The Payback Assignment foams-1

by Austin S. Camacho

  “Yes. All my life.” With no further explanation, Felicity put down the bundles and pointed to her cipher lock. “Look at this.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Right here,” Felicity said. “On the edge of the button plate. See these marks? It’s been pried off. Someone’s broken in, someone who knows these locks but got sloppy.”

  “A thief friend stop by to surprise you?” Morgan asked.

  Felicity shook her head. “I don’t have sloppy friends. So now what do we do?”

  “Several options if they’re waiting inside,” Morgan said. He was annoyed with himself for not noticing the lock had been tampered with, and was happy for a chance to take the lead. “As usual, there’s a safe way, an easy way and a best way.”

  “Well, what’s the best way?” Felicity asked.

  “Let me teach you the cross door maneuver.”

  15

  Inside Felicity’s apartment a pair of dangerous animals in cheap suits waited. Pearson sat on the couch half turned, gazing aimlessly out the window with his gun hand resting on his thigh. By shifting his eyes he could see Shaw, who had pulled the big chair forward and pointed it toward the door. Shaw looked relaxed but alert, with his Smith amp; Wesson. 38 pointed toward the apartment’s only entrance. Pearson’s ears perked up as he heard buttons being pushed and saw the doorknob slowly turning. The pigeon had come home at last. This was too easy a job for a pair of experienced killers, but they got the assignment because they had been in the neighborhood. Stone said to kill the girl ASAP. It would be a nice change to receive an assignment and complete it the same day. Shaw took careful aim at the door and Pearson returned his smile as he thumbed the hammer back on his own pistol.

  With an air of relaxation Felicity pushed the door open and entered, crossing to her left, toward the occupied chair. She was staring into a grinning face and a gun barrel. Her hands opened, and her packages began their fall to the floor.

  Before her eyes finished widening, Morgan came in fast and low, crossing behind her in the opposite direction. His gun barked once before Felicity’s packages reached the carpet. The man in the chair didn’t move, but his chest burst open like a blossoming scarlet flower before Felicity’s startled eyes.

  Morgan continued his charge, driving his shoulder hard into the second man’s midsection before the killer could quite get his pistol aimed at the new target. As the two men grappled on the sofa, the revolver bounced across the carpet. An unthinking reflex drove Felicity to snatch it up.

  “Stop it!” she shouted. The killer froze, staring into his own gun’s muzzle. Morgan stood calmly, straightening his clothes.

  “I’ll keep him in line,” he said, leveling his automatic on the other man’s eyes. “Got any wire or twine around?”

  Felicity nodded, looked down at her hands and gingerly placed the revolver on the coffee table cube. Then she backtracked to close and lock the front door before running down the hall to the second room. It was small, but sufficient as a storage room. She spent only seconds rooting through the climbing gear arrayed neatly in the closet. She sprinted back to the living room with a five-foot length of nylon cord. Morgan hadn’t moved, and she was surprised to see no expression of anger on his face.

  “You know the drill,” Morgan said, accepting the rope. “Turn around, on your knees, hands behind your back.”

  Morgan held the rope in his right hand with his pistol, while he drew his big knife from under his jacket. He cut a ten-inch bit from the cord, dropped the rest, and tied the other man’s thumbs together behind him. It was a simple bind, but Felicity could see that it would be far more effective than big clumsy knots around the wrists and arms. Once the big man was secured, Morgan turned to Felicity.

  “Stay here, Red,” he said. Morgan walked his charge to the bathroom between the two bedrooms. The gunman was built like a college halfback, but Morgan had no trouble alternately pushing and pulling him, keeping him off balance. Once they were in the bathroom, Felicity saw the man’s shoes fly out into the hall, followed by his socks, trousers and underwear. The she heard a loud thump that could only be the shooter’s beefy form slamming down into her deep bathtub.

  “Come out, and you’ll join your partner in hell,” Morgan said. Then he walked out, closed the door, and jogged to the living room.

