The Payback Assignment

by Camacho, Austin S.

  THE PAYBACK ASSIGNMENT

  by

  Austin S. Camacho

  PROLOGUE

  “This hardly seems like the time or place for this conversation,” Marlene Seagrave said between sips of champagne. “I’m not sure I’m ready to ruin my figure that way.”

  Adrian Seagrave scanned the room, his eyes sliding over the other wealthy couples.

  “You may have been a beauty contest winner when I married you...”

  “I think maybe that’s why you married me,” she said.

  “...but too much good living has already loosened your figure, my dear. Before you grow too far, I want an heir.”

  Marlene spun off under the grand chandelier. Her shorter husband had to sprint to keep up with her. Marlene inspected the other wives as she passed through the festive crowd. She was younger than most of the women in the Canfield Casino that evening, because Mrs. Whitney generally invited old money to her Saratoga Springs soirees. But many of these more mature women looked great. Better than Marlene had lately, she had to admit to herself. Her legs were not what they once were, back when she was Miss North Carolina, and her abdomen had swelled just a bit with what women called a pooch. Still, her complexion was as clear as ever, her natural blonde hair retained just the right amount of curl, and she knew her face was still striking.

  Besides, she was still in far better shape than her husband, and weighed considerably less. She turned to review his appearance. His once-handsome face was beginning to sag under the weight of a double chin, and his hair was rapidly deserting his scalp. Of course, she knew that all of that was beside the point.

  As a waiter walked by she captured another glass, exchanging it for her empty one, throwing words over her shoulder at her husband. “You’d have a better chance at getting me pregnant if I was a little drunker.”

  “All right, I get it.” Seagrave sidled up to her, his little pig eyes pressed almost closed by a bigger smile. “I’m being selfish. Is that the message? Okay, Marlene. What do you want?”

  This was not the way she imagined her marriage would turn out when she said those vows seven years ago. Everything came down to a negotiation with him. He assumed that her comfortable life justified the neglect. He expected her to tolerate the other women. Now he wanted an heir, a foal from his prize filly, just like the Saratoga horse owners around her. She knew that she could always leave, but the Seagrave fortune was as seductive as the power it gave him was chilling. She glanced around the room, and her eyes settled on a handsome couple holding hands beside the roulette wheel.

  At the woman’s throat, pinned to her Halston original, was an antique diamond brooch of uncommon delicacy and beauty.

  Marlene caught her husband’s eye and pointed subtly at the prize.

  “I want that.”

  Adrian Seagrave flashed his teeth, much as a shark does when it spots its prey. “All right, my dear. As always, you will have what you want.”

  Even that casual promise chilled her.

  -1-

  It was hot, sticky, muggy country even at night. Bugs and birds competed to see which could create the most irritating sounds. The river they sloshed through carried the stink of sewage. Mud sucked at their boots. Leeches clung to anything that moved. A field of brilliant stars and a sliver of a moon did little to illuminate the potential animal and reptile dangers lurking in the darkness.

  “You know, Mike, I’ve asked myself a million times,” Morgan Stark whispered. “Why do we always get ourselves involved in other countries’ petty political bullshit?”

  “Well, because there are still times when the U.S. government just refuses to get involved,” Mike answered with a grin. “And for the money, of course.”

  The men made little sound, despite the water flowing around their knees. The river they waded through was really little more than a stream in Belize. The tiny backwater nation southeast of Mexico was Central America’s version of a postage stamp country.

  Up ahead, the point man flashed his light. The sun would rise in half an hour or so. They were right on schedule. Morgan signaled his seven followers to move out. All wore camouflage uniforms, black berets, combat boots, and a wide variety of personal weaponry.

  Morgan Stark, team leader, was a couple of inches over six feet tall and a slim looking two hundred ten pounds. He was the only black man in this racial grab bag of professional mercenaries. However, if someone had asked his men to describe him, they would have first mentioned his long, quick fingers, the little mustache he still kept within Army regulations, or perhaps his sharp, clear, light brown eyes. In their business, you learned to judge a lot by the eyes. But in the world of professional mercenaries, color was almost an afterthought.

  They moved along through the river, about two meters from shore, because it was faster and easier than travelling over land. Unfortunately, the map in Morgan’s head indicated it was time to branch off into the tropical forest.

  The tiny light flashed again, just as Morgan was about to crest a low hummock. That flash warned Morgan of nearby patrolling security personnel. Not that he needed such a warning.

  He pressed himself up over the edge of the earthen mound, his fingers tangled in the thick undergrowth. In the near darkness, he found himself face to face with a uniformed guard. Neither Morgan nor the guard reached for a weapon. The guard’s dog looked as startled as its master did. To Morgan’s eyes it was more wolf than dog, huge and gray in the darkness. It was a Belgian shepherd, the type the Israelis used for border patrol. Slowly a growl began in its throat and it bared its teeth for war.

