The Orion Assignment (30 page)

“You're wrong, Ian,” Morgan said. “Not the same. You hunt like a rabid wolf. Anything in your path dies. Every merc I ever met worth a damn followed the same code. There's things you just don't do.” He spat blood on the floor and continued. “You don't work for commies. You don't attack your own country. You never betray a cause. And the highest point of honor, you don't make
war on noncombatants.”

“Honor!” O'Ryan shouted. “That's a word children use. It ain't about honor. It's about power, bucko. My kind gets it. Your kind gets this.” The next punch rocked Morgan back and chipped a tooth.

“You might think that makes you king shit the stinking wonder,” Morgan said, his speech slurred, “but it won't get shit out of me. Including respect. Especially respect. I'm still the man you had to tie up to beat. You don't have the guts to cut me loose and face me man to man. And in my last act on earth, I'll spit in your face.”

O'Ryan roared with anger. His eyes were white rimmed saucers and a trail of spittle dripped from the edge of his mouth. His rage filled the room, but Morgan's stare cut right through it to O'Ryan's heart. Morgan was beaten, but he was not defeated, and O'Ryan could not stand that. His rage burst from him in one tremendous left cross that turned Morgan and the chair around toward the window. Now, O'Ryan was shrieking.

** “I'll get it all out of you, lad,” O'Ryan said. “I'll make you talk and then you'll be begging me to let you die.” Morgan's head pulsed with pain as he turned it to follow O'Ryan's movements. His neck ached with the twisting and his mind was numb and spongy. Through the haze he saw O'Ryan reach around to the fireplace. He lifted a poker from it, and Morgan could see its tip glowing white hot. Even the upcurved side point, used for turning wood, glowed. It must have been in the fire all morning. Now O'Ryan stalked toward him with this fearsome weapon. As O'Ryan came around to block the sunlight coming in through the window Morgan's mouth became dry, but he would not break eye contact with his enemy.

“Now, big man, let us hear your courage,” O'Ryan said through clenched teeth. He pressed the poker's point against Morgan's right shoulder. Morgan's entire body contracted, arching backward in agony. He
screamed louder than he believed he could, and his body shuddered with pain. He smelled the broiled flesh inches from his face and prayed for unconsciousness to take him.

Felicity drove to the coast road, then along the coast of the gulf for a short time. She stopped when she sighted a fisherman with a small motorboat. She leaped from the car, very agitated, displaying a nervous jerkiness she seldom felt and never let anyone see.

“He's out there,” she said, pacing in circles, trying to sound rational and pointing to the sea. “He's out there, I can feel it. Oh, God, we can't be too late.”

Then she ran down to the rugged, rocky beach. It looked almost identical to the coast where just days earlier she watched Morgan make an impossible rifle shot, then repeat it. She ran to the fisherman and told him in French she needed his boat. Then she pulled out his hand and laid a twenty franc note into it. When he gave her a quizzical look she added another bill, and then another, and kept going. After each one, she looked into his eyes. At a certain point he closed his hand and waved her to the boat. She bounded in, and it was all Paul could do to follow. In seconds they were buzzing out to sea.

The motor was small and relatively quiet. Felicity sat in the front of the boat, as if smelling the sea air for direction. The vessel was a little less than ten feet long, and they were in rough water for such a small craft. Both riders were getting wet, but Felicity didn't care and from all appearances neither did Paul. Felicity pointed after a time and Paul turned left. She turned to see that they were beyond sight of shore, then swiveled back to turn her face into the sharp scent of the salt spray. They were four or five miles out when she pointed another small course correction. After a few minutes of silent sailing, she turned to him.

“I know where he is, you know.”

Paul nodded.

“You believe me?”

“Yes,” Paul said.

“Why?”

“Because you're sure,” he replied. At that moment they heard a scream, like that of a man being flayed alive. It chilled Felicity to her bones. Did her companion feel it? If so, it didn't show on his face. Still, he steered toward the source of the sound without being told.

They were within a quarter mile of the island when they heard the scream. Three minutes later, Paul docked the boat on the end of the beach away from the only chateau. He stepped into the water to pull the boat about halfway up onto the beach. Then he drew his pistol and marched toward the small house with sure, measured tread. His face betrayed a hint of surprise when Felicity stepped in front of him.

