The Payback Assignment foams-1

by Austin S. Camacho

  “Excellent, Stone.” Seagrave beamed at his lieutenant. “I’ll offer, what do you think, fifty? All right, fifty thousand dollars to whoever takes care of this little problem for me. Get to it right away. Now call my secretary back in. And finalize the details for our end of the month meeting. And Monk…”

  “Yes sir?” Monk grated out.

  “Take our guest downstairs and show him the way out,” Seagrave said with a smile.

  Monk prompted Pearson with a shove. By the time they reached the door, Seagrave was back at work at his desk. Stone was at the conference table end of the suite, using the telephone. Monk escorted Pearson down the hall and into the elevator.

  Two stories below, the elevator stopped. Wordlessly, Monk shoved Pearson out of the elevator car and into the room directly across the hall. Pearson was about to ask what was going on. When Monk entered, locking the door behind him, all doubt was eliminated.

  Pearson glanced around the room. It was dimly lit, maybe fifteen by twenty feet. The room had no windows, no other doors and no furniture. The single door had no knob or lever, just a slot in the lock plate to accept an electronic pass card. The silence implied a soundproof room, although Pearson’s footsteps echoed coldly around him in it. The stains on the cinder block walls looked like dried blood, and the air carried the musty smell of the crypt. A horizontal bar on the wall to the far left looked like it could be the handle to open a small chute, like the incinerator door in his first apartment.

  A most vicious terror seized his heart. He had expected to be roughed up for his failure, maybe have a bone broken. Now he realized he had outlived his usefulness to Stone. Monk was not here to punish him, but to dispose of him. And he knew it would hardly be a fight. There was no question in his mind that this brute would certainly kill him. But maybe with luck, he could take an eye, or an ear, or something.

  With a speed born of desperation, Pearson spun a powerful right cross into Monk’s face. He was following it up with a claw hand blow before he realized how badly his knuckles were hurt. Monk clamped the incoming left in his own ham-like hand inches before it reached his face.

  Shock dragged despair into Pearson’s heart. He had expected Monk to be inhumanly strong, but who would have guessed he was so fast?

  That was Pearson’s last coherent thought.

  Monk casually twisted Pearson’s wrist until the bone splintered. Pearson battered impotently at him with his good fist until Monk slapped him on the side of his head, sending him sprawling. Pearson lay dazed until Monk reached down, wrapped a hand around Pearson’s right leg just below his knee and lifted him into the air. While Pearson hung helplessly, Monk shifted his grip so he could get both hands wrapped around one thigh. He put his thumbs together, pushing out in the same direction.

  Monk was not a sexual creature. He used no drugs, and rarely did he drink. He could barely read and certainly never would unless he had to. He was not perceptive enough to enjoy most television or movies. He did not even like music. There was just one thing he really enjoyed. The crack of bones breaking in a live body, that was his favorite sound.

  Pearson’s screams reverberated in the soundproof room, but they could not drown out the snap of his leg breaking. His screams abruptly ended as the pain overwhelmed him and he passed out.

  Monk grinned at the breaking noise and shrugged when Pearson went limp. For him, this was a pretty good one. He had no bloody mess to clean up. It was too bad that Pearson fainted after only one bone. Monk would have preferred a longer experience. But, since he stayed in one piece, disposal was easy. Monk simply opened the incinerator hatch and stuffed Pearson down the chute head first.

  18

  Some people go through layers of sleep. They drift slowly down into dark stillness. Then when morning comes, they rise from it, one layer at a time, until they open their eyes, focus through a groggy haze and slowly gain consciousness.

  Felicity had never been one of them. Some days, when the nightmares came, she would walk past that same old parked car, watch it explode and see her parents splattered against a wall. She would wonder why not herself. The dream would end abruptly, and she would burst into wakefulness, panting and dripping with sweat.

  Other days, like today, she would simply pop awake. Her eyes snapped open and in an instant she was alert and ready for action. First, she sent her senses around the room, confirming her location. This was her New York penthouse. It was nine thirty-seven a.m. and she was alone in her bed.

