spartan put together a TACH team and get them on the road. And have Shepard meet me in the war room,” Bloch said as she got to her feet.

* * * *

The bullets that hit the passenger-side window and then the windshield had come from the right. Alex turned hard left, wanting to put the cargo area between her and the shooter.

Even as she made the turn, she heard another bullet hit the passenger-side window.

That’s all new glass, Alex thought.

That shot told her she was dealing with at least a two-vehicle hunting team—and one of them was the black SUV in front of her. It was stopped in the middle of the road, the passenger door was open, and she could see the gunman aiming his weapon.

She only caught a quick glimpse of the gun before she saw the flash of the suppressor and then a small pit appeared in the windshield directly in front of her face.

If not for the bulletproof glass that her father had insisted on, she’d be dead or dying by now. From the size of the pit in the glass, she guessed it was 9mm. From the brief glance she’d gotten of the rifle, it looked like a Ruger 9mm bolt-action.

That accuracy of the shot told her that her would-be assassin was a real threat. The fact this hunting team hadn’t just sprayed her with automatic fire from AK-47s told her something else.

Despite the showy explosion, these were serious people who didn’t want to call more attention to themselves than necessary. The single-shot bolt-action would be relatively quiet—especially with a suppressor. It was also pretty accurate for a weapon of its type. Certainly, the shooter had managed an accurate head shot from over one hundred yards.

The explosion and the second car had caught Alex by surprise. The fact that her windshield had stood up to a precision 9mm round would be a surprise for them.

Alex floored the gas pedal, aiming her truck directly at the SUV. She actually saw the instant when the gunman registered the fact that she was still alive and her truck was barreling toward his vehicle.

His look of shock made her smile. Then she watched him dive back into the car. By now, she could see the alarm on the driver’s face as he computed his options—none of which were good.

The only choice he had was to throw the SUV into reverse. It wouldn’t work, of course. They were at a stop and Alex was nearly on top of them while going almost forty miles per hour.

She considered and then rejected the idea of hitting them head-on. If this SUV were the only car they had, she would have done it, but it was too risky with another car behind her. Even if she took the one in front of her out, the one behind would still be a threat.

As if to remind her of that other car’s presence, Alex heard the ping of bullets tearing through the back door of the truck and then getting stopped by the steel plating that surrounded the entire cab.

In addition to the glass, her father and Lincoln Shepard had armored the truck, but just the cab. Putting armor under the skin of the entire cargo area was impractical. You could do it, but the cost in weight would be absurd. However, the armor around the driver’s compartment would keep her perfectly safe as long as she stayed inside the cab—and as long as the hunting team didn’t have any heavier weapons.

And as long as her truck was still operational.

That was one reason she would avoid a head-on collision, which would risk the radiator that sat in the front of the engine. She remembered watching a demolition derby once with her father. He had explained that the reason that the cars launched their attacks in reverse was that it allowed them to do maximum damage to the other vehicles while protecting their own radiators.

Here, as she loomed over the SUV—which was now going maybe ten miles an hour in reverse—Alex cut the wheel to the right at the last second and accelerated.

This drove the driver’s-side front corner of her truck into the center-right of the SUV’s front end. It crushed the car’s radiator, as well as most of the front end—while putting the SUV into a sudden counterclockwise rotation that announced itself with the ugly screeching and cracking sound of buckling and tearing metal.

Alex’s truck blew past the SUV, tossing it to the side as she drove past the wreckage.

She allowed herself a moment of satisfaction, and then she heard the ping of more bullets. Despite the armor that she knew was protecting her, the sound behind her was unnerving. She preferred threats that were clearly visible and in front of her.

Then, as if the universe had heard her thoughts, a third black SUV made a turn onto her street in front of her and started racing her way.

That is just not fair, Alex thought.

* * * *

Bloch raced into the war room, where Shepard was opening up a laptop as he sat at the conference table. That done, he hit a button on the star-shaped speakerphone in front of him.

“Are you okay, Alex?” he asked, and Bloch could hear the concern in his voice.

“I am,” Alex said, her voice tense.

“Alex, help is on the way,” Bloch said.

“I appreciate the effort, Director,” Alex replied. “But even if Spartan deployed at the instant of the first blast, she’s twenty minutes out. I don’t think my new friends will wait that long.”

Then the sound of a barrage of automatic weapons fire hitting something solid came through the speaker.

“Still here,” Alex said. “On the other hand, they might run out of ammo soon. Their trigger discipline has gone to hell.”

“How’s the rig holding up, Alex?” Shepard asked.

“It’s taking a beating, but nothing has gotten through yet,” she said.

“What kind of tactical options does the truck have?” Bloch asked Shepard.

“Passive only—armor plating, bulletproof glass,” Shepard said.

Bloch glared at him as the sound of more bullet strikes came through the phone. He put his hands up and said, “What? It’s a work truck. It wasn’t supposed to have anything, but Dan insisted.”

Bloch kept up the glare for another second, though she knew it was unfair. Most agents’ personal vehicles didn’t even have armor.

“Any idea who you’re dealing with, Alex?” Bloch said.

“Nobody I know. And definitely no one from the shop. Most of my customers are pretty happy,” Alex said, her voice sounding strained.

How is that appalling sense of humor hereditary? Bloch thought.

“They drive black SUVs, they’re very professional, and they seem international,” Alex said.

Alex didn’t have to say any more. Ares, Bloch thought. They were the answer to most of the troubling questions that Zeta faced lately.

It also made sense that they would be after Alex. She’d hurt them quite a bit since she had started at the agency.

“There was a three-car hunting team,” Alex said. “I disabled one of the vehicles.”

Shepard pointed to a map on his laptop. It showed Alex’s car as a red dot. It showed the two TACH team cars as blue. They were still easily fifteen minutes out.

“Alex, we can get local police to you quickly,” she said. The police would have their hands full at the explosion site, but they were undoubtedly already getting calls about the gunshots. That section of Belmont Hill was literally all mansions that were set back a good distance from the road, but someone must have seen or heard something by now. And there would be other cars on the road. Shepard could hurry that process along and direct the police to precisely where Alex and the Ares team were.

“Negative!” Alex said. “Calling in local police will just get them killed.”

That was likely true. However, there was a small part of Bloch—of which she wasn’t particularly proud—that thought local PD might distract the hunting team long enough for her agent to get away.

“Make your way east,” Shepard said. “If you can get to Northeast Highway—”

“I’ll never make it,” Alex said. Bloch could hear the screech of tires and more gunshots. “Armor or no armor, they are tearing up the truck pretty good. It’s just a matter of time before they hit something vital, or shred the run-flat tires. Find me somewhere open and nonresidential where I can face them.”

“On it,” Shepard said. Then, a second later he said, “Head east and in three blocks there’s a school.”

“A school!” both Bloch and Alex said simultaneously.

“You can come in on the far side of their sports field,” Shepard said. He took one look at Bloch’s face and said, “Okay, head west and you’ll hit Green Street Field. It’s a park. If you come in on Madison from the north—”

“I know where it is,” Alex said.

A loud thud came through the speakerphone and Alex said, “We may have one less car…” There was a few seconds of unintelligible muttering and then Alex continued, “No such luck. Still two cars left.”

“What have you got on you?” Bloch asked.

“I’ve got my daily carry,” Alex replied.

“That’s it?” Bloch said.

“. . .