More Than Gold
By Shirley Hailstock
ISBN: 978-1-939214-09-6
Copyright: Shirley T. Hailstock
April 2014
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher: Shirley T. Hailstock PO Box 513, Plainsboro, NJ 08536-0513.
Photo Credit: Canstock.com
Photo Credit: Pixabay - public domain
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MORE THAN GOLD
Morgan wore her leotard and tights. She could explain she was heading for the gym to practice when she saw him. Jack gave her no need to explain. Neither of them spoke a word.
He walked directly to her, his gait easy, unhurried, his weight balanced. She had to look up as he approached. Morgan watched him, a dark Poseidon, a devil-god rising from the sea, advancing toward her, the light of the water in his eyes. Her heart beat so hard she was sure he could see her chest moving. Yet they continued to stare, one at the other.
He stopped in front of her. Too close. He breathed hard from physical exertion. Morgan felt the same although she had done none of the work that he'd performed while she watched him.
Her eyes rose to Jack's. Gone was the coldness she'd always seen there. Gone was the hostility that normally greeted her when she found herself in his line of vision. His eyes were liquid, large brown circles that spoke to her without language, without tongue or teeth or movement. She heard his mind, his heart; his need for her already knew the words.
Dedication
To my sister Loretta Hailstock who had a dream and fought to win it despite overwhelming odds.
Table of Contents
Proglogue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
Excerpt of Mirror Image
Dear Reader
Books by Shirley Hailstock
Prologue
Brian Ashleigh stared at the screen in the small, plushly appointed room. He sat in a great chair of soft rose velvet. It had wide arms, and both the seat and back moved to slightly recline for additional comfort. The room was a small auditorium that could seat fifty people, but only he and four other men occupied the space. Three of them sat on the first row, separated by an empty seat between them. One man sat in the center of the rows of seats and the fifth man sat alone on the last row, away from the group. It was his nature. He worked alone and didn't approve of this plan. The child on the screen was only a few years younger than one of Brian's daughters.
Dressed in a white leotard, she stood poised on the uneven parallel bars, her body leaning forward, her hands reaching for the next bar as she began another of several routines he'd watched more than once. At nineteen, she was America's sweetheart. The darling of an age of satellite television, palm-size video machines and music that made his eardrums split. She was beautiful, golden brown with long hair she'd tied into a ponytail. It bounced as she went from routine to routine, swinging sideways as it and her body seemingly floated on air from one release move to another. Brian had been an athlete in his youth. His sport was basketball. He'd played in high school and college, before it was necessary to be six foot seven to even be considered for anything more than the bowling league.
He knew the drill of hours of practice, the bandaged knees, muscle spasms and exhaustion that every athlete was committed to in their quest to stand in the spotlight. Morgan Kirkwood had spent most of her young life in pursuit of that goal. This would be her chance, that moment in time, that she'd worked toward. She had everything going for her: a past she'd overcome, her luck at finding the right venue and having it recognized. At nineteen she'd lived more, seen more, experienced more than most adults. She'd spent hours honing her muscles, refining her routine, working toward a goal that could only shine on one person in the world.
And he was going to ask her to give it up.
His eyes followed her across the film. She moved to a large clear area covered with blue carpet designed for floor exercises. Music began, an upbeat peppy song. She was poised, confident, ready. She wore a smile that showed no fear and no cares beyond her routine. Stopping in a comer, she started the first run, crossing the blue expanse of rug with an easy rhythm that almost made her routine appear effortless. Then she did the unexpected and did it well, so well he wasn't sure he'd even seen it. He watched her leap into the air, defying gravity, drawing her arms close to her body and making several turns and twists that had technical names like layout and double axial, but he couldn't remember which one went with which move, before her feet touched the ground with the sureness of a Billy-goat on a familiar mountain. No one in the room moved or spoke. Morgan Kirkwood had them spellbound. Brian was sure they were holding their breaths, just as he was doing, just as America did each time this leggy child came to the center of the arena.
She hadn't been slated to succeed at anything, not gymnastics, not even at life. She'd spent her early years on the streets, homeless, fending for herself, eating garbage and fighting to survive, trusting no hand that reached for her. Hands could look benevolent but turn quickly to swat her aside like an unwanted fly. Brian's heart tightened for this child. The woman who'd seen her on a playground and recognized her potential had been her caseworker and eventual parent. She'd convinced Morgan to take lessons at a local gymnastics- school and Brian had no doubt it had changed her life. He felt like a dog asking her to give up what she'd worked for her entire young life.
But he had no choice.
