The Orion Assignment (25 page)

Except for the one rider in black. It was the only way to identify Morgan. All the helmets had smoked glass, making every rider a faceless ornament worn by a motorcycle. Felicity looked around at her uncle and her friends, old and new. Marlene had made it to the race, and Claudette sat beside her. They were all smiles. They sensed the tension, the anticipation in the air. But did they sense the danger?

It was a perfect day for a race. There was almost no breeze. As usual in Belgium, cloud cover prevented any glare, and there was a threat of rain later in the day. It was sixty degrees with low humidity.

Down on the track, the motorcycle between Morgan's knees purred like a contented kitten. He inhaled the slightest smell of oil from the invisible exhaust of the field. They were ten bikes across, and six rows deep. Each rider was part of this intricate design, yet each was in his own world with his bike.

Morgan looked around, taking in the entire field of competitors. There, to his right and just behind him, stood a black Ducati. Gregorio Lavilla took the British Superbike Championship on a very similar machine in 2005. The rider would have been unmistakable even
without “Widow Maker” lettered on the back of his bike, and “Orion the Hunter” gracing the side. Morgan was again impressed by the man's stature. He was a solid mass of brute power.

If last night's attack was random, Morgan still had the advantage of surprise. It would be foolish to give it away. But then, he considered, it's not a duel if only one person knows about it. He waved to the other rider behind his opaque face shield and pointed at the front of his own bike.

“Look Ma, no forks,” he said, and laughed. He saw realization dawn in his target's body language. Now he was sure that O'Ryan knew he was there. Now it was a duel.

Then the flag came down, motors snarled into life and Morgan found himself fighting to be part of a race. Running this course alone was one thing. Sharing it with sixty daredevil world class competitors was a very different experience. He remembered that the Belgian Grand Prix was where records got set.

The mass of steel settled into a line at the track's inside edge coming into the second lap and Morgan was unaware of anyone else's position.
Only about ninety laps to go
, he thought. He was still somewhere near the middle of the pack, which seemed almost like a miracle to him, doing one hundred eighty miles per hour on the long straightaway. He heard the crowd cheer as he passed the grandstand. He dropped it down to one hundred ten as he went into the first deep turn, laying his knee pad on the ground. He heaved the bike over and it told him right away that it was the wrong move. The handlebars tried to jump out of his hands and he almost didn't recover control.

Less input on the handlebars
, Morgan told himself, and settled back into the line of riders. Two bikes passed him on that turn. One of them had to be O'Ryan on his way to the finish line. Morgan set his sights on staying with the “widow maker” or two slots behind him
at most. O'Ryan had forgotten him, he hoped, and would focus on the race. He had to believe every man on the track wanted to win.

After watching the motorcycles circle the track for fifteen minutes, Felicity was exhausted, dripping with perspiration in the cool air. She felt much of what Morgan felt. Her limbs were tense, her pulse thudding as if she were running a marathon. Did Morgan know? Probably not. His attention would have to be focused well beyond any awareness of her. He would see nothing but the track, his gauges, and the other motorcycles.

Felicity was, in fact, impressed. Everyone down there understood defensive driving, and there was not even a hint of an accident. The machines moved around one another in smooth, predictable patterns. Deep and fast was the only way to take a curve. Morgan was holding his own. She managed to track him and O'Ryan. She knew her partner's objective. If he could, Morgan would get in front of O'Ryan and just slow down, appearing to lose control. But that knowledge did little to ease the tension. After just one hour she wondered how a man could complete, let alone win, such a race. Already time was losing all meaning.

When it hit, it hit with concussive force. She knew her partner was in great danger, and that danger was not coming from the track. Her uncle screamed, and that was when she knew her nails were digging into his hand. She tipped back her black fedora, raised Morgan's binoculars and scanned, not the track, but the street and the field beyond. She didn't know what she was looking for, but she would know it when she saw it.

There in the trees. Almost invisible. She had no doubt. That glare. It was a rifle barrel. Felicity thought,
could O'Ryan be this stupid?

“Come on, Uncle,” she said. “We've got to get to the car. Now!” Pushing past spectators Felicity thanked the Lord she was not wearing a skirt that day. She was ready for action in lightweight pearl gray slacks and a loose cotton sweater. Her suede walking boots were low enough to be fine on the gravel on the way to the car. She was in the driver's seat and had the engine roaring before Sean quite got his door closed on the other side.

