The Orion Assignment (13 page)

She planned to slip past the dining room and out the door at the end of the far wing. However, as she passed the next room its ornate door drew her attention. A small brass plate above the transom labeled the room “The Gallery.”

The room was secured, but again the lock offered little challenge to Felicity. Thinking about the well known effects of curiosity on cats and other creatures, she eased the door open. It was indeed a gallery of some sort. She should have hurried to leave, but she thought she had plenty of time before anyone in the building would awaken. Her curiosity was peaked by speculation of the kind of collection a man like O'Ryan might have. She couldn't resist exploring the room.

She stepped inside, closing the door without making a sound. When she flipped up the light switch, three gigantic double tiered chandeliers flooded the room with brilliance. She caught her breath.

The long gallery was decorated in Pompeian style. It
was such a perfect representation of the style of the period that if not for the electric lights she could have believed that the room was designed two hundred years ago. Two cabinets filled with curios stood against one wall. The hand worked wood and glass cabinets were separated by a statue of a lovely toga clad woman standing on a three foot pedestal. The statue was at least eight feet tall from floor to head. The walls of the alcove behind it displayed fine and delicate carving.

Above the cabinet and statue stood a marble cornice, much like a mantelpiece, but covered with intricate engraving. A painting imitating the period hung above the cornice. The painting, in the shape of a hemisphere, seemed to depict several people milling about in horror as Mount Vesuvius erupted in the background.

Along the rest of that wall, on either side of the statue and cabinets, a low platform projected from the wall. This held a row of life size marble busts, four on each side. They stood about a meter apart.

Was all this a reflection of O'Ryan, or simply a show to overawe his rustic visitors? If the former, what did a fascination with lost Pompeii say about the man?

Two tall bookcases stood against the far wall, separated by a small fireplace. Above it, a large oil painting depicted another imaginary Pompeii scene. The other long wall held two narrow tables displaying gold, silver and carved jade objet d'art.

She was admiring a golden, jewel encrusted chalice when her internal alarm went off. It figured that this room would be guarded, and someone was coming toward it now. The approaching footsteps would have gone unheard by almost anyone else. She sprinted to the switch to kill the lights, but what next? There were no closets, no drapes, hardly any furniture it seemed, no hiding place. Desperation gripped her heart as she did a slow pan around the room looking for any kind of concealment.

Two minutes later, a key turned a heavy dead bolt
and the door to the Pompeii gallery swung slowly open.

The night was as black as the bottom of an abandoned mine, the air clean, and crisp as a gunshot. The dry grass covering the field crackled under O'Ryan's booted feet. With an arrogant stride he approached the firing line, twenty meters from the semicircular target area. He was backlit, the same floodlight illuminating his form and making the tubular steel frame beyond him glow.

The target grid was shaped like half a dart board, twenty-six meters across. Each target area in the top row was labeled with yellow iridescent numbers. From left to right they were three, one, two and four. The row below was marked seven, five, six and eight. The four targets nearest the ground, closest to the “bull's-eye”, were numbered eleven, nine, ten and twelve. The blackness beyond made the spaces between the red florescent lines of the “dart board” seem solid.

Morgan, standing with several other shooters several meters behind O'Ryan, admired the Irishman's concentration. The silence and tension were enough to unnerve anyone. There was an occasional murmur from the crowd, hushed comments from people who recognized O'Ryan the racer, O'Ryan the hunter. A buzz of recognition rose from the press as well, and Morgan heard one or two remarks about O'Ryan the suspected IRA leader, made in still quieter tones.

Yet, O'Ryan focused on the four traps in the ground in front of the target grid. His gun was mounted, and he stood leaning a little to the right for the best view of the target and the traps.

“This game is too fast for me,” Claudette commented. She clung to Morgan's arm. “No one's made it `round the clock' yet.”

“No one's got more than seventy points so far,” Morgan replied. “Those four bottom targets are too quick for the average trap shooter.”

“Think you can do it?”

