Piranha Assignment (23 page)

Herrera stood at the edge of the open space, still unable to believe Felicity's agility. From a standing start he hopped across the alley to land at the very edge of the roof that held Felicity fast. He had to move toward her carefully, to avoid making the entire structure collapse. As he approached she kept her face turned away from him.

Herrera the warrior, understood. He had seen lions in traps just like this. Fear did not make her avert her eyes. It was embarrassment.

“It was a good move, girl. An excellent hunt. You could not win, but you did very well. Close your eyes. It will be quick.”

Herrera knelt beside her. His right hand closed around her upper arm. With one good wrench, he pulled her free of the roof. His left hand closed on her neck, cutting off the carotid artery. After a tense moment of helplessness, she passed out.

A light slap brought Felicity around, the ringing in her ears quickly fading. The air smelled closed and thick, but that may have been an illusion caused by the fact that Bastidas and his team surrounded her, and Barton knelt beside her. Her neck ached where Herrera had squeezed so hard and she knew when she got to a mirror she would see a bruise on either side. She held out her hand and Barton helped her to her feet. She tasted stomach acid, as was almost always the case after unconsciousness. She held it down and locked eyes with Bastidas

“Your friend here won't tell us who he works for,” Bastidas said.

“I thought he worked for you,” Felicity said.

“Who do you work for?” Bastidas asked, ignoring her previous statement.

“I work for me,” she replied, looking around the little plaza. She saw no avenue for escape.

“And the notebook?” Bastidas waved the incriminating evidence in her face.

“I was looking for something I could sell.” It was thin, but she knew he could not disprove it.

Bastidas signaled Nunez, who produced a black bag. From this he pulled a syringe. There was another signal, this time to Herrera. His arm swung, too fast to anticipate or roll with. The back fist took Barton across the temple, and he dropped like a sack of pineapples.

“This will help you to sleep,” Bastidas said as Nunez, took her arm, looking apologetic. “Mister Varilla. Take one of the Land Rovers and go collect up Mister Stark. I want all the chickens together at home this evening. Perhaps then we can get some answers.”

“Varilla?” Felicity said as she felt the needle's bite. “You're sending Varilla after Morgan? Ha. You'll never see him again.”

The last thing she heard as her eyelids slid shut was Bastidas laughing.

Morgan floated under a blood red sky. The sun was just short of too hot on his face. The water matched the sun's warmth and was so buoyant that staying afloat required no effort.

Claudette rose from the water like some elemental sprite, in a skin tight translucent bathing suit that didn't even try to hide her pulsing nipples. Her face clouded with lust, she swung one long leg out of the water to straddle him. She reached to her shoulder, sliding the straps down her arms…

The image began to fade. Morgan mentally struggled, but it was no use. The danger warning had started as a minor annoyance. Then it was a nagging tickle at the back of his neck. Now, it was a hot needle inside his head.

Morgan's eyes snapped open and the dream vanished. His face and chest glistened with sweat. He had dozed off, flat on his back on the bed. Now he focused on the door. The knob twisted, and the door swiveled in.

His gun and knives were across the room. Morgan launched himself toward the chair. A familiar voice said “freeze” and he did. He turned, and felt adrenaline pump into his body.

It was Varilla. Varilla with the cheap two piece suit, and slicked back hair and infuriating smile. Varilla with that magnum pointed at him again.

“What do you want?”

“Well, Bastidas says for me to bring you in,” Varilla said, closing the door behind him, “but what I want is to kill you.”

“Are you crazy? Didn't I tell you what I'd do if you pointed a gun at me again?” Morgan stood facing Varilla over the bed, clenching and unclenching his fists in rage. His eyes grew wide as Varilla raised his gun at arm's length.

“Didn't think you'd die alone in a hotel room, did you?” Varilla asked, forcing a smile.

“You arrogant little shit.”

Morgan anticipated Varilla's trigger pull by nearly half a second. He dived as the gun blast buffeted his ears. A second bullet's path scorched the back of his left leg. The carpet abraded his forearms as he slid under the bed. Another bullet thudded into the mattress above and behind him as he drew his legs up under himself. Then he heaved upward with everything he had. Morgan's shout was nearly as loud as the gunshots. It helped him release all his strength at once. It also had the side effect of paralyzing Varilla.

Morgan's hands dug into the underside of the box springs. The bed lurched up on its edge and smacked into Varilla. His feet were pinned under the bottom edge of the mattress, his body held tight against the wall. Only his head was above the mattress, and his hands, pointing straight up.

Morgan's face was no more than three inches from Varilla's. His teeth were clenched in a death's head grimace. The heat from Morgan's hate drew sweat from Varilla's face.

Morgan had known this red haze in war, and in bar fights years ago. His left hand held Varilla's right, with the gun. His right grasped Varilla's throat. With just a thumb and forefinger he could crush the killer's windpipe.
Varilla's mouth dropped open in agony.

“Open wide,” Morgan said. He forced the gun hand toward the sagging mouth. The first thrust broke four teeth and tore both lips. Then he forced the three inch barreled pistol into Varilla's mouth. With the heel of his palm, he jammed the gun partially down Varilla's throat. A second slam brought the snap of the jaw breaking. The third strike shoved the gun's butt to the side, forcing Varilla's head to the side and breaking his neck. Varilla's eyes rolled up, and the light of life left them.

Fifteen seconds had passed since the first gunshot. The red haze lifted, and Morgan backed away from the bed. During the next minute his breathing slowed to normal as the adrenaline rush faded.

Morgan hardly heard the bed fall, or Varilla's corpse fall on top of it. He was staring at his blood covered hands, staring with a look of disgust on his face. What was he doing? He had let his temper take over when he most needed a cool head. He went to the sink and looked at his mirror image as he washed his hands.