  Seven minutes later she was in the hallway, her hair brushed out and her face glowing, wearing very tight jeans with an oversized white blouse unbuttoned to her breastbone. She needed no bra.

  She found Morgan in the kitchen facing the stove, wearing black jeans and those ever-present boots. His black tee shirt said, “nuke ‘em ‘till they glow” across the back. Conspicuous to her by its absence was his shoulder rig and the weapons it carried. The crackling sound told her that he was pouring beaten eggs into a pan, filling the room with the smell of slightly burned butter.

  “Well, the man’s an early riser I see.” She stepped up behind him, went up on her tiptoes, and placed a gentle kiss on his neck.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “For what?”

  “For staying when I needed you,” she said while she pulled china from a cabinet. “And for not, you know, taking advantage.” She waited for a response but when she heard none she looked over at him. He was too dark to blush, but was that embarrassment she saw on his face?

  While Morgan worked in the kitchen, Felicity set up a small, low table on the mezzanine at the other end of the room. When the food was ready, the pair took their scrambled eggs and toast to that table in front of the big window. Orange juice, fresh pears and cheese completed their breakfast menu. Chewing absently, Morgan settled back on the big pillow Felicity provided and got lost in the view.

  “It doesn’t feel like being in the world’s fastest city at all, now does it?” she asked.

  “You’re right,” Morgan said, pushing egg onto his fork with his toast. “It’s kind of like I’m sitting on the edge of a tranquil crystal lake.”

  Felicity found her eggs scrambled hard, the way she preferred them, and quite peppery. That made them unexpected good. “Eloquent for a soldier,” she said. “But that’s just the feeling I get here. It’s like that’s New York over there, on the other side, half a mile away, while we sit here on a peaceful floating island. So. What shall we do today?”

  “Business,” Morgan answered. “You hired me to do a job, and I’m on the clock.”

  His response surprised her. It seemed that after sharing a relaxed moment in fantasy with him she had pulled him back to reality. “Oh yes,” she said. “You said you’d help me find this Stone character.”

  “That’s why I was up so early,” Morgan said. “Made some phone calls. Which reminds me. I’m going to need some more spending cash because I’ve got a lunch date. Old contact of mine, another dude who worked for Stone in the past. We haven’t been in touch much, but he might know who Stone is working for now and where to find him.”

  “Perhaps I should be doing the same,” Felicity said, her voice cooler. It disturbed her a little for Morgan to be all business. However, she realized she had created that relationship. Not wanting to be the damsel in distress, she had hired him instead of asking him for help. On that basis he probably felt that needed to show results. “You know, I could check with some of my friends in the business,” she continued. “The new owner is sure to want to wear that brooch I stole, to show it off you know, then hide it before the insurance investigators start looking this far away. A bauble that unique suddenly appearing in society will excite imaginations in my circles.”

  “Good idea,” Morgan said, rising from the table. He took his plate and glass to the kitchen. Curiosity made her follow. She had to pry into his quietness.

  “Morgan, I have to ask you something. Is it bothering you, spending my money?”

  “Not
at all, Red,” he responded. “I could always hit a cash machine. But I’m on a mission. You pay expenses.”

  “And after?” she asked, hating the apprehension in her voice.

  “After? If you mean about the money, I’ve got a couple hundred grand American dollars stashed away in a Swiss bank account. If you mean, what happens after we find Stone, well, I intend to harass his mysterious employer enough to get him to pay us both a bundle to back off.” He lifted the green flap over his watch. “I’ve got to run.”

  “For a lunch date?” Felicity asked. “It isn’t ten thirty.”

  “Yeah, but I got things to do before I talk to anybody,” Morgan said. “Which means I better go suit up.”

  “Changing clothes?”

  “No, just want my gear for this little meeting,” Morgan said.

  “Mind if I watch?”