“You stay here,” she said. “I go.”

“No.”

“Yes,” Felicity said, looking into those icy eyes. “I know how to do this. I'll get up there and get the layout. You wait five minutes, then follow. Make noise. When the bad guys come looking for you, lay low. I'll get to Morgan and get him out. Once I've got him out of the house, then you handle it any way you want. Okay?”

After a pause, Paul said, “Yes, ma'am.” He looked at his watch. She turned and sprinted toward the chateau. The ground was the same rocky soil she had taken from a dead man's shoes in a Paris alley. It supported a few trees separated by a thick scrub growth. A sparse grass covered the ground on three sides of the chateau. The house itself was small and unassuming, hand built of stone in a bygone era. It stood two stories high on the crest of a small hill. Felicity figured it for no more than eight or ten rooms.

She circled to the back of the chateau and surveyed the area. Not a sign of life, or a pulse of danger within.
O'Ryan must have assumed no one could find Morgan. Well, she was certain that he would regret that bonehead move before too long.

Still not quite confident, Felicity walked up to the back of the house. This was just too easy. The stones offered convenient hand and foot holds. In less than three minutes she clambered up the wall and slid into an open window. After crouching on the hallway floor for a full minute she made a slow, painstaking exploration of the upper level, to convince herself there really was no one there.

The heat inside was oppressive, stifling. She stepped to the stairwell. It was like walking into a chimney flu. Just a few steps down she could see the lower room around a corner on the flight of stairs. She was looking at a fireplace which, for some unknown reason, was lit. That wall was all she could see. She could hear the heavy panting of a haggard voice. No, closer listening told her there were two men down there, both with labored breathing.

Out of habit, Felicity strung a wire across the stairs, a precaution to slow down any pursuers. Then she crept downward on her belly, one step at a time, like a cobra exploring a new rabbit warren. She froze when a choking cough verified for her that one of the men was Morgan. Then she saw a hand covered with red hair reach for the handle of a poker that lay in the fire. It was Ian O'Ryan, she knew, and she could only imagine one use for the red hot end of that vicious looking implement. She crept down until she was staring between the uprights supporting the banister, looking at O'Ryan's naked hairy back.

O'Ryan grabbed Morgan's knee and yanked him around so that he faced the fireplace, giving Felicity a three-quarter view of his face that wrenched her heart. He looked dazed, on the very edge of consciousness, but he reacted to the heat approaching his face. Only his left eye would open. He focused it on O'Ryan who
sneered down at him.

“You've got two bloody great welts there, lad,” O'Ryan said. “Your shoulders'll make you pretty easy to identify, and I'm betting that's not good in your line of work. Don't you get it yet? You're nothing but a wee bairn to me. Why don't you do yourself a favor and talk?”

“I'll talk…” Morgan gasped, coughed up a blob of blood, and continued. “I'll talk…to you…when we meet again…in hell.”

“Now, that's no attitude,” O'Ryan said with a sick chuckle. “Let's see what happens when this hot poker slides up against your neck, eh?”

“No!” Felicity's shout from the stairs made O'Ryan spin as if a ghost had tapped him on the shoulder. “Stand away from him, you great bloody bastard.” As she got to her feet she knew the tempting sight she presented. Here stood a mere slip of a girl, alone, unarmed, with nothing but her teeth and nails to fight with.

“What a pleasant surprise,” O'Ryan said. “Now, lad, you'll have to watch the girl die before you go.” O'Ryan darted forward, and Felicity sprang back up the stairs. O'Ryan swung the poker in a wide arc, cleaving her shadow, but missing her flesh. Felicity danced up steps, a spirit barely in touch with the ground. O'Ryan swung the poker back around as he stumbled forward. The hot point glanced off the banister, leaving a black mark.

When the girl reached the top of the stairs she turned. O'Ryan jumped up three steps to reach her and, to her horror, jumped her wire. He lunged forward, holding the poker like a flaming sword. For the first time Felicity's fear surfaced. She twisted, and the point jabbed past her right breast to stick in the wall at the top of the stairs.

