“Maybe you got something there,” Anaconda said. “As you can’t harm me, you are of no importance. And that would send a message to your CIA. Yes, maybe I should just let you go. However, you have been an inconvenience. Maybe you should carry something away from our meeting, eh? Something to make you remember your meeting with Anaconda, the most influential woman in this hemisphere.”
There was no warning, except that Felicity’s senses went crazy. Anaconda slid the knife downward until it hung three inches below Felicity’s collarbone. Felicity involuntarily bared her teeth. Then Anaconda quickly slashed down. The razor edge of the blade slid effortlessly through Felicity’s flesh, but cutting no deeper than her skin. Because Morgan kept his knife so sharp, a second or two passed before the pain hit like the touch of a red hot brand. Felicity sucked in a breath, biting back a scream. A diagonal red line appeared on Felicity’s left breast, ending just before her nipple.
“Now your perfect body is not so perfect,” Anaconda said. “Now you can learn to live with a physical flaw, as I have. Rico, take this bitch home.”
-8-
It was a big Chevy, gold with red interior, model unknown. Cigarette smoke had filtered so deeply into the upholstery that Felicity could smell it now, even though no one was smoking. She leaned against the passenger side door, as they bounced down the street on nearly useless shock absorbers. Rico drove, with one friend in the back seat.
Felicity had perfected her cowering female act over the years but never before had she been able to base it on such a solid platform of truth. She was scarred, cut by a vicious person for no good reason. Hatred and self-doubt battled for dominance within her, but she maintained the haunted eyes and slumping body language she hoped would keep her captors at ease. She just wanted to be home, safe.
Why did she get involved in this anyway? She was no policeman or spy. Not so long ago, those people had been looking for her. She should have let them flounder in the same ignorance and incompetence that had worked to her advantage all those years. Instead, she had offended a major criminal for no personal gain. Anaconda had proven as deadly as her namesake, and she was backed by a huge and shadowy organization whose members showed absolute devotion. Felicity wondered what had made her think she could defy them.
Then Rico, looking straight ahead, reached over and stroked her knee. She shivered and said “No.” He did not seem to notice. They turned a corner, and he reached again, rubbing her thigh.
“She said to take me home,” Felicity said. “Please, just take me home.”
“She didn’t say we couldn’t have some fun first,” Rico said. “It don’t have to be bad, you know. I know a nice place we can stop for a little while.” The man in the back seat chuckled. Felicity looked out at the slow but steady traffic. She could see that Rico was avoiding the freeway. She hated to think he made that choice just so he wouldn’t have to pay much attention to his driving. Anaconda intimidated her but close up, these clowns did not.
“You’re not going to do this,” Felicity said.
“And why not, girl?” Rico asked. His hand slid painfully across her exposed breast, down her thigh, to land beside her knee on the seat.
Felicity startled the back seat rider when she reached up to her hair, useless handcuffs dangling from her left wrist. She yanked the long silver pin from her hair, letting the comb fall out.
“This is my stop, you bastard,” Felicity said, stabbing down into the back of Rico’s hand and pinning it to the seat. He screamed and swerved, driving the Chevy’s left front fender into the driver’s door of an oncoming car. Before the car was completely stopped, Felicity jumped out, running at top speed across the street. She dodged oncoming vehicles like a matador, silhouetted by rushing headlights. Horns blared, brakes squealed and above it all, Rico shouted obscenities in Spanish.
Felicity ran down the block, trying each parked car as she went. The seventh car, an aging red Chevy Impala, was unlocked. She ducked inside and reached under the dashboard. Twenty seconds later, the engine roared to life. Felicity glanced at the corner street sign, noting where she got the car from, and then pulled into traffic.
The sedan, an automatic with the stick shift on the floor, was nothing like her usual choice of rides but right then it felt like luxury and the snarl of the V8 engine gave her comfort. She knew no one was following her, but Felicity drove an evasive course anyway, making last-second turns and timing her approaches to corners to slide under orange lights just before they turned red. Watching for street signs she soon figured out she was in the Pomona area. In short order she was able to find Interstate 10. From there getting home would be easy, just point west until she hit the coast. Just the thought of being in her own apartment made her feel better.