She was due to go in a few months. Seoul, South Korea. The Olympics. Morgan would go and the United States would watch their televisions for the two-week period when it looked like all was right with the world. To the average Joe, the world stopped and paid attention to the ministry of athletes, giving them the role of ambassadors of good will. Yet for Brian it was a much bleaker period. It was the time of terrorists and fools. It brought out the worst of the worst in an effort to disrupt, disturb, maim and kill. He was glad the event would not be on American soil.
The film was more than half an hour long. Morgan went through her routines over and over. Several different days and outfits passed through the magic of video. Brian looked at her face. He liked to see people, wanted to read through their exterior and see if the inner soul was good or bad. He'd been successful in most of his character calls, and looking at Morgan he could see her youth, her idealism, her complete blindness to the things he'd seen in his own lifetime. Yet he was about to ask her to join him in one of the worst. He needed her to save the United States from embarrassment on a worldwide scale. H
e needed her to attend the Olympics, and while she was there he needed her to steal. Break into a heavily guarded prison and return with a man, an intelligence agent, who held secrets that had lain dormant since World War II.
In exchange for this little package, which could get her caught or killed if she was lucky, he'd grant her a wish, but only one and only within reason. He defined reason and he offered the wish.
"Shall we watch it again?" Jacob Winston sat on his right. Jacob was in charge of the witness protection program and Morgan Kirkwood might well meet with him in the coming months. It was why he'd asked Jacob to attend. Along with him had come Brian's friend, Clarence Christopher, Director of the FBI.
"I've seen enough," Brian said. "Send it to my office."
Brian spoke into a phone connecting him to the projectionist in the glass booth behind them.
Replacing the phone in its cradle, he stood up. The four other men looked at him. "What do you think?" the youngest one asked, the man sitting on the farthest row, apart from the group, his face hidden in shadow. He was a loner, Brian knew, and he also knew what the man thought of the mission and the inclusion of Morgan Kirkwood as part of the plan. He disapproved of every aspect that involved the girl.
Jack Temple was a young, educated man who knew both the streets and the jungle. He'd lived in both. He joined the police academy, but had been recruited for work with the Central Intelligence Agency. Jack left his position and came forward, walking down the steps to the floor of the auditorium with unhurried steps.
"I'm against this," he said and not for the first time. "We'll get her killed or she'll get us killed."
"She'll be trained as best we can. She'll be a rookie, but everyone was a rookie once," Brian told him.
"She's not a rookie," he said. "She's less than a rookie. She's a goddamn civilian."
"Jack, she was your idea," Forrest Washington, Jack's immediate boss, pointed out.
"She wasn't my idea. I wanted an agent, not a child."
"Child? She's not that much younger than you," Brian said.
"You grow up fast in this business," Jack replied.
"She will," Brian told him.
She would have no choice. Jack looked young to Brian, although he was twenty-five. Brian was nearing twice his age and he would be sending him and that nineteen-year-old on a job to save face for the United States, its president and the country at large. Neither of them would ever be able to speak of it.
Jack stood face to face with him, although a head taller, and Brian made a decision he'd known he'd have to make even before seeing the film.
"It's time," he sighed. "See if she'll do it."
CHAPTER 1
Twelve Years Later
Morgan Kirkwood hadn't made her bed over a warm grate in some filthy alley in the southeast section of Washington, D.C., for nearly twenty years. She'd replaced shoes made of torn newspaper soles and discarded rags with designer suits, handmade boots and satin bed sheets, but her sense of danger, the need for self-preservation, piqued her senses the moment she stepped from the oven heat of the garage to the air-cooled comfort of her kitchen.
Someone was here.
She could feel him. A man. She didn't smell a male scent or the faint odor of sweat. Not even a cologne betrayed his presence. It was the air that had changed. It hadn't been stirred like a morning cup of coffee or hastily rushed through by an aerobic exerciser. Whoever was here had passed through it with ease, barely moving, seeking, but not with stealth, more with purpose. Morgan had schooled herself to be aware. Living on the streets of D.C. had given her a course in survival, in being prepared for anything at any time. She thought she'd forgotten it, but her senses were alive, and Adrenaline pumped into her blood. Her mind sharpened as she thought of what was at hand that she could use as a weapon. Internal radar scoped the space, trying to hone in on the hiding place of her assailant. She didn't sense more than one.
He could be a robber, someone looking to feed a habit, someone she walked in on, but Morgan knew better. Whoever was here was looking for her. He'd been coming for twelve years. Finally they'd connected.
Tonight one of them would die.
