Piranha Assignment

by Austin Camacho

  Her hair was bleaching, but not in an unattractive way. The golden highlights gave her the look of a Valkyrie for some reason. Her lips were drying and she wished she had had sense enough to bring her gloss.

  Then her head snapped up and she spun in her seat toward the Victorian house. It was not her danger signal, but the remote, general frisson that meant Morgan was the object of a threat. He was walking into something, and he was already in the house, beyond her call. She considered running to him, but decided preparing for escape might be a better precaution. She slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine. If he needed to get away quickly she would be ready.

  Padding down the carpeted third floor hall, Morgan followed a sudden urge to be very quiet. He didn’t really know why. He expected the building to be empty in the afternoon except for a few domestics. Everyone in the compound seemed very busy, and they only stopped for meals. But something or someone was setting off his old familiar danger alarm. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, and it worsened as he neared his room.

  It wouldn’t have surprised Morgan to find someone inside. Perhaps maids came to make the beds and such. But no maid would make his instincts go crazy. He moved to the door in total silence and pressed an ear to it. He heard movement within, stealthy movement. A search in progress, Morgan would bet, and here he was wandering around unarmed except for a knife in each boot for emergencies. Well, they would have to do. Them, and the element of surprise. One good thing about having a danger sense like his was never facing an enemy without warning.

  To the intruder’s disadvantage, the entire house was very well maintained. Morgan turned the doorknob and opened the door an inch without the slightest sound. He held his four inch double edged dagger in his right hand. One eye scanned the room, settling on the man within. His old pal Varilla was crouching before the bed, facing away from the door. Morgan’s steamer trunk was on it, with Varilla worrying the lock. Too bad. The locks were dummies. The fake hinges on the other side of the trunk were made to flip up, revealing the real locks. Meanwhile, Varilla was trying to pick a hinge.

  Morgan took three quick steps into the room before Varilla turned. Strong brown hands grasped the edge of the oval rug just as Varilla stood to his full height. A hard yank, and the intruder’s feet flew. His head made a dull crack as it hit the wooden floor. Morgan was on him in an instant, his blade’s tip making a slight indentation on Varilla’s throat. His eyes blazed above a humorless smile.

  “Looking for anything in particular?” Morgan asked. He could smell Varilla’s fear, but to his credit, Varilla swallowed hard and remained silent.

  “Who sent you?”

  “No one,” Varilla said. Possibly true. Morgan thought Bastidas may have sent him to check out the new security chiefs, but it was just as possible that Varilla was acting on his own. Was he trying to protect his boss from outsiders? Or, was he an inside saboteur, spying for some other nation? Maybe he knew they had a schematic of the Piranha and planned a little industrial espionage.

  In any case, Morgan wouldn’t kill him. So soon after CIA agent Chris Matthews’ death, and then the apparent murder of his killer, one more death could disrupt the project too much, maybe even end it, so near completion. If Varilla was a spy, turning him over to Bastidas could have the same result.

  While Morgan thought, Varilla sweated at knife point. There was only one thing to do. Concoct a lie that covered all the bases and let him go.

  “My partner and I are security experts,” Morgan said, withdrawing the knife. “That’s why we’re here. Entering this room set off my proximity alarm. I might have killed you, thinking you were a thief or a spy. There’s nothing here of any use to a spy anyway.” This much was true. No paperwork or other evidence of CIA connections existed. No tangible evidence existed to indicate that they were anything other than what they said they were.

  “In the interest of getting the project to completion, I’m going to let you leave and say no more about this. But get this straight.” Morgan hefted Varilla by the lapels and slammed him against the wall. “If you get in my way one more time, You’ll disappear mysteriously. Understand? And no one will hear from you again. Get it? Now, get out.”

  With a grunt, Morgan tossed Varilla out the door. He hit the wall across the hall, fell, stood, and sprinted down the hall. Morgan hoped that would do it.

