The Orion Assignment (28 page)

His head still pounding, thug rolled off Morgan's back, dropping his blackjack beside him.

“This guy's got to have the hardest head in the world,” the assailant said. “Let's get the others and get out of here.”

“I don't know,” the gunman said. “I think everybody else is dead.”

“I ain't,” a voice called from the side. “I think the bastard broke my knee. I'd like to kill him now, but the
boss wants him alive. You two pick him up and get him in the car, then help me in. Nobody else is in any condition to follow.”

Leaving their three friends where they lay, the two who brought Morgan down carried him to a van, and then returned to help their injured partner to it. Their tires squealed as the van shot off into the night. The fight and the escape all took place before any of the local citizens felt the need to call the police.

Sean prayed for deliverance for himself and the two women across the street. They were pinned down by a sniper on the roof of a nearby building, while he stood helpless in the doorway of the restaurant they had just left. He knew it was just a matter of time before the gunman got the range and killed them both if not for some intervention.

Above, on the roof in question, two men lay prone at the edge. One held binoculars focused on two women hiding behind a car. The other looked through the scope of a long bolt action rifle. The rifle was on a bipod, evidence that they had had plenty of time to set up their ambush. They figured by now the black man was en route to their boss O'Ryan for a special punishment. They simply needed to dispatch the girl, and if convenient, her three friends. So they decided to just delay these two girls until the third came into view.

“There she is,” the spotter said when Marlene Seagrave rounded the last corner. She was out of breath, but when she saw the other two on the ground she tried to run to them. She was slow, though, and an excellent target. Killing her would bring the other two skirts into view for sure. The sniper was certain he would not miss again.

“Not very sporting, gentlemen,” a voice said behind the killers. It was a voice as cool as a tomb and just about as comforting. The spotter spun, reaching for the gun in his shoulder holster. The newcomer put a nine millimeter slug between his eyes. The other man leaped
to his feet and dived at the tall man.

“Get down!” Felicity shouted as Marlene came into view. Marlene must have heard her words but missed intent because instead of diving for cover she bent as low as she comfortably could and kept walking until she reached the car the other two were lying beside. Felicity was surprised she made it alive.

“What's going on?” Marlene asked.

“I'm not sure any more,” Felicity said. She looked up toward the spot where the sniper had been just in time to see a human form separate from the roof. As he dropped she followed him with her eyes and tracked him by his screaming all the way to the street.

“The danger seems to be over,” Felicity said, standing. She walked, unhurried, to where the fallen man lay. She stared down at his face frozen in fear. One of his legs was bent up under him, and she had no doubt that he was quite dead. She didn't recognize him. A local hire, she assumed, of O'Ryan's. One way or another, she and Morgan were certainly to blame for a serious depletion of his work force.

A small crowd began to gather around the corpse. Sean stood close to Felicity, and Marlene clung to her hand. Claudette stood by the priest muttering something low in French. Sean may have mistaken it for a prayer, but Felicity knew Claudette was commending the dead man's soul to hell.

“Are you all right?”

Felicity knew that smooth, accentless voice. She turned and stared into the tall man's ice blue eyes. He wore a light blue suit, perhaps the only type he ever wore. He did not smile, he rarely did, but she was glad to see him.

“Paul. Where did you come from?” Felicity asked. “Are you responsible for this?”

“Mister Stark called me about twenty-four hours ago. He told me you might be in some danger. He was right. And yes, I am responsible.”

Felicity rested a hand against Paul's arm and smiled. “Well, don't misunderstand. I certainly am glad to see you, and you do have a knack for taking direct action at the right time, but didn't you see Morgan come out?”

“Yes.”

“Couldn't you see he was walking into a trap?” she asked.

“Of course.”

“Well then, why didn't you follow him?” Felicity asked, looking up into his eyes. “He might be dead now.”

“Mister Stark's orders were to watch you,” Paul said. He turned as he heard a siren approaching. “I should not be on hand for the police to question. I'll be at your apartment when you're finished talking to them. Good night.” Paul faded into the crowd, and Felicity knew it was no use looking for him. The ability to disappear was one of his strengths. As she watched the police approaching she felt a tug on her sleeve.

“Who was that spook?” Claudette asked.

Marlene stepped close to answer. “Paul used to work for my husband. He was a loyal employee who did, er, odd jobs.”

“Now he works for Stark and O'Brien,” Felicity said. “Morgan uses him for courier work, mostly. He's totally professional and can be trusted with anything. He just saved our lives. But there will be no mention of him to these gentlemen.” Felicity pointed at the police cars pulling up and smiled as the irony hit her. “You know, all my life I've been grateful for this universal truth, until today.”

“And just what truth would that be?” Sean asked.

“The fact that the police, without exception, arrive on the scene too late.”

Despite the pounding at the back of his skull, Morgan kept his eyes closed after he regained consciousness. He wanted to get a feel for his situation before he faced it.

He was seated, naked but for his underwear. He could feel a bandage around his left thigh. The front of his body was dripping with sweat. The wetness did not give him any hope of sliding out of the wire holding his wrists to the wooden chair's arms. In fact, the moisture caused his wrists to chafe painfully. The wires holding his ankles to the heavy chair's front legs cut into him in the same way.

