Ice Woman Assignment

by Austin Camacho

  So clearly, Barton had stayed out, gotten drunk and now, just seconds before daybreak, he was trying to slip in. Morgan’s reliable sixth sense registered no danger, so it had to be him.

  Then the door swung open, and in dawn’s half light, Morgan found himself facing a wide round woman with udders where her breasts should be, wearing a sun dress in a yellow print. The woman drew breath for a scream, but it could not seem to come out.

  Then a man stepped around her. He was her height, about five foot six, Mexican, whipcord thin with a mousy face and slicked back hair. “Who the hell are you?” he bellowed.

  “Just visiting Mister Barton, the man who’s renting this place.” As Morgan said it, the woman’s scream finally broke free. Felicity appeared in the bedroom doorway in a tee shirt and shorts she must have slept in.

  “Your friend,” the thin man said. “Your friend. He’s, Jesus, he’s out here. The police. Madre de Dios.”

  Morgan burst through the couple at the door with Felicity close behind. He ran toward the street, stepping through sea oats and morning glories, toward a flashing light and the ambulance under it. As sunlight played over the street at a sharp angle, he saw two tall blond men crouching to lift a body. Moving as if he saw a stranger walking out with some property he owned, Morgan stepped up to the corpse just as the two blondes placed it onto a black body bag.

  Chuck Barton’s face reflected neither pain nor fear. Those brown eyes flashed rage. His muscles were already rigid, increasing the effect of anger. Morgan stopped the men from closing the bag long enough to scan Barton’s entire form. He was dressed as Morgan had last seen him, except for the five projections.

  One small knife handle stood out from each thigh. One was in his right forearm and another in his left biceps. The one in his throat hung to the right. There was little blood, only deep brown stains on his clothing. Most of Barton’s blood would still be where he died.

  “For God’s sake, would you close his eyes?” It was Felicity. Morgan had forgotten she was there until it was too late. He looked over his shoulder at her shattered expression, then reached down and brushed Barton’s eyes shut.

  When Morgan stepped out the door, his focus had narrowed to Barton’s body. Now he slowly expanded his perceptions. Felicity stood shaking, barefoot on the wet grass, her fists pressed into her face. The woman in the print dress tried to comfort her. Then he noticed the two quiet men carrying the zippered bag into the back of the ambulance. Passers-by and curious neighbors clustered around the white panel van in a small, tight group, wanting to see but not wanting to get too close to death, as if it might be contagious. When Morgan finally took in the plain clothed detective and two uniformed officers, they approached him.

  “Marcell,” the detective said, flashing a badge. “I understand you were sharing a beach house with the deceased. I’m sorry for your loss.” He had a big square jaw and shoulders so wide they made him look triangular. He had a lot to say, but Morgan cut him off.

  “I’m Stark. The guy in the bag is Chuck Barton. That’s O’Brien.” Morgan hooked a thumb at Felicity. “She and the deceased were going to be married soon. I think he’s involved in police work too, FBI or something. Sure looks like a gang execution, eh?”

  “What do you know about it?” Marcell asked, pulling out a note book.

  “Not much,” Morgan said. “I’m in the security business in California, but this was a pleasure trip. Look, let me find the girl a hotel room and I promise we’ll come down to the station house in a couple hours and give you a statement, okay?”

  “I’m not an insensitive man, Mister Stark,” Marcell said, although his voice said exactly the opposite. “In fact, I’ll be glad to have one of these officers escort you and your friend to a hotel. Before you go, could you just give me Mister Barton’s home address?”

  Morgan could not. Barton was neither in deep cover nor in an agency office job. He maintained a free-lance relationship with the CIA and after several years as a mercenary, he might not have a home of record at all. Before he could stammer out an answer, Felicity fell into his arms.

  “Morgan, get me away from here,” she said. Then, to Marcell she said “Chuck lived alone, but I can give you a number to call. His office was near his home.”

  Less than an hour later Morgan and Felicity walked into the blue brick and glass palace known as The Sheraton Marina Inn, on North Shoreline just across the street from the Bay. They registered at the desk in separate rooms. Their police escort left. They went to the elevator with their luggage. Once inside, they went to the basement and from there out a rear exit.

