“Good idea,” Morgan said, rising from the table. He took his plate and glass to the kitchen. Curiosity made her follow. She had to pry into his quietness.
“Morgan, I have to ask you something. Is it bothering you, spending my money?”
“Not at all, Red,” he responded. “I could always hit a cash machine. But I’m on a mission. You pay expenses.”
“And after?” she asked, hating the apprehension in her voice.
“After? If you mean about the money, I’ve got a couple hundred grand American dollars stashed away in a Swiss bank account. If you mean, what happens after we find Stone, well, I intend to harass his mysterious employer enough to get him to pay us both a bundle to back off.” He lifted the green flap over his watch. “I’ve got to run.”
“For a lunch date?” Felicity asked. “It isn’t ten thirty.”
“Yeah, but I got things to do before I talk to anybody,” Morgan said. “Which means I better go suit up.”
“Changing clothes?”
“No, just want my gear for this little meeting,” Morgan said.
“Mind if I watch?”
Morgan shrugged and headed for the guest room with Felicity close behind. In the room she watched the ritual with rapt attention. She wondered what went on inside this man’s mind as he placed a series of weapons so carefully about his person. One knife went into each boot. She watched him push on the top bullet in is magazine, confirming that it was full, and function check his pistol. After loading his automatic, he pulled back the slide and let it slam forward. He pushed a button on the side of the gun and the magazine dropped back out. Now he was able to add another bullet to the top of the column. She figured one must have stayed in the pistol.
“Aren’t there enough in there?” she asked.
“Well, it’s a ten round magazine in case I get stopped. Ten’s the legal limit, as if that somehow makes a gun less dangerous. I like to start with one in the chamber.”
“I’d think ten would be enough for anything you’d want to be doing,” Felicity said.
“There’s something to that, but on the other hand, that eleventh cartridge might be the one that saves my life,” he said. The grip looked thick to her, but in its custom made shoulder holster it was quite invisible beneath the lightweight black windbreaker Morgan pulled on.
“Lord, it fits like it was made for you,” Felicity said, trying to lighten the mood.
“The shoulder rig? It was. Wet molded and hand boned, with a hand rubbed oil finish. Got this half harness for maximum concealment, and the premium saddle leather it’s made out of will last a lifetime. At least, the lifetime of anybody in this business.” While he talked, Morgan pulled on a belt with a large square steel buckle.
“Won’t that thing hurt you if you’re moving around, like if you get in a fight?”
That brought a grin from Morgan. “Believe me, this special buckle might actually help me in a fight. I’m real careful to dress for comfort these days. I remember one time I hurt my back. In the field I wear this big knife in its sheath at the small of my back. Took a fall wrong and man, that hurt. Had to find a better way.”
After a final glass of juice, Morgan gave Felicity a peck on the cheek and left the apartment. When he closed the door, his mind was alive with conflicting thoughts.
He hailed a cab and pointed it downtown. In the taxi, his mind centered on Felicity. He was most uncomfortable with what he was feeling for this mysterious but beautiful redhead. He liked being in control of a situation, but he had certainly lost control of this one. Here he was, working for a woman, taking care of her business.
Or was he? Right now, he admitted to himself, he was on a self-motivated mission of revenge. The rules of the game had changed since yesterday, when Pearson and his partner had suddenly turned up. Morgan had made some nasty enemies who clearly had no qualms about killing and could set their machinery in motion in a matter of hours, cross-country. That alone implied incredible power. For his own selfish interests, he had to end that threat. He couldn’t simply leave dangerous people in a position to hurt him.
And wasn’t that the point? This was no time for beginning a long-term relationship, especially with an unpredictable, bullheaded, white, Irish expatriate, professional criminal with expensive tastes. Damn.
While the cab bumped down Fifth Avenue, he managed to drag his mind back to the business at hand. Hopefully, by moving to New York so quickly, he had gotten the jump on the enemy. He knew enough people in this town that, with any luck at all, he could track Stone down before Stone got him pinpointed. With luck! All in all, he liked it better stalking his enemies in the jungle.
He left the cab at Washington Square, four blocks from the small cafe in the heart of Greenwich Village at which he would meet Griffith. The sun was harsh, the sky unusually clear and the air thick and stagnant. Not the best day for a hike through New York, but he wanted to walk in and tour the area before the meeting.
For a hundred and fifty years the West Village has been the home of writers and artists of all types. Something about those twisted, narrow streets in the midst of an otherwise grid work city has traditionally made it the place where society’s oddballs fit in. It has been through beatniks, hippies, heads, freaks and punks, and while the residents have changed, the area has not really changed much. It remains a good place for a meeting if you do not want people to notice you.
J.D. Griffith, Morgan’s “date”, was ex-Marine Recon. He served his country in Vietnam, and himself later in Rhodesia and the Congo. Morgan had worked with him briefly, and had kept in touch for professional reasons. Both men were respected team leaders when they worked, and they did not want to get in each other’s way somewhere when the action got hot.