  -2-

  A friend of a friend had made contact with Morgan, as usual. The go-between was a well-known sub-contractor named Stone. Morgan had arranged a meeting, but still he had circled the little bungalow on the outskirts of Brussels four times before going to the door. On the last and closest circle, he noticed a Renault parked across the street and three houses down. The man inside it puffed on a cigarette and read the paper as if he were merely waiting for someone. Maybe he was.

  Morgan pulled a map out of his pocket, and walked to the car with a confused look on his face. In bomber jacket and aviator sunglasses, he hoped that he looked like a befuddled tourist. The driver, a small dark man with a thick Gallic nose, looked up as he approached. Morgan saw him start to reach under his seat, but he withdrew his hand as if reconsidering something.

  Once beside the car, Morgan began to gesture and mutter at the map. At first the driver stared straight ahead. When Morgan stared at him helplessly, the driver released an exaggerated sigh and rolled down his window. Morgan mumbled helplessly.

  “Pardon moi, monsieur, ou est le palais? Je suis... oh hell, je ne parle pas francais tres bien.”

  “My English is better,” the driver said in an exasperated tone. “You are looking for the Royal Palace?”

  “Not really.” Morgan leaned close. “Just half wit lookouts.”

  His left hand shot inside the car, clamping onto the driver’s throat. When both the driver’s hands locked onto Morgan’s arm, Morgan pulled his right hand back, and then snapped it forward. The heel of his palm thumped against the driver’s temple, and the man slumped over, unconscious.

  Jogging across the street, Morgan leaned into the bungalow’s door as he rang the bell. He waited a long ten seconds before locks began to turn inside. The door opened, and Morgan followed it in.

  The parlor was empty except for four chairs around a small table. The house was cool, but it carried the musty smell of vacancy. Morgan assumed it was only used for meetings like this one. A coffeepot sat on the table, along with two cups and a creamer. Two sugar cubes and a wafer rested on the edge of each saucer. There was also a note pad at each place, with
a ballpoint pen. A telephone rested on a scrambler near one end of the table.

  The man who had admitted Morgan sat at the opposite end of the table. He was a good two inches taller than Morgan but thin enough to imply frailty. A full shock of white hair made him appear older than he really was. His eyes did not quite match his hair, but Morgan had to strain to see the hint of blue there.

  “I told you not to post anyone, Stone. You put an armed man out front. May as well put up a sign saying there’s some kind of clandestine business going on in here. I took him out before I came in. You’re lucky I didn’t kill him.”

  “Standard procedure.” Stone’s voice was so controlled. “I hope you didn’t hurt him too badly.”

  “He’s okay, but he’ll have a hell of a headache when he wakes up. Now, why am I here?”

  “Coffee?” Stone reached for the pot.

  “No. You got work for me or what?”

  Stone poured the thick, dark brew into his small cup as if he had nothing else to do that day. “Yes,” he said, adding a sugar cube to his cup with no greater haste. “A brief job in Belize. You know the place?”

  “An American ally on the Caribbean,” Morgan said. “Good game preserves. Great scuba spots. Nothing going on down there right now.”

  “So it would appear. Someone doesn’t like the direction in which that little nation is going.” Stone’s voice was almost hypnotic, and Morgan made a serious effort to stay alert while listening to him.

  “Someone. Your principal. Who shall remain nameless?”

  “Of course, for your protection as well as his. There is a man named Carlos Abrigo. I won’t bore you with the details, but he is a very influential man in the Belize national assembly, the head of their committee controlling exports. And he is leaning heavily to the left.”

  Morgan nodded. The target was a commie and that was all he needed to know. Cuba was sufficient proof that communism was not a dead philosophy, or a defeated enemy in the Western Hemisphere.

  “So? You want this guy to disappear? Not my thing. I’m a soldier.”

  “What I need is a professional who can carry out a raid on a well defended compound,” Stone replied, unruffled. “Abrigo lives in a rural area, some distance east of Belmopan, the capital city, in a veritable fortress of a forgotten mission. He maintains a staff that includes some thirty armed guards. They are labeled law enforcement, but are in fact military personnel.”

  “So you want me to kill him?”

  “We need his influence terminated permanently.”

  Morgan almost laughed at Stone’s subtlety. “Fine. Sounds like a simple enough assignment. I won’t know how simple until I’ve had a chance to do a thorough recon.”

  “I can provide you with maps and details of the target’s defenses. You see, this must take place within the next thirty days. My research tells me you’re the best professional available for the job. Will you take it?”

  “I’d have to assemble a team. Equip and train them. Plan for identity concealment afterward. And of course I’d have to see the defenses before I gave you a firm estimate. Based on what you’ve said, I figure I can handle what you require for a total cost of, say, two hundred fifty thousand American dollars. Plus expenses.”

  Stone picked up the telephone. He pushed one button and waited for the speed dial to go through its motions. After a few seconds it was clear that a connection was made, but Stone didn’t say hello or begin a conversation. He simply said Morgan’s last name and the amount he had mentioned. He listened for a moment, his face impassive, and nodded once before resting the telephone in its cradle. Stone had an excellent poker face, and Morgan could not predict the answer.