“Hang on, Uncle Sean,” she said through clenched teeth as she threw the sedan into gear. From the way his head snapped back she knew Sean was unprepared for the takeoff. He had seen her drive, she realized, but had never seen the serious driving of which she was capable. It took her just five seconds to get the car up to sixty miles per hour. The AMG Hammer, as she had told him, was no Mercedes Benz. The builders used the Mercedes body because it was the only one that could take the stresses the car would be subjected to. She had handed over a Mercedes and a hundred and twenty thousand dollars for the conversion. On a test track she had pushed this machine up to one hundred eighty-six miles per hour and even at that speed it handled better than anything else on the road. She would reach the gunman in no time.

On the track, Morgan made his first serious run at O'Ryan's lead. They were riding in line. O'Ryan slid out from the center just a bit and Morgan saw his opening. He gunned the throttle and burst forward. In sixth gear at nearly twelve thousand rpm he was pushing one hundred seventy five miles per hour too near the curve, and O'Ryan was dropping in toward the edge. Morgan could see himself pushed off the edge into the center grass. That would end the race for him. He knew his bike gave him only one advantage. He had stability on
the brakes and he would have to push it to the limit.

The crowd was on its feet when Morgan locked up his brakes. The back wheel jumped almost two inches off the deck but with cool efficiency, O'Ryan slid past in front of him. There was no contact and they were both still in the race.

The tree was small, the ground fairly level. Up among the leaves, Sean could see the barrel pointed toward the riders. Felicity drove straight toward the tree as if her life depended on it. Sean said a silent prayer when he realized she was not slowing down. The last minute fishtail tore up turf and weeds. The impact smacked Sean's head against the dashboard. The left quarter panel flexed in as the car bounced back from the trunk. A man wearing jeans and a golf shirt crashed to earth, stunned. Felicity was out of the car and leaping. She snatched up the rifle and pointed it at the fallen man.

“Go ahead, missy,” the gunman said, his face crinkling in a smile. “It's just an air gun with rubber bullets.”

“Just enough though, isn't it?” Felicity said. “No one would hear the quiet pop of this toy, but the bullet would slap the tire right out from under a motorcyclist in a deep curve.”

“Very perceptive,” he said, standing to brush himself off. “I'm afraid you'll never get to Timothy, though. He's clear on the other side of the track.”

“Where?” Felicity asked.

“Screw you.” As the words left his lips, a rough hand fell on the man's shoulder and spun him around into a devastating right hook. On his back, his eyes looked out of focus but Sean was pretty sure the gunman could see him well enough.

“Where?” was all the priest said.

“I can't tell you.”

“I think you can,” Sean said. He lifted the man by his collar and smacked his head into the tree. “Now.”

The man pointed at a random pile of unused hay bales halfway around the track on a rise to the side of the race area. Again Felicity could just make out a gun barrel.

“The bastard really hedges his bets,” she said. Then she grabbed her hat, planted her right knee in the sniper's crotch, and sprinted for her car.

“You'll have to drive, Uncle,” Felicity said. “I'll have to hop out fast to stop that guy before the next turn.”

Sean didn't argue, but pushed in behind the wheel and pulled away from the tree as soon as Felicity was inside. His driving wasn't pretty, but then, she knew that this car's handling was more sensitive than any other machine on the street. Felicity had attended a special seminar when she picked it up from the factory to teach her how to drive it. In Sean's hands it was a bucking bronco out of the old west, diving left and shooting right at the slightest touch of the steering wheel. He managed to man handle the beast in the right direction, barely keeping it under control.

The shortest way to Timothy's position was driving clockwise around the outside of the track. Felicity had switched seats because the passenger side faced the race. She could see the second gunman nested in the hay bales. He looked relaxed and comfortable there, with his rifle in a good supported position. On this curve he could fire one pellet at the right time to knock Morgan's bike out from under him. Morgan and his machine would roll off into the center of the track and O'Ryan could concentrate on winning the race.

Felicity popped her door latch as they approached their target. She hoped he would not hear them over the sound of the motorcycles but she saw him freeze in place for a second and new she would not be so lucky. The shooter spun around to face her as the big gray car rolled toward him. The passenger side door was already
open. As the car thundered past, Felicity dived from it. She landed on the shooter like a swarm of hornets, scratching, spitting and cursing. He screamed at the onslaught and struggled to his feet. She grabbed at the rifle, somehow causing it to fire into the air. He swung he rifle's butt at her head but she ducked it, dropping into a deep crouch and gripped both his trouser cuffs. Before he knew what was happening, Felicity stood up, yanking his feet out from under him. He went over the bales backward, tumbling down the hill toward the racetrack.

Felicity collapsed on the hay bales, out of breath, praying she had done enough, soon enough, to keep Morgan alive.