Ice Woman Assignment (7 page)

“Yes?” It was Mark Roberts' voice. Roberts was Barton's control agent, an old acquaintance of Morgan's, and CIA bureau chief in Central America which for some reason included Colombia. She knew he would not talk to her until he could verify her identity and switch on a scrambler.

“It's O'Brien,” she said. “Call in thirty minutes. Priority one.” That meant life and death. Then she hung up, thought for a moment, and dialed again. “Tim, it's Felicity. I need some help.”

“Anything, Miss O'Brien,” the guard said. “After all, you're the boss.” He meant it literally. Felicity and Morgan insisted on providing security for the building their offices were in, and her apartment above them.

“Tim, I need you to bring me a phone book.” She paced as she spoke, her nerves on edge.

“Ma'am you sound nervous,” Tim said. “And, seriously,
do they still print those things? I have no idea where I'd find one. Why don't you tell me whose number you need? I'll just look it up online, or call information.”

“No good. I've got to find Morgan. I might need the phone number for every police station in the state. And all the hospitals.” Her voice faltered, cracking. “And maybe the morgue.”

In the dark, they could be anywhere. Six yards off the freeway they stepped into a patch of transplanted evergreen forest which could just as easily exist off the New York State Thruway or Highway 95 in Georgia. Morgan could not be sure they were still in California.

A soft breeze flipped his collar and cooled his face. The whoosh sound of passing cars was linked to lights rushing by, catching the three Chicanos in a chilling strobe effect. Morgan stood on soft, springy ground. He faced the trio, hands locked behind him. Again he wished he could open handcuffs as easily as his partner. As it was, he was prepared for a beating. Then one of the men popped a switchblade open and the rules suddenly changed.

“You faggot,” Morgan said, addressing no one of them in particular. “Three against one, my hands are chained behind my back, and you need a knife?”

“Quiet,” Renaldo said. Body language marked him as the provisional leader. He was broader than the other two but in the flashing lights, Morgan could not tell much else.

“You cowards,” Morgan said, stepping back farther into the wooded area. “Maricone. No cojones, eh?”

Taunting them brought the desired reaction. The three men moved toward him quickly, but tightly placed trees kept them from reaching him together. Jogging left, Morgan got all three attackers on one side of him.

A big rig tooled past, leaving the scene lit for half a second. The light was at Morgan's back, in his assailants'
faces. In that half second, Morgan kicked out, a side stamp that put Renaldo into his two partners. Then Morgan was behind them, kicking into the knife man's left knee. He went down howling.

The second man spun on him. Morgan put his head down and charged. His shoulder knocked the breath out of his attacker. A front stamp kick put the man on the ground.

Morgan was caught in the next car's lights, and Renaldo's fist hooked into his stomach. Another crossed his jaw. Morgan staggered back, fighting to stay upright. His face smacked into pine bark. The pungent scent of sap slid into his nostrils, clashing with the coppery taste of blood.

“Now you will hurt,” Renaldo said. “I don't need a knife.” Morgan heard the whistling sound just before he ducked. A length of chain clanged against the tree.

Where did he get that? Morgan wondered. Was it wrapped around his waist, or did he drop it out of the truck when he jumped down to the street? Morgan turned quickly as the chain arced again, hitting his back like a steel bar. Morgan ran forward, trying to escape. He dodged a tree, but stumbled and dropped to one knee.

This time when the chain hit, it forced Morgan to the ground. In a flash of headlights he saw the steel links spinning over Renaldo's head. He began rolling just as the chain arced down. It thumped the ground just inches from him, raising dead needles. Renaldo tried to stomp him, but Morgan kept rolling.

When his shoulder hit a tree Morgan grunted. Renaldo laughed. The chain spun above his head again. Morgan stared up, his back wet from the rotting forest floor. Headlights revealed Renaldo's grin and need for a shave.

Then Morgan reversed his roll. His body slammed into Renaldo's knees. After an instant of weightlessness, Renaldo fell over him. Morgan squirmed around quickly, but a root caught the handcuffs, limiting his progress.
Renaldo got to his knees, then to his feet. Lying on his side, Morgan hooked a foot behind Renaldo's ankle and kicked out at his shin. Renaldo dropped again. From that awkward position Morgan raised his left foot, snapping his heel down into Renaldo's groin.

