Ice Woman Assignment (21 page)

That's one more on her list, Morgan thought. And, with one casual sadistic act, she had damaged his partner. Not just superficially, but inside. There would have to be a reckoning soon.

When Morgan awoke, the sun was in his eyes. He faced outward, perched on the bed's edge. He turned to find Felicity lying on her back with her head propped up on a pillow. She had her knees up, her chin holding the sheet in place. She stared straight ahead, poring over a thick, black-covered book.

“If anybody had told me I'd find you with your nose in a Bible…” Morgan said, turning to face her.

“This is what was in the unmarked crate,” Felicity said. “Boxes and boxes of these Bibles.”

“Great,” Morgan said, standing. “No drugs, just free literature. Salvation those South American handout takers didn't want.”

“I think you're wrong,” Felicity called to Morgan as he walked into the bathroom. “Remember what Raoul said. Misdirection. Change the form.”

“Right,” he called back, over the sound of running water. “Whatever's being smuggled is right where you thought. That means in the bible?”

“These books are the only things coming back on that ship,” Felicity said. Morgan heard a binding cracking. When he left the bathroom, Felicity was sitting on the bed dressed in shorts and a tee shirt, staring into the bible's binding down its edge.

“The covers are vinyl,” Morgan said. “I don't see how anything could be hidden in there.” While he dressed, Morgan watched Felicity shake the book, then begin
flipping pages absently. Her mind was wandering around the problem, probing for possibilities. as she flipped it, one page tore loudly.

“Watch it, Red,” Morgan smiled. “You may not remember, but the pages on those things are like onion skin. They rip pretty easy.”

“I don't know,” Felicity said, holding the torn page. “That didn't sound like a rip. More like it broke, or cracked. Something isn't right here. I don't know what.” She pulled open a drawer in the table between the beds and pulled out the Gideon bible there. She opened both books, rubbing individual pages.

“I think I've got them,” Felicity said. Then a broad smile spread across her face. “Boy, were we stupid.”

“I'm still stupid,” Morgan said. “Where's the ice?”

“The whole thing comes down to this,” Felicity said, getting up and going into the bathroom. “DEA and Customs both searched the ship. They looked at the crates, the cases and the books, but they never picked one up and handled it. This book's a bit heavier than the one that was here in the nightstand. If I'm right, Raoul was right, and Anaconda came up with one hell of a good plan.”

Morgan stood up when he heard the water come on. He followed Felicity, and looked over her shoulder into the slowly filling basin. After turning the water off, she held her arms up like a magician, tugging at invisible sleeves. Then she lifted the bible and tore out a page. Morgan's reaction to that was stronger than he thought it would be. He was surprised that Felicity, raised by her priest uncle, could do it at all. She handed him the book, and pressed the single sheet of paper into the sink full of warm water. When nothing changed she shook the page. A look of doubt just had time to cross her face before they saw sediment rising.

“Well I'll be damned,” Morgan said, slapping his partner
on the back. “Look at those crystals.”

“There, my dear Doctor Watson, is the ice.” She was beaming. “For the first time since they shoved me into Anaconda's tractor trailer office, I feel like I've done something positive.”

“If you've figured the smuggling angle, that'll put this end of her operation out of business,” Morgan said, pulling on his shoulder holster rig. “We're done here, right? Because now, I want to head south. I say we put that book in Mark Roberts' hand, then we can scope out the area. Do a thorough survey of Anaconda's home and drug factory. Then I'll get some boys together and go in and get her.”

“That's sounding like a fine plan,” Felicity said, tipping her head toward him. “First, of course, we'll be needing to get out of here alive.”

As the door burst open four men rushed into Edwardo's living room. The first man tripped over Edwardo, then scrambled to his feet. Two of them ran to the open window, to stare down into the darkness. The fourth man hung back nearer the door.

The first man stuck his head out into the rain and fired twice down the fire escape. After his eyes recovered from the muzzle flashes, he turned, his bull neck barely contained by the collar of his striped shirt.

