Ice Woman Assignment (3 page)

Barton was on his feet now. The wind seemed cooler, but it was just the new sweat on his brow evaporating. “Pull the cord, lover,” he whispered.

Morgan was tacking toward her but he was above her, unable to make contact. When Felicity got so low Barton could see the determination on her face, she suddenly snapped rigid. Her arms were back, her head thrust toward the ground.

“How fast?” Claudette's voice was a hoarse whisper.

“Easy a hundred miles an hour,” Barton said aloud. To himself he screamed “Quit showing off and pull the damned cord.”

Less than four seconds from the ground, two white sport parachutes blossomed simultaneously, and the ache in Barton's chest reminded him to breathe. A hundred yards away, Morgan came in at a trot, quickly gathering the billowing silk. Felicity seemed to land harder, rolling twice before coming up on one knee. Her silk canopy threatened to drag her off across the sand, but Morgan was there to help. Barton put down the glasses and moved to assist.

“Wait.” Claudette put a hand on Barton's arm. “Give them time.”

“They can use a hand,” he said, but he moved slowly
toward the pair. As he got closer he could hear the tension in their voices.

“I ought to slap you.” Morgan's baritone lapsed back into the Bronx. He whipped off his helmet. Light brown eyes shot fire at his target.

“You said five hundred feet, for the love of Mike,” Felicity snapped as she dropped her helmet. “You know I had it timed to the second, even without the altimeter.”

Watching Felicity, Barton thought only a native of Ireland could have hair so red, eyes so green or a brogue so thick. And only this woman could be so irritating and at the same time so exciting.

“I said five hundred feet if everything went smoothly,” Morgan said. “You were up there doing fucking barrel rolls.” They stood eye to eye now. After a tense moment, Felicity's voice changed from steel wool to amber honey.

“Morgan, I knew I was okay. I was in control. My hair just got caught in the harness, that's all.”

“You could have been killed, Red.”

As Barton could have predicted, Morgan melted before Felicity's charm. Morgan was twice as wide as she, but she could always turn him with a word and a smile. Then Morgan looked away from her and came face to face with Claudette. Without preamble, he took her into his muscular arms and dropped into a deep kiss.

“Well she's glad to see him,” Felicity said. “Of course she came all the way from Paris for that kiss. Do I get one?”

“I thought all you wanted from me was this folder,” Barton said. “Should I take it you've made a decision?”

“Well, there's good news and there's bad news,” Felicity said.

“And the good news is?” Barton asked.

“I'll take that folder and we'll take the assignment,” she said as they gathered her parachute into a bundle. I've got
some ideas how we can find the connection here in L.A. Morgan wasn't really in favor of this, but I convinced him it would be fun to get a check from the CIA.”

“And the bad news?”

“We'll be getting help from some people you might not approve of, and who may not like you much. Now, can I still have a kiss?”

“Well I sure don't want to disappoint you.” He pulled Felicity close, covering her mouth with his own, enjoying the warm moment before pulling away and trying to get his mind back on business. They embraced and walked with his arm around her on their way back to her car. Chuck wished he had not missed Morgan and Felicity's takeoff that morning when he left them at the airstrip. He was happier than he wanted to admit that they could now return together.

Chuck had parked the car more than a hundred yards away. The two couples meandered back toward it, moving unevenly across the sand. Then, about five yards from Felicity's sports car, Morgan pulled up short. He separated from Claudette, slowly walking around the car. Claudette hesitated, and then took a step back.

“Morgan?”

“Something's wrong,” Felicity said. She stepped lightly to her car, stopping a few feet from the driver side door. Morgan circled to the other side. She faced him across the Nissan's black roof.

“A bomb?”

“Maybe,” Morgan said. “Did Chuck arm the anti-theft device?”

“I didn't show him how,” Felicity said. “I knew he'd only be driving her for a couple of hours. He was only away from the car long enough to go into his hotel room and get the packet, so I wasn't worried about anybody stealing it. And I didn't think there'd be anybody way out
here to steal it.”

