Ice Woman Assignment (19 page)

As a mercenary, Morgan had never worried about his men this way. Every job had calculated risks and they accepted them. They celebrated their victories and avenged their losses, but rarely mourned.

Of course, none of his men had ever become real friends.

Then he saw it. A tiny dot of light at the door's edge. Without it, no one could tell the door was open a crack. It lasted about half a second. It was enough.

It took a few minutes for Morgan to reach the door. Once on the ground, he walked a block away before crossing the street. As he strolled toward the building he watched the spaces between the shadows cast by street lights. His instincts revealed no danger present. When he reached the warehouse door, he simply sidestepped and slipped inside.

“Somebody thinks there's something valuable here,” Felicity said in hushed tones, leading Morgan across the cement floor. “Considering the lack of security at the headquarters building, you can bet they're not worried about losing any of the food. But I had to cut electric eye beams at the doors, motion sensors across the front and rear of the building, sonic sensors crisscrossing the whole place, and infrared beams between the street lamps all around.”

“No cameras?” Morgan asked, pulling a slightly larger flashlight from his jacket pocket.

“Probably didn't want to pay anybody to watch them all night,” Felicity answered. “But what they had was plenty. Now, look here.”

They had reached the unmarked crates. Morgan pulled out his big fighting knife, chose a crate, and began prying the lid off. It was tough, but so was the knife. The seven inch bladed weapon was more a sharpened pry bar than a surgical instrument. Morgan put both hands under the handle, crouched, and surged upward with a subtle grunt. Felicity smiled in the dim reflected light as the top wrenched free.

And up in the high vaulted ceiling, a row of powerful incandescent lights suddenly came on.

Blinded, Morgan and Felicity scattered in opposite directions. Ten seconds after the lights came on, Morgan huddled behind a series of food crates, his gun in his right fist, cursing himself for leaving his knife behind. He knew Felicity would seek high ground while he stayed at floor level. They had discussed situations like this and planned their response. They would try to crossfire an enemy force, if their number was small. Felicity provided the distraction, Morgan the firepower. They knew exactly how many opponents they faced when the voice rang out.

“I never thought anyone would break in here,” Tomas said. “You got past alarms and stuff I can't even understand. You just didn't know about the last line of defense, huh? I sleep in a back room, over behind the office.”

Just one man? Morgan's vision had nearly returned to normal. He could simply spin, stand, squeeze the trigger and remove Tomas' head. Problem solved.

“I know who you are, you know,” Tomas said. “Saw you with the Anglo I killed couple days ago. Bet you got a gun too. That's why I turned the sound sensors back on. Talking won't kick it on, but a shot, that'd have a ton of cops here in thirty seconds. We gon' do this my way.”

Felicity crouched behind the top crate in a stack six crates high. She was almost behind Tomas and could see him from her vantage point, stepping forward from the front door in a sleeveless undershirt with his knife
bandoleer around his waist. She thought she could maybe shove the crates over, start a landslide of canned vegetables which would bury him. But that would make as much noise as a gun. For now, it was Tomas' play.

“I wonder did you bring the girl in with you,” Tomas said. “Hope so. She can watch me kill you, just like the Anglo. Know how he died? Maybe you do. Listen, slide your gun out where I can see it. Do it, or I push the button and the cops come anyway.”

After considering every option, Morgan pulled off his leather jacket, and pulled his throwing knife up from his right boot. The seed of an idea was forming.

From above, Felicity saw a small object skitter across the cement floor toward Tomas. He bent and picked it up. Tomas looked at Morgan's Browning Hi-power and laughed.

“Very funny, boy. You give me the gun, but keep the clip. That's okay. I don't want the bullets anyway. You'll get what the Anglo got. Know how he got it?” Morgan slid around the crate so he could see Tomas, whose left hand held a short throwing knife. Morgan showed only his face. He looked first at a shadowy stain on the cement floor. He knew that pale red blot marked Barton's fall. Then he looked up at Tomas and their eyes met.