  Morgan shrugged and headed for the guest room with Felicity close behind. In the room she watched the ritual with rapt attention. She wondered what went on inside this man’s mind as he placed a series of weapons so carefully about his person. One knife went into each boot. She watched him push on the top bullet in is magazine, confirming that it was full, and function check his pistol. After loading his automatic, he pulled back the slide and let it slam forward. He pushed a button on the side of the gun and the magazine dropped back out. Now he was able to add another bullet to the top of the column. She figured one must have stayed in the pistol.

  “Aren’t there enough in there?” she asked.

  “Well, it’s a ten round magazine in case I get stopped. Ten’s the legal limit, as if that somehow makes a gun less dangerous. I like to start with one in the chamber.”

  “I’d think ten would be enough for anything you’d want to be doing,” Felicity said.

  “There’s something to that, but on the other hand, that eleventh cartridge might be the one that saves my life,” he said. The grip looked thick to her, but in its custom made shoulder holster it was quite invisible beneath the lightweight black windbreaker Morgan pulled on.

  “Lord, it fits like it was made for you,” Felicity said, trying to lighten the mood.

  “The shoulder rig? It was. Wet molded and hand boned, with a hand rubbed oil finish. Got this half harness for maximum concealment, and the premium saddle leather it’s made out of will last a lifetime. At least, the lifetime of anybody in this business.” While he talked, Morgan pulled on a belt with a large square steel buckle.

  “Won’t that thing hurt you if you’re moving around, like if you get in a fight?”

  That brought a grin from Morgan. “Believe me, this special buckle might actually help me in a fight. I’m real careful to dress for comfort these days. I remember one time I hurt my back. In the field I wear this big knife in its sheath at the small of my back. Took a fall wrong and man, that hurt. Had to find a better way.”

  After a final glass of juice, Morgan gave Felicity a peck on the cheek and left the apartment. When he closed the door, his mind was alive with conflicting thoughts.

  He hailed a cab and pointed it downtown. In the taxi, his mind centered on Felicity. He was most uncomfortable with what he was feeling for this mysterious but beautiful redhead. He liked being in control of a situation, but he had certainly lost control of this one. Here he was, working for a woman, taking care of her business.

  Or was he? Right now, he admitted to himself, he was on a self-motivated mission of revenge. The rules of the game had changed since yesterday, when Pearson and his partner had suddenly turned up. Morgan had made some nasty enemies who clearly had no qualms about killing and could set their machinery in motion in a matter of hours, cross-country. That alone implied incredible power. For his own selfish interests, he had to end that threat. He couldn’t simply leave dangerous people in a position to hurt him.

  And wasn’t that the point? This was no time for beginning a long-term relationship, especially with an unpredictable, bullheaded, white, Irish expatriate, professional criminal with expensive tastes. Damn.

  While the cab bumped down Fifth Avenue, he managed to drag his mind back to the business at hand. Hopefully, by moving to New York so quickly, he had gotten the jump on the enemy. He knew enough people in this town that, with any luck at all, he could track Stone down before Stone got him pinpointed. With luck! All in all, he liked it better stalking his enemies in the jungle.

  He left the cab at Washington Square, four blocks from the small cafe in the heart of Greenwich Village at which he would meet Griffith. The sun was harsh, the sky unusually clear and the air thick and stagnant. Not the best day for a hike through New York, but he wanted to walk in and tour the area before the meeting.

  For a hundred and fifty years the West Village has been the home of writers and artists of all types. Something about those twisted, narrow streets in the midst of an otherwise grid work city has traditionally made it the place where society’s oddballs fit in. It has been through beatniks, hippies, heads, freaks and punks, and while the residents have changed, the area has not really changed much. It remains a good place for a meeting if you do not want people to notice you.

  J.D. Griffith, Morgan’s “date”, was ex-Marine Recon. He served his country in Vietnam, and himself later in Rhodesia and the Congo. Morgan had worked with him briefly, and had kept in touch for professional reasons. Both men were respected team leaders when they worked, and they did not want to get in each other’s way somewhere when the action got hot.

