The Orion Assignment

by Camacho, Austin S.

  There in the trees. Almost invisible. She had no doubt. That glare. It was a rifle barrel. Felicity thought, could O’Ryan be this stupid?

  “Come on, Uncle,” she said. “We’ve got to get to the car. Now!” Pushing past spectators Felicity thanked the Lord she was not wearing a skirt that day. She was ready for action in lightweight pearl gray slacks and a loose cotton sweater. Her suede walking boots were low enough to be fine on the gravel on the way to the car. She was in the driver’s seat and had the engine roaring before Sean quite got his door closed on the other side.

  “Hang on, Uncle Sean,” she said through clenched teeth as she threw the sedan into gear. From the way his head snapped back she knew Sean was unprepared for the takeoff. He had seen her drive, she realized, but had never seen the serious driving of which she was capable. It took her just five seconds to get the car up to sixty miles per hour. The AMG Hammer, as she had told him, was no Mercedes Benz. The builders used the Mercedes body because it was the only one that could take the stresses the car would be subjected to. She had handed over a Mercedes and a hundred and twenty thousand dollars for the conversion. On a test track she had pushed this machine up to one hundred eighty-six miles per hour and even at that speed it handled better than anything else on the road. She would reach the gunman in no time.

  On the track, Morgan made his first serious run at O’Ryan’s lead. They were riding in line. O’Ryan slid out from the center just a bit and Morgan saw his opening. He gunned the throttle and burst forward. In sixth gear at nearly twelve thousand rpm he was pushing one hundred seventy five miles per hour too near the curve, and O’Ryan was dropping in toward the edge. Morgan could see himself pushed off the edge into the center grass. That would end the race for him. He knew his bike gave him only one advantage. He had stability on the brakes and he would have to push it to the limit.

  The crowd was on its feet when Morgan locked up his brakes. The back wheel jumped almost two inches off the deck but with cool efficiency, O’Ryan slid past in front of him. There was no contact and they were both still in the race.

  The tree was small, the ground fairly level. Up among the leaves, Sean could see the barrel pointed toward the riders. Felicity drove straight toward the tree as if her life depended on it. Sean said a silent prayer when he realized she was not slowing down. The last minute fishtail tore up turf and weeds. The impact smacked Sean’s head against the dashboard. The left quarter panel flexed in as the car bounced back from the trunk. A man wearing jeans and a golf shirt crashed to earth, stunned. Felicity was out of the car and leaping. She snatched up the rifle and pointed it at the fallen man.

  “Go ahead, missy,” the gunman said, his face crinkling in a smile. “It’s just an air gun with rubber bullets.”

  “Just enough though, isn’t it?” Felicity said. “No one would hear the quiet pop of this toy, but the bullet would slap the tire right out from under a motorcyclist in a deep curve.”

  “Very perceptive,” he said, standing to brush himself off. “I’m afraid you’ll never get to Timothy, though. He’s clear on the other side of the track.”

  “Where?” Felicity asked.

  “Screw you.” As the words left his lips, a rough hand fell on the man’s shoulder and spun him around into a devastating right hook. On his back, his eyes looked out of focus but Sean was pretty sure the gunman could see him well enough.

  “Where?” was all the priest said.

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “I think you can,” Sean said. He lifted the man by his collar and smacked his head into the tree. “Now.”

  The man pointed at a random pile of unused hay bales halfway around the track on a rise to the side of the race area. Again Felicity could just make out a gun barrel.

  “The bastard really hedges his bets,” she said. Then she grabbed her hat, planted her right knee in the sniper’s crotch, and sprinted for her car.

  “You’ll have to drive, Uncle,” Felicity said. “I’ll have to hop out fast to stop that guy before the next turn.”

  Sean didn’t argue, but pushed in behind the wheel and pulled away from the tree as soon as Felicity was inside. His driving wasn’t pretty, but then, she knew that this car’s handling was more sensitive than any other machine on the street. Felicity had attended a special seminar when she picked it up from the factory to teach her how to drive it. In Sean’s hands it was a bucking bronco out of the old west, diving left and shooting right at the slightest touch of the steering wheel. He managed to man handle the beast in the right direction, barely keeping it under control.