“He pulled a gun on me. Then he said something about showing some girl. Yeah, like, `I'll show her who the real man is', or something like that. So I put a knife in his right arm. He dropped the gun. Then I put one in his left leg so he couldn't run. Then I hit his left arm. Then his right leg. Then…”

“Then, when he was immobilized and helpless, you killed him.” It was Morgan's voice. Felicity saw him step out into the open with his hands behind his head like a prisoner of war. The posture showed the two empty holsters under his arms. He had rolled his new leather jacket around
his right arm. Tension showed on his face but not at all in his body. Felicity knew it then. Tomas would soon die.

“You killed him in pieces,” Morgan continued, stepping forward. “I guess you like that stuff. Makes you feel muy macho, eh?”

“I didn't think you'd give up, man,” Tomas said when Morgan stopped about fifteen feet away. “I figured you'd die the same way. But, since you got no cojones, maybe I just call the cops and let them take you away, eh? Or, maybe not.”

Just kill him.
Felicity thought.
Kill him now. Please.

Tomas' left hand moved. It was a casual movement, as if no effort was involved, but the small knife shot through the air. The throw might have surprised someone else. It beat Morgan by about a tenth of a second. As the blade left Tomas' hand, Morgan's left arm arced down. Tomas dropped the gun, his right hand reaching for another blade at his waist. Too late.

Tomas' first knife bit into Morgan's right forearm. His second thudded into the floor about halfway between the two men.

Morgan's black throwing blade glanced off Tomas' collarbone, angling upward into his throat. Paralysis came instantly. Death followed in seconds.

Felicity hit the floor almost as soon as Tomas did, racing toward Morgan. He sat down on a wooden crate and yanked Tomas' knife out of his arm.

“I'm still shaking,” Felicity said. “God that was scary. Saw the whole thing, I did. He was faster than you.”

“He kept talking about it,” Morgan said. “How he killed, I mean. One limb, then another. I realized he forgot a basic rule. Never do your enemy a minor injury.”

“So you counted on him hitting your arm, while you, er, went for the throat.” It seemed so simple to verbalize, but the thought of doing it was beyond her. “You planned to
take a knife in your arm. That's why the jacket. To reduce the penetration.”

“A fact of life, Red,” Morgan said with a weak smile. “Sometimes they hurt you. Wounds heal. What he got, don't.”

Felicity felt a deeper understanding of her partner and considered all it meant before she snapped back to reality.

“Got to get you out of here, and get that tended to,” she said.

“Not before we get what we came for,” Morgan said. “And my fighting knife's over there.”

“I'll get it,” Felicity said. “Then we grab up your other knife and get the hell out of this place.”

Under harsh bathroom lights, Felicity helped her partner clean out his wound. It was little more than an inch wide and less than two inches deep. It bled freely, but a few months in this man's company had accustomed her to blood.

“You ought to get stitches,” Felicity said, blotting his arm with a towel.

“A pressure dressing'll do fine,” Morgan replied.

“Are you daft? Would any injury make you admit it's more than just another flesh wound?”

“Of course. And this one was pretty close. If not for that jacket, that little blade would have gone through to the other side. Then we'd have a problem. I know it looks pretty bad, but in a couple of weeks, it'll be just one more scar.”

Just one more scar. Those words echoed in Felicity's head while she lathered herself with a torrent of hot water beating against her back. Why was it so easy for men? Maybe because scars looked rugged. Scars are masculine things. What is for a woman a disfigurement is on a man a badge of action.

She remembered how Morgan had collapsed on his bed as soon as they finished bandaging his arm.

“Not a bad cut,” he had said, kicking off his boots. “Certainly an acceptable amount of blood loss. Think I'll stretch out for a minute.”

“Go ahead,” Felicity had told him. “After spending a day in a wooden box, I need me a shower more than anything.”

