The Orion Assignment

by Camacho, Austin S.

  One wall of this building showed signs of recent construction. A good size cottage stood behind the church. It was modest, but clean and well maintained. Sean shut off the engine, got out of the car and stretched. Morgan slid out of the passenger side, pulling Felicity after him.

  “Is this it?”

  “This is Uncle Sean’s home.” Felicity said through a smile.

  “Where’s the town?”

  Felicity chuckled. “Well, I guess there’s hardly a village here. Uncle Sean’s parish really amounts to a group of farms and a few isolated thatched cottages. I guess it’s pretty rural.”

  “Really?”

  “Don’t worry,” Felicity said. “We’ll go back to Wicklow and take rooms at a boarding house.”

  “Nonsense,” Sean said around the raised trunk lid. “I’ll not hear of it. You’ll be staying right here and no argument. You, lass, can have your old room. Morgan can have my room and I’ll take the couch.”

  “Don’t give up your bed for me,” Morgan said, following Sean into the house with the luggage. The priest lowered his bags to the floor in a very deliberate manner and turned to make eye contact with Morgan.

  “You’ll not sleep in any other bed in this house, lad.”

  Morgan missed a beat before he realized what Sean meant, but Felicity caught the implication right away.

  “Uncle Sean I’m insulted. Morgan and I don’t sleep together, at home or away. If that was the case, I certainly would not sleep here. I’d never sleep with a man in your home.”

  “All I meant was that I’d be quite comfortable on the couch,” Morgan said. “And I can speak for myself, Red.”

  “Well, it was a natural enough mistake,” Sean said. “You can still be taking the bed.”

  “No!” Morgan said. “That’s not negotiable. I get the sofa or we stay elsewhere.” He plopped down on the couch as if to confirm his hold on his territory.

  “What a silly thing to argue about,” Felicity said, ruffling the priest’s hair, then rubbing her hand across Morgan’s close cropped curls. “Why don’t we all get a shower, then go down to the crossroads for a late supper?” Both men nodded and said “You first” at the same time.

  As Felicity took over the bathroom, Morgan looked around at the basic bachelor furniture. The end table and coffee table looked handmade. The floor was wide planks with no carpet.

  “Well, you may as well get comfortable,” Sean said. Morgan slid off his blazer, revealing the new custom made double shoulder holster he had slipped into in an airport restroom as soon as they landed. A nine millimeter Browning Hi-power automatic was nestled under his left arm. A sheath for his seven inch bladed Randall number one fighting knife hung under his right arm. The priest did not seem startled at the arrangement, just curious.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a rig quite like that one.”

  “It’s new.” Morgan slid his arm out of the right side loop. “I used to carry the knife in a belt sheath at the small of my back. I figured I was tempting a back injury in the event of a fall so I had a company I’ve worked with before concoct this deal. It’s comfortable and fast. But I figure I can leave it here this evening. I don’t figure I’ll need weapons to have supper with a priest.”

  - 5 -

  The place was called “Paddy’s” although no sign hung above the door. With its few small windows, this public house was the kind of place that made you feel like you were inside, being held within something. It was warm, both in temperature and atmosphere. The bar spanned one long side of the building. The bartender, Paddy himself, wore a white apron and a white shirt with rolled up sleeves. Every stool held a patron. The cast of characters, perhaps eighty percent male, was loud but jovial. Most of them smoked homemade cigarettes rolled needle thin.

  Sean walked over to his traditional booth at the end by the big stone fireplace. Paddy came out from behind the bar before the priest could sit down.

  “Paddy, you might not recognize her,” Sean said, “but this is my long lost niece, Felicity, back home after too long a stay overseas. This gentleman is her business partner and friend Morgan. Now how about some supper for three weary travelers?”

  Introducing them to Paddy was much like introducing them to the house. Many of the men present remembered Felicity and in the rush of loud conversations that followed, a few embarrassing comments flew about how well she had developed. A few of the patrons were hesitant about Morgan, but he found that it took little more than a big smile and a strong handshake to win them over. Morgan had changed into a natural color cotton pullover, canvas khaki pants and moccasins. He was pleased that he had guessed the local dress code pretty well and fit right in. Felicity wore a denim yarn cardigan and light blue mountain pants. A little over done, Morgan thought. Sean had also changed, but the basics were the same.