  Morgan crossed the street within a block of his planned meeting place without looking toward it. He passed a storefront Thai restaurant, and its sweet and sharp aroma followed him around the next corner. Halfway down that block Morgan hopped to grasp a rusty fire escape ladder. The squeal of metal against metal set his teeth on edge, but the ladder did come all the way down and Morgan scrambled up it to the roof four stories above the street.

  Standing at the edge of the roof he could see the heat rising off the black surface, and it somehow reminded him of his youth. Crouching low, he lumbered three quarters of the way across the roof before dropping to low crawl the rest of the way. The asphalt’s pungent odor stung his nose. He relaxed at the end of his brief journey, absorbing the warmth from the tacky surface. Looking over the roof’s edge, he was directly above Georg’s Cafe, a little Greek place with umbrellas over its outdoor tables that said “Cinzano” in red and blue letters. In about twenty minutes he would meet Griffith under one of them. Now he carefully scanned the windows across the street.

  There! Second floor, second window to the left. That had to be one of Griffith’s men in the window. And on the near corner to the left, that dude loitering in the doorway was just a little too alert. He found another to the right across the street. The man in that telephone booth was not really talking to anyone. Griffith had covered the street quite well. Simple caution, Morgan wondered, or something more?

  He backed off from his vantage point, retracing his steps down the fire escape. As he sauntered around the corner, he zipped his windbreaker halfway up. He started whistling and relaxed his pace. Morgan’s normal gait was very much like marching, but now he exaggerated his walk into the inner city “bop” so many black men have, as if he were listening to some dance track no one else could hear. The impression he gave was extremely casual.

  He recognized Griffith’s grin as he approached the table. He was at least five years Morgan’s senior, but he still retained a jocular baby face. His hair was cut in the style Marines call a “high and tight”: short on top and nearly shaved to the skin on the back and sides. He wore a wrinkled corduroy suit and top quality hiking boots. A typical blond haired, blue eyed, bullet headed type, Morgan thought.

  “S’happenin’ my man?” Morgan called in greeting as he sat down, extending his hand.

  “You know the deal,” Griffith replied, adding a strong handshake to the habitual military greeting. “I took the liberty of buying you a beer. Hope you don’t mind a Michelob.”

  “Well, I still pre
fer that Black Cat we used to get in the ‘Nam. However…” Morgan picked up his bottle and tipped it up, putting down half of the brew. It was light, crisp, cold, and unremarkable, as Morgan found all mass-produced American beers to be. Griffith also took a strong pull from his amber bottle. Morgan figured that should take care of the opening rituals.

  “So, why the meet?” Griffith asked. “You got a new contract in Africa? Want to make sure I’m not on the other side?”

  “No, it’s not like that,” Morgan said, leaning back in his chair. “In fact I’m not working right now. I came looking for you because I need some information. A few phone calls told me you’ve been working out of New York for a while now, so I figured you’d be the one to ask.”

  “Well, I do pretty much know what’s going down around town,” Griffith said, lighting up a Cuban cigar. He offered one to Morgan, who declined. “I don’t come cheap, but I can be had.”

  “You remember Stone?”

  “Sure, I’ve worked with him,” Griffith said, signaling into the cafe for a couple of refills. “Every gunfighter I know has worked with him. Everybody worth a damn, anyway. He’s always been straight with me. Course, he’s not an independent anymore. Took a steady contract with somebody.”

  “Yeah, I heard that. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. The last job I did for Stone didn’t go too good. He crossed me. Who would have figured it?”

  “Crossed you?” Griffith repeated, blowing cigar smoke into the sky. “Like how?”

  Morgan leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the table. “Like, he pulled my transport at the end of a hot mission. Like got my men killed, and damn near got me, too. I can’t let people get away with crossing me. You know that. It’s bad for future business, you know.” Morgan finished his beer, and tension showed in his arm as he set the empty bottle down. “I sure would like to find him.”