Now she stepped out of the stall, reaching for a towel. She dried herself facing away from the mirror. Her mind focused on the surprise she had found in the unmarked crate, and all Raoul had said about smuggling, and whether they left any clues to their identities in the warehouse where, in a few hours, someone would find yet another of Anaconda's men dead. She and Morgan may not have stopped her operation, but they were certainly being hard on her manpower.

At first she heard a low moan. Then it became a choked gasp, and finally a strangled scream. Without thinking, Felicity ran out of the bathroom. After all, Morgan had seen everything she had before.

He was sitting straight up in bed in the dark, covered with sweat, staring at some point a mile ahead of him. He was not quite panting. These were more like short, separate breaths of fear. Felicity pressed his head against her chest and wrapped her other arm around his massive shoulders.

“What is it, Morgan?” she asked. “Are you all right? Is it your arm?”

“They always come back,” he muttered.

“They who?” Felicity asked, pulling back just enough so she could see his eyes. They seemed out of focus at first.

“I've killed a lot of men,” Morgan said after spending a moment catching his breath. “Most in war. Some in self defense. One or two for revenge. People think it's all over after a fight. But at night, some times, they come back. You could never…”

Four seconds later, Felicity realized why he stopped. He was staring at her. He was staring at her body. It was too late to cover up, to turn away, or even to raise her hands. She gritted her teeth, frozen still in the soft glow from the street lights coming in the window. She could feel tears
coming but refused to let them fall.

Morgan reached out gingerly, as if he could not believe the evidence his eyes offered; lightly tracing her scar from three inches below her collarbone to just above her left nipple where it ended. It felt rough as new scars often are.

“When?” he asked. “In the truck? Anaconda's office?”

Felicity stood and the tears hung just inside her eyelids. Morgan stood beside her and reached for her but she stepped away.

“Don't,” she said, barely above a whisper

“Red, when did this happen….why didn't…” Morgan reached for her again but she took two more steps away from him.

“Morgan you don't understand.” Felicity could no longer stop the tears from dropping but she would not sob or weep. She turned away from him and the tears slid down her cheeks onto her bare breasts.

“Help me understand.”

“Don't you see what that bitch did to me?”

“Red, you are….”

“Don't say it.”

“Say what?” he asked with a confused look on his face.

“Don't say that I'm beautiful…because that bitch took that from me.” She said breathlessly.

“Not in my eyes.”

“When I take my clothes off the first thing a man will…” her voice trailed off as the tears flowed more freely. “They will see this.” She pointed but couldn't bring herself to touch it.

Morgan stepped in front of her and let his fingers trace the scar again. “Not true. All I see is a beautiful, green eyed, Irish, redhead.” His head dipped lower and he heard her breath catch as his tongue joined his finger.

“Morgan…you don't have…”

“I know I don't, but I want you to see. If it wasn't for
our weird mental connection I would be all over you.”

When they first met, Morgan and Felicity felt a strong attraction for each other. Their first and only attempt at sexual intimacy proved their minds were too close for such a relationship. They actually felt what was happening to each other. Morgan found it terrifying but he never stopped admiring her body.

He continued to lick her softly and finally garnered a small almost inaudible moan from her lips. She suddenly pulled away from him and grabbed a shirt from the back of the chair. Her voice was harsh, “No woman is beautiful with a deformity.”

“You're not just another beautiful woman. You are the most beautiful woman I know.”

“Don't patronize—”

“And don't you dare take that tone with me.” He reached for the shirt that she was holding against her. “Felicity, I don't say anything that I don't mean, and you should know that by now. Besides I have plenty of scars…”

“We aren't talking about scars that you can't see, we are talking about something that defines me as a woman.”

“But…”

“But nothing. The scars you have are, are sexy in the worlds eyes. My scar is a hideous reminder that I let…”

“No, you didn't let anyone…”

“That I let someone get the jump on me. Besides your scars are on your arms and chest and body. This is my breast… my breast.” the tears started again.

“So?”

“So…women don't look at you for your arms, “Felicity said, pacing back and forth. “ Women don't judge you by the look of your arms. No man will want to look at me with this. I used to be so beautiful.”