Ice Woman Assignment

by Austin Camacho

  “Then, when he was immobilized and helpless, you killed him.” It was Morgan’s voice. Felicity saw him step out into the open with his hands behind his head like a prisoner of war. The posture showed the two empty holsters under his arms. He had rolled his new leather jacket around his right arm. Tension showed on his face but not at all in his body. Felicity knew it then. Tomas would soon die.

  “You killed him in pieces,” Morgan continued, stepping forward. “I guess you like that stuff. Makes you feel muy macho, eh?”

  “I didn’t think you’d give up, man,” Tomas said when Morgan stopped about fifteen feet away. “I figured you’d die the same way. But, since you got no cojones, maybe I just call the cops and let them take you away, eh? Or, maybe not.”

  Just kill him. Felicity thought. Kill him now. Please.

  Tomas’ left hand moved. It was a casual movement, as if no effort was involved, but the small knife shot through the air. The throw might have surprised someone else. It beat Morgan by about a tenth of a second. As the blade left Tomas’ hand, Morgan’s left arm arced down. Tomas dropped the gun, his right hand reaching for another blade at his waist. Too late.

  Tomas’ first knife bit into Morgan’s right forearm. His second thudded into the floor about halfway between the two men.

  Morgan’s black throwing blade glanced off Tomas’ collarbone, angling upward into his throat. Paralysis came instantly. Death followed in seconds.

  Felicity hit the floor almost as soon as Tomas did, racing toward Morgan. He sat down on a wooden crate and yanked Tomas’ knife out of his arm.

  “I’m still shaking,” Felicity said. “God that was scary. Saw the whole thing, I did. He was faster than you.”

  “He kept talking about it,” Morgan said. “How he killed, I mean. One limb, then another. I realized he forgot a basic rule. Never do your enemy a minor injury.”

  “So you counted on him hitting your arm, while you, er, went for the throat.” It seemed so simple to verbalize, but the thought of doing it was beyond her. “You planned to take a knife in your arm. That’s why the jacket. To reduce the penetration.”

  “A fact of life, Red,” Morgan said with a weak smile. “Sometimes they hurt you. Wounds heal. What he got, don’t.”

  Felicity felt a deeper understanding of her partner and considered all it meant before she snapped back to reality.

  “Got to get you out of here, and get that tended to,” she said.

  “Not before we get what we came for,” Morgan said. “And my fighting knife’s over there.”

  “I’ll get it,” Felicity said. “Then we grab up your other knife and get the hell out of this place.”

  -33-

  Under harsh bathroom lights, Felicity helped her partner clean out his wound. It was little more than an inch wide and less than two inches deep. It bled freely, but a few months in this man’s company had accustomed her to blood.

  “You ought to get stitches,” Felicity said, blotting his arm with a towel.

  “A pressure dressing’ll do fine,” Morgan replied.

  “Are you daft? Would any injury make you admit it’s more than just another flesh wound?”

  “Of course. And this one was pretty close. If not for that jacket, that little blade would have gone through to the other side. Then we’d have a problem. I know it looks pretty bad, but in a couple of weeks, it’ll be just one more scar.”

  Just one more scar. Those words echoed in Felicity’s head while she lathered herself with a torrent of hot water beating against her back. Why was it so easy for men? Maybe because scars looked rugged. Scars are masculine things. What is for a woman a disfigurement is on a man a badge of action.

  She remembered how Morgan had collapsed on his bed as soon as they finished bandaging his arm.

  “Not a bad cut,” he had said, kicking off his boots. “Certainly an acceptable amount of blood loss. Think I’ll stretch out for a minute.”

  “Go ahead,” Felicity had told him. “After spending a day in a wooden box, I need me a shower more than anything.”

  Now she stepped out of the stall, reaching for a towel. She dried herself facing away from the mirror. Her mind focused on the surprise she had found in the unmarked crate, and all Raoul had said about smuggling, and whether they left any clues to their identities in the warehouse where, in a few hours, someone would find yet another of Anaconda’s men dead. She and Morgan may not have stopped her operation, but they were certainly being hard on her manpower.

