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

by Austin S. Camacho

  “Adrian Seagrave was born forty-two years ago to a pretty well-to-do family in Bridgeport, Connecticut,” Aaron began. “His father’s health was poor, and at twenty Adrian was running the family car dealership. He moved from that into the import export business. My contacts tell me he was handling contraband by the time he was thirty, but nothing’s been proven and no charges filed, at least so far. He went into partnership with a Greek shipping man to increase his cash flow. Two years later the partner disappeared. There was no will and no family. His half of the business went to Seagrave.”

  “Gee, things just seem to go this guy’s way, huh?” she commented.

  “It gets better. I know he’s smuggling, but he’s never been hassled by the police. He set up in New York about six years ago, same time he married a woman ten years his junior.”

  “I’ve seen this guy,” Felicity said. “She must have done it for the money.”

  “Right, and he for the status,” Aaron said. “She was beautiful at the time, a trophy wife.”

  “Sounds like he might have some heavy connections,” Morgan said. “What’s he into now? Anything that’ll bring heavy heat if he meets with some bad luck?”

  Aaron gave a short, sharp laugh. “Just the opposite. The man’s got no friends. His latest gig is the commodities market. He likes to influence the market through political maneuvering. This, I believe, is how you got involved with him. He sent you after a guy in Belize, right? He wanted that man you went after taken out of office so somebody he liked could get in. I think he’s losing what little respect he ever had for the law. He’s branched out into outright extortion.”

  “Got a personality profile on this guy?” Morgan asked.

  “He’s a sadistic, ruthless, manipulative man overcome by greed,” Aaron said, leaning forward for emphasis. “He’s trying to set himself up as a private Mafia. Some scattered bits of intel lead me believe he’s looking for a foreign base of operations. I think he indulges his wife in the hopes of starting a dynasty for himself. I don’t know all of why you’re having a run in with him, and I’ve no idea how the lady got involved, but I hope you’ve got it in for him bad.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  Aaron leaned back in his seat and locked eyes with Morgan. “I’ve heard this Seagrave put a price on your head. Well, that kind of thing works both ways. It’s worth twenty-five thousand dollars to me to see this man dead.” Felicity stared at him, trying not to look like she was staring. When she turned her eyes to Morgan’s face she saw a cold stare there that she recognized.

  “Aaron you’ve known me for years,” Morgan said in a low, guttural voice. “You know I’m not a hired gun.”

  “Nonsense,” Aaron replied with a lopsided smile. “In fact, that’s exactly what you are.”

  “You know what I mean,” Morgan said, looking uneasy. “I’ll shoot in a war situation, but I’m no hit man. When I fight with a team, there’s a reason besides money. Generally politics.”

  “What is it this time?” Aaron asked. “Besides money.”

  “This time I want to help Felicity get what’s owed her,” Morgan said, his baritone dropping to a deeper register. “And there’s also a debt involving a few friends of mine. He’s responsible for their deaths.” Then, Morgan surprised Felicity by suddenly standing and heading for the door. “Well, we’ve got some things to take care of, Aaron.”

  Aaron nodded to Felicity, mumbled that it was nice to meet her, and followed Morgan to the door. Once there he turned to face Morgan, his face twisted with shame.

  “Look, old buddy, I didn’t mean...”

  “I’ll talk to you later,” Morgan said.

  Felicity barely waited for him to close the door behind Aaron before she spoke.

  “Well, that was rude.”

  “He insulted me,” Morgan said simply, returning to his seat. “He knows the difference between a mercenary and a murderer. There are people who take money to drop a civilian. I don’t do that stuff.”

  Felicity turned her eyes to the floor. In a soft, almost sympathetic voice she said, “You did for Seagrave.”

  After a pause Morgan said, “That was a mistake. A mistake I intend to erase.”

  “But don’t you intend to...”