  Felicity had not moved and now stood facing him. Her eyes were brimming with tears. She glanced furtively at the corpse in her armchair, the chair she had spent weeks selecting. Blood dripped rhythmically onto her light colored, hand dyed deep pile carpet. Lit by the approaching sunset, the dead man looked like some bizarre, macabre statue melting in a wax museum. Her lips trembled and a barely audible whisper slipped through them. Morgan stepped forward and put an arm around her, cradling her head in his own massive shoulder.

  “Take it easy, Red. I know it’s kind of a shock but, well, death’s really a natural thing, I mean in nature, you know? And if it’s you or them, sometimes you just got to go all the way.”

  “It’s not that,” Felicity stammered. “I’ve seen death before. And don’t call me…” she stopped in mid-sentence. Somehow, for the first time in her life, it seemed okay for someone to call her “Red.”

  He was such an enigma, this great black bear of a man. Only seconds ago, she had seen him show total ferocity, killing with ice cold efficiency. Yet now he was able to exhibit unexpected tenderness. It seemed perversely symbolic that his shoulder felt so soft and warm and comforting to her face, even as her right breast was crushed against the hard outline of his shoulder holster.

  “It isn’t the death, not really,” she murmured. “It’s just, he wanted to, he was going to, to kill me.” She put a shaky emphasis on the last word.

  “Yes,” Morgan said slowly, “Let’s go find out about that.”

  With a gentle tug, Morgan eased Felicity toward the bathroom. When they opened the door, their tough guy prisoner was sitting on the floor trying to look belligerent. He was built like a linebacker, but now Morgan could see a bit of softness around his waist. His nose had been broken and a scar was visible just below the line of his short brown hair.

  Morgan thought he recognized that kind of scar. It was probably a legacy from the less glamorous days of professional wrestling. In those days guys used to go flying out of the ring and they’d always come up bloody. Morgan knew they often cut themselves with razor blades in their hairline for the effect. If this guy was a veteran of the small-time professional wrestling circuit, he was probably pretty tough. Morgan considered what little he knew of this man for a moment before deciding how he should proceed. He decided to use a reasonable, uncaring approach.

  “You know, we were kind of lucky out there,” Morgan said, drawing his big knife out of its sheath again. He pulled his prisoner to his feet and sat him back in the bathtub. “If anyone heard that gunshot, they must have assumed it was something else, like a car backfiring. As usual in any big city, nobody wants to hear a gunshot so they just don’t. Now, turn over.” The thug glared at Felicity for a moment, then squirmed over onto his stomach. Morgan put his pistol to his prisoner’s head while he cut the cord, freeing the killer’s hands.

  “You won’t be able to get out of that slippery tub too quickly,” he said. “I’ll ask the lady here to keep the gun on you all the same. Now turn back over.”

  While Morgan gave Felicity the pistol, Pearson slowly squirmed around into an upright position. Morgan held out his hand, and his captive handed over his jacket, his tie and finally his shirt. Morgan tossed them all past Felicity, out the door. The gunman hunched over, hatred glaring from his eyes. Felicity held the pistol in two hands at arms’ length, staring down the sights. It pleased Morgan to see a deep blush on the killer’s face as he tried to hide his nakedness. Embarrassment was a good start for questioning. He did not enjoy torture, but he definitely would get certain information from this man.

  “Now pull up your feet, please.” When Pearson did not respond to the request, Morgan opened the h
ot water tap. First cold, then warm and finally hot water gushed out. By hugging his knees the nude man could just keep his feet from being scalded. Felicity smiled in spite of herself. Morgan sat on the edge of the tub at the faucet end, facing his prisoner. He took a deep breath. It was time to demoralize his subject.

  “Now I need to know who sent you to kill the lady.”

  “You go to hell, nig…” The thug interrupted himself with a scream louder than Morgan’s earlier gunshot had been. Felicity gasped in surprise. Morgan had flipped the knob that shifted the water flow to the shower spout. The steaming water was only on the hired killer’s body for a single second, but his dripping body was glowing red. His breath was a series of rapid gasps.

  “First rule, no profanity,” Morgan said casually. “It upsets the lady. And you call me by my name. Mister Stark. Now again. Who sent you here?”

  The silence lasted for three long seconds before Morgan gave his captive another second of heat. Now the red body quivered with each short, panting breath.

