The Payback Assignment

by Camacho, Austin S.

  Pop turned his attention to inventory while Morgan completed the weapon’s disassembly. Morgan inspected each part carefully and lubed it with a light coat of CLP. He paid particular attention to the sear to make sure the tiny surfaces that make the trigger-sear connection were not worn. It would waste a lot of ammunition if his pistol decided to go full auto on him in the middle of a fight.

  After reassembling the weapon, he ran a full safety check and a complete function check. After some self-debate, he also decided to replace the magazine spring.

  When he was finished, Morgan slipped out of his windbreaker, revealing a side draw shoulder holster of stiff saddle leather under his left arm. He slid his pistol into place, giving a final light tug to make sure the steel spring would prevent its slipping free.

  “Hey, that’s a beauty,” Pop said. “Bianchi?”

  “Yep. Custom made. Just like the knife.” What hung under Morgan’s right shoulder was not a holster, but the sheath holding his fighting knife. With a firm downward tug he drew his blade, a Randall model number one pattern with a black micarta handle and brass fillets.

  “In the field I can slip the sheath onto my belt,” Morgan said, sliding a carborundum stone toward himself. “That way it lays flat with the handle pointed to the side, so I can reach back and grab it with my right hand. That carry’s a little too visible on the street.” Morgan lovingly honed his seven-inch blade. When he was satisfied with the main edge, he turned it to sharpen the long “false edge” as well.

  For him, weapons maintenance was almost a Zen activity, to which he gave total concentration. His left boot knife, a five-inch double-edged dagger, received the same close attention. By now, Pop was looking over his shoulder.

  “Don’t recognize that one,” Pop said, “but it looks custom too.”

  “Yeah,” Morgan said with a smile. “Ground it myself. This is my own work too.” He pulled and began to sharpen the throwing knife he kept in his right boot. “This one I forged and as you can see, Parkerized so it won’t reflect the light when I throw it.”

  “You keep them well,” Pop said. To Morgan’s surprise, the older man dropped a bottle of beer in front of him. It was the kind of amber flip-top bottle people refill at microbreweries.

  “John Wayne Imperial Stout?” Morgan asked, twisting off the cap. “I take it this is local?”

  “Yep, from the Newport Beach Brewing Company,” Pop said, opening a matching bottle. “If you like a real stout, you’ll like this. And now, if I remember your last visit, you’ll be moving over to the loading bench.”

  “You’ve got me figured out, old man,” Morgan said, tipping his bottle up to take a swallow, and pulling it down with a grin. “Well, I guess they can do something right around here. That’s a big, bad brew. But I better go slow until I’m done with the focus work. So I guess I’ll need some supplies. Some hundred twenty-five grain Remington jacketed hollowpoint bullets, and Remington cases. I like the Bullseye powder, and CCI primers.”

  Pop’s stool was on wheels, so Morgan rolled himself over to the loading bench. The bell rang out front, and Pop hustled out to greet the incoming customer while Morgan assembled the components to create his nine-millimeter cartridges.

  Morgan hardly noticed when Pop returned to the back room a few minutes later. He was focused too closely on the repetitive action of pulling the big handle down on the reloader, and placing his new ammunition in neat rows beside it. Pop observed this tricky process for a moment before he started asking questions.

  “Can’t help but notice you load your shells with less powder than usual.”

  “You’ve been doing this too long,” Morgan said, grinning. “Yeah, I started using light loads back when I used to carry a Colt forty-five auto, to reduce the noise. Sometimes stealth is more important than power.” While maintaining the conversation, Morgan kept a meticulous eye on the number of grains of powder going into the shells. “I hate silencers on handguns. Sometimes I needed to keep the volume down, but silencers are just too unreliable and clumsy in my line of work.”

  “Your line of work,” Pop said. When Morgan failed to elaborate, he added, “Well, either way you’re going to lose a few feet per second on the muzzle velocity.”

  Morgan brushed a couple of stubborn cartridges into the hopper. “You’re right about the velocity, but if you’re at all accurate with the forty-five caliber, it isn’t enough to make any difference. But I was having trouble getting ammo in some of the places I was working, so I decided to switch to the nine millimeter round which is more popular overseas.”

  “But the nine has less mass,” Pop said. “Less stopping power.”

  “True, but I still wanted the quieter blast. So I decided to cheat. Now here comes the tricky part.” Morgan continued to narrate his actions. “I start with these common Remington nine-millimeter hollowpoints. I down load the cartridges just like I used to. Now, I put the complete cartridge in a vise, nose up, and I add just a touch of fulminate of mercury, there, right in the tip. Now I’ll seal it over with a little solder. Like so. Now, when the shot’s fired, she might leave the muzzle a little slow. But by the time that baby hits the target, that load in the nose is hot enough to go bang. Aside from the little explosion on impact, the hollow point spreads out all the way. Talk about stopping power. These babies always put ‘em down with one hit.”