  “Sure.” Morgan took a big swallow of coffee, staring with single point concentration as if he was looking over a battlefield after the action had ended. “I’ll do it. For honor. For your safety. For my team that got slaughtered in Belize. Not for Aaron. Not for money.” A small smile curled the edges of his mouth. “And since I won’t do it for him, Aaron’s safer if he didn’t hear me say I intend to do it, anyway.”

  Felicity felt a need to change the subject, so she returned her attention to the shopping bag that was now between them in front of the sofa.

  “So, my man of mystery, what did you get this morning besides Danishes?”

  “Well, for one thing, this.” Morgan pulled his jacket aside, revealing a carbon copy of the Browning Hi-power he had left in Seagrave’s office.

  “Should I ask what was wrong with the other one?’

  “I knew a guy once who was a chef,” Morgan said. “He would only use a certain set of knives from a certain company, and nobody else better touch them.”

  “I see,” Felicity said. “Boys with their personal tools. But this can’t be a big bag of guns. Can it?”

  When Morgan grinned and shrugged, Felicity reached into the bag herself and pulled out a small package wrapped in brown paper.

  “Jewelry?” she asked, shaking the package to see if anything rattled.

  “Actually, it’s about two ounces of C4. High explosive.”

  “Oh.” She gingerly returned it to the bag.

  “Hopefully, I won’t need it. But since we’re on the subject, let’s talk a little business. Can you defeat that electronic elevator somehow?”

  “With ease,” she said, stealing furtive glimpses into the bag. “I just need to have the right tools with me.”

  “Good. Let’s go back tonight.”

  “You’re serious.” Felicity said, eyes narrowing.

  “Sure. They won’t be expecting us, not this soon. You can go in however you usually would. I’ll go in on your tail. If they’re asleep, I should be able to avoid any guards and sign off Seagrave without any gunplay. If they’re alert, I picked up some unique hand grenades to liven things up.”

  He had said it so calmly she had to replay it in her mind. Sign him off? And without gunplay would mean being right up close to Seagrave. This was the man she had allied herself with. “Have you ever thought of going legit?” she asked.

  “What?” Morgan face twisted as if her apparent non sequitur had completely disrupted his thought process.

  “I figure I know as much about security planning and equipment as anybody. I mean, I know how a thief thinks, you know?”

  “What brought all this up?” Morgan asked.

  “Well, I was just thinking what great partners we’d make.” Felicity was on a roll now, using her hands to frame her point. “You know all about training men for dangerous work. You know, like bodyguard stuff.”

  “Slow down, girl,” Morgan said. “I don’t know if I’m quite ready to settle in one place. I’ll admit I’ve done some personal protection work, and I have considered starting a business like that from time to time.”

  “Can we talk about it?”

  “After tonight,” Morgan said. “Now get me that blueprint of the target building you had yesterday.”

  Morgan shuffled over to sit in the center of the sofa with the blueprint spread out in front of him. Felicity stood by, waiting to hear his plan. She had done this herself a thousand times, and even laid out capers for a group from time to time, but she had never actually worked with someone this way. It felt odd. It felt good.

  “Do you know what a field order is?” he asked, seemingly out of the blue.

  “A what?”

  “It’s the way us military types plan what we’re going to d
o,” he explained. “I’ll walk you through it. First, you clearly define your mission.”

  “Well, that’s easy,” Felicity said, picking up Morgan’s cup and heading for the kitchen. “Find Seagrave’s safe, nick the brooch and our cash if we see it, and, er, you know. Deal with the man himself.”

  “Right, eliminate the opposition leadership,” Morgan called behind her while she refilled their coffee cups. “You’re right. That’s it. No side trips.” She bent to place a fresh cup in front of him. He stared into her green eyes, causing Felicity an unaccustomed flash of embarrassment.

  “I get the message,” she said. “I really do. No side trips and no ego trips.”

  “Right,” he said. “Thanks for that, Red. Anyway, next we outline the situation, concentrating on what we know about the enemy and the building, and what we can guess.” When Felicity lowered herself into a chair he reached into his inside jacket pocket. “I’ve got another pencil here, and a smaller pad.”

