“The men?”
“Yes, yes.” Seagrave released his wife’s arm and she backed away across the floor. “Get all you want, put them everywhere if that’ll make you happy. Now get out of here.”
Paul took one last long look at Marlene, as if expecting her to say something, then stepped silently out the door.
-31-
A crisp autumn breeze cut through the stocky blond man in the doorway. He put his hands into the pockets of his black leather jacket and hugged the corner of the doorjamb. His left side was chilled by the mini-Uzi slung under his arm, beneath his coat.
He thought it was stupid, posting guards downstairs on the street entrance. Nobody would try to break into the building that housed the Seagrave Corporation. Besides, if a problem came up, fifteen people on five floors were patrolling in patterns that only looked random. Here it was, almost four in the morning and he was wasting his time out here. His two buddies inside were sleepy too, but at least they were warm. At this time in the morning there wasn’t even enough traffic noise to keep him alert. The occasional taxi rolled past, but the business district was largely unmoving. Why did rich people always lay on extra protection after the action? Did they really think troublemakers would come back after barely getting away with their skins?
As the guard turned his jacket collar up, he noticed a black man rounding the corner and trudging toward him. The man showed weariness in each step, pushing a big-wheeled pretzel cart. He hugged a ragged coat around himself as he clicked down the sidewalk in worn-down shoes. The fingers were cut off his gloves. His beard was crinkly and a floppy slouch hat covered his head. He was thickening around the middle and he had the street urchin’s twinkle in his eye. As he came even with the door, the mouth-watering smell of his wares reached out to the guard.
“Hey, man,” the blonde at the door called. “What you doing out this early?”
“Not early, brother,” the vendor replied, in a thick West Indian accent. “Dis late. I tried a new spot and sold more pretzels den ever. Hey, you want one? You look cold, mon. Here, it’ll be on me. On de house.”
The blonde waved inside the building to the burly black man standing near the elevator. He looked out and noticed his partner tearing into a big, soft, hot pretzel. Smiling, he waved to the third ground floor guard, and they both marched out the door. They stood in a circle, their breath smoking out. All accepted the peddler’s gifts and celebrated his good fortune with him. They felt warm for a moment, and a bit friendlier. They grinned and waved as he headed up the block a few minutes later, the wheels of his cart squeaking rhythmically as he went.
Across the street, Felicity watched the trio from the darkness of an opposing doorway. She was dressed in her work clothes, holding a pair of opera glasses. She smiled broadly when she saw the first man yawn. After all, if it worked on guard dogs it would work on these hastily hired extra security men. The first one was leaning against a wall. By now she knew Morgan was around the next corner, peeling off the facial hair, the slouch hat and the padded, ragged coat. And he would be putting on more appropriate footwear for the work ahead.
Guard number two crouched in the hallway as the drugged pretzel took full effect. The third man was trying to rouse his two partners. He had a little more body mass, which may have been slowing the effects, but his own groggy mind appeared to be just coming to the realization that something was amiss.
From her right, Felicity could see Morgan jogging in toward the target building, all black in his own “business suit”. The only standing guard staggered back into the building. Three seconds later, Morgan followed. Five seconds after that, a black glove reached out the door and beckoned. She nodded, smiled, and sprinted across the street. Inside, she followed Morgan as he dragged the big man through the door into the fire stairs. She wished they could ride up but, unfortunately, elevators always have lights that announce an approaching car. Not the safest way to travel in a guarded building.
“I’m still not sure about your boots,” she said as the stairwell door closed behind her. “They might make too much noise on the steps. I’ve got to get you a pair of these special crepe soled boots.”
Morgan turned and closely examined the steel door they had just come through. “Don’t sweat it, Red. These fire doors are almost completely soundproof. Now, quit stalling and let’s get up there.”
She smiled a challenge in response to Morgan’s remark and launched herself forward. She moved beside him as they took forty-one flights of cement stairs in four quick jogging bursts. Every five minutes she reported elapsed time. During each of three rest stops, one minute each, the pair breathed deeply but did not speak. In the dimly lighted stairwell, seemingly infinite above and below, they simply watched each other. She checked his face for alertness and tension level, and she knew he was checking her as well, looking at looseness of muscle, depth of breathing, lightness of tread. They both searched for any hint of hesitation or loss of sureness. She wasn’t disappointed, and his subtle nod said that he wasn’t either.
On the forty-first floor they faced a door and a cinder block wall. Felicity briefly thought she had miscounted, until she remembered how often these old buildings had no thirteenth floor. While Morgan pressed his ear to the heavy steel door, she produced a small container of lubricant with which she doused the door hinges. She crouched at the door while Morgan, above her, pressed the door handle and held it down, barely cracking the door open.
Three long minutes of silence passed. She imagined Morgan’s hand had to be starting to ache, locked around the handle, but he never made a sound. His closed eyes told her he was keeping his mind relaxed. Finally, the slow, easy tread of a bored hall guard approached.
