Ice Woman Assignment (13 page)

“Frederico says his brother gets visions too, but not as good. Maybe he found us.”

“Hold it.” Morgan glanced at the Bronco, but Frederico
was oblivious to their conversation. “Even if you're right, why would his brother send her after him?”

“Remember what you said about a master-slave thing?” Felicity asked, brushing hair out of her eyes. “Maybe the brother wants to be number one boy. He couldn't while Frederico did the job better. But if Frederico was out of the picture…”

Morgan considered. Her theory fit with all known facts. And Felicity was right: only Frederico's uniqueness would have saved him from Anaconda's anger. She probably would gladly trade an unwilling instrument for one not as good, but more loyal. He silently weighed their options, but he kept coming back to the same answer. After two long minutes exploring the problem, he finally muttered “damn” under his breath.

“So? What now?”

“Damn it, I'm no hero or some crime fighter.” Morgan kicked the cactus in frustration. “We don't belong in this. This ain't personal protection and it sure as hell ain't security work.”

“Morgan, you're right.” Felicity gripped his shoulders and turned him to her. “Okay? I said it. For no good reason except I wanted to and it would have helped a friend, we got involved in something that's none of our business. I'm sorry. God, I'm sorry. But we're in it now. We owe Chuck a finished job. It looks like we owe this kid our lives. And I owe that bitch something for… hurting us. So. What now?”

“Now we continue on to Corpus Christi,” Morgan said looking into her deep green eyes. “We hope we can figure out this smuggling thing soon.” Shaking his head, Morgan climbed back into the Bronco and started it.

Mary Carter hated everything about the gray Buick LeSabre. She hated the power steering that yanked the big car in any direction at the slightest move of the steering wheel. She hated the grabby breaks. She hated the automatic transmission that always seemed to shift way too late. She hated the rough, ragged ride reflecting shock absorbers that had long passed their usefulness. But more than anything else she hated the fact that it was taking her in the exact opposite direction from the tall, muscular stranger who gave it to her.

On the other hand, she knew she would see him again, and that brought a smile. It was a beautiful day and she had gotten on the road early enough that she would have the golden sun at her back for a while. There was almost no traffic on the I-5 at that time of morning, and California waited in the distance. It was not the Promised Land, of course, but she knew it had to be a big step up from the rural outpost she had been stuck in all her life up to now.

She pushed a button and was pleased to learn that the radio worked. While she familiarized herself with the controls she noticed movement in her rear view mirror. A black vehicle was slowly gaining on her. Someone driving in a much more practical Ford F-250 had somewhere to be. Well, she did too, but she did not want to push the LeSabre past seventy miles an hour. Not with its spongy suspension and overactive steering. She missed her Bronco. But all she had to do was get to the address Morgan gave her. She had
no reason to hurry and there was plenty of room for the other driver to pass her if he wanted to.

She hit the scan button, hoping to find one of those sunny summer songs that she associated with California.

“Why would they go back?” Marta asked. He drove the black Ford truck with his seat pushed back as far as possible so that, with his left hand on the wheel, his arm was stretched out to its full length.

“How the hell should I know?” Quesada asked. “And why should I care? Our orders are to follow, not second guess. When they settle someplace we'll take them out. Doesn't matter to me where that happens.” Quesada rode with his right elbow hanging out the window, scratching at the scar running down from his right eye.

Marta leaned back, huffing with exasperation. “We could end up driving all the way back to California to take care of this. Just to get Anaconda's boy toy back. What a bullshit job.”

They drove in silence for a few minutes. Marta maintained a comfortable distance behind his quarry, occasionally dropping back far enough to be out of sight. He didn't know who these two were, but he heard how the Black man had fought his way out of a three-man attack. If he was that good, he might spot a tail.

Beside him, Quesada lit up one of his little cigars. After he took a drag he leaned forward, as if he was looking for something. When he spoke he blew acrid smoke toward his partner.

“Hey, pull up a little closer.”

“No way,” Marta said. “I don't want them to see us following them, dumbass.”