She rolled her window down to clear her head. Cool night air raised gooseflesh on her left arm, but she stubbornly left the window open, fighting to bring her breathing rate down to normal.
Thirty minutes later, Felicity coasted to a stop in front of her building. Her perfect time sense told her it was ten minutes past one. Tim, tonight’s security man, would be sitting at a console inside, watching closed circuit video screens. She knew she would be visible on one of them, but of course Tim wouldn’t recognize the car. She blew the horn six times before he went to the door and looked outside. While he stared at the strange vehicle, she pushed her head out the window.
“Tim!” Felicity called. “It’s me. Felicity. Bring me your jacket, would you?”
“Miss O’Brien?” Tim, a tall ex-Marine, had a brush cut and a face too small for his head. He stared blankly at her. He had to recognize her voice, but she suddenly remembered he probably could not recognize her face.
“Yes, it’s really me, Tim, I’m just kind of in disguise. Now be a dear and please lend me your jacket. My…my dress is torn.
Now he looked sure. Tim stepped out, locking the door behind him, and walked to the car, unbuttoning his uniform jacket. When he handed it to her through the window she pulled it on quickly but there was no way to avoid offering him a flashing glimpse of her exposed breast. He sucked air in between his teeth as if he had just cut himself. Their eyes met.
“Sorry,” Tim said, embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to… you got hurt.”
Felicity leaped from the car and hustled into the building without another word. Tim followed her as far as the elevator. As the doors closed in front of her, she said, “I’ll call you in a couple of minutes.”
Upstairs, Felicity made sure her only neighbor was not in the hall, then sprinted past the bird of paradise plants in the center garden and punched the buttons to open her door’s cipher lock. Inside, she ran down the hall to her bedroom. Once there she dropped the jacket to the carpet. In her full length mirror she stared at her new injury. The thin line of blood had become a long, narrow scab. She stared at herself in shock and horror, letting tears flow freely down her cheeks, onto her damaged breast.
She leaned over her dresser to drop the contact lenses out of her eyes. Only one fell. Amidst the tension and chaos she had not noticed that the left lens was missing. It must have flown when Anaconda slapped her. She shed her tattered clothing and wrapped herself in a big white terrycloth bathrobe. She felt an overwhelming drive to wash the color out of her hair and off her skin. Was this how a rape victim felt, this need to be clean? The desire to shower and shampoo, to get back to her own look, was strong but she knew she had more important matters to attend to first.
Morgan.
Perched on the sofa’s edge, Felicity pushed buttons on her cordless telephone. After three rings a familiar voice said hello.
“This is Conrad, right?”
“Who’s this?” the voice asked, too carefully.
“It’s O’Brien. Listen, have you heard from Morgan?”
“I don’t think I know any…” Conrad began.
“Look, don’t give me any of your silly spy malarkey. Morgan’s been taken by those Chicanos and he might be hurt, or worse.”
“I
’m sorry,” Conrad said. “You must have the wrong number.” Felicity heard a click, then silence, then a dial tone.
“Arsehole!” She screamed into space, and then dialed again. Her photographic memory kept her from having to look up any number she had ever dialed. This time she called Chuck Barton’s hotel room but got no answer. He must have already left for Corpus Christi. Damn. Next she dialed a number in Panama. She waited impatiently through long distance clicks, until she heard the remote ringing sound.
“Yes?” It was Mark Roberts’ voice. Roberts was Barton’s control agent, an old acquaintance of Morgan’s, and CIA bureau chief in Central America which for some reason included Colombia. She knew he would not talk to her until he could verify her identity and switch on a scrambler.
“It’s O’Brien,” she said. “Call in thirty minutes. Priority one.” That meant life and death. Then she hung up, thought for a moment, and dialed again. “Tim, it’s Felicity. I need some help.”
“Anything, Miss O’Brien,” the guard said. “After all, you’re the boss.” He meant it literally. Felicity and Morgan insisted on providing security for the building their offices were in, and her apartment above them.
