The Orion Assignment

by Camacho, Austin S.

  “At the risk of being trite, where am I?” he asked, startling his partner awake.

  “Hi. Welcome back to the land of the living.”

  “It’s good to be back,” he said. “Where am I?”

  Felicity squeezed his hand and smiled into his face. “A small private hospital in the south of France. Very small. Very private.”

  “How long?” Morgan asked. His throat was dry. He pulled himself into a seated position, and noticed he was wearing silk pajamas. He found water on his bedside table, and poured himself a glass.

  “Just about forty-eight hours. In and out of consciousness. You were on some heavy drugs while they worked on you.” She paused, and Morgan knew there was some important unfinished business she wanted to clear away in a hurry. “Morgan, I know about O’Ryan and my parents.”

  “I’m sorry now I didn’t tell you,” he replied, then drained his water glass.

  “Wonder if the dreams will stop now,” Felicity said, as if she were talking to herself. Then, to Morgan, “Is this empty feeling vengeance for my parents’ death?”

  Morgan let most of a minute go by, just watching the pain in her deep green eyes. Finally, he said, “You didn’t kill him, you know.”

  Felicity stared out the window. A bird out there was scolding her mate. They were sailing in tandem toward their nest. She turned back to look deeply into Morgan’s eyes, trying to see all the way to the bottom line.

  “You’re concerned about me,” she said at last. “You’re afraid that killing him would affect me somehow.”

  Morgan’s face was stern, rigid. “Killing a man always affects you. Nobody comes away clean from that. Sometimes, if you do it enough times, a callous can form around your heart, but it always affects you. I don’t want that happening to you.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “I know it was a freak accident. But I’m not sorry about it. And if it hadn’t happened, I’d have wanted you or Paul or someone to do it anyway.”

  While holding that thought in his mind Morgan realized how close and restrictive the room felt. He noted the light, pastel blue sun dress Felicity wore and the sunshine outside, and assumed the weather was perfect. He hoped her soul was still as light as it was a week ago.

  “Well, can I get out of this bed?”

  “I hope so,” Felicity said. “There’s a crowd of people waiting for you outside.”

  Morgan buzzed for a nurse. When he looked toward the door he saw Paul standing next to it. Morgan did not doubt that he had been standing there for two days. He waved the man to his bedside.

  “Guess I should say thanks,” Morgan said.

  “You called for backup. Hope I did the right thing.”

  “You did exactly right,” Morgan said. Before he could say another word, Claudette flew into the room. She wrapped her arms tightly around him, burying her face in his neck. He thought he felt water on his back.

  “Okay, doll, you must have got me into this place,” Morgan said. “How long am I going to be here?”

  “Just until tomorrow, lover,” Claudette said, kissing him. “After that we can relax for a week while they wait for the swelling to go down. Then you’ll be back for the plastic work. They do the best here. Your teeth will be perfect and there won’t be a scar on your face when they’re through. Or you shoulders. Or your leg. Actually, they’ve quite a lot of work to do.”

  A nurse who was a perfect Elle Macpherson look alike brought a wheelchair. With a deft body check, Paul replaced her. With Claudette and Felicity’s help he got Morgan into the chair. Paul pushed it slowly while Felicity pushed the wheeled I.V. pole. Claudette held his hand as if she thought he might disappear if she lost her grip on him. As they rolled down the long antiseptic halls, Morgan’s mind spun at high speed. As his system shook the numbing anesthetics, the questions came pouring out.

  “Hey, Red. Have you talked to Grey?”

  “Yesterday,” Felicity said. “He assures me I have no criminal record anywhere in Europe. There’s no problem with regard to the bounced checks because as it turns out, Mister O’Ryan’s estate made a contribution to my uncle’s church in exactly that amount. He said thank you, and that he never met us.”

  “Dynamite. Now, have you talked to Fox?”

  “This morning,” Felicity said. “She’s terrified of running the place much longer alone but I told her she could handle it. We’re wanted for security on a rock concert. I told her to turn it down. We got a response to my proposal on security for a new office building. That’s a go as soon as we get home. There’s a bonded courier job that Paul can handle when he gets back tomorrow. We provided a driver and bodyguard to some diplomat or other. You’re wanted to outfit a military group in…am I pronouncing this right? Djibouti?”

  “Right. Little country near Ethiopia. I’d have to do that one personally.”

  “Then they’ll have to get someone else,” Felicity said. At the end of the hall they faced a wide glass door which Felicity reached to push open. As her hand touched the handle, Morgan felt Felicity’s nails dig into his shoulder. A heartbeat later his nervous system jangled up his spine and his drug slowed senses brought him the feel, the scent of danger.