“As long as they can't see us, we can't see them,” Quesada said. “And I want to. Look up there. You see Frederico?”

Marta eased the truck a bit closer and looked hard. “No I don't see him, but so what? He's probably laying down in the back. The boy's a pussy. He's probably taking a nap.”

“Yeah? And what you heard about this Black guy, you think he's laying down with the boy?”

“Hehehe, no, I don't think he's that way,” Marta said.

“Yeah? So where is he?”

Marta leaned forward and eased the accelerator a little closer to the floor. He didn't want to be obvious, but he did want a better look into the gray car ahead. Now it was clear that the only visible person sat behind the wheel. Too short to be a man, and with long black hair. Quesada was leaning forward too.

“Damn it!” Quesada thumped the outside of the passenger door with a fist. “There's only the girl. They must have split up. Now what the hell are we supposed to do?”

Marta was quiet for a moment, and eased off the pedal to allow a little more distance between the truck and the LeSabre. “Something ain't right here. I thought the girl target was a redhead. And ain't she a mick?”

“Idiot,” Quesada said, thumping his partner in the shoulder. “She dyes her hair. Don't you remember? She was disguised as a Mexican in California.”

“Si, I remember,” Marta said. “But the description also said she was tall, maybe five seven or eight. You see where that bitch's head is, just over the back of the seat?”

“Maybe she's just slouching down,” Quesada said. “What difference does it make? We know they're not all in the car, right? We need to call in and report.” He took one last long drag off his little cigar, flicked the butt out the window and pulled out his cell phone. Marta all but snarled at him.

“Report our failure? Our stupidity? Not without knowing all the facts. I want to see for sure.”

While Quesada stared at him with wide eyes, Marta pressed the pedal to the floor. The Ford truck surged forward, closing fast on the old gray Buick. Quesada, wary of the reputation earned by their quarry, slid his Glock out from under the seat.

Two car lengths behind the target, Marta pulled the truck into the left lane, as if he planned to pass. The LeSabre neither sped up nor slowed down. He hoped to catch a good look at the driver's profile as he eased past. She would keep her eyes forward, not wanting to be seen. This he knew because she was from all accounts a professional.

Marta and Quesada wore plastic smiles as they eased past the LeSabre. The sound of a Beach Boys song Marta couldn't name came through the open window. To his surprise the Buick's driver turned toward them, smiled back and waved. Marta stared into that golden round face for a moment, and then eased the truck back behind the car. Anger was rising behind his eyes.

“That bitch is about as Irish as I am. We got played.”

“A decoy,” Quesada said, pulling out his cell phone. “Now we don't know where the hell they are with the boy. This is bad, chico. Very bad. For us.” Quesada tried to push the button to report in but missed it because his body was slammed back into his seat. Marta had mashed the accelerator to the floor, spurring the big F250 forward.

“What the hell?” Quesada snapped.

Marta replied through clenched teeth, not looking over at his partner. “We got played. I don't like getting played. This bitch got to pay.”

As they approached a gentle curve, Marta pulled the big truck forward until the LeSabre was in its shadow. There was still not another car in sight on the I-5. Quesada could see a narrow curve up ahead. He looked down through the two vehicle windows at the woman gripping her steering
wheel with both hands. She looked up through thick black hair as terror slowly overwhelmed her face.

Marta's face reflected only rage.

Quesada managed to say, “I don't think…” just before Marta pulled the wheel to his left and then yanked it hard to the right. The truck's front quarter panel smashed into the Buick with a grinding squeal. Quesada leaned left, away from the impact, but was thrown against the door when the two vehicles met. Then the truck slowed and dropped behind the car. The LeSabre, pushed onto the shoulder, jerked left as the driver apparently tried to correct for the unexpected impact. The car's rear wheels broke loose and the Buick swung in a radical swerve. Marta chuckled as the left side tires left the pavement. The right side tires caught the edge of the shoulder and the LeSabre rose into the air as if in slow motion. The truck rolled past as the car's right side hit the ground, then the roof. In his rear view mirror Marta saw the car do another complete roll, finally coming to rest on its right side.

