The Payback Assignment (Stark and O'Brien Thriller Series)

by Austin S. Camacho

  “Turn around,” Morgan said.

  “Aw, shit,” Pearson said.

  “Look, dude,” Morgan continued, “I really, really don’t like for people to point guns at me or my friends. On the other hand, I don’t like to leave unnecessary messes lying around, so I’m prepared to offer you a deal.” Pearson looked into his eyes, trying to see there some clue to what would come next. “It’s a one time offer.” Morgan raised the nine-millimeter for emphasis. “If I ever see you again in life, you’re dead meat. You follow? For right now, if you can be out of my sight in forty-five seconds, you can walk away from this job.” Pearson stared in disbelief. “Forty seconds left,” Morgan said.

  That was all Pearson needed. After taking three steps backward he turned and sprinted down the alley toward sunlight and freedom.

  When Morgan reached the sidewalk, the hired hit man was indeed out of sight. Morgan grinned, holstered his pistol, and began a slow jog back to Felicity’s apartment. It was a beautiful summer day and Morgan wasn’t even bothered by the fact that he was filling his lungs with smog.

  His mood darkened a bit as he approached Felicity’s door. He was worried a little about Felicity’s emotional state. Without warning, her life had been threatened, she had witnessed a messy death, sat in on a torture interrogation, and watched him roll up a body and cart it away. He wasn’t sure what he expected when he opened the door.

  “How do I look?”

  Felicity sat on the couch, her legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. She had washed her hair and it tumbled across her shoulders in rolling crimson waves. Her eyes sparkled like emeralds set in a china doll’s face. An inviting smile danced across her moist lips. Her makeup was subtle but perfect. She had changed into a light fawn colored sundress and suede low-heeled shoes. A gold braid bracelet on her right wrist was her only jewelry.

  “Red, you are gorgeous.”

  “Well, you said to be ready,” Felicity said in a breathy voice.

  “And are you?”

  “I’m ready,” she sighed, “for anything.” He made a conscious effort to control his breathing. He walked over to her and took her gently by the arms, lifting her effortlessly to her feet.

  “Lady, I would surely love to relax with you here for an hour or two, but we need to be out of here now. Some very nasty people know where we are.”

  “All right,” Felicity said, somehow both energetic and breathless. “I keep a flat in New York. If we go there, it’ll put us closer to Stone. Meanwhile, we’ll consider your last remark a promise to be fulfilled there. And just to release some of this electricity...”

  Felicity gripped Morgan’ jacket with both hands and pulled him to herself. The kiss that followed was the hottest, most passionate one Morgan could remember.

  -16-

  “So you’re a native New Yorker.” Felicity leaned against the door in the back of the limousine. “Well, now you’re home. Did you miss the city?”

  “Not even a little bit,” Morgan said. “New York’s a big, dirty town. Always has been. I spent my first fifteen hard years here, fighting just to stay alive.”

  “And then?”

  Morgan shared a bittersweet smile. “Then I lied about my age and escaped into the United States Army. I wasn’t what you’d call well educated, but back then recruiters weren’t looking for computer programmers. What the Army needed was tough, vicious killers. The South Bronx was a perfect training ground.”

  “You’re nothing like I expected a killer to be,” Felicity said, almost in a whisper. “What’s it like? Killing a man, I mean.”

  “You saw it.”

  “No.” Felicity tried to find his eyes in the darkness. “I meant what does it feel like.”

  Morgan glanced at the back of the driver’s head and, seeing no reaction, shifted his gaze to stare out into the dark sky. “Can we change the subject?” he asked the window.

  “Okay.” Felicity slid closer to him on the seat. “Tell me this, then. Why do you suppose it is that you can smell a dangerous situation coming your way? What is it makes us different...”

  “I ain’t different,” he said, low but hard. “I’m just a damned good soldier. Damned good, and real lucky.”

  “But aren’t you curious at all about...”

  “No!” Morgan’s eyes snapped toward her. “I ain’t curious and I don’t want to talk about it either.”