  “Paul! Back inside,” he said, but there was no movement. He twisted around to see a short, squat man behind Paul pressing a slim automatic into his back.

  “Out,” the stranger said, in an accent Morgan couldn’t place. He stared up into Claudette’s deep brown eyes and saw terror there. His mind was searching for options but Paul’s grunt interrupted him. The gunman had jammed the barrel into Paul’s back, but Paul was looking down at Morgan, unmoving. With Claudette and Felicity in danger, their options were narrowed to zero, so Morgan nodded toward the door and Paul moved forward.

  They stepped through the wide door into brilliant sunshine. Morgan was assailed by the scent of lilacs. The heat hit him like a living thing and he began to sweat under the tape wrapped around his ribs. They moved across the wide lawn toward a round white table with a huge umbrella over it and four people sitting around it.

  Marlene looked as if she could not catch her breath. Sean trembled with rage. Raoul stared at the man standing beside him, probably watching for an opening. The fourth man wore a white suit and felt hat, just like the two men standing at either side of the table. But while they held guns, the seated man’s hands were empty. That marked him as the leader.

  When the seated man stood he proved to be taller than his helpers. He walked to Morgan and smiled down into his face.

  “You, my battered friend, have interfered with our cause recently, or so I understand.”

  “So who the hell are you?” Morgan asked.

  “You can call me Youssef in your last minutes,” the tall man said while sliding a slim pistol out of his waistband. It was an old Russian Tokarev, Morgan saw.

  “They have security here,” Claudette said in a small voice.

  “Not anymore,” Youssef said. His complexion was swarthy and rough, and he smiled with only the left side of his mouth.

  “A raghead,” Morgan said with disgust. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Youssef’s eyes flared as he shoved the muzzle of his gun within inches of Morgan’s face. “We know you for the blood thirsty counter revolutionary you are, Stark. You are a murdering enemy of our cause. It is only to be decided if these others are to die with you.”

  Morgan had stopped breathing when the pistol appeared. This man was irrational, Morgan thought. He could go off at any time, and so could that gun. Ignoring the tube down which death could rush at any second, he focused on Youssef’s eyes, his own eyes narrowing to slits.

  “If you plan to hurt one of those people at that table over there, you’d better kill me now.”

  Youssef’s laugh was high, and his black, oily hair flipped back when his head snapped up. “You are arrogant, black dog. But yes, you have killed many while they have killed none. You are the enemy. You have interfered with our brothers who struggle in Ireland. S
o, you die.”

  Youssef’s pistol centered between Morgan’s eyes. Morgan stared straight ahead, his teeth bared. No weapons. Not even the strength to stand. This was no way to die. His pulse quickened and his legs tensed. If he dived forward, maybe he could give Paul a chance to act.

  Beside him, Felicity broke into a high, nervous laugh. “This is about O’Ryan?” she asked. “The boy was robbing you blind.”

  Youssef’s gun swiveled to cover her. “You know this?” He stalked forward, the pistol thrust forward at arm’s length. Felicity stumbled back, tripped, and fell onto her side. “How do you know this?” His left arm cocked back to slap Felicity, but Paul intercepted it. Youssef’s right arm swept around, creasing Paul’s skull with his gun’s barrel. As Paul fell away, Youssef sighted down his gun at Paul’s head.

  “Stop it,” Morgan said. “We know O’Ryan was embezzling your funds because we saw the way he lived, asshole.” Youssef turned to face him. “And when we went to rob him, we saw how much money he had,” Morgan continued. “He was living like a king on all that dough you boys sent him.”

  Youssef’s dark face flushed almost purple. He wrapped his hands into Morgan’s pajama top, lifting him out of the wheelchair. “Where is he?” he bellowed into Morgan’s face.

  “If you’re one of bin Laden’s boys, or whoever’s running the whole al Queda deal these days, you must have known what he was doing,” Morgan said. “The one thing Osama understood was the finance end of terror. That’s the real reason you’re on The Continent, ain’t it? I’m just a convenient stopover. Shit, we did you a favor boy.”

  Tight lipped, Youssef dropped Morgan back into the chair. “Where is he? Where is O’Ryan?”

  “Paul?” Morgan looked over at his friend, who had regained his feet.

  “At the bottom of the Atlantic,” Paul said. “Apparent fishing accident. May never be found.”