Morgan gave a slow nod. “Right. Okay. Chuck. Over here, please.” When Barton got close, Morgan said, “I'm getting underneath. Hold the hood down, would you?”

It never occurred to Barton to doubt Morgan's instincts. He was one of the very few people aware of Morgan Stark's danger sense. Confidently, he rested both hands on the car's hood and waited. Morgan, he knew, would crawl under it to look for signs of an explosive.

Deep in shadow beneath the car, Morgan searched mostly by hand. After four minutes' exploration, he failed to find anything. Reaching up in front of the engine compartment, he tripped the hood release lever.

“Let it rise about an inch,” Morgan said. Chuck did it, estimating a little low. Morgan stood and turned to look into the engine compartment.

“Red, do you have…” Morgan stopped as Felicity placed a penlight in his hand. She always kept a small light in her bag. Morgan smiled, stooped, and shined the light under the hood. After a moment's silence he straightened, waved Barton away and slowly raised the hood until it stood completely open.

Nothing.

Barton and Claudette sighed with relief, but Morgan remained tense. Felicity stepped closer to her ZX.

“Inside?” Morgan asked.

Felicity crouched at the side, looking closely. After a moment of silent examination she said, “Yes. Right here. Barely a scratch by the edge of the door. Whoever got into the car was good. Damned good. And look. There's a note on the dashboard.”

Motioning Felicity away, Morgan gently gripped the door handle. He pulled slowly. The latch clicked. It was not locked. He opened the door gradually. Chuck knew he was feeling for any resistance from a wire. Again, nothing. With
the door open all the way, he and Felicity stared inside. Chuck tried to look over their shoulders, adding his eyes to theirs checking for anything out of place, searching for danger possibilities.

“Contact poison?” Morgan asked.

“Maybe. How about a pressure bomb under the seat?”

“The seat?” Morgan said. “Unlikely.”

“Then maybe…oh no. Morgan, look there. On the seat.”

“What? I don't…”

“Look close,” Felicity said. A shudder ran through her voice as she pointed. Barton slipped up behind them to look between their shoulders. Following Felicity's finger, he saw movement. Morgan pulled a knife from his boot and poised it over the seat. With a quick jab, he speared something. Lifting it up, he stepped away from the car. Tiny legs and a tail flipped around in the desert breeze.

“Scorpion,” Barton said. Just under an inch long, it writhed on the boot knife's tip. Some dye made the insect a brilliant emerald green. Its color perfectly matched the car's interior. After a moment's struggle, it was still.

“How many, Red?” Morgan asked, flipping the tiny creature away.

“I count eight, if they all stayed on the driver's seat,” she said. “I don't see any on the floor but I suppose they could have crawled under the seat, or even under the floor mat. They're so small they'd be easy to miss. Now what do we do?”

“Stay out here an extra hour or so,” Morgan replied. “The dye covers their spiracles.”

“Their what?” Barton asked.

“Spiracles. The openings to their respiratory organs. They probably sprayed the dye on them and covered the spiracles. So with that dye on they won't live long.”

Barton shook his head. “Why do you know that stuff?”

“The sting is deadly, is it not?” Claudette asked,
hugging Morgan tight.

“Not really. A scorpion's sting sure hurts like hell though. Like a major bee sting. Two would make you sick as a dog.”

“And eight?” Felicity asked, shivering slightly.

“Well, a person might die from eight before you could reach a hospital from here. Let's see the note, Red.”

Felicity reached in, quickly snatching the slip of paper from the dashboard. Five long steps away from the car she read it.

“One word. It says `Don't.'”

“A warning for me,” Barton said.

“Oh, it's not for you. Morgan and I are the targets of this thing.”

“Is it addressed to us?”

“No, Morgan, it's not addressed at all, but there's something taped to it. A long red hair. Mine, for sure.”

“I still don't know, Morgan,” Barton said, setting his cup on the large oak cube that served as Felicity's coffee table. They sat in her apartment, one of two penthouse flats atop the building that held their offices. “Maybe you guys shouldn't get involved in this thing. These people are dangerous. And you certainly don't want to get your lady mixed up in this.”