  Felicity waved his offer away. “Got the memory, remember? Besides, I won’t be sitting still long.”

  As if to prove her point, Felicity was on her feet within a minute. As the pair worked through the day, Morgan remained seated on the sofa, hunched over his steno note pad with a mechanical pencil. Again, Felicity was struck by how differently they worked. Morgan was a continuous note taker. He seemed to think best on paper, while Felicity thought best on her feet, walking in free form circles around the oak cube in front of the couch, and wandering around the room, arms crossed, head tilted to one side.

  Morgan went on to outline what he called the execution paragraph of his op order, where the “operational concept” was laid out. They agreed on the need to carefully arrange how they would maneuver and coordinate with each other.

  Planning was one of Felicity’s strong points, and brainstorming was the fun part of that exercise. She threw out some outrageous ideas, but from her creative mind came daring and workable concepts. Together they examined obstacles they would likely meet and, one by one, planned their elimination.

  The sun was casting long shadows across the room by the time they had a plan they were both comfortable with. Morgan sat barefoot with rolled-up sleeves. Smiling, Felicity squatted in front of the oak cube, tapping her hands on it to the beat of the upbeat rhythms from the CD Morgan was playing, featuring someone called Dave Koz.

  “Okay, we’ve got a plan,” she said. “In fact, a darned good plan. Simple is always best I say. Anyway, I think we deserve a break. Want to slip downstairs for a little dinner? My treat.”

  Morgan leaned back, releasing a long breath. “Yeah, I could eat. But we’re not done. When we get back, I want a briefing on the gear you use.”

  “Like what, for instance?”

  “Well, remember telling me how you put the dogs out on that job you did in Mexico?” Morgan asked. “I’d kind of like to know what kind of drugs you keep on hand, and how you use them. I’m also curious about what’s in your safe cracking kit. What else might you use in your business?”

  Felicity thought for a moment. “Well, anything and everything, from electronic safe breakers to protective masks to insulated gloves to bug and alarm detectors. But what’s the point?”

  Morgan sat back up, serious again. “The more I know about the tools you use, the less likely I am to get surprised. The same reason I’ll tell you all about how those grenades work, and show you the basic workings of my pistol.”

  “Whoa,” Felicity backed away, both palms toward Morgan. “I’m not planning on shooting anybody.”

  “And I don’t plan to pick any locks, but you never know what you might have to do in a pinch. Let’s face facts, Red. We’re going into a dangerous place, and this time I don’t want any mistakes, any chance of failure.”

  -31-

  Marlene just managed to get the door open before she dropped her bundles. The four large bags cascaded out of her arms before she could reach the sofa. A puff of air flipped the curl hanging over her forehead. She loved shopping, but getting the stuff home was sometimes a challenge. First she had to switch elevators at the forty-first floor, which meant finding her pass card and getting it into a slot. As if that wasn’t a big enough pain, she had to fumble with the cipher lock to get into her own apartment. With all this security, you’d think someone wanted to kill them.

  As her breathing quieted, she heard voices from another room. Adrian was home early. Her breath caught in her throat, and her jaw set harshly. Did he have one of his women here? She did not think she could stand for it anymore. In the last few days she had more than fulfilled her obligations as a wife, and his carnal desires had grown steadily more extreme. She would not tolerate another woman. Not now.

  Straightening her spine, she marched across the carpet headed into the study. At the doorway she stopped, listening for the voices inside. She did not hear a woman’s voice, but that of a man. It was the one she had heard her husband call Paul.

  “No sir, just the fact that they escaped makes them a threat,” he was saying. “I’m afraid we’re putting ourselves in a position to underestimate these people.”

  “What’s to underestimate?” Seagrave asked in the haughty voice he so often used toward his employees. “The woman’s a flake and the man’s probably terrified of tangling with Monk again. I’ll bet they’re still running. You’re just being paranoid.”

