“I’m thinking maybe I can pop another one,” Felicity said. “A museum uptown you’re sure to be liking.”
Preferring trains to buses, Morgan insisted they take the subway to their next destination. They walked down the steps into the tunnel on Eighth Avenue and took the fabled A train as far as 190th Street. That still left them a short bus ride up to Fort Tyron Park and The Cloisters. Just approaching the building cast Morgan back into medieval times. He gazed at the square tower ahead, taking in the four quadrangles, the nearest topped by a vaulted passageway. A few seconds passed before he noticed Felicity’s stare.
“I knew you’d love it,” she said. “Takes the mind back to more romantic times, doesn’t it?”
Morgan turned to take in the view of the gray Hudson below, and the sheer Palisades across the river. “Romantic? I don’t know. A time when warriors were for real, I can tell you that.”
“Myself, I love the gardens here,” Felicity said, taking Morgan’s arm, “but the really cool stuff is inside.”
After basking in the beauty of the great treasures of the Middle Ages, Felicity agreed to turn the reins over to Morgan. They were at the very northern edge of Manhattan, but Morgan insisted they board the train again and travel almost to the other end of the island. Their destination was just south of Little Italy.
Through the market-choked streets of Chinatown, Morgan led her to an obscure little second floor restaurant on Mott Street that he had discovered years ago. Felicity grinned at the more garish nods to tourism in front of the restaurant, like the telephone booths, each wearing a red pagoda roof. The restaurant’s neon sign, hanging over the sidewalk, was partially covered with Chinese characters. In English, it advertised “Real Chinese Food,” and that it was air-conditioned. The roast duckling was superb, and it delighted Felicity to learn that Morgan could converse with the employees, albeit a little roughly, in Chinese.
After their meal, Morgan walked her a few blocks north to a dark, smoky jazz club in Greenwich Village. This was one of the few places left where cigarettes were accepted, and a wispy haze hung a few feet off the floor, highlighted around the performers by stage lights. Felicity loved the music and spent the entire evening analyzing it riff by riff, even making comparisons to classical works. Morgan just sat back and mellowed out.
Felicity knew it was after four in the morning when they ended their leisurely stroll in the dark across the street from her apartment building. It was hard for her to classify her own mood. She was tired but energized. Perhaps dreamy was the word she was looking for.
“I don’t know when I’ve been so comfortable in a man’s company,” she told Morgan, scuffing a toe along the line between two of the hexagonal cement tiles that made up the path out of the park. “Even walking through Central Park in the wee hours, I’ve never felt safer.”
“Don’t you always feel safe?” Morgan asked. “Your instincts seem as good as mine. No chance there were ever any watchers lurking in the shadows.”
“True, true. And I’ve got to admit I’m a bit surprised at how much I enjoyed taking a look at a familiar city from another person’s viewpoint.”
“Me too,” Morgan said. “A great day. And I’m not going to let that asshole behind the bushes spoil it.”
Felicity smiled up into his dark eyes. They weren’t hard, like they had been in that Mexican hotel. She was glad. “Do you suppose we can just talk to him? I’m not feeling like he’s a threat to our lives or anything.”
“You want to chat? Stay here.” Morgan stepped to the low wall that separates the park from the street, crouched, and seemed to disappear. Felicity moved back a few steps, thinking that the sliver of a crescent moon would give her a view of the events. She focused on a certain group of bushes and waited in silence. After twenty-seven seconds by her flawless reckoning, she heard a rustle of leaves followed by a short, low grunt. After a brief silence, Morgan stood up and stepped out of the bushes, hauling a smaller man by the back of his collar. Arms crossed, Felicity left the path to lean against a nearby tree. The lights of the city formed a corona around her world, yet she knew they would be invisible to passers-by.
Morgan’s charge seemed to struggle briefly as he was dragged toward her, but she saw Morgan’s free hand dart into the man’s midsection. There was another grunt and the struggling stopped. Morgan drew himself to attention in front of Felicity, holding the smaller man so that his toes barely reached the ground.
