The Payback Assignment

by Camacho, Austin S.

  “Tall dude? White hair? Kind of pale eyes?”

  “You know him?” she asked.

  “We’ve done business in the past,” he said, settling into the deep, totally comfortable couch.

  “Well that’s a bit of luck,” Felicity said, perching on her oak cube. “What do you know about the man?”

  “He’s an old pro. Sort of a general contractor.” Felicity’s puzzled look prompted him to continue. “Say for example, somebody has the dollars and wants a dirty job done. He contacts Stone. Now, Stone doesn’t actually do stuff, but he knows how to find the people who do. He’s connected. You need mercenaries, a hit man, a bodyguard, a courier...”

  “A thief,” Felicity added.

  “Yeah, or maybe some Mafia muscle. He can get them. All for a fee or a percentage, of course, and no risk to himself. As a matter of fact, he was the contact man for this last raid I executed. This raid I didn’t get paid for in Central America. You and me, we got some things to discuss.” He tossed back what remained of his drink. “By the way, you got any real liquor in here?”

  With a thoughtful expression, Felicity picked up the remote control unit resting in a space apparently cut into the oak block for just that purpose. She thumbed a button, and suddenly Brahms filled the room, seemingly from everywhere.

  Morgan was no lover of classical music, but he considered himself a connoisseur of fine stereo equipment, and the quality of the sound reproduction impressed him. Glancing around, he spotted four of the tiny but powerful Bose jewel cube speakers. There would be an Acoustimass module hidden someplace for the base. .

  Felicity had wandered back to the bar and when she returned she held a glass of amber liquid at his eye level.

  “Chivas Regal okay?” she asked.

  “More like it.” He gratefully tipped the glass to his lips. Felicity stretched out catlike on the couch, her skirt rising high on her shapely thighs. This was not the hyperactive feline he’d met on the trail. She was completely relaxed there on her own home ground, too relaxed for his tastes. Now that he had signed on for a job, he felt he needed to take command. The tactical situation, mostly unknown, was growing worse.

  “Tell me what you know about the opposition,” he said, sitting up straight. “Who’d Stone hire you for? Where’s your real client? What kind of backing and resources does he have?” From his jacket pocket he produced a small note pad and the sharp stub of a pencil he always carried. Felicity examined the ceiling for several seconds and took a long pull on her drink before she spoke.

  “Wish I could tell you. I worked blind for Stone. That phone number I just called? It’s in Denver, but from the time lapse and the clicks on the line, I think it’s transferred through to another city. I really have no idea who I was actually doing the job for, or what kind of organization he might have at his base, or even where his base is for that matter. Had no reason to want to know at the time. I guess we’ll have to find out somehow.”

  “Yeah, well, good luck,” Morgan said, getting to his feet. “I figure either this guy couldn’t afford to pay you, or he’s so rich he don’t have to bother paying you. If he’s small time, he’ll just drop out of sight, fade into the woodwork. On the other hand, if he’s big time, he could have a dozen thugs on our necks in a couple of days.”

  “So what do you suggest we do?”

  “We?” Morgan said with a smile. “I think you mean you. You better get busy trying to trace that number. I’m a mercenary, not a private eye. I’ll hang around here for three days. You’ve got seventy-two hours to get a line on this mystery man. After that I’m splitting. I’ve got my own snake to find. Even though that job came through Stone too, I can probably find the client easier than the flunky. I’ll get after him if your job falls through, and my trail starts south of the border.”

  -13-

  The beautiful blonde bent forward to help Adrian Seagrave out of his hot tub. Ashleigh was completely naked, and bending that way put her most prominent features very close to Seagrave’s face. She had no trouble concealing the distaste she felt when she was with him. After all, she was a professional. She had been with plenty of short, pear shaped men before, as pockmarked as this one, with the same dull lifeless eyes and brown straggly hair.

  She had a more difficult time disguising her fear. She had never been intimate with a known killer before. It took a lot of money to attract her to so deadly a meal ticket, but for what this man paid for her company, she would have slept with Al Capone. Besides, he had probably never killed anyone with his own hands. The rich and powerful seldom do.

  Smiling broadly, she rubbed Seagrave’s body dry with a thick terry cloth towel. That done, she helped him into a black oriental silk robe and silk slippers. Cool air chilled her as they left the room dedicated to the hot tub and walked across the wide contemporary study. Against the far wall stood what looked like a gilt edged cage. At the push of a button the cage doors opened like the petals of a golden blossom and folded into the wall.

  “See you soon,” Seagrave said, pinching her hard on the rump before stepping into the cage. Ashleigh watched the silent doors slide closed and the cage descend in slow motion. After she heard the elevator car stop at its destination she turned to return to the bedroom.

  Ashleigh gathered up her clothes, marveling anew at the rooms Seagrave lived in. Clearly a professional decorator had furnished the place. It wasn’t personalized much, at least, not in any way that showed a woman’s touch. The few things that clearly were not a decorator’s work, like that awful velvet painting hanging over the crumpled bed, were definitely the man’s work.