  Business was slow, so Pop decided to become involved in the loading process. The two veterans swapped war stories for a while, and time slid past unnoticed. Four hours later Morgan left Pop’s shop with eight full magazines, one cleaned and serviced automatic pistol, three very sharp knives and a renewed friendship. In the process of chatting with Pop he had mentioned his new female acquaintance. While talking about her he realized that his attitude had shifted. He decided that if the O’Brian girl didn’t come up with a lead to Stone by his deadline he would ask her to travel with him for a while. Some indefinable quality about her drew him like steel to a magnet. She was just so, well, comfortable. They connected, as if he had known her all his life. He thought that maybe they should team up on a long-term basis.

  Maybe he would tell her so.

  With thoughts of a more settled future going through his mind, Morgan was relaxed during his short taxi ride back to Felicity’s building. But he was feeling a little tension when he entered the building, and a bit more when the elevator stopped. By the time he reached Felicity’s floor, he stepped out of the elevator on tiptoe. He did not know why. The flowers were still as fragrant as they were on his first visit, and the little landing was just as quiet. As he approached the door his old familiar feeling was there again, stronger than ever. He put down his small gun case beside Felicity’s door, already beginning to plot his next move.

  He had leaped behind the center island of foliage before he realized he had heard the elevator door open. From his vantage point he saw the lone occupant emerge from the car. It was Felicity, carting a collection of bundles and shopping bags that she could barely manage. She wore a green and white pinstripe cotton dress and her hair, he noticed, was now tied back with a wide green ribbon. It matched her eyes, which wandered warily, worry showing on her face. He stepped into the open and their eyes locked for one intense moment. He opened his mouth but Felicity spoke first.

  “You felt it too,” she said, more a surprised statement than a question.

  “Yes,” Morgan said. “I’ve got kind of an instinct, a sense of danger. But I didn’t know you...”

  “Yes. All my life.” With no further explanation, Felicity put down the bundles and pointed to her cipher lock. “Look at this.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Right here,” Felicity said. “On the edge of the button plate. See these marks? It’s been pried off. Someone’s broken in, someone who knows these locks but got sloppy.”

  “A thief friend stop by to surprise you?” Morgan asked.

  Felicity shook her head. “I don’t have sloppy friends. So now what do we do?”

&nbs
p; “Several options if they’re waiting inside,” Morgan said. He was annoyed with himself for not noticing the lock had been tampered with, and was happy for a chance to take the lead. “As usual, there’s a safe way, an easy way and a best way.”

  “Well, what’s the best way?” Felicity asked.

  “Let me teach you the cross door maneuver.”

  -15-

  Inside Felicity’s apartment a pair of dangerous animals in cheap suits waited. Pearson sat on the couch half turned, gazing aimlessly out the window with his gun hand resting on his thigh. By shifting his eyes he could see Shaw, who had pulled the big chair forward and pointed it toward the door. Shaw looked relaxed but alert, with his Smith & Wesson .38 pointed toward the apartment’s only entrance. Pearson’s ears perked up as he heard buttons being pushed and saw the doorknob slowly turning. The pigeon had come home at last. This was too easy a job for a pair of experienced killers, but they got the assignment because they had been in the neighborhood. Stone said to kill the girl ASAP. It would be a nice change to receive an assignment and complete it the same day. Shaw took careful aim at the door and Pearson returned his smile as he thumbed the hammer back on his own pistol.

  With an air of relaxation Felicity pushed the door open and entered, crossing to her left, toward the occupied chair. She was staring into a grinning face and a gun barrel. Her hands opened, and her packages began their fall to the floor.

  Before her eyes finished widening, Morgan came in fast and low, crossing behind her in the opposite direction. His gun barked once before Felicity’s packages reached the carpet. The man in the chair didn’t move, but his chest burst open like a blossoming scarlet flower before Felicity’s startled eyes.

  Morgan continued his charge, driving his shoulder hard into the second man’s midsection before the killer could quite get his pistol aimed at the new target. As the two men grappled on the sofa, the revolver bounced across the carpet. An unthinking reflex drove Felicity to snatch it up.

  “Stop it!” she shouted. The killer froze, staring into his own gun’s muzzle. Morgan stood calmly, straightening his clothes.

  “I’ll keep him in line,” he said, leveling his automatic on the other man’s eyes. “Got any wire or twine around?”

  Felicity nodded, looked down at her hands and gingerly placed the revolver on the coffee table cube. Then she backtracked to close and lock the front door before running down the hall to the second room. It was small, but sufficient as a storage room. She spent only seconds rooting through the climbing gear arrayed neatly in the closet. She sprinted back to the living room with a five-foot length of nylon cord. Morgan hadn’t moved, and she was surprised to see no expression of anger on his face.

  “You know the drill,” Morgan said, accepting the rope. “Turn around, on your knees, hands behind your back.”

  Morgan held the rope in his right hand with his pistol, while he drew his big knife from under his jacket. He cut a ten-inch bit from the cord, dropped the rest, and tied the other man’s thumbs together behind him. It was a simple bind, but Felicity could see that it would be far more effective than big clumsy knots around the wrists and arms. Once the big man was secured, Morgan turned to Felicity.