“Sergeant Stark reporting,” he said in a deep voice. “So, what did you want to talk about?”
Up close, Felicity recognized the man’s face, despite its being distorted by fear. She held her left elbow, her left index finger pointing at their captive. “You were tailing us this morning. You were originally across the street.” The man’s eyes widened to silver dollars circles.
“You don’t sleep much, do you?” Felicity asked quietly. “But you’re no gunman. They just left you staked out for us, right?” Morgan shook his prisoner by the neck, and the man nodded his head.
“Glory, does everyone in the city know where I live?” Felicity asked. Her brows knit as she faced Morgan, “We may have to find another place to stay.”
Morgan’s sigh was more exasperation than anger. He pulled his fighting knife free of its scabbard and held it in front of his charge, making sure the blade caught the moonlight. “Who else knows?”
The captive shook his head. “When I found out about the price on your heads I found the girl’s place, but I didn’t tell anybody but my own posse. Willy and Joe won’t tell anybody else, on account of they know somebody else will get you.”
“Willy and Joe,” Felicity said. “That would be the other two following us this morning? You guys are pretty good. But you don’t look particularly dangerous. Now my friend here, now he is. Particularly dangerous, I mean. Were you really thinking of butting heads with him?”
The little man’s eyes moved from Felicity’s face to the knife blade to Morgan’s face. “I don’t know what we were thinking.”
Morgan looked at Felicity, waving his knife under his captive’s nose as if it were a fragrant flower. “What happens if I kill him?”
“Questions. Hassles. Big pain in the arse.”
Morgan turned his charge’s head toward himself, as if the man were a ventriloquist’s dummy. “What happens if I let you go?”
The smaller man took a few seconds to think, as if he realized the importance of giving the right answer. “I go away?” he asked tentatively. Morgan stared. “I go away and tell Willie and Joe to disappear too.” Felicity waved her hand as if she were trying to draw more out of him. “Oh, and we don’t tell anybody where you at.”
“What do you think?” Felicity asked Morgan.
“Well, I’m in such a good mood and, like I said, I don’t want to spoil the day. We can go catch and release with the small fry I guess.”
“That’s me,” their captive said. “Small fry. Not worth the hassle. And I been thinking of taking a long vacation. Florida maybe.”
Morgan grinned and dropped the man to his feet. “Get the hell out of here.”
Approaching the door of Felicity’s apartment gave Morgan a small flash of deja vu, but this time his natural senses told him that no ambushers lay in wait for them. Once inside, Morgan dropped his jacket and holster rig on the guest room bed and pulled off his boots. He sat for just a minute, testing the idea of going to bed and finding it wrong. He wandered down the hall to watch Felicity, pouring herself a glass of wine in the kitchen. He wasn’t sure what she was thinking about, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t lying down with him. He was equally surprised to find he had no sexual urges toward this woman with whom he had spent such a glorious day.
Still, he wasn’t ready to be alone. It was an awkward moment for him. If he even mentioned going to bed, would they go together or alone?
“You don’t look tired yet,” Felicity said over her shoulder. Was she shielding her eyes from him?
“Thought I might
see what’s on TV,” he vamped. He dropped onto the velvet couch and fired the remote toward the screen. He was flipping through the choices without really seeing them, until Felicity called out.
“Hey! Isn’t that the opening music to The Magnificent Seven? Now there’s a classic film.”
“One of the great action flicks,” Morgan said, turning it up.
Before Steve McQueen stopped the coach at boot hill Felicity was seated beside Morgan with a bottle of white wine, some cheese, sausage and crackers. Within minutes she was snuggled up under his arm and he could hear her breathing drop to the steady pattern of sleep just before his own eyes slid shut.
26
“I can’t believe I slept to one o’clock,” Morgan muttered as they stepped down from the bus.
“One-twelve, actually,” Felicity said. “I was only up a few minutes before you, lad.”
“Yeah, but you made good use of the time.”
