Ice Woman Assignment (16 page)

“The law of supply and demand does not only apply to illegal addictions, ma petite,” Raoul said. “Right now there is a lot of money for anyone who can get American cigarettes into Russia. Also, moving legal medicinal drugs into the Middle East is highly profitable these days.”

“Well, darling, we're chasing this new drug called ice,”
Felicity said, caressing the telephone as if Raoul could feel it. “A synthetic crystal it is. How would you move such a thing so it can't be seen?”

“Is this business, ma chere?” Raoul asked from across the Atlantic.

“I'm on a job, love,” Felicity said. “I don't do vendettas. Just give me an idea.”

“When I was handling jewelry and art you brought me, it was the same,” Raoul said. “The secret is in misdirection, just as it is for a thief. With drugs, like jewels, you must change the form. And thanks to good misdirection, what is being smuggled is right where you thought.”

Barton finally joined them just as Felicity threw Raoul a good-bye kiss.

“He's right,” Felicity said, stepping away from the phone. “Let's head for the cottage. Sure and I've got to think this thing through.”

The bloated summer sun was half way to the horizon as they approached Barton's cottage. Daytime beach dwellers packed three lanes on their left, crawling past them, returning from a day's sun worshipping. With traffic so light in their direction, Barton drove at a relaxed, unhurried pace.

“I still don't get it,” Barton declared, stopping for a red light. “Our DEA partners are experts at this sort of thing. Why would you spot a smuggler when they wouldn't?”

“I knew a guy once who did a mind reading act,” Morgan said. “A panel of experts in psychic phenomena were convinced he was genuine. They were experts, see, but in the wrong thing. Know who busted him out? A couple of professional magicians. Felicity's an expert at getting stuff past the cops. Since she just thinks like a crook, not a cop, she's got a chance.”

Felicity interrupted Morgan with a sound very close to a scream. He spun, scanning for whatever could shock
Felicity so much. He followed her gaze across the wide avenue. It was a suburban scene filled with casual wanderers dressed in bathing suits, cowboy hats and shorts. In front of a small drug store, Frederico was trying to get gum balls out of a machine.

“Damn,” muttered Barton, and Felicity saw why. They were one car back from the light. Two cars had pulled up behind them, preventing Chuck from moving. She stared at the tableau playing itself out on the sidewalk. A low slung white sedan slid around the corner and pulled to the curb just past Frederico. He turned, as if to cross the street, tossing the gum ball into his mouth. Tiny beads popped out on Felicity's forehead, despite the car's air conditioning.

Two Latino men in cheap suits with their sleeves pushed up jumped out of the white sedan. The one with a scar on his face ran past Frederico but then turned around. The other, a darker man, walked purposefully up to Frederico and swung a fist up into his midsection. Frederico doubled over, his knees buckling. Felicity's stomach flipped and clenched as if she had taken the punch herself.

She heard a car door slam and saw Morgan, running across the street. The light must have just changed, because cars suddenly rushed at him from his right. On the sidewalk, the dark, weasel faced man shoved Frederico forward, while Scar Face grabbed his arm. They had him in their sedan in seconds.

Morgan had a hand on the car as it sped off. He reached under his jacket, then hesitated. Felicity could imagine him considering the density of the traffic, the number of people on the street, the likelihood of nearby police. She saw anger twist his face as he reached the same conclusion she had. Pulling a gun here, now, was not only pointless, but dangerous.

She bounced against the car door when Barton could finally whip his car into a U-turn. He locked the brakes in
front of Morgan, who got in and slammed the door, much harder than necessary.

“No chance to chase, not in this traffic,” Morgan said.

“Get a license number?” Barton asked, driving forward anyway.

“Sure, but they'll have a new one by now,” Morgan said. “Just like back at the hotel, these guys are pros. Sorry, Red.”

Felicity's teeth hurt, making her realize the extent of her tension. She took three deep breaths before answering. “Nothing to be sorry for. He was safe as long as he stayed indoors. I should have known he wouldn't do as he was told. He never really believed he was in any danger as long as…he thought I was some kind of magic protection.” She dug her nails into Barton's shoulder, betraying her desperation. “Can't we get after them? Chase them down somehow?”