Felicity wished briefly that Paul was less obedient as she kicked at O'Ryan's left ankle. He bellowed his pain and rage as the sprained ankle gave way and she slid past him. If she could reach the bottom of the stairs and
lead O'Ryan outside, she could count on Paul to finish the job.

On the ground floor, Morgan was forcing himself to take deep breaths. His bruised ribs were killing him but he had to clear his head. He was not aware of anyone else in the chateau until O'Ryan ran up the stairs. Now he looked up, anticipating their return. The newcomer was Felicity. He could feel it. If she got down the stairs first he would shout to her. If she was fast she might free one of his hands before O'Ryan caught up. That would give him a chance.

Morgan saw Felicity leaping down from the turn in the stairs. She sailed over the last ten steps and landed on all fours. A quick leap took her past him to the door. He understood her thinking, but it was the wrong choice. The door was secured with a bolt, a chain and a key lock. She had no time to open them all. She turned, near panic. O'Ryan was stomping down behind her. Frantic, Morgan tried to tip the chair so that he could at least get in O'Ryan's way, but his efforts were useless. He had no strength, and there was no time.

But then O'Ryan's right foot caught on something. It had to be the wire Felicity always strung across stairs. He stumbled, and his left ankle, twice injured, gave way. He collapsed, open mouthed, at the foot of the stairs. There was a brief, “No!” just before the thump of the body hitting the floor. Felicity raised her hand to her mouth in horror. O'Ryan's final scream was oddly silent. When he pushed himself up on his hands, Morgan could see he had fallen on the poker. The wicked curved edge was a red hot spear which slid into his chest when he landed on it. The point was just long enough to pierce his heart. The pain must have been intense, but he never looked at the poker. He turned his head to look at Morgan. O'Ryan's face displayed more puzzlement than pain or anger. A drop of blood leaked around the wound in his chest, hissing into steam.

When O'Ryan collapsed to the floor, Morgan felt the
gorge rise in his throat. To his last second, Ian O'Ryan never understood how he could lose, or even why he was wrong.

Morgan had only a dim awareness of the pressure easing on his ankles, and then his wrists. He never felt the tiny tender kisses on his head and cheeks. He barely heard the constant outpouring of anguished words from Felicity. The phrase “Look what he's done to you” got through his muddled head, and he wondered how he would be able to do that. He was just aware of his limbs being free when the door was kicked open and Paul walked in.

Paul looked first at the body on the floor, then at Morgan in the chair with Felicity behind him. He looked down at his gun and slid it into its shoulder holster.

“How do I look?” Morgan asked him through swollen lips.

“Bad.” Paul made a quick visual evaluation of Morgan's injuries, and then cast a quick glanced at Felicity.

Morgan saw the suffering on Felicity's face that Paul must have seen. He guessed that Felicity had never seen a man really beaten before. Through the slits of his eyes he watched Paul walk over to O'Ryan and turn him over. He looked at the wound and felt the neck for a pulse. Pointless. When he looked up Morgan saw a ghost of emotion pass across his face. Felicity was almost hysterical. Would Paul know what to say to break through to her?

“Miss O'Brien,” Paul said, keeping his voice casual, “Mister Stark cannot get out of here alone. You have to help him to the boat. I'll take care of this mess. Please, miss. If the police have spoken to your uncle or your friends we may only be moments ahead of them.” Morgan knew better and he knew that Paul had no more respect for police promptness than he did. But his short speech had the right effect.

Felicity knew the police could not possibly be on their
trail, but being spoken to like an amateur reminded her that she couldn't stand there acting like one. Shaking herself into action, she untwisted the wires holding Morgan to the chair. Trying not to look at the awful burns on each shoulder, or the purple around his ribs, or his face at all, Felicity helped Morgan to his feet and the two stumbled out of the chateau.

The sun hit them like a search beacon, scorching their eyes. Pulling one of Morgan's arms around her shoulders, Felicity wondered how Paul would handle the body. Morgan was regaining a little strength, and it seemed that he guessed her thoughts.

“He's a professional, Red,” Morgan said. “He'll handle it. You come by boat?”