  The shortest way to Timothy’s position was driving clockwise around the outside of the track. Felicity had switched seats because the passenger side faced the race. She could see the second gunman nested in the hay bales. He looked relaxed and comfortable there, with his rifle in a good supported position. On this curve he could fire one pellet at the right time to knock Morgan’s bike out from under him. Morgan and his machine would roll off into the center of the track and O’Ryan could concentrate on winning the race.

  Felicity popped her door latch as they approached their target. She hoped he would not hear them over the sound of the motorcycles but she saw him freeze in place for a second and new she would not be so lucky. The shooter spun around to face her as the big gray car rolled toward him. The passenger side door was already open. As the car thundered past, Felicity dived from it. She landed on the shooter like a swarm of hornets, scratching, spitting and cursing. He screamed at the onslaught and struggled to his feet. She grabbed at the rifle, somehow causing it to fire into the air. He swung he rifle’s butt at her head but she ducked it, dropping into a deep crouch and gripped both his trouser cuffs. Before he knew what was happening, Felicity stood up, yanking his feet out from under him. He went over the bales backward, tumbling down the hill toward the racetrack.

  Felicity collapsed on the hay bales, out of breath, praying she had done enough, soon enough, to keep Morgan alive.

  Morgan had lost ground when O’Ryan cut him off, but he would not stay back. In that last deep turn he was forced to lay the fairing on the deck in order to stay on, and he took the corner at one hundred thirty miles per hour, but he passed another rider in the process. Now he rode on the Irishman’s tail again, waiting for an opening. He would haunt O’Ryan, keeping his mind off the finish line because he knew Morgan was in his slipstream.

  On the straightaway, O’Ryan shook a slim squib out of his glove. Only a superhuman rider or a fool would take his hand off the clutch at this velocity. O’Ryan did it, just for a second, long enough to squeeze hard on the pellet in his hand. He slowed, and for an instant Morgan was passing him on the inside. Then a thin jet of oil squirted from O’Ryan’s glove. It splattered Morgan’s face shield. O’Ryan roared away from his now blinded nemesis.

  The greasy smear on Morgan’s helmet was just enough to cloud his vision. He had fractions of a second to make a decision. Wiping his visor would only smear it worse. If he pulled over to clean it, he lost. If he slowed to a safe speed, he lost. If he tried to continue the race blinded as he was, he lost. But there had to be a winning alternative. There always is.

  And Morgan found it. He would have to do what O’Ryan had done. He would have to do something only a fool or a superhuman rider would even attempt.

  In the grandstand, Claudette jumped to her feet with her hands over her mouth. Marlene gasped and her gasp was taken up by the entire crowd. The crazy black rider had flipped his visor up. He was riding with his face exposed.

  On his bike, Morgan knew that O’Ryan would assume he had dropped off, but he could not turn to see him. Morgan crouched low, trying to use the tiny windshield for protection. For racing purposes he liked it low and out of the way, but now he could not get behind it. He glanced up and down, seeing just enough to continue. His eyes watered from the wind blast and he could not escape it. He had to fly by instinct.

  Morgan chose a course that seemed almost impossible, even to him.
He would rely on his senses to tell him when he got too close to another rider or too close to falling. It was a radical use of his mysterious danger sense. He had no idea if it would work, but he knew this bike like a brother and was one with it. He could feel the road as if his feet were touching it, instead of wheels. He had a hundred and fifty horsepower between his knees and he milked it all at once.

  “Come on,” Morgan said, talking aloud to his mechanical steed. “You’re the quirkiest motorcycle ever to circle a track and you’ve got something to prove too. Are you going to let an Irishman on a Japanese bike beat you? Come on. Give me the power and I’ll take you out in style.”

  Morgan’s stunt had given him an unanticipated edge. Other riders were giving him a wide berth, since it was obvious that only an idiot would stay on the track with his visor up. Morgan dived into the straightaway two lengths behind the “widow maker” and moved to the outside. His tires whined under him and he realized a slight sprinkle had started.