  A plump but attractive woman soon carried a tray to their table. It held three large bowls of stew, biscuits, two quarts of stout, and a pint for Felicity. Morgan was surprised that she didn’t react to inequality.

  “This is Maureen,” Sean said, making it a grand announcement. “Paddy’s wife of twelve years and the worst flirt in the county. She’s got a gift for reading people. Once told me I was made of peat and clover. Can you imagine?”

  “How about Morgan here?” Felicity asked. “What’s he made of?”

  Maureen put a hand on the back of Morgan’s arm and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Muscle,” she said, smiling at Sean. Then she turned her smile on Morgan. “Muscle, and ice for all his smiling. And coiled springs. I’d want this one at me back in a fight. Or maybe at me front, eh?”

  “Go on with you now,” the priest said. He pushed her off, but in a playful manner. Morgan grinned and, after casting a wink at Maureen, tasted his food. The stew was basic and good. It was more potato than meat, but it had cooked long and grown hearty.

  Felicity glanced at her partner, envying his evident enjoyment of a home cooked meal. She had longed for the taste of home herself, but now that she had it, it tasted bland. Salt and pepper were the limits of spice there. She had cultivated her palate on fine French cuisine. This food was basic, strong and steady, like the people there. And boring. Perhaps Thomas Wolfe was right. You can’t go home again.

  The men ate with gusto and Sean was just lighting his after dinner pipe when a newcomer entered, to loud greetings from the bar.

  “There walks Max Grogan,” Sean said. “Running dog to that devil-on-earth, Ian O’Ryan.”

  “O’Ryan?” Morgan asked. “Not Ian O’Ryan the motorcycle racer?”

  “The very same,” the priest answered. “Cycle racer and hate monger. This one’s his gamekeeper. Gamekeeper to the scum who brings the evil from up north down to Wicklow county.”

  When Grogan shambled over to the table, Felicity’s eyes flared wide and she sucked air between her teeth. This guy was big. Big shoulders, big head, big hands. Barrel chest under a sweater it must have taken someone all winter to knit. Thin brown hair hung to his long eyebrows as he looked down at Sean. Across the table, she felt Morgan bracing for battle. She knew if it came to a fight, he would have to go all out and take this fellow out quick.

  “Ye’ve no call to be bad mouthin’ me boss,” Grogan said, in a brogue even thicker than Sean’s.

  “The man’s no good and even you know it, you big dumb clod,” the priest said. Grogan’s jaw clenched, his shoulder muscles rippled, and a fist like a ten pound ham closed and began to rise, ready to strike.

  “Well, mighty peculiar company for a priest to be keeping. A girl young enough to be his daughter and a nigger.”

  Morgan stood very slowly, resting a hand on Grogan’s wrist. At his full height of six feet two inches, Morgan was still a couple of inches shorter than Grogan. He looked up into the big Irishman’s dull eyes with a tired half smile.

  “Let’s not ruin a nice day,” Morgan said. “How about we go over to the bar and I stand you a quart of stout?”

  “No man buys for Grogan except the m
an who can whip him. You figure that’s you?”

  Tension froze Felicity into silence. Of course, she knew Morgan did figure he was the man who could whip Grogan, but she hoped he understood that to say so now was a losing move. This was not about physical ability. It was about face: Morgan’s, Grogan’s, and her uncle’s. Morgan could whip this man, perhaps even survive the reaction of a room full of his friends, but the bad blood would last forever. He needed another option.

  The corner of Felicity’s mouth curled into a small smile when she saw Morgan sit down and slam his right elbow down on the table with his hand raised and open. “Let’s find out, big man,” Morgan said. Grogan broke into a broad smile and stretched out his arms, then pulled up a chair. When his elbow hit the table, dishes rattled and glasses jumped. He slapped his hand into Morgan’s, smothering it completely.

  “Winner buys,” Morgan said.