While the other man howled, Morgan forced himself upright. Renaldo grunted and managed to get to his hands and knees. As a passing car silhouetted him, Morgan kicked once, to the side of his head. This time, Renaldo went down for good.

Morgan dropped to the ground, wondering how much time he had. On his back, he managed to get the handcuffs down around his feet. Now he stood with his hands chained in front of him. Exhausted and sore, he knelt to check Renaldo. He lived, but surely had a bad concussion. He would be out for a while.

He followed a low moaning to the man with a dislocated knee. From there he could just see number three. He was shaking his head, about to stand. Morgan moved like a wraith through the darkness, making sure his target never saw him approaching and had no idea he was there until the chain of Morgan's handcuffs settled across his throat.

“When are they coming for you?” Morgan asked in a chilling tone.

“Half an hour,” the man croaked out.

“Who's got the keys to these handcuffs?”

“Left them on the truck,” the Mexican replied. Morgan nodded, reflected on his recently acquired injuries, and tightened his grip. His captive's hands went to the thin chain, but dropped a moment later. When he passed out, Morgan dropped him to the turf. Then, out of habit from years as a mercenary, Morgan dragged him and Renaldo into the center of the wooded island where they would be harder to find.

A quick frisk confirmed the absence of any small keys.
Morgan stood on the graveled shoulder, fatigue settling on his shoulders like a wet woolen overcoat. His watch told him it was well past midnight. He had not eaten in six hours, bruises were rising on his back, and his lip was swelling. Pointed shoes worn to fit in at the clubs were a poor choice for hiking, but hike he would. His wallet was with his personal weapons aboard Anaconda's traveling office. No sane person would pick up a leather clad hitchhiker with a bloody face, wearing handcuffs on his wrists, carrying no money or identification.

Luckily, Morgan could rely on an infallible sense of direction. His mental grid map told him he was facing west, which meant toward Los Angeles.

The first green reflective sign he came to told him he was out on Route 60, almost five miles past the Montebello exit. Well, at the first exit he would find a gas station and call Felicity. He figured Anaconda would not hurt her if she kept her mouth shut a little better than he did. After all, Anaconda only sent him out for a beating as an example. She wanted to make a point about her power in this country, and Morgan showing up with a broken arm would have been sufficient.

With the crunch of gravel following him along the freeway's shoulder, facing the blinding headlights, he mustered one small smile. How would Anaconda react, he wondered, when she returned for her three flunkies and found them unserviceable?

Morgan's head snapped in a double take when he spotted Felicity, in a simple sweat suit, driving a red Chevy with bucket seats. He stepped away from the telephone booth, silhouetted by the light from the cover over the gas pumps. Felicity swung the car around so the passenger door faced him. Morgan's face curled into a smile as he settled into the vinyl seat.

“I've got about thirty better questions,” he said as Felicity pulled the car back onto the highway, “but first I have to know where you got this car.”

“I needed transportation when I escaped from those Spanish…oh my God.” Felicity had started speaking before she looked at him. Even in the dim light of passing neon signs, she could see how swollen Morgan's face was on the left side.

“This is nothing,” Morgan said, sitting back. “You should see the other three guys. But could we stop long enough to get these bracelets off?”

“Good Lord. Did you have to fight in these?” Felicity pulled onto the road's shoulder and slid a pick out of the wide elastic band around her hair. Morgan noticed she was a redhead once again. In seconds his hands were free and they were back on the road.

“Now, what's this about escaping?” Morgan asked, rubbing his wrists. “I figured Anna would just let you go.”

“Anna? Oh, I get it.” Felicity shook her head. “Anaconda sent me packing, but my escorts got a wee bit
frisky so I had to shake them and get my own ride.”

“You stole it.”

“We're taking it back right now,” Felicity said. “Picked it up just off Firestone, on the edge of Watts. I figure if I park it where it was and leave a hundred bucks on the seat, nobody will be sore.”