“We're already in it,” Morgan said, pulling Claudette into his arms at their end of the couch. Music from David Sanborn's latest album almost relaxed him, but Felicity's huge living room, so sparsely furnished, reminded him of their vulnerability. “That little warning means the bad guys know us. I don't run from that kind of thing. As for Claudette, I flew her in for two reasons. First, her business is industrial espionage. She might have some information you don't. Also, these South American cartels often have a mystic angle to them, and being Haitian she could give us some insight into that stuff.”

“I agree and that's settled,” Felicity said, standing to walk past Barton. “Now, since the men both have copies of the folder, let's kind of flip through it. Starting with the Escorpionistas. Who or what are they? Another terrorist group? Or is this a drug cartel, like the one out of Medellin?”

“Well, neither really,” Chuck said, tracking Felicity with his eyes. “They're kind of like the old Cosa Nostra in Sicily. They're into all kinds of crime, terror, extortion and
like that. A scary bunch, but they were flying under the radar because they stayed local in Colombia until very recently.”

“They are vicious fanatics,” Claudette said, staring out the floor to ceiling window panels that served as the room's back wall. “They rule their areas by terror and magic. Even Baby Doc and Papa Doc before him would not bother the Escorpionistas. They keep seers and shamans…”

“Yeah, well, like I said, until recently they stayed local,” Chuck said. “Then, according to my intelligence, a new leader rose up about three years ago. You rise in this organization only because those above you have unfortunate accidents and your team keeps you alive. And she seemed to have definite ideas on how to take the Escorpionistas out of Colombia into more profitable endeavors. It looks like she wants to play on the world stage, like al-Qaeda.”

“She?” Felicity stopped in her pacing. “You said before a woman's running the show, this Anaconda. How does a woman get stature in an organization like that? I thought those South Americans were all about the macho stuff. And what's with the name? Isn't the Anaconda a snake?”

“Biggest in South America,” Barton said. “Kind of an ironic title she chose. We don't have a picture but we have pieced together a pretty good description. The story is the woman's only four feet eight inches tall.”

“Four foot eight?” Morgan asked, flipping pages. “A midget, or dwarf?”

“No, our information is that her proportions are all normal. She's just short. And that's not all. We're told she has straight black hair hanging almost to her knees.”

“Doesn't it get in the way?” Claudette asked with a smile.

“Mine sure does,” Felicity said, pacing in front of her couch. “I'm thinking about cutting it.”

“Don't do it if you're headed to Central America, cheri,” Claudette said. “The hair would be symbolic of fertility, or strength.”

“Our information is she's pure Indian,” Barton said.

“In Colombia?” Claudette sat straighter. “This is another powerful symbol. Not one in a hundred in Colombia is pure Indian. The Spanish were very thorough. You must understand that in that part of the world, just being unique gives you influence. This is ancient tradition.”

“In that case, she's got it hands down,” Barton continued. “Word is her eyes are silver. That probably means white, or real pale, but…”

“No, they're silver.” Morgan picked up and emptied his coffee cup. “I saw her.”

“What?”

“She's here, Chuck. I thought it was an illusion at the time. People just don't have silver eyes, after all.”

“In front of the hotel the other day?” Felicity asked. Morgan nodded. “Sure and you looked like you had the enemy in your sights. Too bad we didn't know then. And if she was outside your hotel, Chuck, then she's watching you or one of the others on the joint task force.”

“But this should simplify things, no?” Claudette asked. “If the woman is here, can't you just arrest her?” All eyes turned to Barton.

“Not without iron-clad evidence, which we don't have. She's a foreign national, and probably in the country legally. Got no way to know, because who knows what name she might be using. Besides, this organization's very influential in the Hispanic community here. It's all tied up in this mysticism thing. If we arrested her, they'd call it false arrest, racist harassment. There'd be riots in the streets. That's why we need her connection. With the distributors in hand we might be able to get enough to move legally.”