Ice Woman Assignment (12 page)

“Well, now you know somebody in California,” Morgan had said. He regretted the implication as soon as the words left his mouth, and he knew Mary felt him tense.

“Hey, I'm not looking for a husband if that's what you're thinking,” she said in her soft voice. “But maybe somebody could help me find a job and a place to stay.”

“That I would be happy to do,” Morgan had said.

Five minutes later she was looking at her watch and offering energetic apologies. She slipped out of bed, leaving it cooler than before, gathered her clothes and crept to the bathroom. Morgan opened the door for her when she left, giving her a final deep kiss. Then he got back in bed, missing Mary's warmth, and dropped into a deep sleep…

Until he was jarred awake, his scalp tingling as it did only when danger approached. Ten seconds after he sat up, the soft purr of the room telephone jolted him. Without turning from the door, he lifted the receiver to his ear.

“Morgan? Mary. Two guys were here a minute ago asking for you.”

“For me specifically?” he asked, getting to his feet.

“Well, no, not by name. They were looking for a young Mexican, a white woman and a black man. I told them you were here and they left. After they were gone I thought, well, they didn't look right.”

“Mexican guys?” Morgan asked, starting to sweat in the room's warmth.

“What? Yeah, how did…are you in some kind of trouble?”

“Listen to me very carefully,” Morgan said with an edge in his voice he realized might frighten her. “Those are very bad men, and I don't want you hurt. When they return…”

“They're coming back?”

“For sure,” Morgan said. “When they do you tell them anything they want to know. Don't try to lie or fool them. They're going to want to come upstairs and when they do, you stay behind that counter. You understand?”

“Yeah. What's going to happen?”

“Nothing bad if you do as I say. Just playing a trick on some friends. I'll be down when I can.” When he hung up, Morgan's stomach was clenched like a fist. How in hell had they found them? Anaconda must have a better machine than the FBI.

He rethought it as he dressed. Would it be any different trying to hide from the Mafia in Sicily? Or the Yakuza in Tokyo? He had to remember that in this part of the country he was a foreigner in a foreign land in some ways.

When Morgan opened his hallway door he was in black jeans and pullover. Holsters hung under his arms, but he held his gun in his fist. When he poked his head into the darkened hallway he made eye contact with Felicity who had looked out at the same time.

“You felt it too?” she whispered.

“They're here,” Morgan said, tossing his gun to her. “Stay in that room. Point that at the door. If it ain't me, shoot it.” Felicity nodded and closed her door. Morgan locked his room and crossed the unlit hall. He opened the door opposite his own without a sound, pushing it almost closed behind him. Then he lay prone on the floor, and drew his fighting knife from its scabbard under his right arm. He knew that violence was coming, and he knew it would be a quick, quiet fight, either way it went.

In hotspots all over the world, Morgan's long experience as a Special Operations solider and then as a soldier for hire had trained him to lie still for days. That life was far behind him, but the discipline he absorbed in the U.S. Army and as a mercenary remained. To his mind the present situation was close enough to war to count. He breathed slowly through his mouth, silent as a two day old corpse.

Somehow they found us, he thought. They came into the hotel, but left again. That must mean they needed to report in. Maybe their orders did not include what to do if they got lucky and found their targets. But now they would be ordered to return and finish their assignment. To kill him, maybe rape Felicity and take Frederico back to their mistress for punishment. They would strike hard and fast, not wanting to involve any other hotel patrons.

The hair on the back of Morgan's neck tried to leave his
skin, and he knew they were back. Cautiously he glanced at his stainless steel Rolex Seamaster. Its luminous dial said five thirty-two. Scant minutes before dawn. The best possible time to strike. The time when most people were their least alert or most soundly asleep. The timing implied that a pair of true professionals was pursuing them.