“Felicity, sweetheart, they're gone.” Barton put one of his hands over hers.

“He's gone,” Morgan said, hitting closer to the mark. “The Escorpionista's machine is bigger than we thought, and it don't make anywhere near the noise we figured it would. Nothing to do now, Red, but get down to the business of hitting Anaconda the only way we can. Cripple her drug empire.”

Barton drove on to his rented cottage and parked in his designated space. Morgan got out and looked around, cautious even though he felt no danger warning. Barton walked around the car and opened Felicity's door. She stared up at them both, her eyes moist.

“It won't do,” she said. “He saved us. We couldn't save him. It won't do.”

It sounded loud when Barton hung up the phone, but Morgan realized it was only in contrast to the silence in the room before and after his calls. He did not speak right away, just sat looking at Felicity. Her face was blank, her body lifeless. She stared into the darkness just outside the window. Morgan wondered what she saw there.

“Well, that's it,” Barton finally said. “I've talked to the agency, the FBI and just for fun, the local police. The dragnet's about to drag over every Hispanic in the state.”

“They won't find him,” Felicity said. “They've gone to ground with him, or maybe taken him to California or even back to South America by now.” She paced around the cottage's main room in a rough figure eight pattern.

Morgan, sitting at the table, watched her closely for a clue to what was happening. He understood Felicity being depressed about losing Frederico, but this was something else. Usually, Felicity was filled with fire, like good Irish whiskey. Now her green eyes were dull and her face had lost its usual light of creative intelligence. Morgan had never seen her really at a loss before.

They had driven to a small place Barton knew for dinner and brought back take out Mexican food. The table was littered with wrappers and half eaten bits of chimichangas, burritos and tacos. Felicity had tasted everything, but eaten very little. Since dinner she had paced, as if measuring the distance the sun dropped with her tread. Now the moon was out and it looked as though she might walk the floor until
dawn.

Morgan, knowing what kind of night it would probably be, had bought five more pounds of coffee when they were out. Barton had picked up a bottle of scotch. Half a bottle later, three glasses had been poured into, but only Barton's had been emptied, and that several times. He lurched to his feet, weaving in front of Felicity.

“Look, you been doing your imitation of the mummy for half a day. You need to finish that drink.”

“Hey Red.” Morgan spoke as if Barton was not in the room. “This can go two ways. You want a hot shower and a rub down? Or, you want to make a plan to go save the kid?”

“Sure and I don't know if we ought to…” Felicity's voice trailed off, and Morgan saw an unfamiliar look of indecision cross her face. Morgan was ready to fight or drop it, but he understood Felicity's emotional investment and was prepared to let it be her choice. In the past, deciding who should lead in a given situation had been easy for them, but this time Felicity was not responding as usual.

“I know what you need, baby,” Barton said, putting his glass down. He walked up to her, stared into her eyes, and put his right hand on her waist. Morgan could see Felicity was trying to smile, to be receptive. He knew this man had given her comfort in the past. They shared a gentle, tentative kiss and she pressed herself to him. Her tensed shoulders dropped.

Then Barton's hand slid up her side, toward her breast. Felicity jerked away. Anger flashed on Barton's face, just before he could hide it.

“You want to help me, or help yourself?” Felicity asked, her voice slowly heating up. “I don't need company and I don't need comfort. I need to be left alone and I need for all of this to just go away.” At the end she was on the verge of screaming. She spun around, taking Morgan in with her
glance, and then walked into the bedroom as if she were leaving the site of a messy accident. The door slammed, and a deep silence rushed in to fill the room again. To build the strength to break that silence, Barton emptied his glass yet again.

“Why don't you go in there and comfort her?” Barton sneered in Morgan's direction.

“You know it's not like that between me and Felicity,” Morgan answered, keeping his voice low.

“Too bad,” Barton said. “Her problem is, you're what she always wants. Nobody can compete with your image, pal. If it's broke she figures you're the only one can fix it.”