Morgan crossed the street within a block of his planned meeting place without looking toward it. He passed a storefront Thai restaurant, and its sweet and sharp aroma followed him around the next corner. Halfway down that block Morgan hopped to grasp a rusty fire escape ladder. The squeal of metal against metal set his teeth on edge, but the ladder did come all the way down and Morgan scrambled up it to the roof four stories above the street.
Standing at the edge of the roof he could see the heat rising off the black surface, and it somehow reminded him of his youth. Crouching low, he lumbered three quarters of the way across the roof before dropping to low crawl the rest of the way. The asphalt’s pungent odor stung his nose. He relaxed at the end of his brief journey, absorbing the warmth from the tacky surface. Looking over the roof’s edge, he was directly above Georg’s Cafe, a little Greek place with umbrellas over its outdoor tables that said “Cinzano” in red and blue letters. In about twenty minutes he would meet Griffith under one of them. Now he carefully scanned the windows across the street.
There! Second floor, second window to the left. That had to be one of Griffith’s men in the window. And on the near corner to the left, that dude loitering in the doorway was just a little too alert. He found another to the right across the street. The man in that telephone booth was not really talking to anyone. Griffith had covered the street quite well. Simple caution, Morgan wondered, or something more?
He backed off from his vantage point, retracing his steps down the fire escape. As he sauntered around the corner, he zipped his windbreaker halfway up. He started whistling and relaxed his pace. Morgan’s normal gait was very much like marching, but now he exaggerated his walk into the inner city “bop” so many black men have, as if he were listening to some dance track no one else could hear. The impression he gave was extremely casual.
He recognized Griffith’s grin as he approached the table. He was at least five years Morgan’s senior, but he still retained a jocular baby face. His hair was cut in the style Marines call a “high and tight”: short on top and nearly shaved to the skin on the back and sides. He wore a wrinkled corduroy suit and top quality hiking boots. A typical blond haired, blue eyed, bullet headed type, Morgan thought.
“S’happenin’ my man?�
� Morgan called in greeting as he sat down, extending his hand.
“You know the deal,” Griffith replied, adding a strong handshake to the habitual military greeting. “I took the liberty of buying you a beer. Hope you don’t mind a Michelob.”
“Well, I still prefer that Black Cat we used to get in the ‘Nam. However...” Morgan picked up his bottle and tipped it up, putting down half of the brew. It was light, crisp, cold, and unremarkable, as Morgan found all mass-produced American beers to be. Griffith also took a strong pull from his amber bottle. Morgan figured that should take care of the opening rituals.
“So, why the meet?” Griffith asked. “You got a new contract in Africa? Want to make sure I’m not on the other side?”
“No, it’s not like that,” Morgan said, leaning back in his chair. “In fact I’m not working right now. I came looking for you because I need some information. A few phone calls told me you’ve been working out of New York for a while now, so I figured you’d be the one to ask.”
“Well, I do pretty much know what’s going down around town,” Griffith said, lighting up a Cuban cigar. He offered one to Morgan, who declined. “I don’t come cheap, but I can be had.”
“You remember Stone?”
“Sure, I’ve worked with him,” Griffith said, signaling into the cafe for a couple of refills. “Every gunfighter I know has worked with him. Everybody worth a damn, anyway. He’s always been straight with me. Course, he’s not an independent anymore. Took a steady contract with somebody.”
“Yeah, I heard that. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. The last job I did for Stone didn’t go too good. He crossed me. Who would have figured it?”
“Crossed you?” Griffith repeated, blowing cigar smoke into the sky. “Like how?”
Morgan leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the table. “Like, he pulled my transport at the end of a hot mission. Like got my men killed, and damn near got me, too. I can’t let people get away with crossing me. You know that. It’s bad for future business, you know.” Morgan finished his beer, and tension showed in his arm as he set the empty bottle down. “I sure would like to find him.”
“Well, getting to that boy could take some doing,” Griffith said between gulps. As he finished his first beer, the waiter came out with the second round. All conversation ceased until he was well beyond hearing range. Once he was gone, Griffith continued. “Still, from what I’ve heard, it can be arranged.”
“And just what did you hear?” Morgan sat up just a little straighter. The hairs on the back of his neck stirred. Damn it! He had looked it all over so carefully and still stepped square into a trap.
“Well, while you’re out looking for Stone, it turns out Stone’s also looking for you, old buddy,” the ex-Marine said. “I’d like to get you two together.”
“I see you’re in a helpful mood,” Morgan said, starting to rise. Griffith waved him down.
“You need to stay in your chair, old pal, so as not to make anyone nervous. I know how dangerous you are, and I guess Stone does too. He’s put quite a little price on your head. Word is, he wants you dismissed. With extreme prejudice.” In the vernacular of the business they were in, Morgan and Griffith both knew that meant killed in cold blood.