“Damn it, Rico, I don't see nobody.” The second man, wearing a thin mustache under a crooked nose, put one foot up on the window sill, about to climb out after whoever had been in the room. Number three pulled a gun from under his plaid jacket, prepared to follow.

“Hold up.” Back at the door, Rico was licking his lower lip. His face was gaunt, his hair short cropped, his mustache pencil thin. One heavy gold chain looped under his lapels, hanging down to the edge of his sternum. He filled his lungs with smoke from a Chesterfield while the others stared at him.

“Only Charlie goes down the fire escape,” Rico said. “Just in case. But I don't think anybody could have got to the bottom that fast.”

“He's right.” Paul rose from behind the sofa, firing his pistol. A bullet went down the silencer with a sound like a child clearing its throat. It slapped Charlie in the back of the head, shoving him out the window. Paul took a step to
his left as he shot Crooked Nose in the throat. Then his hand brushed the wall and the lights went out.

Plaid Jacket dived to the floor and sent three loud shots in the stranger's general direction. Then he hugged the silence, waiting for return fire that never came. When he could finally hear over his heart's thumping, he figured the other man might be dead. Still, as slowly and quietly as he could, he slid his body left. There was a table there, at the end of the sofa, and there was a lamp on it.

Plaid Jacket turned the light switch while he held his gun forward, looking for a target. His eyes snapped left and right, until he accepted he was the only man in the room. The only man alive, anyway. His shoulders had just dropped to their normal, relaxed level when a moan drew his aim. Then he whistled, and lowered his gun.

“Edwardo, man I thought you was dead and I almost killed you just now myself.” He walked toward his dazed friend, helping him to his feet. “Oh wow, man. What happened to your face?”

“Where are they?” Paul slammed the weighted glove into Rico's gut, and drug dealer crumpled like a crashed paper airplane.

“Madre de Dios, I don't know,” he rasped out.

“You better get smart fast, you bastard, or you're going to get dead.” Paul swung his gloved fist back hand, and Rico's head snapped into the wall. “You said this Anaconda took them?”

“Yes, but they got away from her,” Rico said, squeezing his eyes shut, hiding from another blow.

“She had to know they were trouble,” Paul said, staring down at his captive. “She must have tracked them.”

Rico's head bobbed up and down. “They went to Texas. She sent men for them. Some didn't come back. She wanted to send more, but we lost them. I swear to God. We been looking, but they just disappeared.”

Paul considered this news from a man far too scared to lie. He turned away for a second, then turned back, whipping his automatic forward. He rested the gun's muzzle in the notch of Rico's collar bone.

“This Anaconda woman is bad news,” Paul said. “And she's made some bad enemies. Like me. Now, you can live if you swear to me that you're out of the drug business.”

“I can't,” Rico said, more pleading than defiant. “She'll kill me. She has eyes everywhere.”

Paul thumb cocked his Sig Sauer. “Scared of her? Or scared of me?”

Rico's mouth hung open. He swallowed hard, which jerked the gun barrel up and down. “Okay,” he finally said.

“Nobody does business with this Anaconda's organization anymore. I'll be watching. Anybody deals with her, I'll be back. Comprende?”

“Si,” Rico said. Paul pulled the gun away and snapped it forward, not too hard, but it would put a bruise on Rico's temple. Rico dropped to the floor and lay still. Paul holstered his gun and walked out, brushing dust off his sport coat.

So they had gone to ground, perhaps left the country. Paul's search had led him nowhere. It would be pointless to leave for Texas if Morgan and Felicity had already moved on. And he had no idea where they might turn up next. As much as he wished it otherwise, they were on their own.

As he stepped into the night rain, Paul's telephone vibrated, alerting him to a message. He pulled the phone out of his inside jacket pocket and pushed a speed dial button. When the connection was made, he said, “It's Paul.”

“Paul, thank God. It's Sandy. I just heard from Mister Stark and Ms. O'Brien. They're okay and they're coming home.”