  “This amount is acceptable,” Stone said, his words falling like ice crystals. “My client will supply advance intelligence and transportation to and from the site. You will of course deal only with me in this matter.”

  “Naturally.”

  -3-

  That business had brought Morgan to this frozen moment in the Belize jungle. While he watched, a big hand reached out of the darkness behind the uniformed guard and clamped across his face. That would be Smitty, the point man. Morgan heard a thump as the guard’s head arced back and his body jerked forward, as if something had hit the small of his back.

  Nerveless fingers dropped the harness leash, and the huge dog leaped forward. Morgan’s right hand reached to the back of his belt. When he brought it forward, it was filled with the handle of his fighting knife. He held the knife in a reverse grip, its spine pressed along his forearm.

  In less than a second the dog was on him, close enough to smell its breath. The beast hung in midair, its jaws set to snap over Morgan’s face. His arm swung in front of him, the edge of the blade slashing across the dog’s throat. Momentum carried the beast forward, its bulk smashing into his chest. Slammed to his back, Morgan felt hot gore pumping onto him from the animal’s slashed throat. Even above the natural stench of the jungle, the odor made him gag. Revolted, he thrust the body away, watching the dog’s final death throes before rolling to his knees and looking over the mound again.

  He saw another flash of light, then two more. All clear. Shaking off the picture of the huge dog charging him, he signaled his men to continue.

  Swinging machetes, the small group of professional soldiers moved through the brush at an aggressive pace. His point man aside, Morgan led the way, feeling sweat pooling in his boots and sliding down his back beneath his belt and other carry straps. He wished he could stop someplace and wash the blood off his uniform, but he knew the mission needed to proceed as planned. As he trudged on, Crazy Mike drew up beside him.

  “The other outer ring guards will find the bodies,” Mike said.

  “We’re less than ten minutes from the target,” Morgan replied in hushed tones. “By the time they get back to the compound they’ll find us there.”

  “We might move a little faster if you weren’t so...”

  “What? Paranoid?” Morgan asked.

  “Over prepared.” While Mike had a machine gun slung across his back, Morgan carried a greater variety of tools. He liked to travel with everything he might need. In addition to the machete he used to carve his path through the brush, he wore a shoulder holstered pistol, a fighting knife at his back, a submachine gun at his side, a pair of boot knives, and several extra fully loaded magazines.

  “You know my attitude,” Morgan said. “Better to be over prepared than dead.”

  “Yeah, well there’s no sense killing yourself before...”

  “Freeze!” Morgan snapped with unexpected urgency. Behind them, the rest of the team dropped to one knee, their rifles thrust forward.

  For a full minute, no one moved while Morgan looked around in all directions. When Mike started to ask “What?” Morgan silenced him with an upraised palm. Having checked everywhere else, Morgan looked toward the damp ground.

  “Mike. Don’t panic or anything, but your left boot is pressed against a wire. It’s pretty taut and I’m afraid whatever it’s attached to might go off if you back off. See anything?”

  “I can’t even see the damned wire,” Mike answered. “I don’t remember any mines or snares on that map Stone gave us.”

  “That’s because there weren’t any. This is probably new since his recon. Now you just hold real still and I’ll try to keep you in one piece, okay?”

  -4-

  Morgan pressed two fingers against Crazy Mike’s shin and found the thin wire. Sidestepping, he slid his fingers gently across the wire, moving by feel more than sight. His breathing was slow and deep as he moved, bent over almost double, gently pushing fronds and branches away with his left hand.

  He found what he expected just a few feet away. Its convex face toward him, the familiar olive green device stood there on a pair of thin steel blade legs which were jammed into the ground.

  “Claymore mine,” he said, not daring to speak loudly enough for anyone else to hear. A hand detonator was strapped to a tree trunk with
green duct tape, the stuff Morgan had learned to call hundred mile an hour tape in the Army. The stiff wire pressed the detonator lever in. If the wire were pulled any farther, the lever would move enough for contacts to connect, sending an electric spark down a wire to the blasting cap screwed into the top of the mine. The resulting explosion would scatter eight hundred BB sized steel pellets in his direction, turning him and Crazy Mike into bloody fragments.

  Even if Mike tried to back off, the hook-shaped grommets of his speed-laced boot might pull the wire or press it enough to set the mine off. Kneeling, Morgan pulled his Gerber Multiplier survival tool from his pocket. He folded the handles together, exposing the jaws of its pliers. The first inch of the jaws was sharpened to be wire cutters.

  “Over prepared,” he muttered to himself, kneeling. His BDU pants soaked in dampness from the ground, but he wasn’t concerned with his knees being wet. He did wipe his left hand down his pants leg, rubbing it free of sweat. He took three deep breaths, holding the last, because he knew that the slightest shaking of his hand could kill them. Guiding on his outstretched fingers, he gently wrapped the tool’s wire cutters around the thin strand. Tightly holding the wire on the side toward the mine, he slowly closed his left hand.