“Okay. We can catch a cab from there. Or, at least we can walk to someplace where I should be able to hail a cab. The question is, what do we do now?”

“Morgan.” Felicity hesitated, a rare event indeed. Morgan waited in silence for her to continue, just watching the street lights fly past. “Morgan, I'm sorry I ever got us into this. You were right. We've got no business…”

“It's a job, Red,” Morgan said out of the darkness. His partner's confidence was shaken more than he expected. “We signed a contract. Besides, nobody sends me out to the woodshed for a whipping. Let's not have any talk of dropping the case. I just want to know how we get to Anaconda from here. These people ain't no joke. They're dangerous.”

“Well, I've got an idea.” Felicity's foot seemed to gain weight, her speed increasing on the freeway. Morgan opened his window a crack and took a deep breath. She was showing more than just a loss of confidence. Something was really wrong, but what? He might expect this feeling if she was hurt, but was it physical or emotional damage? He would simply have to wait for her to tell him, and deal with the moment at hand. Right now presented enough danger.

“Well, let's look at it,” he said. “The Escorpionistas got a lot of influence over the Hispanic population. There must be about three hundred thousand Latinos in L.A. East L.A. is a city all to itself. No way to crack in there. However, this is a widespread organization from what we were told. So, maybe the place to get at these guys…”

“Is in Texas,” Felicity said. “That's what I figured. We
check out the shipping line and find out how the drugs are brought in. I'm betting when the payroll dries up, the power of South American voodoo hoodoo dries up too.”

“I take it you don't believe the boy's prediction,” Morgan said.

“That we can't harm Anaconda? I don't buy into crystal balls. But the situation there is kind of spooky, huh?”

“I read it a master-slave relationship,” Morgan said. “Kid's so dominated he probably just says whatever he figures will please the woman.” The words “I hope” got left off his sentence.

When they climbed out of the taxi in front of their Manhattan Beach office building, Morgan and Felicity scanned the area carefully. They could see no one watching them. Still, they knew he was out there.

Once in her apartment, Felicity checked her bedroom telephone for messages while Morgan picked up the living room's cellular phone. He heard three rings before a Haitian voice answered.

“Allo.”

“Claudette. Hi.” Morgan sighed in silent in relief. They had not targeted her. At least, not yet. He wanted to tell her all about the dangerous evening he had just had, but he saw no point in scaring her. “Listen, doll, this case is getting a little complicated.”

“Where are you, mon cher?”

“At Felicity's. Look, her place is being watched. I don't think mine is, but these people we're mixed up with play the game kind of funny.”

“Will you return here?”

“I don't want to lead them to you.”

“Then I should go.”

Pause. “Yes, lover, I think so. It might not be safe right now. Catch the first plane to Europe. I'll call as soon as the
dust settles.”

“I'll fly evasive, just in case,” Claudette said. “The long route. If you get no answer at my place, don't worry. Just leave a message with my service. Je t'aime, mon cher.”

“I kind of dig you too,” Morgan said. He waited until she hung up to do the same.

“Oh, tell the girl you love her,” Felicity said, returning to the living room.

“Any messages?” Morgan asked, dropping his jacket. “Mark says he'll call again around two our time on a secure line. He's in contact with Chuck.”

“Excellent,” Morgan said, pulling his shirt off. “I'm taking a shower to clean out all these cuts and bruises. They didn't hurt you, did they? I mean, need any first aid?”

“Nope,” Felicity answered, turning her back to him. “Never touched me.”

“Good. Then you get some rest. I'll watch the phone. After the call, I'll hit the guest room.”

“Twist my arm,” Felicity said, smiling. “I'm beat. Let's plan on a late breakfast and an afternoon flight to Texas. I'm tired of doing things the hard way.”

Felicity's eyes popped open, her face tense with anger. Why wasn't Morgan answering that phone? He said he would watch the phone. Was he just watching it ring?

Then she realized how light it was. Her all blue bedroom was positioned so her wide windows received the sunset, but she could still see the darkness was lifting outside. Her internal clock told her it was twelve minutes before seven in the morning. Surely Mark Roberts called long before this.