  “This won’t take long,” Grogan said. The two men locked eyes and smiled.

  “Father?” Morgan said without losing eye contact. “If you could start us off?”

  “All right then. One…two…three…go!”

  Felicity could only grin at Morgan’s brilliance. Her uncle had set him up, and she wasn’t happy about that, but Morgan had managed to turn a potential pitched battle into a contest for the right to buy the beer. He had created a win-win situation. Whoever won, they would drink together afterward. They would respect each other. It would all end with everyone as friends.

  Paddy’s patrons gathered around, sharing an air of excitement, and Felicity could guess their thoughts. They wanted to see Grogan thump the black man’s arm down on the table. After all, was he not the strongest man in the county? His arm looked twice as big as the stranger’s, but the other man looked pretty strong too. Money began to change hands, being stacked on the table. Felicity nudged her uncle, prodding him in a stage whisper.

  “Well? Where’s your heart Uncle Sean? You’ve got to put some money on Morgan.”

  Nodding, Sean pulled out a sizeable pile of small bills.

  “This says Felicity’s partner puts Grogan’s arm down.

  The better man will win.”

  After blessing her uncle with a grateful smile, Felicity sat at the far end of the table and stared into Morgan’s face. Judging by his appearance, he was oblivious to the wagering. His arm was slanting backward, bit by bit. At that point he and Grogan were both grimacing. Grogan grunted with the effort.

  She feared Grogan might just be stronger, but she knew Morgan had the advantage of concentration. Grogan roared, using rage for energy. Morgan stayed relaxed. She had seen it before, only once or twice. He was reaching for that deep state of total pinpoint focus on his center, just as she did during yoga practice. It was the true source of power, she knew. Once he reached his steady state, he focused all his strength up into his right arm. The movement was slow and gradual, but as she watched and grinned his arm righted itself. Then he smiled into Grogan’s twisted face. Morgan forced the giant fist toward the tabletop, and for the first time the outcome of the contest was in doubt.

  That was when one of the drunks, seeing his hard earned ten pounds slipping away, shouted “no!” and dived forward, reaching for the back of Grogan’s hand. He barely made contact, but it was just enough to push both arms back the other way. And that was when all hell broke loose.

  “I don’t need no help from the likes of you,” Grogan screamed. He stood up, snatched up his would-be helper by his shirt with his left hand and slammed him against the wall. Another drinker dived at Grogan’s back. Morgan stopped the sneak attack with a side stamp kick to the solar plexus. Behind him, another man aimed a bottle at Morgan’s head.

  “Aw shite,” Felicity said as she backhanded Morgan’s attacker with her beer mug. “It’s a brawl now.”

  Bar brawls were an environment with which Morgan was familiar. He knew that in such close quarters all he had to do was to keep his arms pumping and his head moving. A series of short jabs mowed down the fighters in front of him. His elbow thrusts kept them off his back.

  Grogan was smashing in all directions with his huge fists, downing all comers. He was no good at dodging or ducking. On the other hand, he didn’t seem to mind being hit. When the crowd got too thick, he seized one poor drunken man, lifted him overhead by the neck and one leg, and tossed him down, felling three others.

  One big Irishman landed a solid right on Morgan’s jaw. When he looked up into the man’s grinning face, Morgan saw no anger or rage. He realized that this man and everyone else in the place looked as if they were enjoying the action.

  But Morgan didn’t fight for fun. Before the attacker’s follow-up left could find its mark, Morgan put three lightening fast punches into his midsection. Then, with a loud shout he delivered a crushing flying side stamp that lifted the brawler into the air and put him into two others with enough force to smash them to the floor.

  When he spun around madness shone in his eyes. Three fighters still stood, but they were backing away. Paddy and Maureen stayed behind the bar, not speaking or even moving any more. Felicity and her uncle eased out from under their table. Grogan stood in classic boxer’s stance, but he too seemed uncertain. Morgan dropped his hands, mumbled, “I don’t need this,” and walked out the door.

  Two hundred yards out on the heath, Felicity caught up with her partner. He was staring up into the clear night sky. When she reached him he spoke without lowering his eyes.

