Ice Woman Assignment (20 page)

“And you still are.”

Felicity braced her hands on the dresser, leaned forward
and swallowed hard. “Oh Morgan, to be disfigured here…you can't understand.”

“You're right. I don't understand. But listen to me, Red. You've still got the best damn tits in the hemisphere. “

She smiled and leaned into him. “This is why we have got to get her.”

“Absolutely. She's going to pay for this.”

After an eternal silence that may have lasted two minutes, Morgan stood and hugged his friend to him. Maybe he didn't know what else to do. They were both haunted, and they both knew it, but his ghosts were chased away for now. Her demon was present and real.

Then his body froze in mid-breath. His head snapped up and he was staring into her widening eyes.

“Did you feel that?”

“Oh, yeah!” Felicity said.

Morgan grasped her arm and flung her through the bedroom door. He dived, hitting the floor at the same instant she did, and a tenth of a second before a bullet punched through the bedroom window and passed within an inch of Morgan's head.

The cheap carpet smelled of cigarette smoke and scratched Morgan's cheek as he clung to the floor, cursing himself for his carelessness. What made him think he could eliminate one of the Escorpionista's killers and just walk away? The thrill of victory had made them miss being followed home. And now the opposition, a little more careful after seeing what Morgan could do, was moving to eliminate him and his partner.

A pro would expect their targets to lay low, and would aim low to compensate. Knowing that, Morgan flipped up onto the bed, staying flat while easing his pistol out of its holster hanging at the corner of the bed. He heard another shot but this time a bullet zipped across the living room. The first shooter couldn't have gotten to the other side of the house that fast, so there must be a second. A crossfire could be an issue, but he had to deal with one problem at a time.

Then another rifle bullet raced across the bedroom, punching into the wall no more than two inches from the first. Morgan stared at the entry hole and a slow smile spread across his face.

Felicity squirmed into her tee shirt and rolled across the floor a second before the shot raced across the living room. She didn't waste much time wondering how the shooters had found them, who they were or why they were firing into the bungalow. At least two people were out there right
now who wanted her and her partner dead. This kind of situation was in Morgan's wheelhouse. Her job was to stay alive, and see if there was any way to help him.

She moved quickly along the floor, pushing into the bathroom where she had dropped most of her clothes and gear. Another rifle shot rang out just as she reached her tool belt. These killers clearly weren't worried about neighbors interfering with their work. Even with silencers rifles make a lot of noise. But she knew they would have limited time before someone called the police. She had an idea of how she might distract them for a while. Grabbing her little flashlight she got to her feet and sprinted for the kitchen area. A glass exploded on the counter, a victim of another rifle shot. She judged the delay between shots to be a good four or five seconds which was plenty of time.

Felicity sprang across the room, one bare foot slapping on the counter beside the sink, her leg driving her upward. Outstretched hands slapped against the hatch over the sink, covering the attic access. Her strong fingers clamped onto the edge of the opening and for a moment she hung, vulnerable, a long vertical target naked from the waist down. After one deep breath she heaved, pulling herself up through the port and into the attic space.

The darkness was even deeper there, but darkness had always been Felicity's friend. What she hated was the dust, the heat, the stale air, and cobwebs clinging to her hair. She wished she had had time to pull on a pair of shorts. Fear tried to press itself on her but she forced the thought of unknown insects out of her mind. This was where she needed to be, and she had things she needed to do.

Unfinished wood abraded her legs as she moved on hands and knees across the boards. Pressing upward periodically it didn't take her long to find a hinged door that pivoted upward and opened to the sky. She flipped it up and stood to her full height which put her head and
shoulders outdoors. She took a deep breath of the fresh, salt-flavored air and looked around. The moonless night would pose no challenge to her navigating on the flat tar roof, but she would still have a use for her flashlight.