  At first she heard a low moan. Then it became a choked gasp, and finally a strangled scream. Without thinking, Felicity ran out of the bathroom. After all, Morgan had seen everything she had before.

  He was sitting straight up in bed in the dark, covered with sweat, staring at some point a mile ahead of him. He was not quite panting. These were more like short, separate breaths of fear. Felicity pressed his head against her chest and wrapped her other arm around his massive shoulders.

  “What is it, Morgan?” she asked. “Are you all right? Is it your arm?”

  “They always come back,” he muttered.

  “They who?” Felicity asked, pulling back just enough so she could see his eyes. They seemed out of focus at first.

  “I’ve killed a lot of men,” Morgan said after spending a moment catching his breath. “Most in war. Some in self defense. One or two for revenge. People think it’s all over after a fight. But at night, some times, they come back. You could never…”

  Four seconds later, Felicity realized why he stopped. He was staring at her. He was staring at her body. It was too late to cover up, to turn away, or even to raise her hands. She gritted her teeth, frozen still in the soft glow from the street lights coming in the window. She could feel tears coming but refused to let them fall.

  Morgan reached out gingerly, as if he could not believe the evidence his eyes offered; lightly tracing her scar from three inches below her collarbone to just above her left nipple where it ended. It felt rough as new scars often are.

  “When?” he asked. “In the truck? Anaconda’s office?”

  Felicity stood and the tears hung just inside her eyelids. Morgan stood beside her and reached for her but she stepped away.

  “Don’t,” she said, barely above a whisper

  “Red, when did this happen….why didn’t…” Morgan reached for her again but she took two more steps away from him.

  “Morgan you don’t understand.” Felicity could no longer stop the tears from dropping but she would not sob or weep. She turned away from him and the tears slid down her cheeks onto her bare breasts.

  “Help me understand.”

  “Don’t you see what that bitch did to me?”

  “Red, you are….”

  “Don’t say it.”

  “Say what?” he asked with a confused look on his face.

  “Don’t say that I’m beautiful…because that bitch took that from me.” She said breathlessly.

  “Not in my eyes.”

  “When I take my clothes off the first thing a man will…” her voice trailed off as the tears flowed more freely. “They will see this.” She pointed but couldn’t bring herself to touch it.

  Morgan stepped in front of her and let his fingers trace the scar again. “Not true. All I see is a beautiful, green eyed, Irish, redhead.” His head dipped lower and he heard her breath catch as his tongue joined his finger.

  “Morgan…you don’t have…”

  “I know I don’t, but I want you to see. If it wasn’t for our weird mental connection I would be all over you.”

  When they first met, Morgan and Felicity felt a strong attraction for each other. Their first and only attempt at sexual intimacy proved their minds were too close for such a relationship. They actually felt what was happening to each other. Morgan found it terrifying but he never stopped admiring her body.

  He continued to lick her softly and finally garnered a small almost inaudible moan from her lips. She suddenly pulled away from him and grabbed
a shirt from the back of the chair. Her voice was harsh, “No woman is beautiful with a deformity.”

  “You’re not just another beautiful woman. You are the most beautiful woman I know.”

  “Don’t patronize—”

  “And don’t you dare take that tone with me.” He reached for the shirt that she was holding against her. “Felicity, I don’t say anything that I don’t mean, and you should know that by now. Besides I have plenty of scars…”

  “We aren’t talking about scars that you can’t see, we are talking about something that defines me as a woman.”

  “But…”

  “But nothing. The scars you have are, are sexy in the worlds eyes. My scar is a hideous reminder that I let…”

  “No, you didn’t let anyone…”

  “That I let someone get the jump on me. Besides your scars are on your arms and chest and body. This is my breast… my breast.” the tears started again.

  “So?”

  “So…women don’t look at you for your arms, “Felicity said, pacing back and forth. “ Women don’t judge you by the look of your arms. No man will want to look at me with this. I used to be so beautiful.”