  Halfway through getting dressed, Ashleigh stopped to make the bed. It wasn’t an impulse of neatness, but rather an act of respect. When she thought about what she did to make money, she had to admit that her own life sucked. Still, all things considered, she pitied the wife.

  One floor below Seagrave’s apartment, the elevator opened. When Seagrave stepped out, he faced a long conference table. Beyond it, the oak paneled room widened out. The room was laid out in a “T” shape, with the long table aligned with its base. From Seagrave’s left, sunlight filtered in through two huge picture windows behind the head of the table. Rich maroon velvet drapes muted the sun.

  Seagrave turned to his right, and walked past the foot of the table into the reception area, which represented the top cross bar of the “T.” A wet bar filled the side of the room to his left, and a desk and office setting took up the space on his right. Seagrave focused on the two remarkable men sitting at the bar. Right then, the thinner man held his gaze.

  He was tall, perhaps six feet four or five inches, but as thin as a cattail reed. His hair was stark white, yet no wrinkles showed on his face. What really captured Seagrave’s attention were his eyes. They were pale, almost entirely colorless, as if someone had streaked a thin blue wash across his irises. Those cold orbs betrayed no emotion as he filled his companion’s glass.

  By most measures, the other drinker was even more exceptional. Not only was he an inch taller than his well dressed partner, but he seemed three times as wide. He certainly tipped the scales at something over three hundred pounds, but there was hardly an ounce of fat on him. His suit, although tailor made, still strained to contain his bulging muscles. He had uncommonly long arms, with fingers hanging halfway to his knees. His knuckles were rounded and hair ran rampant on the backs of his hands. His head was the bullet shape of the pure Saxon, connected to his body by what looked like a set of braided steel cables running down his neck and out to his shoulders. One glance at his simian form reminded Seagrave how he had acquired the nickname “Monk”. He served his purposes, but Seagrave had more use for the thinner man right then.

  “Give me a report, Stone,” Seagrave said, his hands in his bathrobe pockets. “What’s the story on that Central American commodities deal?”

  “It should be quite profitable,” the white haired man responded. “The politician we supported in Belize will be successfully maneuvering t
o increase sugar prices now that he is in control of that key export in his country. He is also quite influential with his opposites in other sugar producing nations. He is presently instigating for an OPEC style sugar cartel across Latin America. He is an excellent spokesman for the advantages of capitalist power politics, pointing to the Middle East as his example. In some cases, the fate of our man’s late predecessor, this Carlos Abrigo, is being successfully used to intimidate reluctant officials. Your accountants assure me that your sugar futures should more than double in value within the next eighteen months or so.”

  Stone’s eyes rose to at the sight of Ashleigh stepping out of the elevator in tight, but otherwise conservative business attire. She moved quietly across the floor and took her place in a seat beside the desk. She drew a notebook out of a desk drawer and flipped to a blank page, ready to take notes. Seagrave patted her head absently as he eased into his plush office chair.

  “That’s very good,” Seagrave said, returning his attention to Stone. “This is a strong first step. You see, it’s all about placing the right people in the right political positions. The profits from my commodities trading will finance future selective removals, and this operation will pay for itself.”

  “So we will continue to influence the leadership in Belize?” Stone asked.

  “Of course,” Seagrave said, smirking into Stone’s passive face. “On the international stage no one is watching this peaceful little country. At the end of my five-year plan I will be in complete political control of Belize. Now, is there anything else I need to know regarding your side of the operation?”

  “Your briefing book is on your desk,” Stone said, sipping from a brandy snifter. “Although I do feel an obligation to tell you that, based upon my experience, not paying your agents in Belize was a false economy, a tactical error, sir.”

  “Study history, Stone,” Seagrave said. “More recent conquerors have been brought down by their own military than any other force. I don’t want soldiers sitting around who know what I’ve done. They might start thinking they deserve a piece of my success.”

  “Understood,” Stone said. “As your advisor it’s my job to point out anything that looks like a misjudgment.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter now, does it?” Seagrave asked. “They’re all dead, right? When you came to work for me, at an inflated salary I might add, you gave up the option of doing things your own way.”

  “Yes sir.” Stone waited until his employer was finished scanning a business letter before speaking again. “There is one other unrelated item. Not really business.”

  “Yes?”

  “We’ve been contacted by the O’Brian girl.” Stone paused, but Seagrave continued shuffling papers on his desk. Considering this a good sign, Stone continued. “She apparently intends to press her claim for her fee. We do owe her for that little robbery she performed for us.”

  “Robbery?” Seagrave said. “Oh yes, that brooch that Marlene wanted so badly.” He broke into an unexpected smile. “She’s out right now, shopping for something special to wear it with when we go to that fancy ball on Saturday.”

  “Quite,” Stone said. “This woman could become, er, an inconvenience. Ignoring her will not resolve this issue. She will continue to make demands, perhaps drawing attention to areas of your activities that may not bear close scrutiny. Will you authorize payment? Or, shall I have the problem neutralized?”