  To shut out the disturbing thoughts of his own uniqueness, he focused on the thin strips of night sky, which appeared between buildings as they rolled through the city. There was no shortage of light there, but not a star was visible. After almost two decades of wandering the world, his hometown seemed more alien to him than the jungle he so recently left.

  Of course, when he lived there he had spent precious little time in this part of upper Manhattan. Knowing Felicity was wealthy, her having a second apartment on the East Coast should not have startled him. Despite his own six figure savings, he had never used his money this way.

  Morgan slumped into his corner of the airport limo, glancing over at Felicity on the opposite side. Crossing three time zones and a four hour easterly flight combined to put Felicity and Morgan into J.F.K. Airport in the middle of the night. The long ride in from Long Island affected them like a slow motion sedative. In Morgan’s mind, the Van Wyck Expressway became an endless vibrator bed shaking them past shopping centers and mini-malls. Lights flashed like hypnotic strobes between the cables of the Queensboro Bridge, or as Morgan knew it in his youth, the 59th Street Bridge. Simon and Garfunkel had immortalized the bridge in song, back when Morgan was crawling through Southeast Asian tunnels for his country. Slow down, you move too fast, his mind was chanting as they joined with the traffic coming out of Long Island City and dropping onto the East Side.

  Finally, the limo rolled past the Park Avenue street sign, turned a corner and stopped in front of Felicity’s New York address. A building somewhat taller than the one they left in Los Angeles loomed above them. A doorman rushed to the door to let them out and take their luggage. Felicity handed him a bill and ushered Morgan into a lobby that felt more businesslike but cooler than the one in California. A minute later, in the whisper quiet elevator, Felicity took Morgan’s arm and leaned against him.

  “You look a little drowsy,” he said as the elevator eased to a stop. “I think you ate too much of that awful food on the plane.”

  “You know,” Felicity said as she punched in the door combination of her penthouse apartment, “this is as close to home as I can get in the States.” The door swung open and when Felicity flipped the light switch, the room Morgan stepped into left him stunned into silence for a moment. The view was different, of course. From this point on Fifth Avenue, the lake he was looking at would be the reservoir in Central Park. Aside from that unavoidable difference, this apartment was identical to the one in Los Angeles. He scanned the same layout, the same furniture, the same stereo, the same everything. He half expected to see blood on the big overstuffed chair to his left.

  So much hit him at once. This woman had gone to enormous trouble and expense to have two places, a continent apart, in which she could be equally at home. She must be quite a successful thief to be able to foot the bill. But there was more to her apartment choices than money, and he considered what she said just before they walked in.

  “You know, this town is home to me,” Morgan said, carrying their suitcases to the sofa, “but you talk and act like you’re from another country.”

  “I am,” Felicity said, kicking off her shoes. “I’m a real Colleen from the old country, born right outside of Belfast.” She dropped onto the couch.

  “I think the shock of the last twenty-four hours has finally hit you.”

  “I’m very much afraid you might be right,” Felicity said through a yawn. “Help me with this, will you?” She stood and turned her back to him. It took him a second to realize she wanted him to pull her dress zipper down. He unzipped her, then watched, shaking his head, as she walked silen
tly and sluggishly off to her bedroom.

  How do you figure a girl like that? Morgan wondered. She spent her life in a nerve shattering way, as a professional jewel thief. What could be scarier? Yet now she showed all the symptoms he had seen in combat veterans. He knew she was reacting to that chilling shock a person gets when they first realize that someone would really, really try to kill them.

  “Morgan.”

  It was Felicity. Had he heard a tremble in her voice? One thing was certain. Now that he listened for it, her brogue was definitely more pronounced when she was tired. Well, what the hell. He marched off to her room, peeling off his windbreaker, shoulder holster and shirt along the way. As he passed the guest room, his room in his mind, he tossed them in.

  When he reached Felicity’s door he slowly pushed it open and stepped in. The city lights struck him head on and splashed around the blue room. The room held a slight scent of vanilla. Felicity lay face up, a deep blue handmade patchwork comforter covering her to the waist. Her bare breasts stood proudly alert, even though her head was propped wearily on two large, puffy pillows. Long red tresses lay splayed in all directions.