  “Stay here, Red,” he said. Morgan walked his charge to the bathroom between the two bedrooms. The gunman was built like a college halfback, but Morgan had no trouble alternately pushing and pulling him, keeping him off balance. Once they were in the bathroom, Felicity saw the man’s shoes fly out into the hall, followed by his socks, trousers and underwear. The she heard a loud thump that could only be the shooter’s beefy form slamming down into her deep bathtub.

  “Come out, and you’ll join your partner in hell,” Morgan said. Then he walked out, closed the door, and jogged to the living room.

  Felicity had not moved and now stood facing him. Her eyes were brimming with tears. She glanced furtively at the corpse in her armchair, the chair she had spent weeks selecting. Blood dripped rhythmically onto her light colored, hand dyed deep pile carpet. Lit by the approaching sunset, the dead man looked like some bizarre, macabre statue melting in a wax museum. Her lips trembled and a barely audible whisper slipped through them. Morgan stepped forward and put an arm around her, cradling her head in his own massive shoulder.

  “Take it easy, Red. I know it’s kind of a shock but, well, death’s really a natural thing, I mean in nature, you know? And if it’s you or them, sometimes you just got to go all the way.”

  “It’s not that,” Felicity stammered. “I’ve seen death before. And don’t call me...” she stopped in mid-sentence. Somehow, for the first time in her life, it seemed okay for someone to call her “Red.”

  He was such an enigma, this great black bear of a man. Only seconds ago, she had seen him show total ferocity, killing with ice cold efficiency. Yet now he was able to exhibit unexpected tenderness. It seemed perversely symbolic that his shoulder felt so soft and warm and comforting to her face, even as her right breast was crushed against the hard outline of his shoulder holster.

  “It isn’t the death, not really,” she murmured. “It’s just, he wanted to, he was going to, to kill me.” She put a shaky emphasis on the last word.

  “Yes,” Morgan said slowly, “Let’s go find out about that.”

  With a gentle tug, Morgan eased Felicity toward the bathroom. When they opened the door, their tough guy prisoner was sitting on the floor trying to look belligerent. He was built like a linebacker, but now Morgan could see a bit of softness around his waist. His nose had been broken and a scar was visible just below the line of his short brown hair.

  Morgan thought he recognized that kind of scar. It was probably a legacy from the less glamorous days of professional wrestling. In those days guys used to go flying out of the ring and they’d always come up bloody. Morgan knew they often cut themselves with razor blades in their hairline for the effect. If this guy was a veteran of the small-time professional wrestling circuit, he was probably pretty tough. Morgan considered what little he knew of this man for a moment before deciding how he should proceed. He decided to use a reasonable, uncaring approach.

  “You know, we were kind of lucky out there,” Morgan said, drawing his big knife out of its sheath again. He pulled his prisoner to his feet and sat him back in the bathtub. “If anyone heard that gunshot, they must have assumed it was something else, like a car backfiring. As usual in any big city, nobody wants to hear a gunshot so they just don’t. Now, turn over.” The thug glared at Felicity for a moment, then squirmed over onto his stomach. Morgan put his pistol to his prisoner’s head while he cut the cord, freeing the killer’s hands.

  “You won’t be able to get out of that slippery tub too quickly,” he said. “I’ll ask the lady here to keep the gun on you all the same. Now turn back over.”

  While Morgan gave Felicity the pistol, Pearson slowly squirmed around into an upright position. Morgan held out his hand, and his captive handed over his jacket, his tie and finally his shirt. Morgan tossed them all past Felicity, out the door. The gunman hunched over, hatred glaring from his eyes. Felicity held the pistol in two hands at arms’ length, staring down the sights. It pleased Morgan to see a deep blush on the killer’s face as he tried to hide his nakedness. Embarrassment was a good start for questioning. He did not enjoy torture, but he definitely would get certain information from this man.

  “Now pull up your feet, please.” When Pearson did not respond to the request, Morgan opened the hot water tap. First cold, then warm and finally hot water gushed out. By hugging his knees the nude man could just keep his feet from being scalded. Felicity smiled in spite of herself. Morgan sat on the edge of the tub at the faucet end, facing his prisoner. He took a deep breath. It was time to demoralize his subject.

  “Now I need to know who sent you to kill the lady.”

  “You go to hell, nig...” The thug interrupted himself with a scream louder than Morgan’s earlier gunshot had been. Felicity gasped in surprise. Morgan had flipped the knob tha
t shifted the water flow to the shower spout. The steaming water was only on the hired killer’s body for a single second, but his dripping body was glowing red. His breath was a series of rapid gasps.

  “First rule, no profanity,” Morgan said casually. “It upsets the lady. And you call me by my name. Mister Stark. Now again. Who sent you here?”

  The silence lasted for three long seconds before Morgan gave his captive another second of heat. Now the red body quivered with each short, panting breath.

  “Look, I don’t like doing this.” Morgan maintained his relaxed smile. “However, I need these three bits of data, see? And after trying to shoot us, I figure you owe me. So tell me, who sent you?”

  The thug gritted his teeth. Felicity clamped her eyes shut. Morgan, relaxed, waited four seconds this time, before giving the killer two seconds of steaming pain. After that he imagined he could smell broiled meat. He saw Felicity’s stomach heave. He knew she wanted to run from the room, but this strange ritual held her mesmerized.