  “And you still are.”

  Felicity braced her hands on the dresser, leaned forward and swallowed hard. “Oh Morgan, to be disfigured here…you can’t understand.”

  “You’re right. I don’t understand. But listen to me, Red. You’ve still got the best damn tits in the hemisphere. “

  She smiled and leaned into him. “This is why we have got to get her.”

  “Absolutely. She’s going to pay for this.”

  After an eternal silence that may have lasted two minutes, Morgan stood and hugged his friend to him. Maybe he didn’t know what else to do. They were both haunted, and they both knew it, but his ghosts were chased away for now. Her demon was present and real.

  Then his body froze in mid-breath. His head snapped up and he was staring into her widening eyes.

  “Did you feel that?”

  “Oh, yeah!” Felicity said.

  Morgan grasped her arm and flung her through the bedroom door. He dived, hitting the floor at the same instant she did, and a tenth of a second before a bullet punched through the bedroom window and passed within an inch of Morgan’s head.

  -34-

  The cheap carpet smelled of cigarette smoke and scratched Morgan’s cheek as he clung to the floor, cursing himself for his carelessness. What made him think he could eliminate one of the Escorpionista’s killers and just walk away? The thrill of victory had made them miss being followed home. And now the opposition, a little more careful after seeing what Morgan could do, was moving to eliminate him and his partner.

  A pro would expect their targets to lay low, and would aim low to compensate. Knowing that, Morgan flipped up onto the bed, staying flat while easing his pistol out of its holster hanging at the corner of the bed. He heard another shot but this time a bullet zipped across the living room. The first shooter couldn’t have gotten to the other side of the house that fast, so there must be a second. A crossfire could be an issue, but he had to deal with one problem at a time.

  Then another rifle bullet raced across the bedroom, punching into the wall no more than two inches from the first. Morgan stared at the entry hole and a slow smile spread across his face.

  Felicity squirmed into her tee shirt and rolled across the floor a second before the shot raced across the living room. She didn’t waste much time wondering how the shooters had found them, who they were or why they were firing into the bungalow. At least two people were out there right now who wanted her and her partner dead. This kind of situation was in Morgan’s wheelhouse. Her job was to stay alive, and see if there was any way to help him.

  She moved quickly along the floor, pushing into the bathroom where she had dropped most of her clothes and gear. Another rifle shot rang out just as she reached her tool belt. These killers clearly weren’t worried about neighbors interfering with their work. Even with silencers rifles make a lot of noise. But she knew they would have limited time before someone called the police. She had an idea of how she might distract them for a while. Grabbing her little flashlight she got to her feet and sprinted for the kitchen area. A glass exploded on the counter, a victim of another rifle shot. She judged the delay between shots to be a good four or five seconds which was plenty of time.

  Felicity sprang across the room, one bare foot slapping on the counter beside the sink, her leg driving her upward. Outstretched hands slapped against the hatch over the sink, covering the attic access. Her strong fingers clamped onto the edge of the opening and for a moment she hung, vulnerable, a long vertical target naked from the waist down. After one deep breath she heaved, pulling herself up through the port and into the attic space.

  The darkness was even deeper there, but darkness had always been Felicity’s friend. What she hated was the dust, the heat, the stale air, and cobwebs clinging to her hair. She wished she had had time to pull on a pair of shorts. Fear tried to press itself on her but she forced the thought of unknown insects out of her mind. This was where she needed to be, and she had things she needed to do.

  Unfinished wood abraded her legs as she moved on hands and knees across the boards. Pressing upward periodically it didn’t take her long to find a hinged door that pivoted upward and opened to the sky. She flipped it up and stood to her full height which put her head and shoulders outdoors. She took a deep breath of the fresh, salt-flavored air and looked around. The moonless night would pose no challenge to her navigating on the flat tar roof, but she would still have a use for her flashlight.

