The Orion Assignment (6 page)

“Father?” Morgan said without losing eye contact. “If you could start us off?”

“All right then. One…two…three…go!”

Felicity could only grin at Morgan's brilliance. Her uncle had set him up, and she wasn't happy about that, but Morgan had managed to turn a potential pitched battle into a contest for the right to buy the beer. He had created a win-win situation. Whoever won, they would drink together afterward. They would respect each other. It would all end with everyone as friends.

Paddy's patrons gathered around, sharing an air of excitement, and Felicity could guess their thoughts. They wanted to see Grogan thump the black man's arm down on the table. After all, was he not the strongest man in the county? His arm looked twice as big as the stranger's, but the other man looked pretty strong too. Money began to change hands, being stacked on the table. Felicity nudged her uncle, prodding him in a stage whisper.

“Well? Where's your heart Uncle Sean? You've got to put some money on Morgan.”

Nodding, Sean pulled out a sizeable pile of small bills.

“This says Felicity's partner puts Grogan's arm down.

The better man will win.”

After blessing her uncle with a grateful smile, Felicity sat
at the far end of the table and stared into Morgan's face. Judging by his appearance, he was oblivious to the wagering. His arm was slanting backward, bit by bit. At that point he and Grogan were both grimacing. Grogan grunted with the effort.

She feared Grogan might just be stronger, but she knew Morgan had the advantage of concentration. Grogan roared, using rage for energy. Morgan stayed relaxed. She had seen it before, only once or twice. He was reaching for that deep state of total pinpoint focus on his center, just as she did during yoga practice. It was the true source of power, she knew. Once he reached his steady state, he focused all his strength up into his right arm. The movement was slow and gradual, but as she watched and grinned his arm righted itself. Then he smiled into Grogan's twisted face. Morgan forced the giant fist toward the tabletop, and for the first time the outcome of the contest was in doubt.

That was when one of the drunks, seeing his hard earned ten pounds slipping away, shouted “no!” and dived forward, reaching for the back of Grogan's hand. He barely made contact, but it was just enough to push both arms back the other way. And that was when all hell broke loose.

“I don't need no help from the likes of you,” Grogan screamed. He stood up, snatched up his would-be helper by his shirt with his left hand and slammed him against the wall. Another drinker dived at Grogan's back. Morgan stopped the sneak attack with a side stamp kick to the solar plexus. Behind him, another man aimed a bottle at Morgan's head.

“Aw shite,” Felicity said as she backhanded Morgan's attacker with her beer mug. “It's a brawl now.”

Bar brawls were an environment with which Morgan was familiar. He knew that in such close quarters all he had to do was to keep his arms pumping and his head moving. A series of short jabs mowed down the fighters in front of him. His elbow thrusts kept them off his back.

Grogan was smashing in all directions with his huge fists, downing all comers. He was no good at dodging or ducking. On the other hand, he didn't seem to mind being hit. When the crowd got too thick, he seized one poor drunken man, lifted him overhead by the neck and one leg, and tossed him down, felling three others.

One big Irishman landed a solid right on Morgan's jaw. When he looked up into the man's grinning face, Morgan saw no anger or rage. He realized that this man and everyone else in the place looked as if they were enjoying the action.

But Morgan didn't fight for fun. Before the attacker's follow-up left could find its mark, Morgan put three lightening fast punches into his midsection. Then, with a loud shout he delivered a crushing flying side stamp that lifted the brawler into the air and put him into two others with enough force to smash them to the floor.

When he spun around madness shone in his eyes. Three fighters still stood, but they were backing away. Paddy and Maureen stayed behind the bar, not speaking or even moving any more. Felicity and her uncle eased out from under their table. Grogan stood in classic boxer's stance, but he too seemed uncertain. Morgan dropped his hands, mumbled, “I don't need this,” and walked out the door.

Two hundred yards out on the heath, Felicity caught up with her partner. He was staring up into the clear night sky. When she reached him he spoke without lowering his eyes.

“Full moon. It figures.”

Felicity stood silent beside him. There was an odd comfort in sharing the stars and the quiet. A moment later, Sean caught up to them.

“Paddy's hasn't seen a donnybrook like that in years, lad. What a fighter. Are you sure you're not Irish?” His
tone made it clear he wanted to keep the mood light, but Morgan's grim face should have told him that was impossible.

“You set me up, `Father',” Morgan said. “I think it's time you told us why we're really here. What's the real job, old man?”

“Real job, Uncle Sean?” Felicity asked after a short pause.

Morgan looked down from the sky to glare into Felicity's eyes. “You don't think he got us all the way over here because of some vague threats and what amounts to vandalism at his church, do you? Me, I think it's this O'Ryan guy.”

“Is this true, Uncle?” Felicity asked. “You came after me for a personal vendetta?”

“You don't know him, girl,” Sean said. “The man's a terrorist he is, a terrorist who hides down here after he kills up north.”

“Terrorist,” Morgan repeated, his voice thick with irony. “Isn't that what the big army always calls the little army?”

“Uncle Sean, you couldn't have thought I'd chase this man away for you,” Felicity said.

Sean looked a little embarrassed. “It wasn't you I wanted, Felicity, but your man.”

“Of course,” Morgan said, raising his eyes and one palm to heaven. “You found out about my past as a mercenary. That's why you weren't surprised at the weapons I carried. You were looking for a solider. You want to know what I think? I think this O'Ryan guy is threatening your power base here. I think maybe he's stealing your followers and you wanted me to get him out of the way.”

“It's not like that, son. I am a priest, after all.”

