The Orion Assignment (2 page)

Father sat down on the hood of a blue Buick with big fins standing at the curb. The girl ran to the nearest shop doorway, flattening herself against the door. She could smell the sweet scent of the baked goods from behind her. Pressing her back against the door put her parents out of sight around the edge of the doorway. She heard mother stamp in her direction. She heard the springs groan as her father pushed to rise from the auto he was leaning on.

Then the world exploded in a deafening blast. There was the sound of shattering glass and metal twisted out of shape. It was so loud she could not hear her own screams. The stench of burning wool and roasting flesh replaced the smell of pies and cakes.

The girl screamed and screamed. The concussion forced her tears back along the sides of her head, into her ears. The horror rose into her throat and she tried to scream it out.

Felicity O'Brien sat bolt upright, terror stretching her eyes wide. Most of the bulky comforter hung off the side of the bed. Her hair was heavy with the weight of perspiration. Sweat glistened on her taut breasts. A vein pulsed hard in her neck and she gasped for breath.

That dream, that God damned dream was back
again. How many times would she have to relive that tragic day? How many times would she have to watch, helpless and powerless, as her parents died? Must she spend the rest of her life wondering why it had to be them? Why them and not her? If only she had understood the meaning of that awful feeling. If only she had known it was her mysterious ability to sense danger, activated for the first time. It had saved her life many times since then. If only she had recognized it for what it was that day, it could have saved theirs.

Fighting to keep from retching, Felicity stumbled into the bathroom. She got into the shower and turned on the water as hot as she could stand it. Leaning against the wall, she fell into wracking sobs.

If only the nightmare had happened the night before. Raoul had been there, and soothed her with his continental attentions. It would help to have someone to hold onto when the dream came, she thought. But he let himself out before dawn, leaving her to face the terror alone.

She had to pull herself together. She lathered herself with chamomile soap while she administered her self-oriented pep talk. How could she let a dream ravage her mind like this? Everyone knew she had nerves of steel. Was this any way for an infamous, international jewel thief to act?

Ex-jewel thief, she reminded herself, as she toweled herself dry after her shower. Last year this time she was at the height of her trade. Now she was a respectable business woman with a thriving enterprise to run. After a near brush with death, she and her new partner used their savings to set up a corporation on the outskirts of Los Angeles. She retired from crime as he retired from an even more dangerous life.

By seven forty-two a.m. Felicity was dressed for business. She knew the time exactly, despite the fact that she didn't own a watch and not one clock ticked in her penthouse apartment. She was born with the
special gift of perfect time sense. Her internal timepiece matched the reliability of any man made chronometer.

Felicity wasn't at all concerned about reaching her eight-thirty appointment on time. She just stepped out the front door, across the central plaza and into an elevator. Five stories below, the doors slid open revealing a wide glass wall. Centered in that wall was a glass door bearing two lines of simple lettering. At about eye level it read, “STARK & O'BRIEN” and below that, in smaller letters, “Security and Crisis Management Consultants.” As she opened the door, those words made her smile. In the months since she had ordered the lettering for that door she had taken care of the security side of the business with ease. After all, she had made a career of defeating security measures. Who could know better how to keep people from getting in where they were not wanted?

“Good morning, Ms. O'Brien. Mister Stark is out of town today, and you have an eight-thirty.”

“And good morning to you, Miss Fox,” Felicity returned as she walked in. She and Morgan hired Sandy Fox away from a big name detective agency, at the very start of “Stark & O'Brien”, to be their receptionist and secretary. Despite ash blonde hair and blue eyes behind her high fashion glasses, Fox was not glamorous. Felicity would have described her as cute, of average height and medium build. She wore a neat dark suit. Sandy's look was always appropriate to a business office, something Felicity was not at all confident about herself.

“So Sandy, do I look all right today?”

“You are truly beautiful, ma'am,” Sandy said. Felicity was tall, with long, full red hair, piercing green eyes and a perfect body, but that was not what she was asking about.

“Come on. I mean the outfit.” Felicity had long since mastered the perfect look to travel in high society or the criminal underground. She also knew how to be
nondescript, invisible to passersby. The professional world was still new to her. This day she wore a simple black wool skirt, plain black pumps and a white silk blouse. A gray and green mohair shawl hung draped over her shoulders, tied at the right.

“Oh, yes. The look is all business. So tell me something. How come it makes you look like a movie star?”

Stuck between frustration and embarrassment, Felicity waved a hand at Sandy and muttered, “Go on with you.” She headed toward her inner office.

“Oh, that weird guy Paul is waiting in there. He insists on reporting in or something.”

Felicity stopped and turned to look back at Sandy. “That weird guy?”

Fox blushed then, as she so often did. “Sorry boss but, geez, that guy gives me the creeps.”

“He had the same effect on me when we met,” Felicity said, returning to the reception counter and leaning on it. “He's probably the second most dangerous man I've ever met, with his hands or a gun. And when we met he was pointing his gun at me.”

“Really?”

“He had been hired to kidnap me and rip me off,” Felicity said. “It's a long story. But today he's a valuable member of our little team and if you give him a chance he kind of grows on you.”

While Fox blushed even deeper, Felicity moved on into her office and sat behind her custom made desk. It was shaped like a paisley print amoeba, the fat end on her right. Its top was white Italian marble, resting on steel polished to a mirror finish. The legs seemed to grow straight up out of the plush white carpet. The entire office had been designed and decorated to say, “success.”