Marta pulled to the side of the road and hopped down from the truck. He leaned against the lift gate, shaking his head. Quesada walked back to stand beside him.

“Well, that's one bitch that won't be fucking with us no more,” Marta said.

\“You think?” Quesada asked. “Know what I think? I think that was a damned amateurish move, amigo. What if somebody saw us?”

“But nobody did, moron. And she sure as hell ain't gone tell nobody nothing.”

“Really, Marta?” Quesada asked. “Really? Are you so sure she's dead?”

Marta laughed one hard laugh. “Are you shitting me? Look at that car? It went over twice? And she was a little broad anyway. You don't think she's dead?”

Quesada was not smiling. Without answering his partner
he took four long steps toward the car. Then he lifted his nine millimeter and raised his left hand to shield his eyes from the sun. He fired once into the underside of the car. Marta heard the bullet pierce the steel with a plink sound. Quesada fired again. Clear liquid flowed out of the second hole, as if the car was bleeding.

Quesada's third shot must have caused a spark because the gas tank erupted outward. The explosion was fierce enough to rock the car over onto its roof where it settled into the sandy earth and the flames spread to completely engulf the LeSabre's body. Quesada stood quiet for a moment, then slid his gun into his waistband and turned.

“Now I'M sure she's dead,” he said as he walked back past Marta to climb into the truck.

Morgan, Felicity and Frederico all entered Corpus Christi with some surprise. Aside from being their journey's end, the city was a welcome departure from the tumbleweeds and ten gallon hats that typify the rest of the second biggest state.

This coastal city felt urban to her, in a way even Dallas and Houston were not. Felicity was surprised to find restaurants and hotels trying to appeal to a continental class of tourists. And she knew that if she were visiting under different circumstances she would love shopping there.

Barton stayed in a cottage in a cluster of cottages near the coast. Despite the mid-eighties temperature, a gentle breeze toyed with Felicity's hair when she stepped down from the Bronco. She noted the difference between the smell of a Pacific wind and the somehow tangier gulf breeze that she thought carried a slightly oily aroma. The cottages, scattered about at land's end, were a sandy color that made them seem natural growths, rising up from the beach. When she stared out toward the ocean she was startled by riders in motion.

“Are those horseback riders racing out there?”

“Yep,” Morgan said. “That's Mustang Island. Not really an island, it's just one part of Padre Island. It runs this way,” he said, pointing, “for sixty-six miles.”

“You spend way too much time watching the Discovery Channel,” Felicity said. Morgan chuckled but stopped when Felicity jumped like a startled mustang herself. A jet
ski engine coughing somehow reminded her of a silenced pistol shot. Smiling at herself, she turned toward Chuck's door. When she knocked she had a brief flash of seeing Morgan at a similar hotel room door, one arm coated with blood. She closed her eyes to erase the image. When she opened them, Chuck Barton was reaching for her, pulling her inside, spinning her off the floor.

“Lord I missed you,” Chuck said into her ear. “I was so worried. Mark called, but he didn't know where you were or anything.”

“You're breaking my ribs, lover,” Felicity said, giggling. “If you'll just be putting me down now I'll tell you everything.”

“We're fine too, thanks,” Morgan said, brushing past the couple to drop the suitcase beside a sofa. It faced a love seat and was separated from it by a low coffee table. Across the big room four straight chairs surrounded a square table.

“Wait a minute.” Chuck put Felicity back on her feet to stare at Frederico. “Who's this guy?”

“That's part of the everything I have to tell you,” Felicity said. “But I hope I can get settled first. Would you be so kind as to drop my suitcase in the bedroom?”

Burton smiled at the implication and dragged the suitcase off. As soon as he was out of sight Felicity touched Morgan's arm.

“What?”

“You're awful jumpy,” Morgan said in a low tone.

“Is that what you were frowning about?”

“Well, that and this place,” he said.

“What about it?”