As the footsteps moved past them, Morgan pressed forward and the door eased open without making a sound. His steely right arm snapped out, his gloved hand clamping over the patroller’s mouth. His other iron hand locked around the guard’s throat, dragging him into the stairwell with startling ease. Felicity pulled a hypodermic from a pocket on her belt, dropped the protective plastic sleeve and slid the needle into the man’s forearm, through his shirt. He could only have caught a fleeting glimpse of her beautiful, smiling face as she pulled the needle out. He struggled pointlessly for a few seconds, but then his movements slowed and the light went out of his eyes.
While Morgan sat the guard in a corner of the stairway, Felicity stepped into the hall. Using a tiny jimmy and screwdriver, she removed the cover plate from the controls of Seagrave’s exclusive elevator. Morgan was soon looking over her shoulder, but she knew her silent ritual held no meaning for him. Felicity was staring into the blackness of the hole in the wall, while she produced a tiny black box.
As they had rehearsed, Morgan shined a pencil torch’s thin beam into the workspace, barely five by three inches. Three wires hung from the black box. With a penknife, Felicity loosened connections and peeled insulation in the control access. Using alligator clips, she attached the black box to three contact points. Once the contacts were solid she turned and smiled at Morgan. He pressed a gloved finger into the elevator call button.
Seconds later, steel doors wheezed open and Morgan and Felicity played “Alphonse and Gaston” four or five times before she finally entered the elevator first. They were still grinning about their “after you” routine a moment later as the doors whispered open again three stories higher. Morgan stepped out, turned right, and came face to face with a yuppie playing hall monitor.
Felicity hung back for a good view. This part she loved. The guard was about fifteen feet away. He had been scanning a folded newspaper as he walked, humming softly to himself. He dropped his newspaper, his right hand snapping jerkily for the weapon under the left arm of his tweed jacket. Morgan took three quick loping strides and had him by the wrist before his hand could clear the blazer. Morgan’s right hand moved in a blur, stiffened fingers driving into his opponent’s solar plexus. As the man doubled over, Morgan’s elbow crashed down onto the base of his skull. Snatchi
ng the back of the blazer’s collar, Morgan lowered him to the floor without a sound.
Felicity’s movement’s matched Morgan’s efficiency. On her first visit to that building, she was on a fishing expedition, but this time she knew exactly which room she wanted to enter. Picking the lock on the target door took her exactly nine seconds. Once inside the now familiar conference room, she waved Morgan in behind her. He eased the door closed behind himself and stopped to listen for a moment. Apparently satisfied, he moved to the desk and turned on the lamp. Felicity nodded to him and stepped across the room. He called to her in a loud stage whisper.
“Red. Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure,” she said, backtracking closer to him. “I’ve met him, remember? And I heard everything Aaron told us about him, didn’t I? This is the kind of man who would strictly separate his family life from business. His ego and sense of self-control are obvious. On top of all that, he’s the type who’ll be wanting to keep his real treasures near at hand. He’d want to be playing with his toys.”
Morgan nodded. “Still sounds like a wild guess to me.”
“Morgan, I have to trust my guts,” she said. “All my experience, all my instincts are telling me the brooch has got to be in his living area, I’m betting in his bedroom. And surely he’d have the hallway outside his apartment upstairs heavily guarded, so this is the way to go in.”
“If it is the way in,” Morgan said. “I’m still not sure that elevator you noticed last night when you stared Seagrave down goes to his apartment. What if it goes to the warehouse?”
“There’s no reason on earth to have an elevator here, going there. Common sense and all my experience tells me it’s Seagrave’s back door. Trust me.”
Morgan’s face reflected his concern. “What if you meet a guard up there?”
“What, in his own apartment? In his home?” she asked. “Not a chance. Not if I understand the man at all.” She slapped his shoulder playfully and headed for the other end of the room. As expected, she needed no special gadgets to open it. The silent movement of the doors, folding open to welcome her, was a pleasant surprise. She stepped inside and waved to Morgan as the doors closed.
Seconds later, gilt-edged doors slid back, and the elevator opened onto a cozy study filled with expensive electronic toys. It was what she expected to see based on her read of Seagrave, and she would bet most of the stereo and video equipment was never used. She stepped out of the elevator car, keeping to the edges of the room. Floors, she knew, usually creaked least at the edges.
The darkness was as thick and deep as the ankle covering, wine colored carpet she walked on, yet Felicity moved through it with ease, as a shadow at home among shadows. She brushed past the velvet sofa followed only by the sound of her own heartbeat.
At the master bedroom she listened in rapt attention to the slow, steady breathing of its two occupants. Satisfied that those in the room were both asleep, she peered inside. There lay Adrian Seagrave in yellow silk pajamas, beneath burgundy satin sheets, in a king size water bed. His wife lay face down, two feet away. One of them had kicked the covers down to their ankles.