Heat haze made the asphalt shimmer in front of them as the taxi pulled to a stop in front of a long, flat dun-colored building. Morgan opened the back door and stepped out first, scanning the area for possible trouble. Then he shouldered his duffle bag and held a hand down to help Felicity out of the vehicle. It was more humid than before, but his mind was not on how hard it was to breathe.

“Do you feel at home?” Felicity asked.

“Sort of. Hard to describe. The atmosphere is familiar, even though I've never been here before. A military landing strip has its own feel to it.”

“Hey, it was your idea,” she said, “And it was a good one. Let's go get on with it.”

Walking toward the control building Morgan reran the conversation that got them there.

It had been one of those conversations that highlighted their different thinking styles. Morgan had fished out a notebook because he did his best planning with a pencil in his hand. Felicity paced the small motel room, barefoot with arms folded. She didn't appear to be watching where she was going, yet she never stumbled or bumped into anything.

“So we need to get back to base,” Morgan said. “How do you want to travel? Steal another car? If we haul ass at nightfall, with no kid to slow us down with rest stops…”

“That doesn't work,” Felicity said. “Once Roberts gets
things moving to crash their smuggling ship they'll be too distracted to bother with us. But for now they'll be watching every road out of town I'm betting.”

“They ain't as good as they think they are. Anybody comes after us on the road it won't be like rolling up on poor Mary Carter. They come at us I know I can take them out.”

Felicity nodded and stopped to lean back against the dresser. “Of course, you can, Morgan, but think about that last attack. These bastards don't care about getting innocents caught up in their wars. You really want to find yourself in a gun battle in a populated area again? Want to risk a stray bullet hitting a civilian? No, I know you better than that.”

“Mark could probably swing a protective escort for us.”

“CIA?” Felicity snorted. “Or maybe local police? That just means a bigger gun battle with more undisciplined shooters.”

“Fair enough. Driving might put a lot of people at risk that got no reason to be. But then what? If they're on the roads you know they'll be on the airports too.”

“No doubt,” Felicity said, beginning to wander the room again. “And the ports are even easier to watch. I don't fancy trying to get out of here by boat.”

“Hmmm… I suppose we could walk out. Hitchhike?”

Felicity slowed her pacing and knit her brow. Then she gave a definitive shake of her head.

“Tempting, lad, because of a low chance of being spotted, especially if we split up. But if they did spot us, well, that's a death sentence for whoever was kind enough to pick us up.”

“Yeah.” Morgan stood, crossed the room, and stared out the window at a city that probably seemed perfectly safe to everyone else out there. “How in God's name do we get out without risk of collateral damage?”

“Well, let's go back to your idea about CIA support. A motorcade out of here might be too dangerous, but do you suppose they could take over a port for us to sail out of?”

“Sounds a little public for them,” Morgan said.

“All right then, how about commandeering a small airport for a while? That could be pretty discreet. I'm betting you can fly any kind of aircraft they come up with. And little airstrips don't have many people on them at any one time, so not much danger to them if something pops off, eh?”

Now it was Morgan's turn to mull over an idea. It almost seemed like a winner until he began to try to piece the details together.

“Pretty good, Red,” he said, still facing the window, “but I doubt they could give us a private plane on such short notice. I don't think they'd be willing to just bogart somebody's jet… but…”

Morgan suddenly spun to face her, his face alight. “Hold on. There is a way for the government to put us on a plane that's totally safe and under the good guys' control. Let me get back down to that payphone. Mark's going to love this.”

That call to Mark Roberts had led them to the edge of that airstrip on Naval Air Station Corpus Christi. Just a six mile cab ride from the city, NAS Corpus Christi was the home of Naval pilot training since before World War II. Uniformed men and women hurried here and there without sparing Morgan and Felicity a glance. The odor of jet fuel competed with the smell of sun baked asphalt. The tarmac was littered with small training aircraft but Morgan didn't see the transport he was looking for.

Within two minutes of them stepping out of their cab a tall black man in fatigues marched up to them. He made eye contact with both of them before speaking.