The Orion Assignment
Page 1
Rave Reviews for the work of Austin S. Camacho
THE PAYBACK ASSIGNMENT
“…an exiting and fast paced action thriller that will hold your interest as he takes you from the high society of Los Angeles, into the steaming jungles of Belize and back to the rich and famous in their high-rise apartments. It’s not often I support the criminals, but I can relate to the anger and frustrations that both Stark and O’Brien must feel at being ripped off by their unscrupulous employer. I would recommend Payback Assignment to everybody who enjoys a good action story.”
- Scribblers Reviews
BLOOD AND BONE
“…is an action-packed, sensitively written thriller. Hannibal Jones is a hero whom anyone would want on their side. He and his girlfriend Cindy make one heck of an investigative team. Mr. Camacho creates so many twists and turns that the reader can only hang on until the exciting crescendo. The action spans continents; the characters are chameleons; and the plot is a real corkscrew. A great read from a talented story craftsman!!”
- Midwest Book Review
COLLATERAL DAMAGE
“Nicely worked plot, constant action and likable characters recommend this to larger collections.”
- Library Journal Magazine
THE TROUBLESHOOTER
“Austin Camacho, the author of this tale of derring-do, unfolds the story line at the pace of an action movie. He also uses cinematic tricks to establish characters quickly.”
- The Easton Star Democrat
DAMAGED GOODS
“… is a fast-paced, thrilling novel that will keep readers frantically reading to the last page.”
- Romance Readers Connection
Copyright October 2006 by Austin S. Camacho
All rights reserved. No part of this book shall be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, magnetic, photographic including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher. No patent liability is assumed with respect to the use of the information contained herein. Although every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, the publisher and author assume no responsibility for errors or omissions. Neither is any liability assumed for damages resulting from the use of the information contained herein.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN 0-9762181-6-X
Cover design by Gerry Brophy
Published by:
Intrigue Publishing, LLC
Printed in the United States of America
Printed on Recycled Paper
Prologue
The priest had just finished the benediction when a rumble like the wrath of God burst in his right ear.
The explosion kicked fist sized bits of his small stone church across the front pew. Screams of panic filled the room, and all but the clergyman ran in a blind panic toward the door. His eyes went first to the crumbling wall, then to old Mrs. O’Casey.
Mrs. O’Casey, who spoke fluent Gaelic and walked with a halting tread on spindly legs to sit right down front every Sunday morning without fail just to his right. The stone wall was shifting, its mortar shattered by the explosive blast. Ancient rock would fall in seconds, crushing Mrs. O’Casey’s brittle bones, and she was too shocked to move out of the way.
Ears still ringing from the bomb burst, eyes stung by mortar dust, the barrel-chested priest leaped down to the bench and swept his parishioner up in his arms. Breathing through clenched teeth, he jogged up the center aisle. Cradling the old woman like a child, he burst out into the morning’s dampness and sunlight. He managed to stand Mrs. O’Casey up in the arms of two younger women before he dropped to his knees, racked with violent coughs.
A soccer field’s length away, the window of a gray Mercedes limousine slid down, letting a wisp of the fine Irish mist in. The well dressed passenger in the back seat had a thick shock of wavy red hair. He watched the cloud of smoke roll out of the side of the small church building. The left side of the pitiful structure sagged inward. He could just hear the churchgoers, still screaming and running in circles.
A smile lit the red headed man’s tan eyes as his window slid up. He tapped his driver’s shoulder with his walking stick and the car moved off. His message had been delivered.
“Are ye all right, Sean?”
“No harm done,” the priest said, brushing himself off. “At least not to me.” His vestments were filthy, but he removed them with care, revealing a black suit underneath. “At least it looks like everyone got outside okay. But my poor church…”
A man in gray was pulling his hat down over his eyes as he stepped onto the stone path away from the church. Sean’s congregation was small these days, and he knew every face in it. This man was a stranger, and strangers were rare in the Irish countryside.
Then Sean turned back to his little church, and walked around the side of the building as if afraid of what he might see. “It looked like it was a small explosion. But, dear Lord in heaven.” He stared into a hole wide enough for him to force his broad shoulder through if he wanted to. “What kind of a monster would do such a thing?”
“Ye know full well what kind of monster,” Mick Murphy replied. He was a portly man with a big chin and eyes like a ferret’s. “You need help, Sean, and if you don’t mind me saying so, we both know where you can get it. Go on and get the girl.”
“The Lord will provide,” the priest said. He watched his parishioners scrambling to the road, many of the women still wailing. His heart sank knowing he was helpless to comfort them or calm their fears.
“Remember the man in the flood, Sean?” Mick asked. “He’s hanging on to the roof and a boat comes by. They call for him to jump in and he says `Begone. The Lord will provide’. When he dies on that roof, he ends up facing the Lord in heaven. He says `Lord, I trusted you to provide and you let me die’, and the Lord says…”
“Yes,” the priest said, “The Lord says `I sent you a boat, you fool.’ I remember the story, Mick.”