  Fine, Morgan thought. Let’s just make this as impossible as it can be. He was almost even with O’Ryan’s bike as they approached the far end hairpin curve, La Source, just before the pits. Morgan wondered if anyone could see him coming or could guess what he planned to do. If so, he suspected that they were praying he would not try it.

  He was wrong. Two hundred yards away, Felicity O’Brien stood up in front of the hay bales and shouted, “Take him out. Now!”

  At the apex of the curve, the track was banked almost sixty degrees. Morgan leaned into it and let the Elf’s radical steering setup take over. The motorcycle dived into the center, spearheading toward O’Ryan’s front fork. Halfway there he realized the Irishman was accelerating out of the turn. His knee was on the deck and he was pulling away. Morgan yanked the handlebars and smoothed his path. He would pass behind the hunter’s bike.

  No!

  The Elf fell into the inside lane for just an instant. Its front tire made the slightest contact with O’Ryan’s rear wheel, nicking it, tread to tread. Leaning as he was, it was just enough. O’Ryan spun out, and rolled across the grass on the inside. Morgan’s world went crazy and he was spun high into the air.

  Tuck and roll, like they taught you in jump school. Pull in your arms, idiot! Pull up your knees.

  His back hit the ground first, the leather taking the friction. Then his head smacked down, the helmet jarring his brain. Now everything was spinning. Then the world was still, but he was spinning. He wanted to throw up, but refused to. Then someone was shaking him.

  “Where does it hurt?” the medic asked.

  “Nowhere. Everywhere. Got to sit up. Where’s O’Ryan?” The medic pushed him down, but he popped back up. There, only fifty yards away, sat O’Ryan. The medic by him was slapping his own ankle, signaling the area of O’Ryan’s injury. That ankle was the least of his worries, Morgan knew. His chance of winning the race was over. There was no recovering the money he needed now. With two good legs he could not have run far enough or fast enough to escape this failure.

  O’Ryan flipped his visor up and glared at Morgan. Wondering if he understood American hand signals, Morgan leaned over on his left arm, raised his right, and pointed his middle finger into the air in Ian O’Ryan’s direction.

  - 26 -

  When Sean traveled to Paris on a rare vacation years ago, he had stood on that very spot, staring up at the magnificence of the cathedral known as Notre Dame. He was overwhelmed by the majesty of the historic structure. He viewed it with reverence. It never occurred to him back then that there might be a restaurant across from it.

  “My compliments, my dear,” Marlene Seagrave said, holding Sean’s arm as the small group entered. “Tour D’Argent is one of the finest restaurants in the world. The height of French haute cuisine. When did you make these reservations?”

  “The day we arrived on the continent,” Felicity replied, easing Morgan between herself and Claudette using only smooth body language. The Maitres D’ ushered them into the elevator, which looked to Morgan like an eighteenth century sedan chair.

  Upstairs they were directed to their table. Even there, at the height of continental fashion, they attracted attention. Felicity, stately and aloof, strode through the room in a knee length dress. The skirt was black with a slit in the back that drew every man’s attention to her long legs. The top half was white and sleeveless. Her hair hung long and flowing.

  Two steps away, Claudette Christophe swept across the floor, a black pearl, icicle cool in a skin tight, mini length, sleeveless, backless, gold lame sheath.

  Morgan beamed like the kid escorting the home coming queen to the prom. He seated both ladies, before sitting between them. He was pouring wine for all before he realized what he was doing.

  “Felicity, dear, why is there already wine on our table?” he asked. “Not just here, but open.”

  “I called ahead and ordered for everyone,” she smiled. Claudette gave her a brief icy stare that everyone saw but Morgan ignored. “I wanted to save the men the hassle of trying to order from the French menu and I do know the cuisine here. At the same time I had them open the Beaujolais to let it breathe before we drank it.”