  “Yes, yes,” Seagrave muttered, waving the question off without looking up. “Kill her.”

  -14-

  Morgan took a quick shower before stowing his gear in the guestroom. Clothes and personal items went into the closet and dresser drawers. He hated living out of a suitcase, even if he was only going to be in one place for a couple of days. After refreshing the shine on his boots with a polish kit he picked up at the airport, he pulled on a blue tee shirt and black denims. Out of habit his jeans were bloused, tucked into his combat boots. Adding a lightweight black windbreaker, zipped up a couple of inches, he grabbed one of the gun cases and returned to the living room. Felicity waited for him there, relaxed on the sofa. The flat screen that had imitated a painting earlier now displayed CNBC.

  “About time,” Felicity said with a smile. “I need a long soak.”

  Morgan fought shaking his head. “Got some business,” he muttered. “Need some expense money.”

  “Where to?” Felicity asked. After the briefest hesitation, she drew a handful of bills from her purse and handed them to him.

  “Just want to get ready for the trouble I know is going to come looking for me,” Morgan said, stuffing the money into a pocket. “How about you? After your bath, that is.”

  “Well, I know I might have some nasty enemies out there,” Felicity said, “and I ought to do something about it. But then I think about the fact that I haven’t been in town for weeks, I’ve got a houseguest, and my refrigerator’s empty. Guess I’ll just follow my own motto. When the going gets tough, the tough go shopping.”

  Morgan wanted to shout at her to take their situation more seriously. Instead he just mumbled, “Okay, see you,” and headed out. After another high-speed elevator ride he asked the security man to call a cab for him. He stepped out into the late morning sun and took a moment to settle his mind. Returning to the States was always a joy, even after a short trip away. He enjoyed watching the young girls wandering, seemingly aimlessly, and appreciated the current style in shorts. That sport lasted only a couple of minutes, until his taxi arrived. He gave an address he had found in the yellow pages and settled back for the ride.

  Morgan had been away from the West Coast for a couple of years and was surprised at how much had changed. There was little he saw on the ride that distinguished Los Angeles from the rest of the vast country he labeled “Generica” in his own mind. The whole concept of the neighborhood seemed to be dying, and he found the loss of local identity depressing.

  After much longer than the drive should have taken, the taxi swerved to the curb on a side street in the area between Gardena and Torrence that was and yet was not a part of Los Angeles. A painted wooden sign above the gunsmith shop’s door claimed it was owned by someone named “Pop.” Years ago, Morgan had chosen this shop purely based on its name. He figured the owner must have been in business for a while. He paid the fare, up quite a bit since his last visit to California, and entered the shop.

  A tiny bell hanging over the door rang as he opened the door, and he knew he had chosen well. It was an old-fashioned shop run by a white haired, soft bellied fellow who smelled of gunpowder. Shotguns and hunting rifles hung on the wall behind the glass counter. Inside the counter Morgan scanned a collection of military handguns, a couple tricked out with compensators and tritium sights. Nothing had changed since the last time Morgan pushed that door open.

  “How you doing, Pop?” Morgan asked the man behind the counter.

  “Morgan! How the hell are you, son?” Pop moved around the counter to embrace Morgan, clapping him on the back. “Been a long time since you dropped by the old shop, my boy. What can I do for you today?”

  Since no one else was around, Morgan got right to the point. “Actually, I’m hoping to use your back room for a while. I just got back in country and I need to take care of my tools.”

  Pop glanced out the shop’s front window, his demeanor cooling a bit. “I don’t know, young fellow. It’s been a while since you came around, and California’s gun laws have gotten worse. And there’s all this talk about terrorists. Every time a professional like you asks to work in my shop it’s another risk to my license.”

  “Aw, come on, Pop. You don’t have to go through that routine with me.” Morgan leaned casually against the counter and pulled a few bills out of his pocket. “Will this compensate you for the risk to your livelihood?”

  “Oh, hell,” Pop said, sweeping the money off the counter. “I like you, son. Come on back. Just don’t make too much noise if you hear anybody come in.”

  Morgan grinned as he follo
wed Pop into the back. Some things never changed and, even in laid back Southern California, money talks. Once he was out of sight of the public part of the shop Morgan unzipped his jacket and settled onto a stool at Pop’s workbench. He pulled his pistol from the gun case and dropped the magazine out. Pop was watching him closely when he broke down his weapon and started to clean it.

  “Relax, old man,” Morgan said without taking his eyes away from his work. “Like you said, I’m a professional. I know what I’m doing here.”

  Pop nodded. “Don’t see youngsters who know how to treat a gun these days, except for some of the target shooters that come in here. But those are stunt guns with expensive doodads.”

  “A craftsman’s got to respect his tools,” Morgan said. “This particular Browning Hi-power’s like an old friend. She’s been with me through four armed conflicts without a single stoppage. She’s real reliable, but I know, just like any other nine millimeter, she’ll jam up on me in a heartbeat if I don’t keep her clean.”