  -14-

  With a slight chuckle, Morgan closed the door and went to the trunk. He turned it, flipped up the false hinges, and opened it with a small key from his wallet. He lifted a layer of foam padding and withdrew his double shoulder rig. No more traveling unarmed. After strapping on the holsters, he slid his Browning nine millimeter into the left holster. The narrower sheath on the other side accepted his Randall number one fighting knife, handle down. A spare pistol magazine clipped onto each shoulder strap.

  He looked at the Desert Eagle forty-four magnum pistol in the case, but decided to leave it. He had brought it hoping to do some handgun hunting while in Central America, but its weight made it impractical for regular carry. Then his attention turned to the reason he had gone back to the room, a breakdown twenty-two caliber rifle in a leatherette case. Not a powerful weapon but perfect for teaching someone to shoot, something he had put off with Felicity for far too long.

  When Morgan returned to the vehicle, Felicity knew something had happened upstairs that affected him. His whole demeanor had changed. Instead of the relaxed man who had left minutes ago, this was a warrior in combat mode. His shoulders were squared, his eyes alert, his ears pricked. His invisible antennae were out and she did not need to see the armament he wore to know he was ready to kill at a moment’s notice.

  “I’m thinking you just had some excitement,” she said. Since she was already at the wheel, Morgan got into the passenger seat and Felicity pulled out of the parking area while he related the events since he left her. When he finished he gave her a few seconds to digest his story.

  “Well, you did the right thing letting Varilla go,” she said, “and I have to admit, my suspicions match yours. But what can we do about it?”

  “Not much I guess. We’ll just have to watch him real close, and wait for more proof of what he’s up to.”

  Felicity shifted and picked up speed on the trail so the breeze would cool her scalp. “That shouldn’t be any problem. Once we’ve checked out the motor pool’s security, we won’t have much useful to occupy us. We can just dedicate ourselves to keeping an eye on the shady characters.”

  Sticking to the shoreline, Felicity drove eastward, hating the rough clutch all the way. At the far end of the compound from The Piranha, guards move out in the open, patrolling a fenced in area. Inside, Morgan and Felicity found an efficient motor pool lorded over by a motor sergeant whose type Morgan recognized. Thick around the middle, he had a jolly face below long straight hair. But when he gave his visitors the grand tour, his sharp eyes noted every step in the repair or maintenance of “his” vehicles. Aside from a tanker designed to carry radioactive materials, the motor pool held nothing unusual, except perhaps in terms of quantity.

  “I get the Jeeps mounted with machine guns,” Morgan said as they walked. “But what’s with all the trucks? I’m looking at deuce-and-a-halfs, five tons, ten tons. I counted twenty-five in all. Motor sergeant, what the hell do need all this towing capacity for?”

  The motor sergeant stopped to inspect the tool box under the door of one of the trucks. “We’ve got quite a bit of cargo to load on The Piranha when the time came to set sail. Everything’s got to be ready to move when the Captain gives the word. And you can bet that if anybody threatens my motor pool or moves on the convoy in transit, well, they’ll get a hell of a fight.”

  They thanked the motor sergeant for the tour and got back in their four wheel drive vehicle, this time with Morgan at the wheel. As soon as they were past the motor pool fence and onto another narrow trail, Felicity elbowed him.

  “Well, I think they’re as ready for trouble as they co
me.”

  “No doubt,” Morgan said. “I saw a Styr AUG assault rifle and an Uzi submachine gun in the cab of every vehicle, and there were plenty in evidence around the motor pool area. I’m really starting to feel like Bastidas was right. The government thrust us on him, but the job we were hired to do has already been handled pretty damn well.”

  After a short drive the dense tropical forest parted and they stopped in a broad clearing. A line of wooden platforms about waist high held rifle cleaning kits and boxes of ammunition. Morgan had found their target practice area. It was wide enough for ten men to stand on the firing line, and rows of targets stood down range.