“Tim, I need you to bring me a phone book.” She paced as she spoke, her nerves on edge.
“Ma’am you sound nervous,” Tim said. “And, seriously, do they still print those things? I have no idea where I’d find one. Why don’t you tell me whose number you need? I’ll just look it up online, or call information.”
“No good. I’ve got to find Morgan. I might need the phone number for every police station in the state. And all the hospitals.” Her voice faltered, cracking. “And maybe the morgue.”
-9-
In the dark, they could be anywhere. Six yards off the freeway they stepped into a patch of transplanted evergreen forest which could just as easily exist off the New York State Thruway or Highway 95 in Georgia. Morgan could not be sure they were still in California.
A soft breeze flipped his collar and cooled his face. The whoosh sound of passing cars was linked to lights rushing by, catching the three Chicanos in a chilling strobe effect. Morgan stood on soft, springy ground. He faced the trio, hands locked behind him. Again he wished he could open handcuffs as easily as his partner. As it was, he was prepared for a beating. Then one of the men popped a switchblade open and the rules suddenly changed.
“You faggot,” Morgan said, addressing no one of them in particular. “Three against one, my hands are chained behind my back, and you need a knife?”
“Quiet,” Renaldo said. Body language marked him as the provisional leader. He was broader than the other two but in the flashing lights, Morgan could not tell much else.
“You cowards,” Morgan said, stepping back farther into the wooded area. “Maricone. No cojones, eh?”
Taunting them brought the desired reaction. The three men moved toward him quickly, but tightly placed trees kept them from reaching him together. Jogging left, Morgan got all three attackers on one side of him.
A big rig tooled past, leaving the scene lit for half a second. The light was at Morgan’s back, in his assailants’ faces. In that half second, Morgan kicked out, a side stamp that put Renaldo into his two partners. Then Morgan was behind them, kicking into the knife man’s left knee. He went down howling.
The second man spun on him. Morgan put his head down and charged. His shoulder knocked the breath out of his attacker. A front stamp kick put the man on the ground.
Morgan was caught in the next car’s lights, and Renaldo’s fist hooked into his stomach. Another crossed his jaw. Morgan staggered back, fighting to stay upright. His face smacked into pine bark. The pungent scent of sap slid into his nostrils, clashing with the coppery taste of blood.
“Now you will hurt,” Renaldo said. “I don’t need a knife.” Morgan heard the whistling sound just before he ducked. A length of chain clanged against the tree.
Where did he get that? Morgan wondered. Was it wrapped around his waist, or did he drop it out of the truck when he jumped down to the street? Morgan turned quickly as the chain arced again, hitting his back like a steel bar. Morgan ran forward, trying to escape. He dodged a tree, but stumbled and dropped to one knee.
This time when the chain hit, it forced Morgan to the ground. In a flash of headlights he saw the steel links spinning over Renaldo’s head. He began rolling just as the chain arced down. It thumped the ground just inches from him, raising dead needles. Renaldo tried to stomp him, but Morgan kept rolling.
When his shoulder hit a tree Morgan grunted. Renaldo laughed. The chain spun above his head again. Morgan stared up, his back wet from the rotting forest floor. Headlights revealed Renaldo’s grin and need for a shave.
Then Morgan reversed his roll. His body slammed into Renaldo’s knees. After an instant of weightlessness, Renaldo fell over him. Morgan squirmed around quickly, but a root caught the handcuffs, limiting his progress. Renaldo got to his knees, then to his feet. Lying on his side, Morgan hooked a foot behind Renaldo’s ankle and kicked out at his shin. Renaldo dropped again. From that awkward position Morgan raised his left foot, snapping his heel down into Renaldo’s groin.
While the other man howled, Morgan forced himself upright. Renaldo grunted and managed to get to his hands and knees. As a passing car silhouetted him, Morgan kicked once, to the side of his head. This time, Renaldo went down for good.
