Piranha Assignment (14 page)

“No doubt,” Morgan said. “I saw a Styr AUG assault rifle and an Uzi submachine gun in the cab of every vehicle, and there were plenty in evidence around the motor pool area. I'm really starting to feel like Bastidas was right. The government thrust us on him, but the job we were hired to do has already been handled pretty damn well.”

After a short drive the dense tropical forest parted and they stopped in a broad clearing. A line of wooden platforms about waist high held rifle cleaning kits and boxes of ammunition. Morgan had found their target practice area. It was wide enough for ten men to stand on the firing line, and rows of targets stood down range.

“Not bad for a makeshift range,” Morgan said, scanning the area. Felicity guessed the targets were set up at twentyfive, fifty and one hundred meters. Posts in the distance would support targets at fifty meter increments out to the earth mound four hundred meters away. Above that mound stood a thick copse of trees. She saw targets inside the shed at the left edge of the clearing. One huge old palm hung
over the shed. In its branches, a bright red and green parrot sat, screaming at the newcomers climbing out of their vehicle.

Morgan glared at the bird as he unloaded the short gun bag. Felicity smiled as the parrot spread his vast wings, squawking in menacing tones.

“Must not have been here long,” Morgan said. “Too tempting a target.”

A narrow cover hung over the firing points, and Felicity made a beeline for this shade. Morgan carried the gun bag to the point, and handed her a canteen. While he opened the bag, she unzipped her jump suit to her waist and poured a little cool water on the back of her neck. Then she took a long drink.

When she looked down Morgan was holding a rifle barrel which she guessed was about eighteen inches long in his left hand. In his right he held a rifle butt and receiver. With a deft twist, he joined the two halves and tossed the rifle to her.

“Is this for me?” Felicity asked, holding the rifle at arm's length. “It can't weigh five pounds. Am I going to learn on a toy gun?”

“It's not a toy,” Morgan said, and his tone confirmed that. “John Browning himself designed that twenty-two autoloader. I chose it for your trainer partially because it's so portable, but mostly because I like to teach beginners with a twenty-two. The noise, the flash and the recoil are all low, so you can concentrate on getting the basics down. Now, zip that thing up a little more, would you? You're distracting me.”

“Why, thank you,” Felicity said. She bounced once for effect before raising the zipper on her jumpsuit two inches. “Now tell me why my rifle has a hole in it.”

“That's how you load her,” Morgan replied. As Felicity
watched, fascinated, he pointed the rifle down, unscrewed a wing nut in its butt, and pulled out a long tube. “This is the magazine. Now, hand me that plastic box. This is a hundred rounds of twenty-two long rifle ammunition. Not a man stopper of a round, but these are real bullets and they will do real damage if they hit someone. It's not uncommon for professional assassins to use twenty-twos for close up work. Now watch. They slip in this hole in the stock, one at a time. It holds eleven. Now I screw the tube back in. Now it's a dangerous weapon.”

Morgan fitted earmuff hearing protectors onto Felicity's head and his own. Then he produced two pairs of amber sunglasses from his bag and handed her one.

“Will these make me see better?”

“They're safety lenses,” he replied. “Accidents happen. A blown primer or a separated case could cost you those pretty green eyes men fall in love with.”

Next came the hard part. Morgan launched into the details of cheek weld, trigger squeeze, breath control and other arcane subjects filled with mystery to a person who had never held a rifle except in an arcade. There seemed to be a lot to it, but Felicity was a quick study.

“It all makes sense,” she said, “but I feel like you're showing me the hard way. Why don't I get one of those telescopic sights.”

“Because you've got to learn on iron sights, that's why.” Morgan then explained the concept of sight picture and how to get a good one. When her attention started to flag, he demonstrated how to put it all together. In the proper stance and following all the rules he had given her, he fired a five shot group into the nearest target. He had brought binoculars for her to spot with, but this first time they walked to the target. All five little holes were inside a one inch square.