  “Not bad for a makeshift range,” Morgan said, scanning the area. Felicity guessed the targets were set up at twentyfive, fifty and one hundred meters. Posts in the distance would support targets at fifty meter increments out to the earth mound four hundred meters away. Above that mound stood a thick copse of trees. She saw targets inside the shed at the left edge of the clearing. One huge old palm hung over the shed. In its branches, a bright red and green parrot sat, screaming at the newcomers climbing out of their vehicle.

  Morgan glared at the bird as he unloaded the short gun bag. Felicity smiled as the parrot spread his vast wings, squawking in menacing tones.

  “Must not have been here long,” Morgan said. “Too tempting a target.”

  A narrow cover hung over the firing points, and Felicity made a beeline for this shade. Morgan carried the gun bag to the point, and handed her a canteen. While he opened the bag, she unzipped her jump suit to her waist and poured a little cool water on the back of her neck. Then she took a long drink.

  When she looked down Morgan was holding a rifle barrel which she guessed was about eighteen inches long in his left hand. In his right he held a rifle butt and receiver. With a deft twist, he joined the two halves and tossed the rifle to her.

  “Is this for me?” Felicity asked, holding the rifle at arm’s length. “It can’t weigh five pounds. Am I going to learn on a toy gun?”

  “It’s not a toy,” Morgan said, and his tone confirmed that. “John Browning himself designed that twenty-two autoloader. I chose it for your trainer partially because it’s so portable, but mostly because I like to teach beginners with a twenty-two. The noise, the flash and the recoil are all low, so you can concentrate on getting the basics down. Now, zip that thing up a little more, would you? You’re distracting me.”

  “Why, thank you,” Felicity said. She bounced once for effect before raising the zipper on her jumpsuit two inches. “Now tell me why my rifle has a hole in it.”

  “That’s how you load her,” Morgan replied. As Felicity watched, fascinated, he pointed the rifle down, unscrewed a wing nut in its butt, and pulled out a long tube. “This is the magazine. Now, hand me that plastic box. This is a hundred rounds of twenty-two long rifle ammunition. Not a man stopper of a round, but these are real bullets and they will do real damage if they hit someone. It’s not uncommon for professional assassins to use twenty-twos for close up work. Now watch. They slip in this hole in the stock, one at a time. It holds eleven. Now I screw the tube back in. Now it’s a dangerous weapon.”

  Morgan fitted earmuff hearing protectors onto Felicity’s head and his own. Then he produced two pairs of amber sunglasses from his bag and handed her one.

  “Will these make me see better?”

  “They’re safety lenses,” he replied. “Accidents happen. A blown primer or a separated case could cost you those pretty green eyes men fall in love with.”

  Next came the hard part. Morgan launched into the details of cheek weld, trigger squeeze, breath control and other arcane subjects filled with mystery to a person who had never held a rifle except in an arcade. There seemed to be a lot to it, but Felicity was a quick study.

  “It all makes sense,” she said, “but I feel like you’re showing me the hard way. Why don’t I get one of those telescopic sights.”

  “Because you’ve got to learn on iron sights, that’s why.” Morgan then explained the concept of sight picture and how to get a good one. When her attention started to flag, he demonstrated how to put it all together. In the proper stance and following all the rules he had given her, he fired a five shot group into the nearest target. He had brought binoculars for her to spot with, but this first time they walked to the target. All five little holes were inside a one inch square.

  “Now, it’s your turn,” Morgan said, handing over the rifle. Back at the firing line, Felicity moved to another point. She stretched out on the grass at Morgan’s direction, holding the rifle as he instructed her. She spread her feet comfortably apart. She brushed her long red hair aside to place the chu wood stock firmly against her face. It reminded her of fine walnut, and felt cool and smooth on her cheek. She found the square notch atop the receiver. Then, she swung the barrel until the bead at the end appeared to sit neatly inside the notch. The challenge, she found, was lining that picture up with the black spot on the target.