Morgan did not feel any response was necessary. He stood up, stretched, and moved toward the door. “Think I'll leave you two lovebirds alone for a while,” he said. He heard no response, no call for more conversation as he stepped outside. When he pulled the door closed behind him, Morgan heard liquid pouring from a bottle. The night air was cooler and the ocean breeze brought a pleasantly briny smell. A walk would clear his head, perhaps bring him some idea what to do next.

It does not always take a lot of input to create sensory overload. Sometimes, it is just too much at one time.

A key turning in a lock woke Morgan up. Someone was trying to open the door quietly. A siren in the background almost drowned out the sound. Morgan, topless and barefoot, reached under the sofa. He had thumbed his gun's hammer back before he noticed the still empty love seat.

He had returned from walking the night before to an empty living room. Either Barton and Felicity had found common ground, or the CIA man was out getting drunk. Morgan knew only one way to check, but he was not about to open that bedroom door. It really did not matter. Either way, he could get some sleep. He had an idea how to deal with the morning.

So clearly, Barton had stayed out, gotten drunk and now, just seconds before daybreak, he was trying to slip in. Morgan's reliable sixth sense registered no danger, so it had to be him.

Then the door swung open, and in dawn's half light, Morgan found himself facing a wide round woman with udders where her breasts should be, wearing a sun dress in a yellow print. The woman drew breath for a scream, but it could not seem to come out.

Then a man stepped around her. He was her height, about five foot six, Mexican, whipcord thin with a mousy face and slicked back hair. “Who the hell are you?” he bellowed.

“Just visiting Mister Barton, the man who's renting this place.” As Morgan said it, the woman's scream finally broke free. Felicity appeared in the bedroom doorway in a tee shirt and shorts she must have slept in.

“Your friend,” the thin man said. “Your friend. He's, Jesus, he's out here. The police. Madre de Dios.”

Morgan burst through the couple at the door with Felicity close behind. He ran toward the street, stepping through sea oats and morning glories, toward a flashing light and the ambulance under it. As sunlight played over the street at a sharp angle, he saw two tall blond men crouching to lift a body. Moving as if he saw a stranger walking out with some property he owned, Morgan stepped up to the corpse just as the two blondes placed it onto a black body bag.

Chuck Barton's face reflected neither pain nor fear. Those brown eyes flashed rage. His muscles were already rigid, increasing the effect of anger. Morgan stopped the men from closing the bag long enough to scan Barton's entire form. He was dressed as Morgan had last seen him, except for the five projections.

One small knife handle stood out from each thigh. One was in his right forearm and another in his left biceps. The one in his throat hung to the right. There was little blood, only deep brown stains on his clothing. Most of Barton's blood would still be where he died.

“For God's sake, would you close his eyes?” It was Felicity. Morgan had forgotten she was there until it was too late. He looked over his shoulder at her shattered expression, then reached down and brushed Barton's eyes shut.

When Morgan stepped out the door, his focus had narrowed to Barton's body. Now he slowly expanded his perceptions. Felicity stood shaking, barefoot on the wet grass, her fists pressed into her face. The woman in the
print dress tried to comfort her. Then he noticed the two quiet men carrying the zippered bag into the back of the ambulance. Passers-by and curious neighbors clustered around the white panel van in a small, tight group, wanting to see but not wanting to get too close to death, as if it might be contagious. When Morgan finally took in the plain clothed detective and two uniformed officers, they approached him.

“Marcell,” the detective said, flashing a badge. “I understand you were sharing a beach house with the deceased. I'm sorry for your loss.” He had a big square jaw and shoulders so wide they made him look triangular. He had a lot to say, but Morgan cut him off.

“I'm Stark. The guy in the bag is Chuck Barton. That's O'Brien.” Morgan hooked a thumb at Felicity. “She and the deceased were going to be married soon. I think he's involved in police work too, FBI or something. Sure looks like a gang execution, eh?”

“What do you know about it?” Marcell asked, pulling out a note book.