  Morgan lay on the bed with arms extended toward the outer wall. Somewhere beyond that wall someone sat with what Morgan guessed was a bolt action .308 caliber rifle. The caliber he guessed from the bullet holes. The action he guessed from the time between shots. He didn’t know how far away his attacker was, but he knew the general direction. That would be enough to reach out and touch him if he didn’t move. The risk, of course, was that if the shooter did move, Morgan returning fire would allow the shooter to pin down his location in the house. A good sniper would then be able to blow a hole in Morgan a second later.

  But Morgan lay still and soon his patience was rewarded. A third shot tore through the wall right on top of the first two, to impact the opposite wall an inch away from the first two shots. That was all Morgan needed.

  Twisting his shoulders allowed Morgan to roll off the bed, holding his body straight as he did. He landed hard on the floor on his right side. Ignoring the pain in his hip and elbow he rolled another quarter turn. That aligned his body with the incoming bullets’ trajectory, his arms outstretched toward the source of the shots. In the darkened room he could just see the entry holes. He adjusted his pistol so that one of those holes appeared to rest on top of his gun’s front blade sight, and right between the glowing blades of its tritium rear sight.

  He was sitting on the bull’s-eye now. The sniper could take another shot at any time. But Morgan could not be hasty. He exhaled and held his breath out. He slowly squeezed his trigger until his gun jumped in his hand. Then he rolled under the bed, ears still ringing from his own shot.

  Felicity was scampering around the roof, looking for the shooters. She knew there were at least two, and maybe more. Her night vision was exceptional, and her eyes had adjusted to the scant starlight. She moved along the edge of the roof, ignoring both the smell of the tar and the feel of it clinging to her skin and fine hairs that were seldom exposed outdoors.

  There! A man brazenly leaning back against a car parked in the lot about twenty-five yards away. He was seated with his knees up, holding a rifle whose barrel rested on what looked like extra long bipod legs. He was focused on their bungalow, but had not looked up to see her peeping over the edge of the roof.

  “Comfortable, you bleeding bastard?” Felicity whispered. “I hope you…”

  She was interrupted by the sound of gunfire but there was no muzzle
flash from the sniper’s rifle. The man’s head jerked forward, then back against the car. Then his hands slipped from his weapon and he slowly tipped over. He landed on his right side and lay still.

  “Morgan,” she thought. “How the hell did you do that?” She grinned, shaking her head at her partner’s abilities, and then scurried across the roof to the other side. That side of the building faced a small but lush park, thick with trees, bushes and lower vegetation. She didn’t know how Morgan targeted the first shooter, but was pretty sure the second would be harder to spot. She wanted to get into position to help if she could.

  With a quick dash across the floor Morgan slid into place behind the sofa in the living room. Peering over the couch’s back Morgan tried to mentally picture the other shooter. He’d have no way to know his partner was down, and no reason to retreat until the police appeared. If Morgan could get the man in his sights he could leave without fear of being hunted down, at least for a while.

  An instinctive jolt of danger made Morgan drop down behind the couch just before another heavy bullet tore through the furniture. This stuff was getting old. Morgan pushed up onto hands and knees and scurried to the wall facing the source of the rifle fire. He just needed one chance at the killer outside. He crouched beside the window, held his pistol muzzle up in front of him, and waited.

  A slow, deep breath. A second. A third. During his fourth breath a bullet poked through the wall on the other side of the window. Morgan quickly turned so that his outstretched arms held his gun’s muzzle against the glass. He was prepared to guess the vector and empty his gun, hoping for a hit. What he saw made him pause, but only for a second. A pencil thin beam of red light shone down from the roof to a spot at the edge of the park.

  “Felicity,” he said. “It has to be.” With a grin he squeezed his trigger to place a single bullet on the spot where the flashlight pointer beam ended. He couldn’t see the impact point, but his trust in his partner made him pretty confident. Still, he waited one long minute for some response. He felt no further danger warning, but he needed to be sure. Morgan was still frozen in place, aiming out the now empty window casing, when Felicity dropped down out of the ceiling.