“Just doing what comes naturally,” she said as they strolled down the short block toward Bryant Park, backyard of the New York City Public Library. What came natural to her in this case was making connections. She had made phone calls to two society friends and a fellow thief who traveled in those circles. Those calls had led to an enjoyable conversation with her contact at the hall of records.
“So you’re sure your pals gave you the right address?”
“Morgan, this is what I do for a living,” she said. “The mark’s name is Adrian Seagrave, and there’s no doubt about the building he lives in. And guess what? His view of the river is a lot clearer today than it used to be. You could see the World Trade Center from his windows before 9-11.”
“So that killer Pearson didn’t lie. Glad I let him go.”
Felicity glanced at him, and looked away trying to hide her surprise, but Morgan saw her smile. “Now Mick’s agreed to meet me at the library with copies of the official blueprints, diagrams, building history, the lot,” she said. “With them in hand, I’ll be having no trouble getting in and getting our just due.”
They started up the long gray stairway to the front door of the New York Public Library’s central building, walking at the far right edge of the steps. About halfway up, Morgan stopped to look fondly at one of the gigantic marble lions that guard that depository of knowledge.
“Remember when you asked me why I became a merc?”
“Don’t tell me it has something to do with lions.” Felicity started to laugh but stifled it when she saw the serious expression on his face.
“Not lions, Red. These lions. I think maybe it all started here. This was the first library I ever went in, and it was the lions that made me want to go in.”
Felicity took a seat on the steps. “Okay, you’re saying it was reading that set you on the soldier’s path.”
Morgan’s eyes went upward, and his brow knit as he realized how implausible that sounded. “Red, this town is a tough place to grow up in. One day I wandered in here looking for an escape, I guess. I wanted far away places. A smart librarian handed me Tarzan of the Apes.”
“You’re kidding,” she said. “You mean she hands you that book, with the great white hunters and all those daft natives running around?”
Morgan smiled. “Black people are treated a lot better in the book than in the movies they made later. Anyway, I ended up reading the Tarzan novels straight through, all twenty-four of them. Then, just about when I outgrew them, I discovered Hemingway. That’s how I found out how much world there is out there. So, I set out to see it all, to get as much experience as I could.”
Felicity nodded her understanding. “So all the time since then you’ve just been, what, living?”
“Yeah, I guess. That and killing commies. Course, I’m starting to run out of them. But it’s been a good life, at least for me.”
They entered, and Morgan was pleased to see how little had changed. The library still had the kind of solid, metal-clad doors that imply that the books inside are a treasure worth guarding. Inside, both light and sound were muted. It seemed cooler, but Morgan thought that might be an illusion caused by the cave like surroundings. He wondered if the air really was thicker here than outside, and if he really could smell the dust of yellowed, crumbling pages of type.
“Just where in this huge place are you supposed to meet your friend?” he whispered.
“The most public place,” Felicity answered in equally soft tones. “The main reading room.”
This was what Morgan had thought castles must be like when he was a child. The library’s main reading room was so vast that its long row of twenty-foot tables did not appear at all crowded in. The ceiling was so high, its collection of electric chandeliers could only provide atmosphere. For reading, each long table held four evenly spaced lamps. A mezzanine wound around the room, bordered by a three-foot high wrought iron railing.
Felicity moved directly to the middle of the fourth table, her pleated skirt swinging around her thighs as she walked, making a subtle sound, like quiet breathing, which could not be heard anyplace else. The man she sat next to was clearly familiar. They would chat for a few minutes and when they were both comfortable Felicity would exchange a previously agreed upon amount of cash for a cardboard tube containing the blueprints.
As the girl had this bit under control, Morgan wandered into the stacks. Of course, that misleading library term really indicates the most orderly arrangement of information humanity has been able to achieve, ruled by the Dewey decimal system.
His wanderings took him into the history section. In the narrow aisle between the tall shelves, his hand dragged along the spines of a series of books he wished he had time to read. He was halfway down it when his pulse speeded up, his blood pressure rose slightly, and adrenalin poured out into his bloodstream. Somehow he knew something was about to threaten his life.
