The Payback Assignment (Stark and O'Brien Thriller Series)

by Austin S. Camacho

  By most measures, the other drinker was even more exceptional. Not only was he an inch taller than his well dressed partner, but he seemed three times as wide. He certainly tipped the scales at something over three hundred pounds, but there was hardly an ounce of fat on him. His suit, although tailor made, still strained to contain his bulging muscles. He had uncommonly long arms, with fingers hanging halfway to his knees. His knuckles were rounded and hair ran rampant on the backs of his hands. His head was the bullet shape of the pure Saxon, connected to his body by what looked like a set of braided steel cables running down his neck and out to his shoulders. One glance at his simian form reminded Seagrave how he had acquired the nickname “Monk”. He served his purposes, but Seagrave had more use for the thinner man right then.

  “Give me a report, Stone,” Seagrave said, his hands in his bathrobe pockets. “What’s the story on that Central American commodities deal?”

  “It should be quite profitable,” the white haired man responded. “The politician we supported in Belize will be successfully maneuvering to increase sugar prices now that he is in control of that key export in his country. He is also quite influential with his opposites in other sugar producing nations. He is presently instigating for an OPEC style sugar cartel across Latin America. He is an excellent spokesman for the advantages of capitalist power politics, pointing to the Middle East as his example. In some cases, the fate of our man’s late predecessor, this Carlos Abrigo, is being successfully used to intimidate reluctant officials. Your accountants assure me that your sugar futures should more than double in value within the next eighteen months or so.”

  Stone’s eyes rose to at the sight of Ashleigh stepping out of the elevator in tight, but otherwise conservative business attire. She moved quietly across the floor and took her place in a seat beside the desk. She drew a notebook out of a desk drawer and flipped to a blank page, ready to take notes. Seagrave patted her head absently as he eased into his plush office chair.

  “That’s very good,” Seagrave said, returning his attention to Stone. “This is a strong first step. You see, it’s all about placing the right people in the right political positions. The profits from my commodities trading will finance future selective removals, and this operation will pay for itself.”

  “So we will continue to influence the leadership in Belize?” Stone asked.

  “Of course,” Seagrave said, smirking into Stone’s passive face. “On the international stage no one is watching this peaceful little country. At the end of my five-year plan I will be in complete political control of Belize. Now, is there anything else I need to know regarding your side of the operation?”

  “Your briefing book is on your desk,” Stone said, sipping from a brandy snifter. “Although I do feel an obligation to tell you that, based upon my experience, not paying your agents in Belize was a false economy, a tactical error, sir.”

  “Study history, Stone,” Seagrave said. “More recent conquerors have been brought down by their own military than any other force. I don’t want soldiers sitting around who know what I’ve done. They might start thinking they deserve a piece of my success.”

  “Understood,” Stone said. “As your advisor it’s my job to point out anything that looks like a misjudgment.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter now, does it?” Seagrave asked. “They’re all dead, right? When you came to work for me, at an inflated salary I might add, you gave up the option of doing things your own way.”

  “Yes sir.” Stone waited until his employer was finished scanning a business letter before speaking again. “There is one other unrelated item. Not really business.”

  “Yes?”

  “We’ve been contacted by the O’Brian girl.” Stone paused, but Seagrave continued shuffling papers on his desk. Considering this a good sign, Stone continued. “She apparently intends to press her claim for her fee. We do owe her for that little robbery she performed for us.”

  “Robbery?” Seagrave said. “Oh yes, that brooch that Marlene wanted so badly.” He broke into an unexpected smile. “She’s out right now, shopping for something special to wear it with when we go to that fancy ball on Saturday.”

  “Quite,” Stone said. “This woman could become, er, an inconvenience. Ignoring her will not resolve this issue. She will continue to make demands, perhaps drawing attention to areas of your activities that may not bear close scrutiny. Will you authorize payment? Or, shall I have the problem neutralized?”

  “Yes, yes,” Seagrave muttered, waving the question off without looking up. “Kill her.”

  -14-

  Morgan took a quick shower before stowing his gear in the guestroom. Clothes and personal items went into the closet and dresser drawers. He hated living out of a suitcase, even if he was only going to be in one place for a couple of days. After refreshing the shine on his boots with a polish kit he picked up at the airport, he pulled on a blue tee shirt and black denims. Out of habit his jeans were bloused, tucked into his combat boots. Adding a lightweight black windbreaker, zipped up a couple of inches, he grabbed one of the gun cases and returned to the living room. Felicity waited for him there, relaxed on the sofa. The flat screen that had imitated a painting earlier now displayed CNBC.