  “Aren’t you going to tuck me in?” she asked meekly. He could feel her loneliness reaching out of those deep green eyes, trying to capture his. He had never seen anyone so defenseless. He hated himself for thinking it, but this was not the way he wanted this woman.

  “I know just what you need, Red.” He stepped closer to her. “Turn over.” After Felicity numbly obeyed, he sat down on the bed. Carefully he removed his boots and turned to kneel on the bed. Poised above her, he caught the scent of a perfume that carried more drama than beauty. With strong, sure fingers he began to knead the knotted muscles in Felicity’s neck and shoulders. When he entered he had noted with interest the upsweep of her breasts. Now the firmness of the rest of her body intrigued him.

  “Hey, lady, are you a body builder or something?”

  “No,” Felicity mumbled. “Do a lot of gymnastics. Of course, I’ve been kind of busy these last couple of days. I usually work out three times a week. And I run. Three or four miles, three times a week. When you’re climbing into tenth floor windows and going hand over hand on a wire from one building to the next you’ve got to be...oooh, that feels good!”

  He had worked his way down to her legs. It took all his strength to unknot those long, smooth thigh muscles.

  By the time he had worked his way back up to her neck, Felicity’s breathing had fallen into the steady pattern of sleep. He stood beside the bed for a moment, staring down at her perfect naked form. How like a renaissance statue, he thought, with perfect innocence on her face. The lights of the grand city glinted off her alabaster form as he gently pulled the comforter up to her shoulders and padded silently toward the door.

  “Please.” It was a child’s voice that called to him. Her green eyes sparkled with moisture in her bed’s field of blue. “You can do what you want, or you don’t have to do anything,” Felicity said. “Just don’t go.” Morgan was not sure why he should care so much for this girl he had known only days, but his affection won out over his common sense.

  Feeling just a bit silly, he pulled off his pants and slid into the bed behind her. Her body was cool and soft to the touch. Awkwardly he wrapped his arm around her. The sound she made as she snuggled back into him was difficult to classify. It was clearly a kind of “mmmmmm” sound, made from behind a smile. Perhaps it was the sound a cat would make if it were somehow converted to human form and somebody rubbed its tummy.

  Within a minute she dropped into a deep sleep. He figured he could probably use some sleep too. Besides, there was not much else to do, so he closed his eyes and began the process of shutting down his physical and mental systems.

  “Good night, Red,” he mumbled.

  -17-

  Pearson shifted his weight from one foot to the other, eyes wandering around the brightly lighted room. He stood nervously in the quiet boardroom, surrounded by people whose power was beyond his understanding. The man behind him, Monk, had the bone crushing power of a giant mountain gorilla. Pearson had killed for money, but from the stories he had heard, Monk liked to kill men just for fun. The guy standing beside Pearson was cool and indifferent. Yet he had the power to move men and women like pieces on a chessboard, trading what they wanted for what they were able, and willing to do. Stone was no fighter, but he had a history of toppling governments and creating wars.

  Each of them was dangerous in his own way, but only the man behind the desk gave Pearson chills. He was short, with thick stubby fingers and a pockmarked face, yet a pulsing aura of power surrounded him. Here, in Pearson’s eyes, was a prime mover, a basic elemental force. He had the ultimate power, the kind that comes from wealth and position. He could have anyone in the room killed with a snap of his fingers. Pearson saw nothing in his eyes but greed. This was Adrian Seagrave, and his kind of power you just did not fool with.

  “So, tell Mister Seagrave what you told me over the phone,” Stone said. “Explain to your benefactor just why it was that you failed him.”

  “Well, sir,” Pearson began, pausing to clear his throat. “We were sent on a simple hit, Shaw and me, to take care of a girl thief. Stone told me she was a loner. We set it up real easy, waiting for her in her apartment. Figured to make it a clean hit, look like a burglary, right? Then, all of a sudden, there’s this big black guy comes crashing in, blasting away like a goddam war was going on. He blew Shaw away, just like that. I was lucky to get out alive. This Stark character, he’s crazy. I figured I wasn’t getting paid to deal with that kind of action. So I thought I ought to call in for instructions. Stone told me to get here on the double.”