  “Look, I don’t like doing this.” Morgan maintained his relaxed smile. “However, I need these three bits of data, see? And after trying to shoot us, I figure you owe me. So tell me, who sent you?”

  The thug gritted his teeth. Felicity clamped her eyes shut. Morgan, relaxed, waited four seconds this time, before giving the killer two seconds of steaming pain. After that he imagined he could smell broiled meat. He saw Felicity’s stomach heave. He knew she wanted to run from the room, but this strange ritual held her mesmerized.

  After all, a grown man, stripped naked, was flopping around in her bathtub like a beached whale. He was moaning and whimpering, probably knowing he would eventually talk. Yet he went on. Morgan understood. This was part of his business, and he feared he would be seen as a coward if he spoke too soon. Morgan carried on with his distasteful duty in a businesslike manner, because he knew this was the way the game was played.

  “Look, pal…” Morgan paused for a second, then asked, “What’s your name?” A tense five seconds passed. Sweat mixed with the water on the prisoner’s face. His eyes were locked onto Morgan’s hand. As the muscles on the corded brown forearm tensed to turn the knob he blurted out “Pearson” louder than necessary.

  “Much better,” Morgan said. He noticed Felicity had been holding her breath since the last question, and she released it as he watched. She was still holding the big pistol with her arms fully extended toward the tub and, even with a two-handed grip, her arms were starting to shake. Morgan reached back to push down on the top of his gun with two fingers.

  “Relax a bit, Red. He’s not going anywhere.” She lowered the pistol, but kept her eyes on Pearson’s. “Look, Pearson,” Morgan continued, “You can’t take too much more of this pain. Besides, if this keeps up there’s going to be permanent skin damage soon. When I see your boss I’ll tell him you held out to the last like a good troop. Now give me a name.” Four long seconds passed before Pearson replied in a voice just loud enough Morgan to hear.

  “Stone.”

  “Now we’re moving along,” Morgan said, smiling. “Now for step two. Naturally I’d like to discuss this situation with Stone face to face. To do that, I need an address.” He waited three seconds this time. His fingers curled around the knob.

  “He’ll kill me!” Pearson shouted.

  “Are you so sure I won’t?” Morgan asked. “Have you forgotten your friend in the living room?”

  “Look, I don’t really remember,” Pearson said. “I only been there once. I’m just a stringer, man. I do all my work on the West Coast. The man’s in midtown Manhattan. A big skyscraper, you know? You can see ground zero from the window. You know, where the World Trade Center used to be. That’s all I remember, honest. Jesus, I only been once.”

  Pearson’s eyes were pleading. Morgan glanced quickly at Felicity. Her eyes were pleading too. As much as he hated this, she was liking it much less. And he doubted this hireling knew much more. Still he had to press on.

  “I guess we’ll accept that,” he said. “Now for the biggie. Who’s Stone working for now?”

  “You know I don’t know that,” Pearson screeched, then added, “Mister Stark” when Morgan reached for the shower knob.

  “You know something.” Morgan’s voice became much sterner now. Pearson stared into Morgan’s hard eyes. When he couldn’t stand it any longer he looked around the room nervously and huffed out a blast of air.

  “Okay, look. I’ve done work for Stone before, but things are different these days. He’s a captive agent now.”

  “A what?” Felicity asked, confused.

  “No longer freelance,” Morgan explained. “Stone’s always been an independent contractor. He still does the same thing, I guess, only now he’s working for somebody on salary. Probably means you and me got suckered by the same guy.”

  “Some businessman,” Pearson added, eager to please his captives. “That place in New York is his office, and he lives in the same building too. He’s richer than shi…I mean, he’s real rich and he’s got this huge bodyguard. One thing for sure. You find Stone, you’ll find this guy. Stone’s like his right hand man now.”

  Morgan and Felicity exchanged glances. They seemed to silently agree that they had gotten all they could expect from this one. She tugged at his sleeve, getting him to lean toward her.

  “Will you be killing him now?” she whispered. “I mean, do you have to?” His only answer was a sly smile.