“Well, the Lord has provided you a way if you’ll take it, Sean.” Both men turned to watch the stained glass window above the hole slide to the ground and explode into shards. The priest’s stomach clenched and he fought back tears of anguish or rage. He didn’t know which.
“My friend, forget your pride. Go and get the girl. Bring Felicity home.”
- 1 -
It was the most glorious Easter ever. A brilliant sun was shining down through cotton ball clouds. The slightest breeze blew in from the lough, carrying the sweet smell of clover. Every person on the narrow street wore a smile of greeting. The little red haired girl stared around like Alice in Wonderland.
She was only six years old, and this was the high point of her young life. Her mother had made her a lovely new pastel blue dress. Father had bought her white shoes and gloves and a darling hat to wear to church. Her deep green eyes sparkled with delight when she looked in the mirror.
They were simple country folk, and the girl couldn’t remember going to the city before. Belfast was a teeming metropolis in her eyes. The buildings fascinated her, huddled so close together that they rubbed shoulders. She marveled at the doors, each a different bright color with fan shaped transoms over them. The street was cobblestone, but it had a sidewalk. And it looked like a street lamp stood on every corner. And surely everyone here owned an automobile, there were so many.
The little girl was skipping along, clutching a parent’s hand on each side. Every once in a while she tried to swing between them. F
ather told her she was much too old for that. He wore a new tweed suit and smelled of good wool. Mama smelled like wild flowers.
It was going to be a joyous day. She could imagine everything--the priest greeting them and telling her what a pretty girl she was, her own blushing, and Father telling the priest not to turn her head. It was all just a few minutes away. She could see the tall steeple ahead.
That was when it hit her for the first time. The fear that seemed to crawl out of the ground and up her spine to the nape of her neck. It was the horror she felt when she knew Father was on his way to give her a spanking, but worse. She had no idea what caused it, she only knew she was terrified.
Hair danced all over as she shook her head back and forth. She dragged her feet, trying to pull her parents back. Father asked, “What’s gotten into you child?” but she could not answer. Mama said “Felicity Kathleen, you behave like a lady.” With a violent wrenching she pulled her hands free from the two holding them.
Father sat down on the hood of a blue Buick with big fins standing at the curb. The girl ran to the nearest shop doorway, flattening herself against the door. She could smell the sweet scent of the baked goods from behind her. Pressing her back against the door put her parents out of sight around the edge of the doorway. She heard mother stamp in her direction. She heard the springs groan as her father pushed to rise from the auto he was leaning on.
Then the world exploded in a deafening blast. There was the sound of shattering glass and metal twisted out of shape. It was so loud she could not hear her own screams. The stench of burning wool and roasting flesh replaced the smell of pies and cakes.
The girl screamed and screamed. The concussion forced her tears back along the sides of her head, into her ears. The horror rose into her throat and she tried to scream it out.
Felicity O’Brien sat bolt upright, terror stretching her eyes wide. Most of the bulky comforter hung off the side of the bed. Her hair was heavy with the weight of perspiration. Sweat glistened on her taut breasts. A vein pulsed hard in her neck and she gasped for breath.
That dream, that God damned dream was back again. How many times would she have to relive that tragic day? How many times would she have to watch, helpless and powerless, as her parents died? Must she spend the rest of her life wondering why it had to be them? Why them and not her? If only she had understood the meaning of that awful feeling. If only she had known it was her mysterious ability to sense danger, activated for the first time. It had saved her life many times since then. If only she had recognized it for what it was that day, it could have saved theirs.
Fighting to keep from retching, Felicity stumbled into the bathroom. She got into the shower and turned on the water as hot as she could stand it. Leaning against the wall, she fell into wracking sobs.
If only the nightmare had happened the night before. Raoul had been there, and soothed her with his continental attentions. It would help to have someone to hold onto when the dream came, she thought. But he let himself out before dawn, leaving her to face the terror alone.
She had to pull herself together. She lathered herself with chamomile soap while she administered her self-oriented pep talk. How could she let a dream ravage her mind like this? Everyone knew she had nerves of steel. Was this any way for an infamous, international jewel thief to act?
Ex-jewel thief, she reminded herself, as she toweled herself dry after her shower. Last year this time she was at the height of her trade. Now she was a respectable business woman with a thriving enterprise to run. After a near brush with death, she and her new partner used their savings to set up a corporation on the outskirts of Los Angeles. She retired from crime as he retired from an even more dangerous life.
By seven forty-two a.m. Felicity was dressed for business. She knew the time exactly, despite the fact that she didn’t own a watch and not one clock ticked in her penthouse apartment. She was born with the special gift of perfect time sense. Her internal timepiece matched the reliability of any man made chronometer.