  “Abandon the Bronco,” Morgan said as they stepped into the morning sunshine.

  “And we need to be getting to a hotel with a lower profile,” Felicity said. Her eyes were hooded, and Morgan knew she hurt. Later, they would deal with it. Right now, he had to hail a cab.

  Felicity stared out the window during the entire ride. Morgan sneered his best snicker and told the driver to get him to a small, cheap motel. With thirty minutes they checked into a place with flowered wallpaper, a plastic clock radio on the headboard, and a color television mounted in the corner. For a fee they could get erotic movies.

  “Hungry?” Morgan asked as soon as he set the luggage down.

  “We lost the boy,” Felicity said, staring out the window. “Now Chuck’s dead. Why is he dead?”

  “Right,” Morgan said. “I’m going after some breakfast. When I get back, you tell me why.”

  The nearest fast food restaurant was three blocks away. Morgan returned with ham and egg sandwiches, hash brown potatoes, orange juice and pastries which bore no resemblance to Danishes, but still carried that name. He sat on the edge of one of the twin beds with his legs between them and laid his treasures out on the thin blanket. Felicity sat cross legged in the middle of the other bed, facing him. She ignored the food, but Morgan started on a sandwich right away. While he chewed, he turned on the radio, twisting the knob until he found something symphonic. Public radio, he assumed. The sound was tinny, but somewhat soothing nonetheless.

  “What was the phone number you gave the police?” Morgan asked.

  “CIA headquarters,” Felicity said. “It’s in Langley, so if he checks, the cop’ll think it’s FBI, backing up your quick story. Whoever answers will know what to do and say to make the police investigation go away.”

  “Right. So, why is Chuck dead?” Morgan said between mouthfuls. Felicity looked up at him, but he kept his eyes off her. He had been in this spot before with fellow warriors. He knew Felicity had pain, grief and guilt to unload, and Morgan knew she had to start talking to get it done.

  Morgan pressed again. “Tell me why.”

  “How should I know?”

  “You know,” Morgan insisted. “Think. Then tell me.”

  After a moment, Felicity said, “I see. I drove him out. Because I wouldn’t sleep with him he went back to the warehouse…”

  “Try again,” Morgan said.

  “He went to the warehouse to get back at me…”

  “No,” Morgan said. “Not you. He loved you. Try me.” This idea seemed to push Felicity’s thoughts in a whole new direction. She considered, and then started talking while she put new thoughts together.

  “Loved me? Frederico said he loved me. But I wasn’t in love, Morgan. I mean, I liked him but I didn’t…he was a good friend. A good lover.”

  “Why did he die?” Morgan asked again.

  “He was jealous. Can you believe it? Jealous of you, of our relationship. I guess I see why. Nobody’s as good as you, Morgan, not at the rough stuff, at the tricky stuff. He wanted to prove himself to me.” At this point Morgan nodded, but continued eating. “He went to that warehouse to prove himself to me.” Felicity’s voice rose. “He wanted to beat that Tomas guy and find the drugs and prove he was as good as you.” Then her voice dropped to a whisper. “I did kill him.”

  “Nope, he killed himself,” Morgan said, finishing his juice. “Listen, Red,
you’re not God and you don’t run people. Chuck used to be one of the best. I know. I’ve fought side by side with him. But hanging with the CIA too long hurt him. He lost his edge. Slept wrong. Drank too much. Just lost his edge. He got mad and headed out drunk or almost drunk to confront that Tomas guy. That was suicide.”

  “Is it wrong to want revenge?”

  “Not where I come from,” Morgan said. “I think we ought to take about a dozen of my best guys, catch the next plane to Colombia, find out where this Anaconda bitch lives and blow the place up.” He did not smile. He was dead serious.

  “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anyone dead so badly,” Felicity said. “But we can’t just go. Chuck got sent here to find the ice she’s shipping into Texas. We can’t leave until we finish that job for him.”

  “Just how do we do that?”

  “Not sure yet,” Felicity said, pulling her legs up into a proper lotus posture. “I just know Chuck’s death is for nothing if we don’t. I need some time, Morgan. Time alone, to think.” She did not necessarily mean he had to leave. Her hands rested on her knees and she focused on a point in space.