  “Throw Pearson a towel, Red,” Morgan said. When she did, Pearson snatched it out of the air and spread it over his groin.

  “Thank you, eh…” Pearson looked at Morgan nervously.

  “Miss O’Brian.” Then Morgan turned to Felicity. “Give me my pistol, will you? And I need you to go pack for the two of us. We’ve got to move, and soon. Pearson and I are going to be busy for a while. And you might want to stay out of the living room for a few minutes, okay?”

  Felicity headed for her bedroom, happy to be freed of the weight of the gun. In a lifetime of crime she had rarely been involved with firearms and wanted to keep it that way. She had also rarely taken direction from anyone, and this was a new feeling for her. She had decided she was boss of this team long ago. After all, she was paying him for his services. Still, she realized it made sense for him to lead while they played the game in which he was the expert.

  Her room, in the corner of the building, had huge windows on both outer walls. The sunset melded with her decor, which was layers of blue: carpet, drapes, bedding, walls and ceiling in progressively lighter shades. Her furniture was all hand worked oak. Her big, four-poster bed stood to the side of the door, turned so she would face the beach when lying down. She quickly tossed a few things into an overnight bag. She wouldn’t need to carry much for a trip to New York. Next, she figured she would go to the guestroom and gather everything Morgan had there. It should all fit nicely into a single suitcase.

  But when she left her bedroom, Felicity stopped. She could hear the sound of fabric being cut. When it ended, she stepped lightly to the guestroom door. Morgan stood on one side of the floor with all the room’s furniture. Pearson, once again dressed, was rolling up the other half of the carpet at gunpoint.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Felicity asked, her hands on her hips.

  “Cleaning up the mess we made,” Morgan said. “Believe me, you don’t want to watch this.”

  “No, I believe I do.”

  Morgan shrugged his shoulders as if to say, “suit yourself,” and by waving his pistol directed Pearson to carry the piece of carpet into the living room. There he laid it out flat in front of the corpse-laden chair. She felt Morgan’s eyes on her as he bent and grasped the dead man’s ankles. She gagged, but kept it down and never turned her eyes away. Morgan’s facial expression told her he was impressed and for some reason that made her inordinately proud of herself.

  Pearson lifted his dead partner under the armpits. The two men stretched the body out on the cut carpet. Morga
n removed the dead man’s wallet, tossing it to Pearson. They rolled the carpet up, around the body. Morgan cut the cord Felicity had brought out earlier into two even pieces. With them, Pearson tied the ends of the rug roll with practiced skill.

  “Be ready to leave in fifteen minutes,” Morgan said. He slipped his automatic into his jacket pocket, keeping the muzzle pointed at Pearson. He lifted the back end of the bundle easily onto his left arm and Pearson, on cue, hefted the other end. Without being asked, Felicity opened the door and the men filed out.

  Pearson stood quietly through an uneventful ride in the freight elevator, but by the time they reached the street, he could no longer conceal his tension. The sound of kids playing in the street and the blare of horns in traffic made him jumpy. Behind him, Stark’s steps made no sound at all, but Pearson was very conscious of the gun pointed at his back and he knew his usefulness would soon end. This Stark character was just too relaxed. He had even started whistling.

  On the street Pearson took cues from Stark, walking at the front end of their bundle, careful to hold his end up so no blood dripped out the opening. It wasn’t his first time carrying a rolled body, but he had never done this with an enemy before. The eyes of passers-by seemed more menacing for some reason. He could smell the cupric odor of his partner’s blood coming from the end of the carpet roll and wondered how passersby could miss it.

  After a long six block walk, they found what Stark apparently had been looking for. Every city has them. It was a deep, narrow alley. Garbage lined the sides. Some of it was even in cans and bags. The walls on all three sides were tall brick barriers, interrupted only by an occasional window. Claustrophobia now added its effects to Pearson’s already ragged mental state.

  They laid the carpet coffin down behind a row of trashcans. Pearson stood up, stoically facing the wall. If their positions were reversed, this was when he would do it. One quick shot in the back of the head. Why make a man build up fear in his last moments? He was ready now. He had been the man behind the gun often enough. Now it was his turn to stand in front of it. It was all part of the game.