Ice Woman Assignment

Copyright December 2012 by Austin S. Camacho

All rights reserved. No part of this book shall be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, magnetic, and photographic including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher. No patent liability is assumed with respect to the use of the information contained herein. Although every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, the publisher and author assume no responsibility for errors or omissions. Neither is any liability assumed for damages resulting from the use of the information contained herein.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN:
978-0-9794788-8-8

Cover design by Iconix.com

Published by:

Intrigue Publishing, LLC

11505 Cherry Tree Crossing Rd. #148

Cheltenham MD 20623-9998

Printed in the United States of America

Two tall blood-colored candles lit the room. Highly polished gold plates stood on edge, filling the shelves that lined every wall. Light reflected from these plates played about the room, illuminating the naked woman behind the desk and the young man on the floor in front of it.

The man, or boy, was less than a week into his eighteenth year. His young, muscular body glistened with sweat. Wearing only shorts, he sat cross legged, in a mild state of convulsion. He was accustomed to it. It happened every time he received a vision.

“What do you see?” the woman demanded. She stood, but she could barely see over her desk.

“Two come. They will threaten you.” The boy was a full six feet, tall for a Colombian with no European blood. Skin glowing golden in the candle light, he shook with gentle tremors.

“They are a danger? To me?”

The boy's head snapped back and forth for a moment. Then his brown eyes focused on the woman.

“One is the puma. One is the hawk. They come to pluck the serpent from its lair.”

“Describe them.”

“The man…is black,” the boy said. His teeth clacked twice and he paused to avoid biting his tongue. “He is big, with the feel of a soldier. He is…most dangerous. He knows danger, feels its approach. The woman is pale, tall, red hair, green eyes. A trickster, and…so beautiful. She also can sense danger.”

The woman sat back in her high, scaled-down chair. “It
is time for the serpent to leave her nest,” she said. “We will go to meet this cat, and this bird of prey. You may stop now.”

The boy's tremors subsided as he focused on the woman's shining eyes. They glinted like polished silver mirrors, flashing a signal, drawing him on. He moved quickly behind the desk, kneeling, and nuzzled his face into the black floss between her legs. Her feet, suspended above the floor, started swinging forward and back.

“I may have to kill them,” she said. Her breathing was shallow, and her waist-length hair hung over the chair's back, swaying behind her like a huge charmed snake. “They will find the serpent to be dangerous prey. Ah, yes!” she gasped, her fingers tangled in the boy's hair.

“This raggedy kid?” Morgan asked. “This is the incredibly dangerous threat to society you brought us here to see?”

The three figures lay at the roof's edge, across the street from the boy they watched. At the other end of their binoculars, a teenager with Mexican features was about to enter a crumbling building half a block away. He had stopped at the door, reached inside his white baggy pants, and produced a thick wad of bills.

“Just keep watching,” Chuck Barton said. Four men trotted toward the door. The pair coming from the left wore gray suits and carried big revolvers. The other two had on blue jumpsuits. SWAT team uniforms. One carried an automatic, while his partner held a shotgun. Morgan didn't envy them. Whoever chose those SWAT uniforms had not considered Southern California summer temperatures.

“Your boys, Chuck?” Morgan asked over Felicity's head. “CIA?”

“No way,” Felicity said, turning her green eyes on her partner. “The two suits are FBI. I could spot them a mile away.”

“She's right,” Barton said, stroking her waist length red hair. “The other two are DEA. You just might get to see the first joint raid on an ice house that doesn't…”

The Spanish boy started into the door. One of the gray suits shoved him forward and dived in after him. An explosion of a shotgun blast, and the FBI agent flew out the
door before he was completely in. Gun barrels smashed out windows on the second floor and a hail of automatic fire showered down.

One of the DEA agents dived and rolled behind a car to return fire. His partner was down, his body bouncing as bullets continued to punch into it. The second FBI agent sat leaning back against the front of the building, alternately holding his left arm and shooting into the door until he ran out of bullets. Rifle fire burst from the building facing the target house, but it sounded feeble compared with what the criminals sent out their three windows.

“What have they got?” Felicity asked.

“From left to right, I see an Ingram Mac 10, an AK-47, and that looks like a Skorpion machine pistol,” Morgan Stark said.

“Still think it's kid stuff?” Barton asked. As they watched, five very young men darted out the front door, firing submachine guns as they moved. One stopped to coolly put a bullet in the seated FBI agent's head. Gun fire from the facing building slapped him onto the sidewalk a moment later.

“The building's too well covered,” Barton said, running stubby fingers through his brown curly hair. “The back's sewn up. The boys on this side are expert snipers. If they'd put their guns down…”

“They won't,” Morgan said. “They'll all die. For the ice.”