  Morgan recognized it. She was in a mild trance state, like his wharangdo instructors had tried to make him attain back in Vietnam. He never quite mastered it, mostly because it did not seem like a manly practice to him. He was a boy then.

  Then he quietly stood up and left the room, locking the door behind him. He doubted anyone was looking for him or Felicity in that city. The bad guys had hunted for Frederico, and now that search was over. If they wanted revenge on Morgan or Felicity they could just wait for them to return home where they would be easy to find.

  Morgan thought he understood Felicity’s problem. she felt guilty because Frederico counted on them for salvation and they failed him. Piled on top of that, she felt guilty because she had not returned Barton’s love. He died thinking he had a chance to win her heart. Any woman would have trouble dealing with that. She would need a lot of time to get it all in perspective. That was all right. A long walk would help him relax. First, though, he needed to make a phone call and he didn’t want it traced back to his cell.

  It took a bit of searching but Morgan found a pay telephone outside a drug store. He was pleased to see it accepted a credit card, since he hadn’t thought to load up on change. He dialed a number in Panama City. After an unexpectedly quick connection, a mechanical voice answered.

  “Hello. Put me through to Mark Roberts please. Tell him it’s Morgan Stark. I think he’s expecting my call.”

  Morgan waited through a silence that was just long enough for the receptionist to find his name on Roberts’ list of contacts. When she returned she spoke in a slightly warmer tone.

  “Sir, I’m afraid that Mr. Roberts is on vacation this week. Can I take a message?”

  “No, this is rather urgent. Do you have a number where I can reach him today?”

  After another brief pause the girl gave him a phone number. Another extensive dialing session gave an exchange in Colombia.

  Morgan met Mark Roberts in the Congo years ago. Roberts was undercover then, and Morgan helped in his mission. They lost contact, but last year Roberts had remembered him and gotten him involved in an assignment involving the aborted Piranha submarine project. Now Roberts was the Central Intelligence Agency regional director for Central America, a prestigious if ulcer-ridden assignment.

  “Yes?”

  “Mark, it’s Stark,” Morgan said. “Unsecured line. Flash priority. L and D.” It was a very simple pass code, Morgan thought, indicating important news, of a life and death nature.

  “It’s okay, Morgan. Incoming is scrambled and a phone booth’s good enough. What’s going on? Did you hook up with Barton in Texas?”

  “Roger that,” Morgan said. “We got here safe. But Mark, we hit some opposition.”

  “How heavy?”

  “Mark, Chuck Barton’s dead.” A long silence came over the line, followed by a deep sigh. They had not really been friends, and Roberts had lost men before, but Morgan knew it always hurt.

  “I copy. I.D. the hitter?” Roberts asked, trying to keep it business. Morgan decided to follow his lead.

  “That’s a roger. Also located probable ice drop.”

  “Can you gather evidence?”

  “Check,” Morgan said. He was certain Felicity would find a way.

  “You know Company policy when rival organizations drain our manpower. Can you?” Morgan knew that Roberts did not really want to ask, but he had to. And Morgan was very glad he did.

  “A free sample, if available.”

  “Okay, Morgan.” Roberts sounded tired. “Get me that evidence if accessible without excessive risk. And request hitter be dismissed with extreme prejudice. I’ll cover legal.” No qualifier. Just get him.

  “Wilco,” Morgan said. “Thank you.” he did not say.

  “Give my condolences to Felicity, will you? I understand they were pretty close. And call when you’ve got something.”

  “That’s a big roger all around. Stark out.” Now, thought Morgan, time for that long walk.

  Born a New Yorker, Morgan never really adjusted to how streets look in California, and Texas was not much different. Palm trees lined broad avenues, sidewalks were wide, and pedestrians, not cars, ruled the road. Back in The Bronx, stepping off the curb made you a target if you were not directly under a traffic light. In Corpus Christi, a transplanted West Coast city, jumping out into traffic suddenly could cause a twenty-car pile up as all the drivers locked up their brakes.