“I've got a hidden advantage.” He winked at Claudette. Then he examined O'Ryan's body English and wondered if he also had an instinctive edge.

All eyes were on Ian O'Ryan and the air was electric with anticipation. Without a warning the first florescent clay target flew almost straight up into the air. O'Ryan tracked it as accurately as radar locked onto a target, seeming to pull his shotgun's trigger at the same time as the launch. In front of the number one space, the clay pigeon exploded.

“That's one point,” Morgan whispered.

The second target flew and O'Ryan caught it dead center of the number two area.

“Two more points,” Morgan said. “That's three so far.”

The third target popped up and this time, O'Ryan missed it. Clay pigeons five and six flew straight into the Irishman's shotgun blasts. Then number seven came out. O'Ryan caught it, but in the higher number three space. No score.

“Each shot is worth the number of points in its target area,” Morgan said. “He's weak on the left, and he knows it. If he misses the other left hand spot it'll cost him eleven points. Then I can beat him.”

O'Ryan's stance was rock solid. He swung his shotgun's barrel all the way to the right to shatter the clay bird in the number eight space, and swung back anticipating the next target. He squeezed the trigger before the disc flew and nailed the number nine target, then the ten, which was nearly next to it. Bending further forward, holding his gun sideways, he blasted the number eleven target just before it flew out of the designated area.

“Damn,” Morgan said.

Ian O'Ryan had no trouble catching the clay pigeon in
number twelve. Then the two extras were thrown, worth five points each. The shooter chooses where he hits them, and the Irish marksman burst them in the one and two spaces. He turned and walked to Morgan's position, arrogance covering him like a cloak.

“I believe that a seventy-eight puts me in the lead my American friend. Tell your associates in The Company that I don't miss much. Especially those who come up behind me.”

“The Company?” Morgan said, amused. “Now you think I'm CIA.? Look pal, I've been a full service independent operative for too long to hook up with those amateurs.”

“Well, you're the last shooter. Let's see if you're as good as you say.”

“Just get your dollars ready,” Morgan said in a terse, grim tone. After giving Claudette a quick kiss he turned on his heel and strode for the firing line. He slipped hearing protection like headphones over his head and shook his arms out to loosen them. Before mounting his gun he glanced over his shoulder. He met O'Ryan's confident stare. Then he saw the Irishman turn to smile at Claudette.

Morgan's pulse quickened as he watched her step backward a few feet, then turn and almost run away. He did not think she was in any real danger, but it grated on his nerves to see her threatened, even if the threat was subtle. He took three deep breaths, faced forward, and began tuning out the entire world except the target area.

His focus was not even on the target grid, standing like the top half of a huge dart board sunk deep in the dry ground. As he brought the new shotgun to his shoulder his senses were forming a link with the four hidden traps imbedded in the earth in front of the target. They were the source of the targets that would soon fly through, or more accurately in front of, the target grid's various zones.

At that moment, he was very happy he possessed an
unexplained sixth sense that alerted him to danger. He had read a lot on the subject in the last few months, since he discovered another person, Felicity, with the same sense. He had always thought his five senses combined to alert him on some subconscious level, but he now suspected he possessed a true form of extrasensory perception. He figured if he relaxed and let his instincts guide his aim, perhaps this bizarre sense would tell him in advance when a clay pigeon would fly.

As if in slow motion, he watched the first clay target leap into the air, and shattered it in zone one with little effort, not reacting to the muted blast. The second flew, then the third and the fourth. Each one he blasted with ease. Five was lower and faster, but he pulled the trigger at the right time to hit it in the zone. The gun's stock punched into his shoulder, but it was a comfortable and familiar pressure.

While he reloaded he glanced at O'Ryan. The Irishman smiled back. He had hit one target O'Ryan missed, but the toughest ones were still to come.

He leaned far over to the right to sweep onto number six and kept swinging so that he blasted number seven well inside the target zone. Then he was swinging right. As lead shot crashed into number nine, he thought to himself that he had caught both clays his opponent missed. Now he had a shot. He could beat him.