They made no sound, but Morgan felt their menace coming up the hall. He drew his legs up under himself, and then withdrew his aura, becoming one with the carpet, just another piece of furniture. In the dark he saw the deeper blackness of a body standing in front of his room door. Then another form joined it. They wore no cologne, so no leading scent would give them away. They would carry automatic pistols, he knew, equipped with silencers. Everyone in the building would hear any shots, but it was such an unfamiliar noise they would assume it was something else.

Morgan closed his eyes to avoid any possibility of a reflection from his pupils, or of his attackers feeling they were being watched. One stepped toward him, then quickly away. He heard the sound of a heavy shoulder hitting a door, popping its flimsy lock loose from the frame.

As the door to his room burst open, Morgan sprang to his feet behind the two men. He dived into the darkness, even as he heard the first coughing sound of a silenced shot fired into his empty bed. Then his right shoulder hit a broad back and he slid his fighting knife's razor honed blade into the man's kidney. They continued forward, falling onto the bed.

In movies, when somebody gets stabbed they stiffen, groan and collapse. Real life is not so simple. A deep stab wound does not paralyze or shock a healthy man. He fights violently, thrashing and kicking, until he loses a lot of blood, which might take thirty seconds or more.

Morgan got his right arm around the shoulder of the man
under him and heaved. Still thrashing, the stabbed man actually helped Morgan turn him. Morgan rolled back, facing the door, in time to hear two more coughs and feel heavy lead punches thrown into the man who now shielded him. His wet, slippery hand pulled his knife free. Then with a grunt, he heaved the body forward.

The standing gunman, struck by his partner's body, staggered backward until his back hit the edge of the open door. Morgan crashed into him an instant later, reaching around the dead man to grab his live enemy's neck. The gun rose to point toward Morgan's ribs. Morgan slashed downward across the man's wrist. The gun dropped to the carpet with a dull thud. The man stifled a scream. A pro, Morgan thought again.

Then Morgan stepped to one side, spinning to get behind his still living foe. The man managed to catch Morgan's head with an elbow just before Morgan got a grip on his enemy's chin.

The sun peeked over the edge of the horizon, staring through the open window. Just as the first rays of light filled the room, Morgan drew his knife's edge across the unknown man's throat.

Six seconds later, Felicity tensed, then lowered the pistol as Morgan stepped through her door. In the near total darkness Frederico gasped. Felicity turned the gun around to hand it over to her partner.

“How did you know it was him?” Frederico asked.

“I always know it's him. Just like I sense danger, we sense each other. Comes in handy.” Then the sun crept up another inch and it was Felicity's turn to gasp. “Jesus,” she said through clenched teeth and turned away.

Morgan's face showed confusion for a moment, but then he looked down at himself. His left arm was solid red from the elbow down, dripping someone's warm life on the
carpet.

Felicity's face contorted in a rictus of fear, and a shiver shot through her. She knew her reaction was irrational, but she could not turn her mind away from the fact that one of Morgan's knives, honed by that very same fist, had so recently tasted her own blood. Now, seeing Morgan himself holding one of his blades, covered with evidence of its ultimate use, chilled her like death's breath on her neck.

Morgan didn't know why Felicity would react so strongly, but her expression was enough to prompt him to race into the bathroom and pull off his shirt. He scrubbed himself quickly in the sink. While he was lathering his arm it struck him that he had never seen either man's face. He had no idea who he just killed. He wondered if that fact should bother him, but he had more pressing concerns. Time was escaping like the night, but he had to make sure he would not draw attention when they left.

“We're ready,” Felicity said when he returned to the room, her voice just a bit shaky. “Pull on one of my tee shirts for now. Have you got a backup plan?”

“I think so,” Morgan said, dropping his shoulder rig and forcing himself into the tee shirt. It was too tight, but made of some sort of stretch cotton fabric that clung to him like a second skin. He had only seen men in shirts this tight in Cirque do Soleil performances, and he knew that under other circumstances Felicity would crack wise about his appearance. As it was he though the did catch the shadow of a smirk on her face.

“Not a word, miss. This was your idea, and maybe it's get-back for the times you've borrowed one of my tee shirts. I can never wear them again after the way you stretch them out in front.”