  Before she could get comfortable, Morgan arranged the canteen under her left hand to support the barrel. “Hold it tight with your right hand. Let the fore stock rest lightly on your left hand. When you’re ready, exhale and leave it out. Concentrate down range, and relax. Try not to close your other eye. Hold your position…”

  “Morgan!” Felicity said, almost snapping at him. “Hush! Honestly, you are such an old woman sometimes.” When he fell silent she exhaled, focused, and gently squeezed the trigger as he had advised.

  Her first surprise was the dust kicked up in front of her. The second was the noise, not at all like what she had heard from across the room when a gun went off. Up close, it was an entirely different tone. The important surprise was that it did not hurt. She had expected a smack in her shoulder, but it never came. In fact, it felt rather good. A controlled kind of power. Like extending your personal energy out over a vast distance. She could learn to like this.

  “Good girl,” Morgan said, flashing a broad smile. “Now do it again. Don’t worry about how far you are from the target. Just put four more bullets in the same place. We can adjust the sights to put them where you’re aiming.”

  Encouraged, Felicity repeated the process. The acrid smell of burning powder stung her nose. After the fifth shot, her eyes started watering from working to maintain the tight focus, but she thought she did pretty well. Morgan confirmed it.

  “That group can’t be much more than two inches across,” he said, checking through his binoculars.

  “Pretty damned good for a first time,” came a voice from behind. Morgan and Felicity spun to see Barton walking up. He wore dark glasses and a bright blue shirt open to the third button. A thatch of chest hair like black cotton floss burst from the blue “V”, with a single gold chain tangled in it. White linen trousers hung over stylish Italian boots. Felicity liked the way he draped his sport coat across his shoulder. A Smith and Wesson .357 magnum revolver hugged his right hip.

  “I was starting to wonder when we’d get a chance to talk,” Felicity said, sitting up. “I don’t know how much you talked to Chris Matthews, but looking through his stuff has raised some suspicions…” She stopped because Barton’s eyes got as wide as silver dollars and he looked left and right.

  “Relax, pal,” Morgan said. “We’re not under any kind of surveillance out here.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Trust me, we’re sure,” Felicity said, standing. “So stop whispering and take it easy. I want to know what you think of this crew.”

  “Well, Matthews never shared any suspicions with me,” Barton said, leaning on a firing table. “Fanatics always make me itch, but I got nothing specific to go on. Then again, I ain’t no detective. So what makes you itch, hmmm?”

  Felicity blushed just a bit, cleared her throat and said, “I found dossiers on each of Bastidas’ men. Their sheets are all impossibly clean. Do you think your real bosses could be checking them again? I’ve a feeling some of their backgrounds are phonied
up.”

  “I can get to a safe phone tomorrow and ask,” Barton said, pulling a pack of Chesterfields from his jacket pocket. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but cell phones don’t work on the compound. Could be lack of coverage, could be some kind of interference Bastidas’ boys are putting up. Anyway, the first one I want to investigate is Varilla. That guy gives me the creeps.”

  “Hey, now you’re talking,” Morgan said, pulling off his earmuffs. “I caught that weasel going through my room. If there’s a saboteur around here, it’s him.”

  “How about prints?” Felicity asked, hopping up to sit on a table. “I know how to lift them. Is there a way we can send a set of Varilla’s back to Washington? That way we can be sure he’s the man they checked.”

  “Can do, babe,” Barton said, blowing smoke out his nose. “Anything else you want me to pass along?”

  “I don’t think so,” Morgan said. “But I’d sure like to check out the scene where your buddy Matthews got whacked. I just feel like if I walked in there, I’d know if there was a mix up or if he was set up, know what I mean?”

  Barton snapped a pointer finger at Morgan and winked. “You come to the right guy. Why don’t I show you two Panama City tonight after dinner? We can stop in to that little place and look around, and have a few drinks and relax a bit.” He casually brushed Felicity’s cheek with one hand. His knuckles were big and course, like they had been broken in the past. “You two are pretty sharp. I been waiting for you to ask the obvious question about me.”