As perspiration dripped from his bowed head to his legs, he realized the heat was coming from in front of him. The smell of a wood fire told him that he was facing a fireplace. It accentuated the acrid taste in his mouth. He fought to keep his dinner in its place. Nausea, he knew, was not unusual after being knocked unconscious.

His ears brought him three messages. First, the crackling in front of him confirmed the fireplace. From his left came the sound of sea gulls, and waves crashing, but no voices. That put him on a deserted area of coastline. The only other sound in the room was the rhythmic click of boot heels. Someone was pacing in the room. It was not hard to guess who that impatient person was.

Morgan let his eyes slide open and looked up. Staring into Ian O'Ryan's red flecked, hate filled eyes, Morgan found that not all the perspiration on his brow was due to the heat.

“At last,” O'Ryan said. “The hunter has captured his
elusive quarry. It's about time you were awake. The sun's well up.” He stood framed by the glow of the fire behind him in riding pants and boots, bare-chested. The same matted hair that stood on his shoulders rose up again on his forearms. His body also glistened with sweat and for the first time Morgan could sense the aura of power Felicity had felt before. His florid face gleamed with rage. Morgan forced calm into his voice.

“So?” Morgan asked. “You haven't killed me yet?”

“Killed you?” O'Ryan screeched the words, his brogue so thick Morgan could barely understand him. “You haven't suffered yet. Not half. You cost me the race, me fortune, and me position with the people I work with, bucko. Now me backers, they're going to think I embezzled their money. They'll think I misused me funds. Me career's over and me life's in jeopardy to boot. You're going to hurt for that, you bastard, you're going to hurt bad. But before I hurt you, I want to know, I got to know. Why?”

“Well, it's like this,” Morgan said, looking into those fevered eyes. “You tried to hurt a man who couldn't really defend himself against a guy like you. And he happened to be my adopted uncle. See, that little Irish village matters to him. We never moved against you until you tried to blow him up. By the way, where are we now? There's nothing like this in Glendalough.”

“You like me little chateau?” O'Ryan's pacing took him near a window. “We're on a wee island off the French coast. Rather isolated. Nice beaches. Spectacular view. And plenty of privacy. A suitable final resting place. Perhaps I'll feed you to the lobsters.”

“I still don't get it,” Morgan said. “You plan to talk my ears off, or torture me just for fun, or what?”

“Oh, no, this is business, lad,” O'Ryan said through a too-big grin, “and it'll be you who's doing the talking soon. You're going to give me something to barter for me life with, lad. A bit of information.”

“What do I know that's worth anything to you?”

“Did you expect me to be buying that malarkey about adopted kith and kin?” O'Ryan spat out the window. “Nobody takes a risk like that as a favor, boy. You're working for somebody, and I mean to know who. MI-5? The American CIA? Interpol, maybe? No matter. All such outfits got secrets. You know some of them, and I'll know them too soon.”

“Look, this is stupid,” Morgan said. “I don't know shit that could be of use to you. Why don't you just give me a shot of pentathol or something and satisfy yourself of the truth?”

“Why?” O'Ryan said, stepping close. “Cause the old fashioned way is so much more bloody fun.” The right cross came out of nowhere and lifted Morgan an inch off the chair. Blue spots danced in front of his eyes. O'Ryan was as strong as a draft horse. If this was today's menu, Morgan had already had enough. He heaved himself forward with everything he had and tipped the chair maybe an inch forward. A fist like a five pound ham rocked him back. O'Ryan laughed, a big booming guffaw.

“Now that chair, that's an antique, it is. Solid oak and must weigh as much as you do. You can't shake it, lad. Just sit tight and take your lumps.” This time Morgan saw it coming and tensed for it. Still, that piston-like right arm pumped a blow into his stomach that forced the breath out of him.

“Anytime you'd like to talk about your bosses,” O'Ryan said, “we can quit this.”

“S'matter, ugly?” Morgan slurred through thick lips. “You tired already?” O'Ryan's bellow of rage shook the house, and three more hammering punches sent Morgan spinning into oblivion.

A hot breeze whipped into the alley, flipping Felicity's hair. She knelt to survey the damage. The inventory included a crushed larynx. One temple caved in. The big man with a broken neck. Yep, she had no doubt.

“It's Morgan's work all right,” she said, looking up. “It must have been one hell of a war.”

It had taken nearly five hours and three telephone calls to straighten things out with the gendarmes. She and her friends had endured a frustrating round of questioning before breaking free from the local investigators. On their way back to her car Marlene pulled her aside.

“I can get us back to where they jumped Morgan. Maybe it's not too late.”

“It's temping Marlene, it really is, but the locals would follow us, and if there was anything there they'd block us from seeing any evidence that might help us find him.”

“Then what do we do?” Claudette asked, joining the other two girls. “We can't just abandon him. He could be in terrible danger. Every minute counts.”

Frustrated, Felicity turned to Claudette with a palm raised to quiet Sean on one side and Marlene on the other. “Look, I know what you're all thinking but here's the facts. Either he's dead or he isn't. And we all know that Morgan's a damned hard fellow to kill. If I can get at the last place where Marlene saw him I might be able to trace his movements. But going there now won't help us. I need a minute to think and we need a base of operations where we know trouble isn't waiting for us.”