Morgan dropped to the ground, wondering how much time he had. On his back, he managed to get the handcuffs down around his feet. Now he stood with his hands chained in front of him. Exhausted and sore, he knelt to check Renaldo. He lived, but surely had a bad concussion. He would be out for a while.
He followed a low moaning to the man with a dislocated knee. From there he could just see number three. He was shaking his head, about to stand. Morgan moved like a wraith through the darkness, making sure his target never saw him approaching and had no idea he was there until the chain of Morgan’s handcuffs settled across his throat.
“When are they coming for you?” Morgan asked in a chilling tone.
“Half an hour,” the man croaked out.
“Who’s got the keys to these handcuffs?”
“Left them on the truck,” the Mexican replied. Morgan nodded, reflected on his recently acquired injuries, and tightened his grip. His captive’s hands went to the thin chain, but dropped a moment later. When he passed out, Morgan dropped him to the turf. Then, out of habit from years as a mercenary, Morgan dragged him and Renaldo into the center of the wooded island where they would be harder to find.
A quick frisk confirmed the absence of any small keys. Morgan stood on the graveled shoulder, fatigue settling on his shoulders like a wet woolen overcoat. His watch told him it was well past midnight. He had not eaten in six hours, bruises were rising on his back, and his lip was swelling. Pointed shoes worn to fit in at the clubs were a poor choice for hiking, but hike he would. His wallet was with his personal weapons aboard Anaconda’s traveling office. No sane person would pick up a leather clad hitchhiker with a bloody face, wearing handcuffs on his wrists, carrying no money or identification.
Luckily, Morgan could rely on an infallible sense of direction. His mental grid map told him he was facing west, which meant toward Los Angeles.
The first green reflective sign he came to told him he was out on Route 60, almost five miles past the Montebello exit. Well, at the first exit he would find a gas station and call Felicity. He figured Anaconda would not hurt her if she kept her mouth shut a little better than he did. After all, Anaconda only sent him out for a beating as an example. She wanted to make a point about her power in this country, and Morgan showing up with a broken arm would have been sufficient.
With the crunch of gravel following him along the freeway’s shoulder, facing the blinding headlights, he mustered one small smile. How would Anaconda react, he wondered, when she returned for her three flunkies and found them unserviceable?
-10-
Morg
an’s head snapped in a double take when he spotted Felicity, in a simple sweat suit, driving a red Chevy with bucket seats. He stepped away from the telephone booth, silhouetted by the light from the cover over the gas pumps. Felicity swung the car around so the passenger door faced him. Morgan’s face curled into a smile as he settled into the vinyl seat.
“I’ve got about thirty better questions,” he said as Felicity pulled the car back onto the highway, “but first I have to know where you got this car.”
“I needed transportation when I escaped from those Spanish…oh my God.” Felicity had started speaking before she looked at him. Even in the dim light of passing neon signs, she could see how swollen Morgan’s face was on the left side.
“This is nothing,” Morgan said, sitting back. “You should see the other three guys. But could we stop long enough to get these bracelets off?”
“Good Lord. Did you have to fight in these?” Felicity pulled onto the road’s shoulder and slid a pick out of the wide elastic band around her hair. Morgan noticed she was a redhead once again. In seconds his hands were free and they were back on the road.
“Now, what’s this about escaping?” Morgan asked, rubbing his wrists. “I figured Anna would just let you go.”
“Anna? Oh, I get it.” Felicity shook her head. “Anaconda sent me packing, but my escorts got a wee bit frisky so I had to shake them and get my own ride.”
“You stole it.”
“We’re taking it back right now,” Felicity said. “Picked it up just off Firestone, on the edge of Watts. I figure if I park it where it was and leave a hundred bucks on the seat, nobody will be sore.”
“Okay. We can catch a cab from there. Or, at least we can walk to someplace where I should be able to hail a cab. The question is, what do we do now?”
“Morgan.” Felicity hesitated, a rare event indeed. Morgan waited in silence for her to continue, just watching the street lights fly past. “Morgan, I’m sorry I ever got us into this. You were right. We’ve got no business…”
Ice Woman Assignment Page 5