***
Morgan put her purse on the counter and stepped out of her heels. The kitchen tiles were cool to her stockinged feet. Her clothes were a disadvantage, but she couldn't do anything about them. She'd been to dinner with friends and wore a straight dress with short sleeves and high heels. The dress had no pockets and she'd like to keep the car keys, but the dress had no place to put them. She was going to need her hands. As her mind probed the space around her, hunting for the hiding place of her killer, she removed money and her drivers license and, along with the keys, stuffed them inside her bra.
The kitchen had a pantry, but she didn't feel him in there. The space was small and crowded with canned vegetables, flour, sugar, bottles of maple syrup and other nonperishable foods. The dining room and living room were both accessible from the kitchen. Neither room had any hiding places that didn't involve furniture. There was a hall closet near the front entrance. Like most people living in development housing they entered through the garage. Morgan's house wasn't in a development. It was set apart, far into the woods, alone, deserted and, now she felt, vulnerable, but the garage was connected to the house by a short hallway. The front door was only opened for guests and to let the air in on warm, breezy days. It was much too hot today. Every house would have its air conditioner running, and the neighbors would be too preoccupied with the noise of life to notice anything different even if they could see Morgan's house.
Taking a knife from the kitchen rack, she noticed all of them were present and accounted for. The killer must have his own weapon. Of course he would, she thought, nearly laughing at her own stupidity. He hadn't picked up anything or moved anything. Every piece of furniture was in the exact place. Every dish, every pot was exactly where she'd left it.
But he was here.
She knew he would come, knew someone would. First Austin Fisk, reporter for that rag the St. Louis Star, begins poking into her past, calling for interviews and following her around. Then the mysterious feeling she was being watched by someone other than Fisk plagued her. He was too much an in-your-face reporter for covert action, but she could feel it. All the time. No matter if she went to the mailbox or drove into St. Louis to meet friends, there was that feeling of being under surveillance. She could see nothing, no matter how often she looked over her shoulder or glanced in the rearview mirror, only the feeling remained. There was no visible evidence of anything, but she knew someone was there.
Morgan moved through the space of her kitchen like a thief. She didn't want to be surprised. Her eyes shifted from side to side, taking in the entire room and all its crevices. Her heartbeat accelerated, pounded in her chest and her ears, and she consciously willed it to slow down. She needed all her wits, all her thought processes to be at their best if she was to survive.
He would know she was in the house. She'd disabled the alarm when she came in and he would have heard that. Somehow he'd gotten past the code that she'd programmed into the system. Morgan knew that wouldn't be hard to do. This was a good system, but it wasn't foolproof, especially for the kind of person they would send after her. What she had was worth a good price. The killer would be experienced, paid well and ready for anything.
Morgan had to be ready too. She circled around the living room, checked behind every piece of furniture and almost convinced herself she was being paranoid. She went to the stairs. She wouldn't go up. There was no way out if she went to any of the bedrooms. There were four bedrooms. He could be in any of them. While she checked one he could surprise her from behind. If necessary she'd go back the way she'd come.
Suddenly she saw something. A shadow. She whirled around. Nothing. Had she really seen it? Morgan was sure of her mind. If she saw a shadow, it was there. She moved toward the area. Slowly, her shoeless feet making no noise on the tiled entryway, she got to the stairs, looking rig
ht and left. Nothing.
Suddenly, he was behind her. A hand came over her mouth, cutting her scream. A gloved hand that tasted like engine oil clamped her mouth closed and prevented her from making a sound. She tried to scream, but he pulled her head back, wrenching her neck to the point of pain. His free arm grabbed the hand holding the knife and pulled it backward until the pain in her arm forced her to drop her only weapon. Then he circled her waist and his leg spread between hers and wrapped candy-cane style around one of hers. This kept her from kicking. If she tried to lift a foot she'd lose her balance and fall. Still she fought, using whatever appendage she had free, arms, hands, her body, her head. She tried to butt him, but he moved, anticipating her blow.
Morgan fought with every ounce of the twelve-year-old street waif who learned to withstand the dangers of being alone and female. She concentrated her energy, winding it into whatever move she made, concentrating her entire weight into the blow she intended to deliver. He outwitted her at every turn. But he relaxed the hold on her mouth. Taking advantage of it, she bit down on the hand in her mouth. Her killer screamed, but held fast to her, dashing her hope of escaping his hold. He kicked her leg out, too far for her to remain upright. They both went down to the bare floor. She scrambled, trying to get away, but he was larger, faster, stronger. He grabbed her about the shoulders and flipped her over, pinning her to the floor.
Morgan's hands were free and she pounded at the shoulders and head of the killer. He grabbed her hands and pinned them above her on either side of her head.
"Morgan, stop it!"
She looked at him.
"Not you," she said, and renewed her struggles.
"Stop it or I'll kiss you."
More Than Gold (Capitol Chronicles Book 3) Page 1