  “Full moon. It figures.”

  Felicity stood silent beside him. There was an odd comfort in sharing the stars and the quiet. A moment later, Sean caught up to them.

  “Paddy’s hasn’t seen a donnybrook like that in years, lad. What a fighter. Are you sure you’re not Irish?” His tone made it clear he wanted to keep the mood light, but Morgan’s grim face should have told him that was impossible.

  “You set me up, `Father’,” Morgan said. “I think it’s time you told us why we’re really here. What’s the real job, old man?”

  “Real job, Uncle Sean?” Felicity asked after a short pause.

  Morgan looked down from the sky to glare into Felicity’s eyes. “You don’t think he got us all the way over here because of some vague threats and what amounts to vandalism at his church, do you? Me, I think it’s this O’Ryan guy.”

  “Is this true, Uncle?” Felicity asked. “You came after me for a personal vendetta?”

  “You don’t know him, girl,” Sean said. “The man’s a terrorist he is, a terrorist who hides down here after he kills up north.”

  “Terrorist,” Morgan repeated, his voice thick with irony. “Isn’t that what the big army always calls the little army?”

  “Uncle Sean, you couldn’t have thought I’d chase this man away for you,” Felicity said.

  Sean looked a little embarrassed. “It wasn’t you I wanted, Felicity, but your man.”

  “Of course,” Morgan said, raising his eyes and one palm to heaven. “You found out about my past as a mercenary. That’s why you weren’t surprised at the weapons I carried. You were looking for a solider. You want to know what I think? I think this O’Ryan guy is threatening your power base here. I think maybe he’s stealing your followers and you wanted me to get him out of the way.”

  “It’s not like that, son. I am a priest, after all.”

  “Sure,” Morgan said, beginning to pace in a small circle in front of the other two. “And that priest gig is all about power. Every priest has absolute power over his people. Especially here. What, do you think, I’m ignorant? Like I don’t know what a big deal it is in Ireland to give a son to the church? How many priests you figure there are in this country, Father?”

  “The church provides guidance for every member of its flock.”

  “And how many guides does that take in Ireland? How many priests?”

  “Well…maybe twenty thousand or so,” Sean replied.

  “Twenty thousand! In a country of maybe three and a half million. That’s, what, let’s see, a
religious leader for every hundred and seventy-five people or so, right? It’s just a power trip.”

  “Hold on, Morgan,” Felicity stepped between the two men. “We don’t know the whole story. You’re not being fair. Why don’t we go back and have another drink? We can discuss this in detail tomorrow, like adults.”

  “I’m for it,” Sean said. “Well, lad?”

  Morgan just stood there in the dark, with hands on hips, looking at the ground, shaking his head. At a signal from Felicity, the priest turned and walked toward the pub. She moved over and put her arm through Morgan’s. After a slight tug, he began walking with her. His mouth was set in a straight line of resignation, like a man facing a battle he knows he can’t win. A soft wind whirled around their bodies, brushing back the grass and flowers. Once they were walking across the gorse, Felicity spoke.

  “You know, I’ve never seen you fighting, I mean full out like that. You’re pretty awesome.”

  “Yeah, well nature boy back there must have donated his fair share of broken noses and jaws too.” Morgan replied.

  “You mean Maxie Grogan? He is a strappin’ lad and that’s for sure. Cute too.”

  “What?” Morgan looked at her as if she had lost her mind.

  “The big dope’s got kind of a baby face, considering his life. He’s the end of a long, noble line, you know. The product of countless generations of peasant fishermen.”

  “If you ask me, he’s the product of too much inbreeding,” Morgan muttered, almost under his breath.

  - 6 -

  When Morgan and Felicity walked into Paddy’s pub things were almost as they were when they first entered. Furniture was back in its original position, spilled potables were cleaned up, and the patrons had resumed their original diversions. Felicity moved off, wallet in hand, to cover damage done during the fight. Paddy and Maureen were smiling. In fact everyone in the whole place seemed to be smiling, as warm and friendly as when they ordered supper.