Read In His Command for Free Online

sign of forced entry, no love note from the would-be assassin. No matter how deeply we scoured the streets, we’d met only closed lips and blank looks from our usual cache of canaries.
    The only reason he escaped with a nick on his neck instead of bleeding out all over his thick, white carpet was because we’d been tipped off just in time from the head honcho in charge of hack jobs, some CO kid called Rice.
    The renegades were becoming more organized, less stupid. This water workup smelled similar to the kill-Cutler attempt, minus fair warning.
    Armed, in uniform all the way to the cap sitting on top of her head, Liz was ready to move out. Meanwhile, I stood in nothing more than a towel, rather like Cutler. Called to action, I hauled dark blues up my legs and over my arms. Firearms were the only accessories required. Double cross-chest holsters snuggled my SIG P229s and were joined by a set of matchy-matchy Glock 40s at my hips. A nice even four guns—I was ambidextrous, as I’d been about to demo on my dick—and my pointy friend, a KA-BAR knife, strapped to my thigh, for more delicate work.
    When I flicked on my handheld D-P, I got a shock. Hell, I should be used to that; it was only the third pube-curler of the night. I expected to be called into Corps Command along with Liz. Instead I was to be briefed by CEO Cutler.
    My first reaction of so ass-fucked showed.
    Liz scowled. “What?”
    “I’m reporting to Company HQ.”
    She shook her head, turning pale. Nothing good ever came of that place. It was where those in the Corps were sent, at best, for a severe strafing. More likely it was for impersonal interviews of the most personal kind.
    “No.” Her voice was injected with the correct amount of fear.
    “It’s standard protocol in this case, remember? Executive roundups and evacs.” I reasoned with her and myself.
    “Yeah, but—”
    “Don’t but me, Lieutenant. This is textbook: Maintain order, split the executives, and appoint each of them a handler from the Corps. The only reason Cutler is calling me in is to give me my mission.”
    Unless he’s figured out I’m not just a Corps commander but also an ace cocksucker.
    Exiting my apartment building, Liz asked, “You think you’re headed to the Outpost?”
    “No other explanation.”
    “That place is bullshit.”
    The secure regrouping point for Company assets ranked with old-timey tales about a so-called Area 51. It was myth. But right now I wanted to believe in it, especially after I’d let my guard way frigging down at the Amphitheater.
    “Let’s hope not.”
    She nodded. “You lead. I’ll follow.”
    “Always,” came my gruff reply.
    *  *  *
    Throttling my bike again, I took a swift jump over a craggy crop of debris. My Harley was one of the last hangers-on. With gas hard to come by, vehicles were few and far between. My bike was fast, loud, obnoxious, and about the only possession I loved, besides my weaponry.
    A goddamn rebellion? I couldn’t wrap my brain around the idea the rebels had gotten their shit together enough to pull something of this magnitude off, InterNations wide. It lent a heady taste to my lips, lips I still wanted wrapped around Blondie’s cock.
    I had zero time to savor either off-limits flavor because shit went from bad to FUBAR the closer we got to the Quadrangle.
    Usually a trip like this would be almost scenic, if you considered pockets of poverty overshadowed by the supershine of money to be something you wanted to take a picture of with your multifunctional D-P. The straight gridded roads were glossed to a high polish nearing City Center, care of the litter-uppers. On any given day—in the event of heavy foot traffic, since most citizens couldn’t afford a car—I simply gunned onto the sidewalks, because I liked to raise a little hell once in a while.
    At this time of night, dawn approaching, the roads were supposed to be quiet due to the mandatory curfew. The Company was really into oppression for our own