“Sure,” Morgan said, beginning to pace in a small circle in front of the other two. “And that priest gig is all about power. Every priest has absolute power over his people. Especially here. What, do you think, I'm
ignorant? Like I don't know what a big deal it is in Ireland to give a son to the church? How many priests you figure there are in this country, Father?”

“The church provides guidance for every member of its flock.”

“And how many guides does that take in Ireland? How many priests?”

“Well…maybe twenty thousand or so,” Sean replied.

“Twenty thousand! In a country of maybe three and a half million. That's, what, let's see, a religious leader for every hundred and seventy-five people or so, right? It's just a power trip.”

“Hold on, Morgan,” Felicity stepped between the two men. “We don't know the whole story. You're not being fair. Why don't we go back and have another drink? We can discuss this in detail tomorrow, like adults.”

“I'm for it,” Sean said. “Well, lad?”

Morgan just stood there in the dark, with hands on hips, looking at the ground, shaking his head. At a signal from Felicity, the priest turned and walked toward the pub. She moved over and put her arm through Morgan's. After a slight tug, he began walking with her. His mouth was set in a straight line of resignation, like a man facing a battle he knows he can't win. A soft wind whirled around their bodies, brushing back the grass and flowers. Once they were walking across the gorse, Felicity spoke.

“You know, I've never seen you fighting, I mean full out like that. You're pretty awesome.”

“Yeah, well nature boy back there must have donated his fair share of broken noses and jaws too.” Morgan replied.

“You mean Maxie Grogan? He is a strappin' lad and that's for sure. Cute too.”

“What?” Morgan looked at her as if she had lost her mind.

“The big dope's got kind of a baby face, considering his life. He's the end of a long, noble line, you know.
The product of countless generations of peasant fishermen.”

“If you ask me, he's the product of too much inbreeding,” Morgan muttered, almost under his breath.

When Morgan and Felicity walked into Paddy's pub things were almost as they were when they first entered. Furniture was back in its original position, spilled potables were cleaned up, and the patrons had resumed their original diversions. Felicity moved off, wallet in hand, to cover damage done during the fight. Paddy and Maureen were smiling. In fact everyone in the whole place seemed to be smiling, as warm and friendly as when they ordered supper.

Max Grogan turned on his bar stool, looking at Morgan like an unpleasant bit of unfinished business. The only thing Morgan could do was walk right up to Grogan, look him in the eye, and wait for him to speak first. The room seemed to hold its breath during the brief pause while Grogan stared hard, as if trying to measure the extent of Morgan's threat. However, Morgan had drawn his aura in, offering no emotional reflection. He presented no menace for Grogan to read.

“Can I buy you a stout?” Grogan asked.

“I did work up a thirst after my supper,” Morgan replied. “Why don't you buy this round? I'll buy the next. We'll see who passes out first.”

Morgan sensed no danger before Grogan's huge hand whumped him on the back, putting his chest into the bar. “Well said,” Max roared. “Quart of Guinness up here for me new friend and his friends, and the devil take the hindmost.” Morgan was sure that the friendly gesture would raise a bruise, but he didn't care. He had saved the big man's face without losing any of his own.

Being a good bartender, Paddy poured their cups half full from the small tap. He let them rest and settle while he served another customer, then topped them each twice. When a big mug landed in front of him, Morgan
took a deep pull. It was warm, thick, and malty.

“I'll tell you something, Max,” Morgan said, wiping froth from his mouth. “I've had light beer, dark beer, ale and malt liquor all over the world. I got to admit, Guinness Stout is the pinnacle of the brewer's art.”

“You mean they get this stuff over in the states?” Grogan asked.

“Well, yeah, but unless you've had it fresh from the tap, in country, you haven't really tasted it.”

“Thanks for standing me the drink, handsome,” Felicity said, sipping foam from the top of her mug. She slid onto the stool on Grogan's left, opposite Morgan. “My Uncle Sean's off moping in the corner, but I'm grateful for the both of us.”

“Your uncle?”

“Yes, of course,” she said, offering her hand. “We haven't been introduced. I'm Felicity O'Brien. Your fighting partner there is my business partner, Morgan Stark. He learned to fight like that in Vietnam and parts east.”

“Business partner, eh?”

“Sure. Are you here alone?” she asked with that sparkling smile that can make a man forget his own name.

“Well, maybe not.” Grogan covered Felicity's hand and wrist with one massive paw.

While they talked and drank, Morgan examined Grogan, trying to see what his partner could find so attractive in this hulk. His ears were jug handles. His skin was a mass of freckles so dense that at first glance he appeared red faced. His eyes were set deep and wide, with huge bushy eyebrows above them. His face was somehow weathered, but with no lines around the eyes or on his forehead. His smile was big enough, easy and sincere. A smile most people would trust. He probably had a simple view of life and lacked the intelligence to feel either ambition or dissatisfaction.

In a corner, someone started singing. Morgan didn't
recognize the song, but he was sure it was an old Irish folk ballad. A minute later someone drew a harmonica out of their pocket and joined in, accompanying the song. A few old timers started stamping their boots on the wooden floor, slapping their thighs in counter time to the music. It got faster, and a Jew's harp picked up the rhythm. Paddy pulled out a banjo, and all of a sudden, everyone was on the floor. Grogan was twirling Felicity to a dance that Morgan figured she was born knowing. He was watching her feet flashing across the floor when he felt a warm hand on his arm.

“Come on, big boy,” Maureen said, nodding her head toward the center of the room. “Give a girl a twirl, why don't you?”

“I think I'll sit this one out, ma'am. You can do better.” Morgan smiled into her confused face before letting his eyes drift back to the dancing crowd. The truth was that he could execute the most complex karate kata, perform a gymnastic tumbling floor routine and walk a high wire, but one thing he could not do was dance. He just never had that type of coordination.