In the same microsecond that thought was born in his mind, another part of his brain recognized it as the distraction of overconfidence. The bottom row of target grids was much too fast to be forgiving. An instant's hesitation caused the next blast to be high. He hit the clay, but above the ten space. No score.

Forget it
, he told himself.
Move on. Swing onto the next target
. The clay pigeon exploded in the number seven spot, and the final disc shattered well inside grid twelve a few seconds later. He kept squeezing the trigger with gentle pressure and potted the last two flying targets with almost casual ease. Only when the
blast died away and the clay shards lay on the ground did he turn to face O'Ryan. They had tied.

The big Irishman was walking toward Morgan, but the black man was looking past him. He was scanning the area for Claudette, but it seemed that she had not waited around for the finish.

“Well, my friend, now we shall stand side by side.” O'Ryan's too-big teeth shone in a death's head grin. “The tie breaker game is called `one hundred and out'. You know the game?”

“I think so. Why don't you refresh my memory?” The gentle breeze stopped dead as Morgan spoke and at that moment the world population shrank to two for this pair of combatants. Their eyes locked for a moment. Then O'Ryan turned and shouted to the crowd behind them.

“First I choose three targets. Eight, ten and twelve.” He turned and mounted his weapon. Clay targets flew in the order called, one right after the other. O'Ryan shattered them in order.

“Each target is worth the number of points corresponding to its position. The total of eight, ten and twelve is thirty, which I now deduct from my score. I have seventy to go, and the first man to get to zero and then break a pair, wins. Of course, as I have hit all three targets I shoot again.”

While the stocky Irishman reloaded, a man wearing a press badge eased up to Morgan's side. His windblown hair gave him a wild, flighty look.

“Do you know this man?” he asked in a neutral British accent.

“Just met. Why?”

“A word of advice,” the reporter said.

“Yes?”

“Lose.”

“What?” Morgan stared. “Why?”

“Mister O'Ryan is not a good loser,” the reporter said in a confidential tone. “I mean, he don't lose often, and
them what beats him, well, sometimes they disappears.”

Then he was gone, and O'Ryan called for the same three targets. Again they flew, and again he dispatched them with three quick blasts. He turned, smiled at Morgan, smiled at the onlookers and shouted, “Again!”

“Can you be lucky three times in a row?” Morgan asked just before the first clay leaped into the sky. Flying lead pellets smashed number eight. Another clay bird died in the ten spot but the twelve came up faster than O'Ryan could react and he undershot it.

“I have twenty-two to go, me Yankee friend,” he said, backing away from the mark. “Now, will you take an easy combination and risk having to shoot all day, or will you be daring and take higher numbers like us grown-ups? You do realize, don't you lad, that my next turn will be the last?” O'Ryan was playing to the audience, and his brogue was coming out with his viciousness.

Morgan's response was calm and assured. “Judgment is the game. I'll call six, eight and ten.” He had called an easier combination not worth as many points. He hoped that with consistent shooting he could continue on and take the match in one turn.

The six was a medium easy shot. For the ten, he just dropped his point of aim a couple degrees. An easy swing to the right brought him on line for the eight. The first set was gone in seconds. During reload he glanced over at O'Ryan but his opponent was focused on the targets. Would he feel beaten if Morgan won this way?

Morgan set himself for the second wave. Bending forward was beginning to bother his lower back a little and as he tracked and blasted clay number six he received a short message from his right shoulder. After the eight and ten he realized that a padded jacket would be an asset. But he was down to fifty-two points and he was confident he could win.

A third time clay targets flew into the black void. In the six box lead scattered fragments of a clay bird. He
waited and caught the ten just as it left the ground, but he barely caught the third fugitive at the upper edge of the eight space.

His score was down to twenty-eight, but he was getting physical reminders that he was not a regular shotgun hunter. His right shoulder was sore as hell, and at this rate he would have to do this twice more. An extra opportunity to miss and give that Irish murderer the one chance he needed to laugh in Morgan's face.