“So, Paul, what's on for today?” The tall man with ice blue eyes stood in front of her desk with no expression at all on his face.

“I have a courier assignment that will take me to the East Coast today,” Paul said in his accent-free voice. “Unless you have something else, Miss O'Brien.”

“Will you please relax,” she said, pulling a folder from her desk drawer. She planned to review the proposal she would present at eight-thirty. “You've done a fine job from the beginning and I trust you know what you ought to be doing. Lord, you're an employee not a slave.”

“Sorry, Miss. I caused you some inconvenience last year…”

Felicity interrupted him. “Inconvenience? Well, that's one way to put stranding a girl in the South American jungle. But you got the drop on me, and that's not an easy thing to do.”

“Yes, ma'am, but after you and Mister Stark saved my life…”

“I've asked you never to mention that again. You're a professional. When you tried to hurt me back then you were doing a job. Just like you will today, I'm quite sure.”

“Yes, ma'am. I should begin. Good day.” Paul wafted out of the room without a sound. He was good, which is why they hired him. He recognized their professionalism, which was why he worked for them. That, and his imagined debt.

She reflected back on the first days of their thriving business. Marlene Seagrave, a New York businesswoman, recommended them to several industrialists. It was the least she could do. Morgan and Felicity saved her life too, after her husband tried to have them killed. Paul worked as an enforcer for Mr. Seagrave then, but Morgan and Felicity rescued him and Mrs. Seagrave from a blazing building. This earned Paul's loyalty and several referrals from Mrs. Seagrave.

Many other early clients were wealthy individuals whom Felicity knew were recent robbery victims. She knew this, because she had committed those robberies.
From there, business grew by word of mouth.

Today's job involved a chemical plant. She had already spent hours designing a comprehensive security plan, to theft-proof the factory as much as possible. She used third generation electronics, combined with state of the art surveillance equipment and her own years of experience in surreptitious entry.

This particular contract was one of their most lucrative, since it included an executive personal security plan devised by Morgan Stark, her partner. He had built an excellent reputation for expertise in arranging for the safety of key personnel in a short time. He designed their schedules, offices and cars to reduce the terrorist threat. Years as a mercenary soldier made him an expert in such matters.

While she thought, she stared at the diamond shaped étagère on the left wall. She bought this glass-shelved case because of its uniqueness, but now it seemed everybody had one. She wondered if she should keep it.

The annoying buzz of her intercom snapped her back to reality.

“Miss O'Brien, there's a Father Sullivan on the line. He insists on speaking with you now.” In those five seconds, she went from julep cool to flustered. How did he find her? What did he want? Why was he calling her now?

“Hello,” she found herself saying into the telephone receiver.

“I know you're busy and can't talk now,” said the voice from the other end. “I just needed t'be sure it was really you and you were in. I'll be coming up there in five minutes. We'll talk then. Bye bye.” She struggled to mumble good-bye. God how she had missed that thick brogue.

The next few minutes seemed like hours. She found herself pulling up her hose, smoothing down her skirt and pacing. Pacing? Where were the iron nerves she
had when walking a high wire?

Then Ms. Fox opened the door and in he walked in his tweed suit and white collar, with his nose broken from his early days and a big smile under bright blue eyes. They embraced and all those memories came rushing back at her. Mental pictures of a youth spent in the Catholic Church flew past her mind's eye, a whirling kaleidoscope of images from her years being raised by this man built like a bulldog with salt and pepper hair.

“By gosh, girl, are you trying to crack me ribs?”

“I'm sorry Uncle Sean,” Felicity said, her face beaming. “I've just missed you so much.”

“Have you now, girl? Then why is it you've never called or written?”

After a brief awkward silence, she said, “Well, why don't we go up to my apartment? I can cancel my appointments, and there's so much to catch up on.”

“Felicity, me dear, the reason I came to your office is because I'm here on business. I want to hire you to do a job for me.”

“You came all the way from Ireland to see me…to hire me?” Felicity looked around in confusion and realized they were still standing in the middle of the room. She motioned Sean toward a chair and moved her left hip onto her desk. He continued to stand, slid his hands into his pockets, and spoke in a flat professional tone.

“We've got a bit of a problem back home. A security matter you see. Threats. Vandalism. Finally, last week, a small bomb set off in me church. I hear you're in the business of keeping these things from happening.”

“Oh Uncle Sean, are you sure these aren't just random acts? I mean, why would anyone want to hurt you or your church?” She began to build a smile, but her uncle's stony stare froze it in midair.

“I'll tell you why. I speak out against the violence up north. Against the hatred. Against the `Provisional Irish Republican Army' and the Sinn Fein. It's not a popular stand with some.”

“But that's all over,” Felicity said. “There's a cease fire on. The Provos, the IRA, have quieted down now. They've all disarmed, for goodness sake. Let's face it, bombing churches is a little out of fashion, even up in Ulster.” Her logic bounced off her uncle's face, which was set hard as carved granite.

“You're serious, aren't you?” she asked. With slow, halting steps she paced to the far end of the room, gaining time to think. When she turned she was shaking her head. “Uncle Sean, I'll gladly help you, but I don't want to do business with you.”

“Nonsense! I need your professional help. Don't you think the church can raise your fee?”

“Don't be ridiculous!” Her words snapped out like the end of a lash through teeth set in a stubborn grimace. “If you insist on handling your problem in a businesslike manner, then I would have to consult with my associate, who's out of town at this time.”