That was when Morgan felt the waiter’s gun barrel resting gently against his twelfth vertebrae. He was the one member of Griffith’s team Morgan had not made. Not that he was a particular problem. Morgan knew that he could free himself from the waiter, even kill him, but he knew he would never get away. Griffith’s men had the street too well covered. If Stone had put a price on his head, Morgan knew his old rival Griffith just might collect it.
-19-
All Felicity got when Morgan walked out the door was a peck on the cheek. As he closed the door, her mind was alive with conflicting thoughts. She had not really wanted him to go. She suspected he was on his way to meet some dangerous contact from his mercenary past. His confidence appeared absolute when he left, but did that have any meaning? His confidence seemed total under all circumstances, no matter how dangerous.
Despite some difficulty concentrating, she made several phone calls and moved off to her room to get dressed. She moved through these motions almost unconsciously, her mind awhirl with recent happenings. Why had she fallen into such a trusting mode with this tall dark stranger? Sure, he had proved worthy of her trust last night when she was too tired to think straight, but why oh why had she taken him so to her heart in the first place?
He weighed on her mind while she flipped through her closet. He was a mass of contradictions, this Morgan Stark. Even his name conjured up different images. Morgan, as in the pirate. Stark, as in raving mad. Perhaps she found him so easy to trust because he was so open, so “up front” as he Yanks liked to say. He was certainly outspoken. There seemed to be no subtle side to this one. And so proud, he was. And yet, she had no idea who he was, and knew nothing about his life. He had revealed only the barest bones of his past.
Facing a full-length mirror, Felicity held a dress in each hand. She held one in front of herself, then the other, but was at a loss about which would be the better choice. Morgan, she reflected, seemed totally competent and never at a loss. He could be as cold as a Norwegian winter night, and then turn around and be as warm and soft as a sheepskin coat. And how could he be so intuitively intelligent, yet so socially unsophisticated? And how did she seem to have some sort of emotional connection with him, almost a psychic link? Was it some side effect of her, now their, danger sense? Was it just her romantic reaction to being rescued, protected, defended and comforted by a heroic stranger, like in those cheesy novels? Or, and this was the big question, was she falling in love with this regimented, stubborn, black, ill-mannered professional soldier? Damn!
Because the texture appealed to her fingers more that day, Felicity chose the long sleeved, cream colored, wool dress. She pulled the garment over her head, stepped back, and turned so that she could check herself out in both her wide dresser mirror and the full-length looking glass on the other side of the bedroom. She was dressed to the limits of elegance for her luncheon downtown. The dress was just this side of too tight. The back was a drape, which hung low on her tanned back, almost to the swell of her ample hips. She had put her hair up for the occasion and applied the slightest hint of makeup. She smiled at her image. This look would take her to the world’s most stylish eateries.
Minutes later, she pulled her 1966 Corvette Stingray coupe out of the parking garage and slid smoothly into traffic. She hated driving in New York, but she had to admit it was better than trusting her fate to any cab driver. And if she was going to drive, it was a joy to pilot this classic bit of transportation, so she pulled it out whenever she was in the city. The day’s brilliant sun would make her glossy, tuxedo black machine hard for passersby to look at, but she knew they would want to stare. Dipped in chrome and airbrushed with twelve coats of paint, the agile vehicle seemed to slip like quicksilver through traffic on the wide one-way avenue. A twist of the knob of the factory installed AM-FM radio filled her cockpit with Van Morrison’s folksy blues sound. After all these years, she still found “Domino” to be great driving music. Humming along, she pulled a pair of Dragonfly sunglasses out of the glove compartment and slid them into place. Life was good.
But less than three blocks from home, she started to get fidgety. That odd, intuitive discomfort always had a cause. She glanced in the rear view mirror. Was someone following her? She switched to the far left lane, signaling for a turn. Yes. The little Fiat four cars back was jockeying to get behind her. She suddenly darted to the right lane and the Fiat nearly ran a Lexus onto the sidewalk getting to the right also.
No style, she thought. A rank beginner would have spotted him. She could see two men in the car. Were they police? She knew they put a tail on her from time to time, hoping to get lucky. Then she saw the passenger side man hold up a pistol and charged back the slide.
“Nope, you’re not the police, are you?” she s
aid softly to herself. “Who, then? Friends of the two killers I met in my apartment on the West Coast, perhaps? Well then, no time for games now.”
She could find out for sure why the men in the follow car wanted her later. Now she had to shake these guys in a hurry, and she knew how. A couple of years back, Felicity took an offensive driving course. Her instructors thought she was a bodyguard in training, but in fact she needed the skills of an expert evasive driver to escape police pursuit. That was also the reason she replaced the 327 turbocharged engine the factory put into her little Corvette with the 426 blown hemi under its hood now. The same reasoning led to the button on the side of her Hurst T-shifter, but she did not need that now. Her own driving ability would do the trick, along with her knowledge of New York streets, and New York drivers.
The Payback Assignment Page 12