Morgan lay on the bed with arms extended toward the outer wall. Somewhere beyond that wall someone sat with what Morgan guessed was a bolt action .308 caliber rifle. The caliber he guessed from the bullet holes. The action he guessed from the time between shots. He didn't know how far away his attacker was, but he knew the general direction. That would be enough to reach out and touch him if he didn't move. The risk, of course, was that if the shooter did move, Morgan returning fire would allow the shooter to pin down his location in the house. A good sniper would then be able to blow a hole in Morgan a second later.

But Morgan lay still and soon his patience was rewarded. A third shot tore through the wall right on top of the first two, to impact the opposite wall an inch away from the first two shots. That was all Morgan needed.

Twisting his shoulders allowed Morgan to roll off the bed, holding his body straight as he did. He landed hard on the floor on his right side. Ignoring the pain in his hip and elbow he rolled another quarter turn. That aligned his body with the incoming bullets' trajectory, his arms outstretched toward the source of the shots. In the darkened room he could just see the entry holes. He adjusted his pistol so that one of those holes appeared to rest on top of his gun's front blade sight, and right between the glowing blades of its tritium rear sight.

He was sitting on the bull's-eye now. The sniper could take another shot at any time. But Morgan could not be hasty. He exhaled and held his breath out. He slowly squeezed his trigger until his gun jumped in his hand. Then
he rolled under the bed, ears still ringing from his own shot.

Felicity was scampering around the roof, looking for the shooters. She knew there were at least two, and maybe more. Her night vision was exceptional, and her eyes had adjusted to the scant starlight. She moved along the edge of the roof, ignoring both the smell of the tar and the feel of it clinging to her skin and fine hairs that were seldom exposed outdoors.

There! A man brazenly leaning back against a car parked in the lot about twenty-five yards away. He was seated with his knees up, holding a rifle whose barrel rested on what looked like extra long bipod legs. He was focused on their bungalow, but had not looked up to see her peeping over the edge of the roof.

“Comfortable, you bleeding bastard?” Felicity whispered. “I hope you…”

She was interrupted by the sound of gunfire but there was no muzzle flash from the sniper's rifle. The man's head jerked forward, then back against the car. Then his hands slipped from his weapon and he slowly tipped over. He landed on his right side and lay still.

“Morgan,” she thought. “How the hell did you do that?” She grinned, shaking her head at her partner's abilities, and then scurried across the roof to the other side. That side of the building faced a small but lush park, thick with trees, bushes and lower vegetation. She didn't know how Morgan targeted the first shooter, but was pretty sure the second would be harder to spot. She wanted to get into position to help if she could.

With a quick dash across the floor Morgan slid into place behind the sofa in the living room. Peering over the couch's back Morgan tried to mentally picture the other shooter. He'd have no way to know his partner was down,
and no reason to retreat until the police appeared. If Morgan could get the man in his sights he could leave without fear of being hunted down, at least for a while.

An instinctive jolt of danger made Morgan drop down behind the couch just before another heavy bullet tore through the furniture. This stuff was getting old. Morgan pushed up onto hands and knees and scurried to the wall facing the source of the rifle fire. He just needed one chance at the killer outside. He crouched beside the window, held his pistol muzzle up in front of him, and waited.

A slow, deep breath. A second. A third. During his fourth breath a bullet poked through the wall on the other side of the window. Morgan quickly turned so that his outstretched arms held his gun's muzzle against the glass. He was prepared to guess the vector and empty his gun, hoping for a hit. What he saw made him pause, but only for a second. A pencil thin beam of red light shone down from the roof to a spot at the edge of the park.

“Felicity,” he said. “It has to be.” With a grin he squeezed his trigger to place a single bullet on the spot where the flashlight pointer beam ended. He couldn't see the impact point, but his trust in his partner made him pretty confident. Still, he waited one long minute for some response. He felt no further danger warning, but he needed to be sure. Morgan was still frozen in place, aiming out the now empty window casing, when Felicity dropped down out of the ceiling.

“You can relax,” she said behind him. “You put that bullet right in the center of his chest. He dropped the rifle, but didn't move again after that.”

“Were there only two?”

“There were,” Felicity called from the bedroom. She was squirming into a pair of skinny jeans. “I'm not sure how you got the first one, but he won't be getting up to
follow us either.”