  “You’ve thought of everything, dear,” Marlene said. Her hair was up in a chignon and her black coat dress looked more expensive than it needed to be. Her makeup was applied with an artist’s touch. One would have to look hard to see any age difference between her and the other two women.

  “So, lad, how does it feel to have the race behind you?” Sean asked. “You come out of it all with nothing but cuts and bruises.”

  “I credit that to protective clothing and a good helmet,” Morgan answered. “The bad news is, our boy O’Ryan ended up with nothing but a sprained ankle.”

  “Haven’t we grilled Morgan enough?” Felicity asked. “I thought the setting here would be enough to hold your attention.”

  “Actually, I’ve hardly noticed the restaurant, child,” Sean said. “The view of the Seine’s got me. At this height, it’s just magical to look down at the barges drifting along. Indeed, the beauty of God is in even the simplest things.”

  Morgan was not as comfortable as Sean. He stuck a finger in his collar and twisted, trying to loosen it a little. He reflected that he was paying a price for this fine company. He had let Felicity dress him in a three piece suit, a glen plaid suit at that. The shirt was a kind of windowpane plaid in some pastel color. Worst of all, he was wearing a tie. A red tie. In fact, kind of a pinkish color. He resented Sean getting away with wearing his priest’s black suit. That collar meant never having to wear a tie.

  “Relax, darling,” Claudette whispered, leaning close and rubbing his thigh under the table. “You’ll feel better after you eat something. And I promise I’ll get you out of those clothes just as soon as possible.”

  A waiter appeared and set a variety of containers on their table. The women reached for silverware but the men moved with reluctance.

  “Eat,” Felicity said. “It’s cold lobster.”

  “Sorry,” Morgan said, reaching into the appetizer. “Didn’t recognize it without the shell.” Morgan munched a piece, but didn’t go near the strange goo that came with it. Sean, it seemed, was numb to embarrassment after a week traveling with Felicity, so he didn’t hesitate to speak up.

  “All right. Just what is that sauce?”

  “It’s called lagardere,” Marlene said. “It’s delicious. This lovely place has spent four hundred years, perfecting its sauces.”

  “Taste it, Uncle,” Felicity said, leaning toward him. “All it is, is mayonnaise with some herbs and stuff mixed in.”

  “You have a way of making the finest things sound so common,” Claudette said, but after Felicity’s remark, Morgan tried it. She was right. It was good.

  “I must say, this is the way to spend a vacation,” Marlene said when the entree arrived, duckling bourdaloue with lemon. “I haven’t had such a time in quite a while. An exciting race, and a landmark meal with the best of friends.”
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  “Yes, too bad it has to come to an end,” Morgan said. “We’re taking Uncle Sean to the States with us right away. Can’t hang around here too long. Until our boy Ian’s taken care of by his old friends, we’ll have to be real careful.”

  “So you’re taking off with her, are you?” Claudette asked. “Another hit and run visit.” Her voice was low, but her tone was not soft.

  “Once we get things straight,” Morgan said, “I’ll be back to set things right here with the race team. And I’ll need a place to stay.”

  “What if I am busy when you get back?”

  “Then you’ll un-busy,” Morgan said.

  “Ain’t love grand?” Marlene asked, and everyone laughed.

  Before dessert, the ladies excused themselves to powder their noses. When they were out of sight Morgan leaned over to Sean.

  “Well, how’d you enjoy the duck dinner. Excuse me. Duckling.”

  “To tell the truth, it seemed a bit greasy to me lad. All in all, I prefer your turkey. One of the best things about America, I’m thinking.”

  “I’m with you there, Uncle Sean,” Morgan said. “But, the place is nice and quiet, and the girls are loving it.” The women returned just in time for the flambéed peaches. At last Morgan was about to really enjoy something when the Maitres D’ stepped up to their table. He stood close to Felicity and addressed her in a soft tone.

  “Mademoiselle, there seems to be a small problem. Somehow, your automobile alarm has begun to sound. May we ask you to come downstairs and deactivate it?”

  “We’d better both go,” Morgan said, standing. He didn’t think anyone could have arranged any trouble this soon, but it was better to be safe.