He left Felicity and Frederico in the hall long enough to pull on his jacket and pick up their suitcase. Then all three
moved, as quickly as possible without running, down the hall and down the stairs to the big reception room.

Pale and shaken, Mary stood behind the counter, her knuckles white from gripping it. She appeared to have held her breath for the last five minutes. When she saw Morgan she released it, deflating slowly. Morgan went to her, grasping her arm.

“I need some help,” Morgan said. “Do you really want to see California?”

“I…yes. Yes.”

“Do you have a car?”

“Didn't you drive here?”

“Do you have a car?” he asked again.

“Yes. Well, a Bronco out back.”

“A four by four? Okay.” Morgan glanced at Felicity who somehow understood and began writing on a piece of hotel paper. “I'm going to give you the key to the car we came in. It's now yours. It ain't no prize but it's yours. Felicity will give you money.”

“Five hundred dollars?” Felicity asked, opening her small purse.

“Should do,” Morgan said. “I need you to take that car and drive to Los Angeles. There's the address and phone number. Go there and tell Miss Fox, the office manager who you are. We'll call her today so she'll be expecting you. She'll put you up until we get back, probably in a couple of days. Right now we need to get moving. If we can use your Bronco we'll return it when we get back. Okay?”

“I guess so, but what about those two men?” Mary asked.

“Just don't go upstairs,” Morgan said. “Eventually someone may question you, but you're in no danger with what you know now.”

Mary gulped and handed Morgan her keys. He pulled
her over the counter and kissed her hard on the mouth.

“Just enjoy the drive,” he told her, “and be there when I get back.”

Morgan put on his sunglasses as they climbed into Mary's black Bronco. Although he was most comfortable driving a four wheeler, he wished for any other vehicle because even a casual glance at this one revealed all the occupants, and they were a combination that would stand out anywhere.

“Think they'll follow her?” Felicity asked after a time.

“Hope so.” Morgan's jaw muscles were working, clenching his teeth.

“How long?”

“At least until the first stop,” Morgan said. “Until they can get a good look at her. No one was watching the hotel. When they come looking for their boys, they'll find quite a mess. Or if they're slow, they might find the police. Either way, they'll look for the car.”

“If they buy it.”

“Even if they don't it ought to at least split them up,” Morgan said, easing the Bronco around a curve on the mountainous road. “They have to watch the car in case it's one of us, or she's going to meet us. That in itself is a help.”

“Lord, how many men can she have to send after us?”

“Who knows?” Morgan said. “But I can tell you one thing. They just lost two of their best.”

“I'm not sure what you did, but I know you saved my life,” Frederico said slouching in the back seat. He looked at Morgan in the rear view mirror. “Thank you. I see that you are part of my mistress, and part of my mistress's
power.”

Morgan cranked the wheel, pushing the Bronco off the highway. He drove across sparse brown grass, raising a tall plume of sandy dust behind them. Once out of sight of the road, he hit the brakes.

Without a word, Morgan left the Bronco and walked aimlessly for a few steps. Felicity got out and followed. He stood holding his belt, staring down at a small round cactus. Felicity stopped four steps from him and spoke to his broad back.

“All right. What is it?”

“We leave him,” Morgan said without turning. “Put him off in El Paso.”

“No.”

“Red, he's what they're after,” Morgan said, turning. Painted mountains loomed behind her in the distance, making Felicity seem very small. “They're not chasing us. If they found him, we'd have some room to move and I wouldn't have to be watching your neck every minute.”

“Yeah? And what about him?”

“She won't kill him,” Morgan said, brushing her objection aside with his left hand. “She needs him. He's her power. How many psychic fortune tellers you think she's got?”

“Maybe two,” Felicity replied. When Morgan stopped to stare at her, she continued. “Last night he told me Anaconda took on him and his brother. And when he told his brother about me, he encouraged Frederico to run away.”

“I don't get it,” Morgan said, but he was beginning to see. The distant sound of tires on asphalt was like the whine of battered children.