  “And well he did,” Seagrave said. “Very good.” Despite his words of praise, Seagrave’s face remained completely neutral. He leaned back in his desk chair, forming a tent with his fingers. “Please step over to the bar, Mister Pearson. Help yourself to whatever you like.” Pearson nodded, forced a smile, and gratefully slipped over to the other side of the room. He tried to listen in on the conversation behind him. Seagrave seemed relaxed and seemed to have forgotten Pearson existed, his attention now focused on Stone.

  “You have a reason for bothering me with this detail?”

  “I thought you should hear it first hand, from the source,” Stone said.

  “Is this a problem?”

  “In my opinion, yes,” Stone answered.

  “Why?”

  “The woman is determined,” Stone said. “And somehow, she has found herself some very effective assistance.”

  “So it would appear. Who is this man?”

  “Morgan Stark. It is a name you should remember,” Stone said, daring to lock eyes with his superior. “He led the team on that Belize mission for you. As you will recall, we left him in the jungle, without transportation, surrounded by a hostile army, hundreds of miles from any kind of support.”

  Seagrave’s brows knitted over his tiny eyes. “And he survived?”

  “Let me tell you about this man Stark.” Stone paused for emphasis, closing his eyes as if he were searched his mental files, composing words in order to say a great deal as briefly as possible. “He’s strong, tough and fast. Tactically sharp and experienced. An agile, quick thinking professional soldier, with great endurance, a high level of skill and seemingly infallible instincts.”

  “You are impressed by this man.” Seagrave pulled a cigarette from a gold case.

  “I’ve been dealing with mercenaries, professional killers and hired muscle for a long time,” Stone said. “I can verify that Shaw and Pearson were definitely overmatched. This man is the best survivor I’ve ever seen. And he just might be the most dangerous man I know.”

  “Second most dangerous,” Monk said, his low, raspy voice coming from behind Stone.

  “Perhaps,” Stone said, not turning around.

  “And the girl?” Seagrave asked, lighting his cigarette with a large standing lighter from the desk.


  “About the girl, little is known,” Stone said. “However, I can tell you that she has amassed a sizable fortune as a jewel and art thief without ever once being arrested. And if Stark respects her, then so do I.”

  Seagrave shrugged and blew a thick cloud of smoke at the ceiling. “These people are both for sale. Pay them off.”

  “I don’t think so, sir. They will want full payment for their jobs, plus an additional settlement for the attempt on the girl’s life. Even if you considered that price acceptable, you expose yourself to future extortion from contractors if you submit.”

  Seagrave lowered his eyes and nodded. “Recommendation?”

  “In my opinion,” Stone said, “these people should be eliminated with all possible dispatch. One dangerous man and one determined woman have been enough to topple empires in the past.”

  “Well put, Stone.” Seagrave stood, and paced for a moment behind his desk with his hands locked behind his back. On one circuit he glanced at Pearson, who smiled back and downed his drink quickly. “Surely they’ve left the girl’s apartment by now,” he told Stone in a quiet voice. “Based on your input they must both have secure hiding places. How are we to find them?”

  “Based on my knowledge of them, we probably won’t, now that they’ve been alerted. However, they’ll certainly be looking for me. I was the contractor who hired them both. And I’m quite sure that worm at the bar traded our location for his life.”

  “Hey, I didn’t tell them anything,” Pearson said, sliding off his bar stool. Seagrave and Stone turned as if they had forgotten he was there. Monk’s hand thumped down on Pearson’s shoulder, locking him in place.

  “I could alert the people on the street to look out for anyone who is looking for me,” Stone continued, ignoring Pearson’s outburst. “Perhaps place a bounty on their heads, thereby turning every tout and petty gunsel in town into a walking death trap, a gantlet to be run on the way to me.”