Felicity wasn’t at all concerned about reaching her eight-thirty appointment on time. She just stepped out the front door, across the central plaza and into an elevator. Five stories below, the doors slid open revealing a wide glass wall. Centered in that wall was a glass door bearing two lines of simple lettering. At about eye level it read, “STARK & O’BRIEN” and below that, in smaller letters, “Security and Crisis Management Consultants.” As she opened the door, those words made her smile. In the months since she had ordered the lettering for that door she had taken care of the security side of the business with ease. After all, she had made a career of defeating security measures. Who could know better how to keep people from getting in where they were not wanted?
“Good morning, Ms. O’Brien. Mister Stark is out of town today, and you have an eight-thirty.”
“And good morning to you, Miss Fox,” Felicity returned as she walked in. She and Morgan hired Sandy Fox away from a big name detective agency, at the very start of “Stark & O’Brien”, to be their receptionist and secretary. Despite ash blonde hair and blue eyes behind her high fashion glasses, Fox was not glamorous. Felicity would have described her as cute, of average height and medium build. She wore a neat dark suit. Sandy’s look was always appropriate to a business office, something Felicity was not at all confident about herself.
“So Sandy, do I look all right today?”
“You are truly beautiful, ma’am,” Sandy said. Felicity was tall, with long, full red hair, piercing green eyes and a perfect body, but that was not what she was asking about.
“Come on. I mean the outfit.” Felicity had long since mastered the perfect look to travel in high society or the criminal underground. She also knew how to be nondescript, invisible to passersby. The professional world was still new to her. This day she wore a simple black wool skirt, plain black pumps and a white silk blouse. A gray and green mohair shawl hung draped over her shoulders, tied at the right.
“Oh, yes. The look is all business. So tell me something. How come it makes you look like a movie star?”
Stuck between frustration and embarrassment, Felicity waved a hand at Sandy and muttered, “Go on with you.” She headed toward her inner office.
“Oh, that weird guy Paul is waiting in there. He insists on reporting in or something.”
Felicity stopped and turned to look back at Sandy. “That weird guy?”
Fox blushed then, as she so often did. “Sorry boss but, geez, that guy gives me the creeps.”
“He had the same effect on me when we met,” Felicity said, returning to the reception counter and leaning on it. “He’s probably the second most dangerous man I’ve ever met, with his hands or a gun. And when we met he was pointing his gun at me.”
“Really?”
“He had been hired to kidnap me and rip me off,” Felicity said. “It’s a long story. But today he’s a valuable member of our little team and if you give him a chance he kind of grows on you.”
While Fox blushed even deeper, Felicity moved on into her office and sat behind her custom made desk. It was shaped like a paisley print amoeba, the fat end on her right. Its top was white Italian marble, resting on steel polished to a mirror finish. The legs seemed to grow straight up out of the plush white carpet. The entire office had been designed and decorated to say, “success.”
“So, Paul, what’s on for today?” The tall man with ice blue eyes stood in front of her desk with no expression at all on his face.
“I have a courier assignment that will take me to the East Coast today,” Paul said in his accent-free voice. “Unless you have something else, Miss O’Brien.”
“Will you please relax,” she said, pulling a folder from her desk drawer. She planned to review the proposal she would present at eight-thirty. “You’ve done a fine job from the beginning and I trust you know what you ought to be doing. Lord, you’re an employee not a slave.”
“Sorry, Miss. I caused you some inconvenience last year…”
“Yes, ma’am, but after you and Mister Stark saved my life…”
“I’ve asked you never to mention that again. You’re a professional. When you tried to hurt me back then you were doing a job. Just like you will today, I’m quite sure.”
“Yes, ma’am. I should begin. Good day.” Paul wafted out of the room without a sound. He was good, which is why they hired him. He recognized their professionalism, which was why he worked for them. That, and his imagined debt.
She reflected back on the first days of their thriving business. Marlene Seagrave, a New York businesswoman, recommended them to several industrialists. It was the least she could do. Morgan and Felicity saved her life too, after her husband tried to have them killed. Paul worked as an enforcer for Mr. Seagrave then, but Morgan and Felicity rescued him and Mrs. Seagrave from a blazing building. This earned Paul’s loyalty and several referrals from Mrs. Seagrave.
Many other early clients were wealthy individuals whom Felicity knew were recent robbery victims. She knew this, because she had committed those robberies. From there, business grew by word of mouth.
Today’s job involved a chemical plant. She had already spent hours designing a comprehensive security plan, to theft-proof the factory as much as possible. She used third generation electronics, combined with state of the art surveillance equipment and her own years of experience in surreptitious entry.
This particular contract was one of their most lucrative, since it included an executive personal security plan devised by Morgan Stark, her partner. He had built an excellent reputation for expertise in arranging for the safety of key personnel in a short time. He designed their schedules, offices and cars to reduce the terrorist threat. Years as a mercenary soldier made him an expert in such matters.