Keeping his eyes on the books in front of him, he inched forward. The sense of danger increased. He took a few steps back. Same reaction. Whatever the danger was, it waited at both ends of the aisle.
Whoever had set these traps was smart enough to track them to the library without him or Felicity noticing. He had to expect professionalism from this crew. To go to either cross aisle would mean unnecessary risk. The best solution was to wait for it.
He pulled Jervis Anderson’s “This Was Harlem” off the rack, turned to lean his left shoulder against the shelf and began to turn pages. But he was not reading. His senses were spread like a radio net, waiting for an attack. He did not think even a silenced pistol could be fired in there without being heard, and no one could escape the stacks without being seen. If his enemy wanted to dispatch him quietly, he would have to do it up close and personal. That was the way Morgan wanted things.
Two minutes later he could feel the danger getting closer. His attacker was completely silent, which in this case did him little good, but spoke volumes about his ability. Morgan’s mouth went dry while he held still, allowing death to approach.
Then, an unexpected distraction gripped him. His teeth began to ache with the intensity of his danger warning. It wasn’t just him.
Felicity!
“I think we’ve already agreed on the price, Mick.” Felicity’s smile hardened a degree. “Don’t be killing the golden goose now, lad.”
“That was before I found out half the city’s been out looking for you, darling.” Mick was a broad, squat man with a ruddy complexion and the wild eyes of his Celtic ancestors. “Don’t I deserve something for the added risk of meeting with you under those circumstances?”
“Well, I’m thinking I’m getting hustled here, but…” Felicity’s head suddenly snapped up, her eyes widening. With her gaze focused on an imaginary spot in space, she gently slid the tube out of Mick’s hands.
“Mick, do you trust me?” she asked in a whisper.
“Well, of course. We’re countrymen, and…”
“Fine.” She forced her smile back into place. “Believe me when I say, you’ll get the price you’re asking for
the research assistance, but I’ll have to get it to you later.”
“Your credit’s good with me.”
“Good.” Felicity slid the cardboard tube under her chair. “Now, stand up, and move away from me as quickly as you can.” Mick started to protest, but her eyes focused on him with a new intensity, letting him know that debate would be foolish. With a nod he got to his feet and slipped away.
Felicity’s body was vibrating with the drive to take flight. She was in very real danger from something at a distance. Slowly she brought her instinctive sense into focus, narrowing the feeling by direction. Her eyes, glazed over in concentration, slowly focused on the wall straight ahead. Was that the source of her danger? No, it was not the wall of books, but above it. The mezzanine.
Just as she brought the man lying on the floor of the mezzanine into focus, her body won control from her mind and flung itself hard left. Before she hit the floor, she heard a sound like a loud cough, and something hard hit and splintered the table where she had been sitting.
A woman screamed, but too far away to have been hit. Felicity jumped to her feet and spotted the sniper in less than a second. He had been prone, aiming a long barreled, silenced rifle. Now he was scrambling toward a window.
Felicity shouted “Up there!” focusing the whole room on his location. She was about to follow the security guard when a wave of perception sent her reeling.
“Morgan!” She turned and ran to the nearest bookshelves. Springing upward, she hooked both arms on the tops of facing shelves and, like a gymnast on the parallel bars, swung herself up to the top.
Morgan’s hands were clammy from waiting. He heard what sounded like a silenced rifle shot, but he dared not react. He could see his assailant in his mind’s eye, creeping up on him. He imagined the other man close enough to touch him. When he heard the rustle of an arm being drawn back, he knew it was time to move.
The book closed as Morgan spun around to his right. It’s spine cracked into the attacker’s arm just below his elbow. His knife ripped Morgan’s windbreaker as it was slammed into the wall of books. Then Morgan shoved the book forward, jamming its top edge into the other man’s throat. Gagging, he dropped to his knees. Morgan did also, grabbing the man by his shirt.
The Payback Assignment foams-1 Page 16