“Well that's good,” Morgan said, “because we need to get moving.”

“Way ahead of you,” Felicity said. “Everything I need to take is in this little duffel, and nothing I'm leaving can identify us.”

Morgan pulled a few things together and within three minutes of firing his last shot they sprinted across the parking lot to disappear into the woods that so recently concealed one of their attackers. They moved with a practiced economy of movement, not speaking, knowing there would be plenty of time to exchange stories when they were safe.

Ten minutes later they turned and emerged onto a city street. Felicity looked around for a few seconds, choosing her target.

“There. That Chevy van.” Morgan moved toward the blue van without protest. Transportation was her responsibility. Felicity walked up to the van as if she had parked it there. With casual confidence she handed Morgan her duffel bag and pulled what looked like a silver bobby pin from her hair. In the time it took Morgan to walk around to the other side of the vehicle she had opened the driver's door and slipped behind the wheel.

“Good choice,” Morgan said, dropping into the passenger's seat. “This thing's got to be more than ten years old. No one would notice it.”

“And these older vehicles are easier to steal.” Felicity's hands went under the dash and two minutes later the light blue vehicle roared to life. She pulled into traffic and pointed herself at the greatest amount of traffic.

“Where to, partner?” she asked.

“Downtown. We want to park in the nearest garage.”

Ten blocks of Corpus Christi's night life passed before Morgan spotted a tall parking garage. Felicity pulled the
ticket that allowed the gate to rise and pulled into the garage far enough to park in front of the exit stairs. Morgan gathered their things and dropped a couple of twenty dollar bills on the seat for the owner's trouble.

On the street they strolled slowly for three blocks, assuring themselves that they were not followed. Then Morgan stepped off the sidewalk and hailed a taxi. When the cab stopped, Morgan opened the rear door, shoved Felicity inside and climbed in after her. He wrapped an arm around her and turned an impatient face onto the driver.

“Get me to a hotel, my man,” Morgan said. “Not a dive, this one don't belong in a dive,” then he lowered his voice and said, “but not the Omni either, you feel me?” The compromise turned out to be a Hampton Inn. Morgan wasted no time in getting them inside and registered. He held Felicity's arm on the way up in the elevator. He guided her down the hall and held the door open for her to enter the room.

Morgan headed straight for the bedroom. He felt better once free of shoes and socks. What a ragged night it had turned out to be, he thought. He stood when Felicity returned to the room and to his surprise wrapped her arms around him.

After a few seconds she said, “That wasn't fair. Can't expect a body to function while she's dealing with this kind of shite. I'm all frazzled and frayed now. What the hell?”

Wrapped in his arms, squeezing him like a security blanket, she felt just like she had one minute before some idiot took a shot at them. Morgan shook his head at her, the strongest and most vulnerable woman he had ever known.

“Nothing wrong a shower and a night's sleep won't cure,” he said. “Go freshen. I'm beat.”

Morgan watched Felicity stagger off toward the bathroom, then stripped and got into one of the two full size beds in their generic motel room. His eyes closed, but his
senses tuned to the sound of the shower. He mentally followed her actions in the bathroom, and her movements when she stepped out. With zombie-like stiffness she wandered over between the two beds, then lifted the covers and slid under them beside Morgan. He should have been surprised, but he was not.

Again he was reminded of how much he wanted her when they met, until that frightening night he learned what it feels like to be a woman having sex. That was a life altering scare, but didn't prevent him from appreciating her obvious gifts.

Now they cuddled in his bed, sharing physical and emotional warmth. Soon Felicity slept, still as an infant, with her head on Morgan's shoulder.

After their talk in what was Barton's bungalow, Morgan now understood the change in his partner, the shift in her self-confidence and ego strength. And more now became clear. She rejected Barton's advances because she could not bear to let him see what Morgan saw earlier that evening. She could not even talk about it. That rejection had driven Barton to confront Tomas. Felicity had tried to take the blame but in a very real sense Anaconda had killed Barton.