Termination Orders(72)

“More lies!”

“It’s true, T. We wanted your brother on our side as much as we wanted you. Why would we want to kill him? He had already betrayed you. If I hadn’t stopped him, you would never have made it to Paris.”

“No,” she said, but her confidence was wavering. “Andrei would not have done that. He couldn’t have!”

“Couldn’t he, Natasha? Wasn’t that the kind of man he was? Fiercely loyal to Mother Russia, no matter what?”

“No,” she said weakly, but it didn’t sound like she believed it anymore. She was hunched over, the palms of her hands on the table supporting her weight. All the catlike elegance was gone, all pretense of seduction. She seemed all of a sudden weak and defenseless.

“We’re not enemies, T,” he said, in the most comforting voice that he could muster. “There’s no reason for us to be fighting.”

She looked at him, and, for a second, he thought she was moving to untie him, that he had gained an ally, made his enemy a friend. Then, like flipping a switch, her face contorted into an expression of bitter amusement, all the vulnerability that had been there a second before, gone. She cackled like a hyena. “Well done, Cobra. No wonder you survived so long in the business. Not only are you quick on your feet, but you can spin a good story in a tight spot. You even got me—me—there, for a second.”

“Natasha. Natasha. T, listen to me. I’m not lying to you,” he insisted. “We should be on the same side.”

“Of course you are lying. We are all liars.” She took a dirty, oily cloth and stuffed it into his mouth. “You chose your side when you killed Andrei. There is nothing else to say.”

She swung her hand hard across his face once more, and he bit down hard on the cloth in his mouth. “Okay, Cobra,” she said. “Let us get started, then, shall we?”





CHAPTER 34


At age eighteen, Dan Morgan had a life and a plan. He was the star football player in high school, and while he didn’t have the height or weight to play in the NFL, he got scholarship offers from a few good, small schools, through his drive and innate athletic ability, coupled with generally good grades. But things changed when he arrived at college. Frustrated with the seeming futility of his classes and with being a bench-warmer to the hulking beasts who populated the field in the Varsity team, he quit a few months in to join the Army.

Upon arriving at Fort Jackson for basic, Morgan got into trouble with his drill instructor in about the length of time it took him to get off the bus. Morgan was a patriot, but at that moment, it dawned on him that the armed forces might not be for him. His fierce independence left him with a very low tolerance for the strict hierarchy and order of the military.

The drill instructor, eyes squinted into slits, was walking down the line of drafted men in front of their bus, his chin held high, when Morgan spat on the ground. The DI marched at him with the fury of a charging bull.

“Is this the corner bar, maggot?” he yelled into Morgan’s face.

Morgan looked forward blankly.

“I asked you a question, recruit!” he snapped.

“No, it isn’t,” said Morgan.

“No it isn’t, what?”

“No it isn’t, sir,” said Morgan.

“I will teach you conduct befitting a soldier,” said the DI. “Now, on your knees, and lick that up!”

Morgan looked at him incredulously. “No,” he said.

The DI swung, and before Morgan could react, his fist connected with Morgan’s gut. Morgan doubled over in pain and surprise.

“Lick it up!”

Morgan seethed. “No,” he said through his teeth. He picked the wrong guy to make an example of. Morgan curled the fingers of his right hand into a fist. Screw the hierarchy. If that bastard touched him again, he wouldn’t hold back.

“Lick it up.”

The DI hit him again, but this time, Morgan reacted with an uppercut to the DI’s jaw. The DI reeled back. Morgan tensed, bracing for the next blow, when he heard someone shout, “Stand down!”

Morgan later learned that the voice belonged to a lieutenant, who had then walked over and told the DI, “Enough, officer. You’ll have plenty of time to whip these ladies into shape.” Morgan looked at him with gratitude, but the lieutenant’s face remained stern, except for, Morgan noticed, an ever so slight, appreciative satisfaction playing around the corners of his mouth. Hell of a start to my Army career, thought Morgan. He spent most of the rest of the day running, submerged in constant hollering from the DI.

In basic training, Morgan had instruction in hand-to-hand combat and the use of weapons, and he excelled in both. Most of the time, however, was spent in repetitive, exhausting, pointless drills. He was afraid the DI was going to make his life hell for punching a man of his rank, but instead, the instructor evidently recognized that Morgan had a talent that set him above the other recruits. By the end of their third week, Morgan had advanced to platoon leader.