  “I disagree,” Paul insisted. “Besides, you pay me to be paranoid. I’m trying to protect your safety. Just let me lay on a little extra security. I’d like a few more guards at the entrances and patrolling the floors.”

  Marlene held her anger, but she felt she had seen enough. She strode into the room, her eyes on Paul.

  “Adrian. What’s he doing here?”

  “Business,” Seagrave said without looking at her.

  “He’s one of those violent men you hire,” she said in an accusing, whining tone. “I can tell just looking at him. You think I don’t know what you do? I do, you know. And I imagine there are lots of people out there who would wish us ill because of it. But you promised me you’d never have those people in our home.”

  When Seagrave turned toward her, all the frustration he had felt in the last few days showed in his eyes and she realized suddenly that she had crossed some invisible line. With unexpected strength Seagrave gripped her right arm and forced her down to her knees. His nails bit into her skin as his eyes burned into hers. Looking up at him, her lower lip began to quiver and she was close to tears.

  “You listen to me, bitch. You don’t care how I do business when it’s buying you all those clothes, and all that jewelry, and trips to everywhere on earth. All you need to do is mind your damn business and be there when I want you.”

  Seagrave’s voice had slowly risen to a squeaky falsetto. As the last sentence ended he drew his left hand back across his shoulder, preparing to swing his knuckles backhand across her face. Marlene gasped and stared into his face, too scared to even turn away.

  “Sir!” Paul’s voice froze Seagrave’s swing.

  “What is it?” Seagrave spun his head to see Paul’s face. The tall man’s ice blue eyes never wavered, his gaze both cold and hard.

  “The men?”

  “Yes, yes.” Seagrave released his wife’s arm and she backed away across the floor. “Get all you want, put them everywhere if that’ll make you happy. Now get out of here.”

  Paul took one last long look at Marlene, as if expecting her to say something, then stepped silently out the door.

  -31-

  A crisp autumn breeze cut through the stocky blond man in the doorway. He put his hands into the pockets of his black leather jacket and hugged the corner of the doorjamb. His left side was chilled by the mini-Uzi slung under his arm, beneath his coat.

  He thought it was stupid, posting guards downstairs on the street entrance. Nobody would try to break into the building that housed the Seagrave Corporation. Besides, if a problem came up, fifteen people on five floors were patrolling in pa
tterns that only looked random. Here it was, almost four in the morning and he was wasting his time out here. His two buddies inside were sleepy too, but at least they were warm. At this time in the morning there wasn’t even enough traffic noise to keep him alert. The occasional taxi rolled past, but the business district was largely unmoving. Why did rich people always lay on extra protection after the action? Did they really think troublemakers would come back after barely getting away with their skins?

  As the guard turned his jacket collar up, he noticed a black man rounding the corner and trudging toward him. The man showed weariness in each step, pushing a big-wheeled pretzel cart. He hugged a ragged coat around himself as he clicked down the sidewalk in worn-down shoes. The fingers were cut off his gloves. His beard was crinkly and a floppy slouch hat covered his head. He was thickening around the middle and he had the street urchin’s twinkle in his eye. As he came even with the door, the mouth-watering smell of his wares reached out to the guard.

  “Hey, man,” the blonde at the door called. “What you doing out this early?”

  “Not early, brother,” the vendor replied, in a thick West Indian accent. “Dis late. I tried a new spot and sold more pretzels den ever. Hey, you want one? You look cold, mon. Here, it’ll be on me. On de house.”

  The blonde waved inside the building to the burly black man standing near the elevator. He looked out and noticed his partner tearing into a big, soft, hot pretzel. Smiling, he waved to the third ground floor guard, and they both marched out the door. They stood in a circle, their breath smoking out. All accepted the peddler’s gifts and celebrated his good fortune with him. They felt warm for a moment, and a bit friendlier. They grinned and waved as he headed up the block a few minutes later, the wheels of his cart squeaking rhythmically as he went.