  Morgan did not know how long he had walked, but the sun was almost directly overhead when the increased salt in the air caught his attention. He had wandered into the docks area. Oh, well, he was a man who lived by his instincts. He walked a long loop which brought him to the corner across the street from the main door of Golden Heart’s warehouse.

  This building had an exterior fire escape. Morgan pulled down the bottom ladder, and climbed to the flat roof. Standing with his hands in his pockets, he surveyed the area. While he watched, Tomas stepped outside for a little knife practice. Morgan knew the knives in Barton’s body would show no fingerprints, but he had no doubt they came from that bandoleer around Tomas’ waist.

  It would be so easy. A drive by shooting, like they did it so often in L.A. Tomas would be history. Barton would be avenged.

  Yeah, Morgan thought, and cops would descend on that warehouse and there would be no getting at any drugs inside before the rightful owners moved them away. First, he and Felicity had to get inside and find the poisonous evidence. Only then would he have the privilege of sending this particular man to hell.

  When Morgan reached his motel again the sun was long down and a slight breeze cooled the city. No one followed him or even noticed him all day. He turned the key in the lock, not really sure what he would find.

  Felicity sat in a chair eating from a white carton using chopsticks. Similar boxes were lined up on the low chest of drawers. She wore a plain gray sweat suit, indicating she must have gone out for a while to buy it. Somehow Morgan could sense she was in control. Not quite her old confident self, but much closer.

  “Hi, partner,” Felicity said with a smile. “Found a place with pretty good Chinese food. They wouldn’t give up any forks, so I hope you know how to work these things.”

  “No problem,” Morgan said, returning her smile and picking up one of the cartons. Shrimps and fried rice. Good choice. “You look a lot better than when I left, Red. Got your balance back?”

  “Want to hear it all?”

  “Of course,” Morgan said, plopping on one of the beds.

  “First, I didn’t let Frederico down. He’d still be safe if he’d stayed in the cottage like he was told. Boy was a little slow, he was, and he got himself in the fix he’s in.”

  “Very good,” Morgan said, shoving rice into his mouth. About two thirds of it reached its destination on each trip.

  “Second, I won’t take the blame t
hat Chuck fell for me. Besides that, he made a stupid mistake, he did, in a business that doesn’t allow for stupid mistakes. I’ll mourn him and I’ll miss him, I really will, but I can’t take the blame for his death.”

  “You had to see that for yourself,” Morgan said, gathering rice from his bed and dumping it into an ashtray.

  “And third, Anaconda hasn’t locked all the right doors,” Felicity said, smiling into Morgan’s face. “I can get in the warehouse. I checked it out and I can do it tomorrow, but we will have to leave here before dawn to make it work.”

  “No special gear or prep?” Morgan asked, going to the chest of drawers and fishing an egg roll out of another carton.

  “Got everything we need in that bag,” she said. While he was standing, Morgan opened the large black vinyl purse Felicity must have bought while she was out. He saw a claw hammer, a small plastic mallet, a few big nails, a short crowbar, two chamois cloths, a tiny flashlight, a small hand drill and a box of drinking straws.

  He chose not to ask.

  -30-

  The target clicked across the street half a block away on snake skin cowboy boots. Paul leaned back into the doorway to avoid the light drizzle. He was not worried about losing his target.

  His name was Eduardo Salazar. Paul had learned his name from the young drug user with the dislocated shoulder. Paul thought this was the easiest surveillance job he had ever had. The man was loud, in every way imaginable. His voice of course, and his manner. And his clothes as well. He wore a yellow silk shirt and a collection of gold chains which must have weighed heavily around his neck.

  Even without all that, he would be hard to miss. He carried a scar on the side of his face from a knife or broken bottle that had just missed his right eye. Aside from that, Paul saw the evidence of serious burns on his chin and left cheek.

  Edwardo went into a bar called El Noches. Paul stepped out into the night, barely aware of the rain. He had been following Edwardo for the better part of three days, and he had an idea of his motion pattern. He was a small time dealer, who stopped at four places in the neighborhood to take care of his customers, but always ended the evening here. Paul thought he might meet his supplier in this place. He seldom came out that door until noon the next day. He eventually crashed in a small apartment two floors above the bar.