“We need one alive,” Barton said. “If only…” He stopped because the boy in baggy white pants was edging slowly up the street in their direction. He moved like a professional, from car to car, firing two machine pistols in a deadly spray. In front of the building directly opposite Morgan and Felicity he fired out his two guns, then dived backward, up the four outside steps and into the door.

“I can track him,” Felicity said, leaping to her feet. She
was racing for the stairs, her long graceful legs pumping.

“Red!” Morgan shouted in his rough baritone, jumping up. “Get back here!” He sprinted after her. Barton followed, but Morgan and Felicity easily outdistanced him. He had on a suit coat on this hot July afternoon, while his friends wore only jeans and tee shirts. He was working. They were supposedly only observers.

Felicity was down the stairs and across the street before anyone could stop her, but she knew Morgan was right behind. In her tennis shoes she figured she could move silently enough to follow the youth to ground. Then she would let the men take over. She did not fear running into danger. Her finely honed senses always warned her in time.

She reached the door about two minutes behind the boy, but once inside the building she knew he was gone. She flowed up four flights of stairs without a sound, but sensing no life inside. She had not spent much time in the barrio, but she doubted these buildings had secret passages or trap doors. Only one option remained.

Felicity opened the door to the roof. At the other end of that tar paper expanse, the boy was just putting his foot down on a fire escape. Felicity raced after him.

A rending squeal of rusted metal set her teeth on edge. The boy leaped back onto the roof and looked over his shoulder, eyes wide with hate. She could hear what she knew was a large iron structure tearing away from bricks and, seconds later, crashing to the ground. The fire escape had given way, falling into the empty lot below. As the boy turned toward her, she realized he was no longer fleeing prey. He was now a dangerous, cornered animal.

She saw surprise and perhaps confusion on his face. She imagined she was just about the last thing he expected to see: a tall, beautiful Anglo standing in the center of the roof in designer jeans and a tight tee shirt.

“You cannot win,” she said with a slightly Irish accent. “There are too many guns, and yours are empty.”

“Who needs them?” The boy said with a laugh. Dropping both machine pistols, he pulled a butterfly knife from a pocket in his baggies. There was a swish-swish sound and suddenly, a knife's blade pointed at Felicity. With a sick grin he stepped forward, his movements slow but his breathing accelerating. Felicity considered her situation. She had thought of him as a boy, but he stood a good six feet tall, weighing maybe a hundred and sixty pounds. Very thin but wiry, and probably hopped up on drugs, making him all around a dangerous customer. She wished she had gotten further in her martial arts lessons.

When she saw the boy's face fall, she knew it did not matter. She turned and Morgan, her martial arts instructor, was there.

“Get behind me, Red.”

The boy's smile returned when he realized this big black man's hands were empty. Nothing had really changed.

“I'll leave you both bleeding on this roof,” the boy said. Morgan's massive shoulders dropped.

“Look again, son. I've got you by two inches and maybe fifty pounds. You don't want to mess with me. You don't know what you're facing here.”

“Fuck you,” the boy shouted, advancing slowly. “Fuck you and the bitch.”

“Move out of the way, Morgan.” Barton's voice came from the roof door. His revolver was drawn.

“He's mine, Chuck.” Morgan's angular face settled into an expression of resignation. Then, to the boy, “I don't know what your story is, son, but to face down sniper fire like you just did, you must be serious. Trust me, kid, it ain't worth it.”

“Don't matter. I'll kill you.” The boy leaned in, taking a vicious swipe at Morgan's stomach. Morgan dodged to the
side, his steps light for a man so big.

“Now that pissed me off!” Morgan snarled, dropping into a deep ready stance. The boy seemed crazed and frantic, but nerves and drugs gave him maniac speed.

“End it,” Barton said.

“Morgan, don't hurt him,” Felicity said.

“Shit,” Morgan said. The boy thrust lightning fast for Morgan's midsection. Morgan dropped to the roof on his left side. Hot tar burned his hands as he thrust a side kick up into the boy's armpit. The knife arced skyward. The same leg curled and snapped a foot into the boy's chest. He hit the roof before the knife did.

“Pretty,” Barton said.

Morgan was on top of the boy in an instant, pressing a forearm across the boy's throat. “Why?” he asked. “Why take such a stupid risk? Huh?”

“Fuck you.”

“Let's try that again.” Morgan pulled a double-bladed dagger from his boot top and pressed its edge against the boy's throat. “Now. Tell me why you'd walk into the middle of a fire fight with no cover when you could just give up and live.”