“Now, it's your turn,” Morgan said, handing over the rifle. Back at the firing line, Felicity moved to another point. She stretched out on the grass at Morgan's direction, holding the rifle as he instructed her. She spread her feet comfortably apart. She brushed her long red hair aside to place the chu wood stock firmly against her face. It reminded her of fine walnut, and felt cool and smooth on her cheek. She found the square notch atop the receiver. Then, she swung the barrel until the bead at the end appeared to sit neatly inside the notch. The challenge, she found, was lining that picture up with the black spot on the target.

Before she could get comfortable, Morgan arranged the canteen under her left hand to support the barrel. “Hold it tight with your right hand. Let the fore stock rest lightly on your left hand. When you're ready, exhale and leave it out. Concentrate down range, and relax. Try not to close your other eye. Hold your position…”

“Morgan!” Felicity said, almost snapping at him. “Hush! Honestly, you are such an old woman sometimes.” When he fell silent she exhaled, focused, and gently squeezed the trigger as he had advised.

Her first surprise was the dust kicked up in front of her. The second was the noise, not at all like what she had heard from across the room when a gun went off. Up close, it was an entirely different tone. The important surprise was that it did not hurt. She had expected a smack in her shoulder, but it never came. In fact, it felt rather good. A controlled kind of power. Like extending your personal energy out over a vast distance. She could learn to like this.

“Good girl,” Morgan said, flashing a broad smile. “Now do it again. Don't worry about how far you are from the target. Just put four more bullets in the same place. We can adjust the sights to put them where you're aiming.”

Encouraged, Felicity repeated the process. The acrid smell of burning powder stung her nose. After the fifth shot, her eyes started watering from working to maintain the tight focus, but she thought she did pretty well. Morgan confirmed it.

“That group can't be much more than two inches across,” he said, checking through his binoculars.

“Pretty damned good for a first time,” came a voice from behind. Morgan and Felicity spun to see Barton walking up. He wore dark glasses and a bright blue shirt open to the third button. A thatch of chest hair like black cotton floss burst from the blue “V”, with a single gold chain tangled in it. White linen trousers hung over stylish Italian boots. Felicity liked the way he draped his sport coat across his shoulder. A Smith and Wesson .357 magnum revolver hugged his right hip.

“I was starting to wonder when we'd get a chance to talk,” Felicity said, sitting up. “I don't know how much you talked to Chris Matthews, but looking through his stuff has raised some suspicions…” She stopped because Barton's eyes got as wide as silver dollars and he looked left and right.

“Relax, pal,” Morgan said. “We're not under any kind of surveillance out here.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Trust me, we're sure,” Felicity said, standing. “So stop whispering and take it easy. I want to know what you think of this crew.”

“Well, Matthews never shared any suspicions with me,” Barton said, leaning on a firing table. “Fanatics always make me itch, but I got nothing specific to go on. Then again, I ain't no detective. So what makes you itch, hmmm?”

Felicity blushed just a bit, cleared her throat and said, “I
found dossiers on each of Bastidas' men. Their sheets are all impossibly clean. Do you think your real bosses could be checking them again? I've a feeling some of their backgrounds are phonied up.”

“I can get to a safe phone tomorrow and ask,” Barton said, pulling a pack of Chesterfields from his jacket pocket. “I don't know if you've noticed, but cell phones don't work on the compound. Could be lack of coverage, could be some kind of interference Bastidas' boys are putting up. Anyway, the first one I want to investigate is Varilla. That guy gives me the creeps.”

“Hey, now you're talking,” Morgan said, pulling off his earmuffs. “I caught that weasel going through my room. If there's a saboteur around here, it's him.”

“How about prints?” Felicity asked, hopping up to sit on a table. “I know how to lift them. Is there a way we can send a set of Varilla's back to Washington? That way we can be sure he's the man they checked.”

“Can do, babe,” Barton said, blowing smoke out his nose. “Anything else you want me to pass along?”

“I don't think so,” Morgan said. “But I'd sure like to check out the scene where your buddy Matthews got whacked. I just feel like if I walked in there, I'd know if there was a mix up or if he was set up, know what I mean?”