  “About time,” Felicity said with a smile. “I need a long soak.”

  Morgan fought shaking his head. “Got some business,” he muttered. “Need some expense money.”

  “Where to?” Felicity asked. After the briefest hesitation, she drew a handful of bills from her purse and handed them to him.

  “Just want to get ready for the trouble I know is going to come looking for me,” Morgan said, stuffing the money into a pocket. “How about you? After your bath, that is.”

  “Well, I know I might have some nasty enemies out there,” Felicity said, “and I ought to do something about it. But then I think about the fact that I haven’t been in town for weeks, I’ve got a houseguest, and my refrigerator’s empty. Guess I’ll just follow my own motto. When the going gets tough, the tough go shopping.”

  Morgan wanted to shout at her to take their situation more seriously. Instead he just mumbled, “Okay, see you,” and headed out. After another high-speed elevator ride he asked the security man to call a cab for him. He stepped out into the late morning sun and took a moment to settle his mind. Returning to the States was always a joy, even after a short trip away. He enjoyed watching the young girls wandering, seemingly aimlessly, and appreciated the current style in shorts. That sport lasted only a couple of minutes, until his taxi arrived. He gave an address he had found in the yellow pages and settled back for the ride.

  Morgan had been away from the West Coast for a couple of years and was surprised at how much had changed. There was little he saw on the ride that distinguished Los Angeles from the rest of the vast country he labeled “Generica” in his own mind. The whole concept of the neighborhood seemed to be dying, and he found the loss of local identity depressing.

  After much longer than the drive should have taken, the taxi swerved to the curb on a side street in the area between Gardena and Torrence that was and yet was not a part of Los Angeles. A painted wooden sign above the gunsmith shop’s door claimed it was owned by someone named “Pop.” Years ago, Morgan had chosen this shop purely based on its name. He figured the owner must have been in business for a while. He paid the fare, up quite a bit since his last visit to California, and entered the shop.

  A tiny bell hanging over the door rang as he opened the door, and he knew he had chosen well. It was an old-fashioned shop run by a white haired, soft bellied fellow who smelled of gunpowder. Shotguns and hunting rifles hung on the wall behind the glass counter. Inside the counter Morgan scanned a collection of military handguns, a couple tricked out with compensators and tritium sights. Nothing had changed since the last time Morgan pushed that door open.

  “How you doing, Pop?” Morgan asked the man behind the counter.

  “Morgan! How the hell are you, son?” Pop mov
ed around the counter to embrace Morgan, clapping him on the back. “Been a long time since you dropped by the old shop, my boy. What can I do for you today?”

  Since no one else was around, Morgan got right to the point. “Actually, I’m hoping to use your back room for a while. I just got back in country and I need to take care of my tools.”

  Pop glanced out the shop’s front window, his demeanor cooling a bit. “I don’t know, young fellow. It’s been a while since you came around, and California’s gun laws have gotten worse. And there’s all this talk about terrorists. Every time a professional like you asks to work in my shop it’s another risk to my license.”

  “Aw, come on, Pop. You don’t have to go through that routine with me.” Morgan leaned casually against the counter and pulled a few bills out of his pocket. “Will this compensate you for the risk to your livelihood?”

  “Oh, hell,” Pop said, sweeping the money off the counter. “I like you, son. Come on back. Just don’t make too much noise if you hear anybody come in.”

  Morgan grinned as he followed Pop into the back. Some things never changed and, even in laid back Southern California, money talks. Once he was out of sight of the public part of the shop Morgan unzipped his jacket and settled onto a stool at Pop’s workbench. He pulled his pistol from the gun case and dropped the magazine out. Pop was watching him closely when he broke down his weapon and started to clean it.

  “Relax, old man,” Morgan said without taking his eyes away from his work. “Like you said, I’m a professional. I know what I’m doing here.”

  Pop nodded. “Don’t see youngsters who know how to treat a gun these days, except for some of the target shooters that come in here. But those are stunt guns with expensive doodads.”

  “A craftsman’s got to respect his tools,” Morgan said. “This particular Browning Hi-power’s like an old friend. She’s been with me through four armed conflicts without a single stoppage. She’s real reliable, but I know, just like any other nine millimeter, she’ll jam up on me in a heartbeat if I don’t keep her clean.”

  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.”