Mrs. Seagrave wore an expensive nightgown, rucked up around her hips. She was taller than her husband, blond, and the kind of plump many shapely women become when they no longer have any reason to watch their figures. But Felicity was struck most by the contrast between the two sleeping faces. The woman’s face was relaxed, untroubled. Few wrinkles showed. A slight smile rested on her lips. She slept the sleep of the innocent. Was this woman aware of her husband’s brutal life of crime? Did she know he ordered people killed just to increase his profits? Perhaps not. Maybe she thought he was just a typical American businessman.
Oh lord, thought Felicity. Perhaps this really is a typical American businessman.
She pulled a tiny nose clip and mouth filter from her belt. It held a four-inch cylinder of compressed air. She was certain it would be more than enough for her plans. The miniature aerosol can she sprayed into the room contained a mild sedative mist that would merely cause those in the bed to sleep more deeply. Next she plugged her familiar earplug into place and began scanning the room with her metal detector.
While she probed the room, her mind was probing the situation. Morgan had stated it quite simply. Their problems would not be ended unless Seagrave was, as he put it, “signed off.” An interesting euphemism, that. After she had the brooch, she would ride the elevator back to the conference room. Morgan would ride upstairs in the little elevator and quietly slit the man’s throat. Self-defense, and he started it, and all that. It all seemed pretty simple at the time, but she had not considered the wife. Besides, what gave them the right to calmly commit cold-blooded murder?
After all the trouble she had gone through, Felicity found the safe behind a cheap velvet painting of a matador. The moral situation continued to plague her as, moving automatic precision, she placed the stethoscope in position for opening the combination lock. Could she and Morgan pass the death sentence on this man? After all, he was not really evil, just greedy. If that became a capital offense, she would be next on the gallows herself. On the other hand, he had tried to kill her. Or, more accurately, to have her killed by others. And he was responsible for the death of some of Morgan’s friends. But even if he did deserve to die, what about the woman, who would wake up beside a blood splattered corpse?
Her introspection was short circuited as she swung the steel door open. Feeling a wave of deja vu, Felicity reached into the cylindrical, felt lined hole and withdrew her diamond-studded prize. She stared into the heartless, flawless stone, silently scolding it. How much trouble you have caused, she thought. How much pain. And how many deaths have you caused since your ancient creation? How much blood have men spilled in pursuit of a green piece of stone carrying a chunk of polished carbon with little white marbles around it?
Felicity sighed and shook her head, honest enough to admit to herself that none of that really mattered to her. At last her quest was ended and the reward was indescribably sweet. It had been so easy in the end. With Morgan for backup, anything was within reach. Again she considered the idea of them continuing as a team in the future. She wasn’t sure how that could work, but it certainly felt comfortable thinking it.
One small snag was nagging at the back of her mind. She pulled the solution from a squeeze pocket at the side of her black denims. She removed the safety sleeve from another thin hypodermic needle and very gently slid its tip into Marlene Seagrave’s exposed hip. The mist she had previously sprayed merely deepened the sleep of those who inhaled it. This injection would knock the woman out. She would sleep through anything now, even a gunshot in the same room.
Not that she would need to. Morgan planned to do his work with a knife, up close and personal as he put it. The mental image still rattled her. She wished that Morgan had brought some sort of poison with him instead. That would finish Adrian Seagrave off more neatly. As it was, she figured she would at least convince Morgan to put the man’s mortal remains elsewhere after the deed was done. No woman deserves to wake up beside a bloody corpse.
Leaning back against the bar in the darkness, Morgan watched the small elevator for movement. He sipped some of Seagrave’s Napoleon Brandy with a smile. When Felicity landed he would ride up and quietly push seven inches of steel into Adrian Seagrave’s throat. For Crazy Mike. For Smitty. For Josh. In fact, one inch of blade for each of the men he lost when Seagrave ordered them abandoned in the jungle. It would not be fun, and he would relive it a few times in his sleep, but in his mind it was a matter of expedience. Then he and his new partner would be out of the building before anyone knew they had been there.
His new partner. He liked the sound of that. Maybe if he had a real partner he could finally settle somewhere, before his luck ran out. He did have that dream of going legit, setting up a personal protection business, providing a level of safety for executives who needed it against killers and terrorists. He was ready to become a defe
nder instead of an attacker.
He swirled the brandy in its snifter, enjoying its sweet, biting aroma while he considered how smoothly he and Felicity worked together. They had known each other for only days, yet they breezed through this mission with hardly a word exchanged. Even when he did question her, her confidence convinced him that she had things under control.
He had never thought he could work with a woman. Of course, this situation was a bit different from anything he had ever considered because with this woman there could be no sex angle. He would never risk feeling both sides of love making again. So from that aspect, it was the same as working with a man. In all other ways, it was quite different. For example, he had never worked with a man who was such a talented creative thinker. While he worked in straight lines, she functioned well with no pattern whatever.
When the elevator door slid open, he marched over to Felicity, holding a glass out to her. She gratefully accepted it, taking a healthy pull. She bowed him toward the elevator but held his arm. Morgan turned toward her, and she pulled him toward her, craning her neck to whisper in his ear. Obviously she wanted to tell him something about the situation upstairs.
The Payback Assignment Page 22