  Felicity took a deep breath and let it out slowly as a new silence settled over the lawn. Morgan and Youssef seemed to share a spotlight, the center of the action. Felicity regained her feet, to stand at the edge of that imaginary spotlight, watching a frozen diorama within it. At that tense moment she had no trouble reading the Arab’s face. He was weighing his options, she knew, comparing risk against possible gain.

  A slight breeze chilled her a bit, making her aware of how much sweat covered her body right then. And she wasn’t even the one under the gun. Youssef was thinking too long, she thought, and every second brought Morgan closer to death. He was sweating too, and probably in pain. She didn’t think they could not fight their way out of this one. But if Youssef was not completely irrational, then maybe, just maybe, she could help him make the right decision.

  “Do they speak English?” Felicity asked, pointing at the men guarding the table and the gunman behind Morgan. Youssef looked up at her, his face twisted with contempt, and made a noise that sounded like “Feh.” She took that to mean no.

  “Okay, look. I think poking around Ireland would have been risky for you,” Felicity said in what she hoped was a calm, reasonable voice. “We spared you that. But hanging around here, that’s just as dicey. Besides, my partner here is out of the counterterrorism business. So there’s nothing to be gained by killing him. And by now, somebody inside must have gathered their wits enough to call the police. You start killing people, they’ll shut Europe down. Getting out’s going to be tough.”

  Youssef was staring into Felicity’s face now, but his gun was still pointed between Morgan’s eyes. She knew he could go either way.

  “She’s right,” Morgan said, regaining Youssef’s attention. “So how about this? You walk now, and nobody comes looking for you. I tell the cops this was a private argument. You go home and tell your boss you did O’Ryan. Everybody’s happy.”

  Felicity thought they might be getting through to Youssef, but he dived forward, his gun shoved against Morgan’s throat. Breath froze in the pit of Felicity’s stomach. It’s over, she thought. We’ve lost.

  “Why should I believe anything you say, black dog?” An invisible fist crushed Felicity’s ribs as Youssef’s eyes bored into Morgan’s from just inches away. But despite her fear, her heart leaped with pride to see Morgan meet the Arab’s eyes with a fierce energy.

  “Because I’m a professional,” Morgan said with a contemptuous sneer. “Look it up.”

  Trembling, Felicity watched Youssef’s finger tense on the Tokarev’s trigger, then ease away from it. He snapped back as suddenly as he had darted forward and repeated his high, squealing laugh. Then he rattled off a series of orders in Farsi too fast for her to follow. His men gathered behind the round lawn table. Youssef turned as if to go, but spun back around, landing a back hand blow to Morgan’s swollen face, hard enough to drop him out of the chair.

  “For past crimes, black dog,” he said, then spit on Morgan and trotted off to join his men. In seconds they had disappeared into the woods.

  Claudette was on her knees in an instant, cradling Morgan, trying to sit him up. Her tears flowed freely. Paul drew his pistol, but did not pursue the Arabs. Felicity was thankful for that, and when she found Morgan’s eyes she saw he felt the same way. Then she knelt and helped Claudette get Morgan back into the chair.

  “Is it over now?” Felicity asked.

  “Now, I think it is,” Morgan said. “All over but the healing. Claudette, you got any empty space at your place? I think I need a vacation.”

  THE END

  Author’s Bio

  Austin S. Camacho is a public affairs specialist for the Department of Defense. America’s military people overseas know him because for more than a decade his radio and television news reports were transmitted to them daily on the American Forces Network.

  He was born in New York City but grew up in Saratoga Springs, New York. He majored in psychology at Union College in Schenectady, New York. Dwindling finances and escalating costs brought his college days to an end after three years. He enlisted in the Army as a weapons repairman but soon moved into a more appropriate field. The Army trained him to be a broadcast journalist. Disc jockey time alternated with news writing, video camera and editing work, public affairs assignments and news anchor duties.

  During his years as a soldier, Austin lived in Missouri, California, Maryland, Georgia and Belgium. While enlisted he finished his Bachelor’s Degree at night and started his Master’s, and rose to the rank of Sergeant First Class. In his spare time, he began writing adventure and mystery novels set in some of the exotic places he’d visited.

  After leaving the Army he continued to write military news for the Defense Department as a civilian. Today he handles media relations and writes articles for the DoD’s Deployment Health Support Directorate. He has settled in northern Virginia with his wife Denise.

  Austin is a voracious reader of just about any kind of nonfiction, plus mysteries, adventures and thrillers. When he isn’t working or reading, he’s writing.

  Keep up with all of Austin S. Camacho’s latest accomplishments at

  www.ascamacho.com

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