Barton snapped a pointer finger at Morgan and winked. “You come to the right guy. Why don't I show you two Panama City tonight after dinner? We can stop in to that little place and look around, and have a few drinks and relax a bit.” He casually brushed Felicity's cheek with one hand. His knuckles were big and course, like they had been broken in the past. “You two are pretty sharp. I been waiting for you to ask the obvious question about me.”

“Like?”

“Like, babe, why am I here?” Barton stood up and paced a bit. “This guy's Panamanian, speaks Spanish, knows the area, et cetera, et cetera. Why'd he hire him an Anglo to be his go between with the local government?”

All her life, the darkness had been Felicity's friend. Why a new location would change that she didn't know. For some reason shadows seemed longer and deeper in Panama City. Nothing gave her the creeps, yet sitting there with two strong men, she could feel goose bumps rising on her arms when Barton's aging Jeep lurched to a halt.

“There it is,” Barton said as he turned off the engine. They were parked in a clearing that served as parking lot for a bar on the outskirts of Panama's thriving modern capitol. It was a small wooden structure on a rural dirt street. No sign, or anything else indicated a name for the place. The building, out of sight of any others, beckoned to the newcomers without making any promises. It seemed to be nailed together hastily, like a child's play fort, and leaked light like a Halloween jack-o'-lantern.

Without the rattle and hum of the ill-maintained motor, Felicity had expected silence to close in on them. Instead, the night came alive with sounds. A woman giggled in the darkness, then a man's mouth covered that noise. Crickets seemed to be moving in on them from all sides, rubbing their legs together in anticipation. The only thing holding them off was the music from within the small wooden structure.

She loved folk music and the classics, and Morgan was teaching her about jazz, but the music surrounding her there was none of them. It reminded her a little of the homemade
music she had heard in Texas once. It had a Mexican side to it, that feeling of people trying very hard to be gay in the face of adversity. But beneath it, threading through it, was a fierce back beat, narrow and hard to follow. It gripped her heart, forcing it to beat to this new rhythm.

Her eyes followed a column of smoke from the chimney up to the clear sky. Stars were everywhere, packed too closely together for her to discern constellations. The darkness held a jagged line all around her, but it could not reach high enough to cover those stars.

“Let's go in and meet the gang,” Morgan said, hopping out of the Jeep. He and Barton had pulled on jackets to cover their weapons. These two seemed perfectly at home there, and in a way, she figured, they were. Both had spent time in places like this, gathering information about their environment when serving as soldiers for hire. How much the environment had changed in just a few miles.

Dinner had passed without incident. Barton's gaze had not wandered for long from Felicity, and she had watched him from the corner of her eye.

“Hey, babe, how about coming out with me to see Panama City,” he had asked over brandy. “I figure you might enjoy a drink or two in a different place, and you can see the sights with an experienced guide.”

“You know, I am needing a break from this dreary place,” she answered, “and I know there's more to this lush country than this armed camp we're locked up in.” She paused long enough to appear to have second thoughts, and with a vixen's smile, looked to her left. “Morgan, why don't youjoin us?” Barton had looked crushed, as anyone would expect. A quick scan of the faces at the table convinced her that everyone present bought it. After a shower and change, the trio loaded into Barton's Jeep for the long jarring drive to Panama City. He said he bought
the vehicle as Army surplus. After just five minutes bouncing on its seat, Felicity found this easy to accept.

Morgan concealed surprise as they walked toward the saloon door. He had expected to stop at one of Panama's many sailors' bars, but instead Barton took them well outside the city. This was where Chris Matthews, a man two of them had only heard about, met his fate over a local girl's affection. At least, that was the story.

No one looked up as the three strangers walked in. With the wide angle appreciation of a convex camera lens, Morgan panned the room, taking it in at a glance. Tables stood on either side of the door, with the bar on the opposite wall. It was a dim room, mostly lighted by a candle on each table. Rest rooms were on the left. To the right, a four piece band played. They had no bandstand, just an open area against the wall. The men sat in wooden chairs, playing three acoustic guitars of varying sizes and a mandolin. They seemed absorbed in their music, or maybe they just didn't want to get the attention of any of the patrons.