“Asshole,” he said aloud. He should have interrogated that slug, gotten some information from him, then killed him cleanly. Absent any intel he had to assume his cover was blown. That meant Felicity was in danger, but not immediate danger or he would instinctively know.

Three deep breaths cleared his mind. He got dressed in a handful of seconds. No one had come running. Thank goodness people so often assume a gunshot must be something else. Besides, people in Central America were even more inclined to mind their own business than their northern neighbors.

Shaking his head, Morgan pushed a hand into the dead man's pocket and came away with a set of keys. Praying his luck continued, Morgan pulled the bed away from the door,
slipped out of the room and locked it behind him.

Downstairs, the Land Rover's engine snarled when Morgan pulled the choke and started it up. He jammed it into gear and left a streak of rubber pulling into traffic. The wind was coming up, making the sky as dark as Morgan's mood.

He was driving hard out of fear. He wasn't getting any feeling from Felicity at all. That probably meant she was unconscious. If she was dead he was sure he would know. Varilla made it clear he was not working alone. His accomplices would have Felicity, and probably Chuck Barton as well. The only place to take them was the Piranha compound. There, disposing of them would be easy.

So Morgan was listening to tires whining under him as he pushed the Land Rover to its limits on the Pan American Highway. Traffic was typically thin. He would reach the compound gates in no time. He was not sure what he would do when he arrived.

Just past Chepo, Morgan looked up to see that he was overtaking a car. No, not a car. A Land Rover, identical to the one he was driving. He was closing the distance quickly. He could see faces in the back window. Nunez and Torrijos. Their eyes were bulging. Morgan guessed they never expected to see him again.

Raindrops started to speckle the windshield as Morgan pulled into the passing lane. He had a clear view of the passengers. Pizarro drove, with Franciscus beside him. Like those in the back seat, their features reflected great, if unnecessary fear.

Neither Felicity nor Bastidas was in that vehicle. The one he wanted was a hundred yard ahead. He saw Bastidas glance backward and do a double take. Then the white Land Rover disappeared off to the left.

They were at the turn off the highway to the compound
and Morgan nearly missed it. He down shifted, cranked the wheel and hit the accelerator. The back tires broke loose. The rear of the Land Rover skidded around behind him. The smell of burnt rubber stung his nose. When he again saw the rear of Bastidas' vehicle he powered his own forward.

The lead vehicle turned off to the right. Morgan followed. In a few yards the road degraded to a wide dirt track, like tank trails Morgan used to see on Army posts. His face was chiseled stone as he slowly closed the distance. Herrera seemed to concentrate on driving, but Bastidas glanced back again and again. Morgan could not see anyone in the back seat, but he knew Felicity and Barton must be there, lying on the seat or the floor, probably bound and unconscious. If he could force Herrera to the side of the road…well, he was not sure what he would do. He would figure it out when he caught them.

The road started getting sloppy as the rain settled into a steady patter. Morgan flipped on the windshield wipers. The rain brought a fresh, sweet smell out of the jungle, but the humidity glued Morgan's clothes to his skin. He fidgeted, but kept his attention on the road and the ghostly white form ahead of him.

A sharp curve came up, and Morgan whipped around it with only a sling lift of the off side wheels. The Land Rover was prone to tipping on turns, but he was getting the feel of this particular vehicle. The five speed gear box was smooth and more responsive than expected. By making racing changes on curves in the road he was closing the gap. Herrera might be stronger than Morgan, and maybe even faster, but he was not on Morgan's level as a driver.

Movement off to his right caused Morgan to yank the wheel hard. Working the clutch and hauling on the steering wheel, he kept his Land Rover upright. His left rear tire
spun on the soft shoulder. He bounced back onto the road, angry at the distraction, angry at the time lost.

That distraction's size surprised him. It was an old, low MG Midget convertible that had pulled out of a narrow side road. It was bouncing high over the moguls in the road, vying for position.

The back of the driver's head suggested an Indian, a young Panamanian man small enough to make an MG appear mid-size. At first it seemed he was abusing the car, but the way it handled and held the road told Morgan he was riding on a specially tuned suspension and had worked on the steering.

The kid must love his car, Morgan thought. He had found this classic piece of machinery, maybe rusting away in this tropical climate, and nursed it back to robust health. Now he loved racing it on these rough roads.

Morgan guided around a shallow curve and found a long straightaway ahead. He was about ten car lengths behind the little rag top MG, which was only a length or two off Bastidas' bow. There was no oncoming traffic. The kid pulled into the left lane, trying to pass. Morgan thought maybe he could use the MG as a distraction. If he could slip in behind the sports car he might be able to come up next to the white Land Rover and ease it over to the side.

The kid in the MG paced Bastidas' vehicle for a minute, judging speed and distance, allowing for the rain and mud. Then he double-tapped the horn and downshifted. The little racer jumped like a scalded cat, its nose starting past the Land Rover. At that moment, Herrera gave his steering wheel a quick jiggle to the left. The white Land Rover lurched, its heavy tail end whipping around. The impact with the MG's right wheel well straightened the Land Rover out.

The light sports car shot off to the left, avoiding the first
tree at the road's edge, but not the second. Morgan had only a quick glimpse of the car's right side sliding across a ten inch palm's trunk. It flipped left and rolled.

He heard the sound of twisting metal, but it was behind him. At sixty-five miles an hour on a two lane dirt road, there is no time for dwelling on what is behind you. Morgan doubted he could help anyway. The MG's cloth top would be scant protection. All the kid could use now was last rites.

“That's enough,” Morgan said aloud through clenched teeth. That death was unnecessary. There was no longer any question that Bastidas, national hero, was involved in whatever was going on. Whatever else, he was a callous murderer, and he had Felicity in his power.