Ice Woman Assignment (5 page)

“Let's dance.” Rico suddenly stood, grabbing Felicity's arm. She stood with him, glancing at the bar. Morgan had snapped rigid. Felicity pushed on the long silver spike that held her pearl barrette in place, then smoothed her dress down around her hips and tugged at one triangular earring. Morgan read: “I'm in control, but watch closely. It feels like a setup.”

“What was all that?” Rico asked.

“I was just telling my escort that it wasn't necessary to come over here and tear your arms out,” she said. “He's very protective and very strong. Of course, that's why he's there. He'd die for me.”

“He could get his chance,” Rico said. “But I would rather see you dance.”

The music was so loud she did not hear it so much as feel it. On the dance floor, flashing lights from all direction gave an unreal feeling of isolation, since other moving bodies were merely shadow forms impossible to focus on. Rico was a strong dancer, and his smile grew still broader when he realized Felicity was too.

She had studied the Lambada for her own pleasure, and concentrated on it more in the last week. Now she moved with Rico, almost unconscious of the close contact his body made with her most intimate areas, concentrating on staying with the rhythm and maintaining a properly
passionate facial expression.

In minutes sweat covered them, Rico's musky scent mixing with Felicity's expensive perfume as they grinded together, dipped, and thrust into each other.

Morgan watched admiringly as Felicity wove among the crowded clinging couples. If she pulled it off, they probably would move one step closer to Rico's boss, the man they really wanted to see. He smiled, turning back to the bar.

The man in the yellow silk shirt was standing in front on him, just a little too close.

“Are you a real drinker?” The man in the yellow shirt asked in Spanish.

“Whatever you name,” Morgan replied. His accent did not match Felicity's, but years doing mercenary work in South America gave him a workable Spanish vocabulary.

Yellow Shirt tapped a finger on the bar, and two shot glasses appeared. Then a bottle of Ron Rico 151 thumped onto the bar. Yellow Shirt poured both glasses full to the rim. Both men lifted their glasses and poured their contents down their throats, never losing eye contact. They both maintained stern, unmoving faces.

The bar was an island of relative tranquility. Inches away, beyond some invisible wall, the room was a chaos of swirling bodies, dancing, moving toward and away from the bar. In the midst of it all, Morgan seemed to stand within a bubble of concentrated stillness. Two big Chicanos stood behind him, as if to separate him from the club's disorder.

Yellow Shirt's challenge did not end with one shot. A second drink was poured, then a third. Morgan knew how conspicuous it would be for him to stop drinking, but he did not want to lose his focus. He watched Yellow Shirt's eyes but also kept Felicity in sight.

Halfway through the bottle of rum, three things happened. Rico, looking tired, started guiding Felicity toward a door on the other side of the dance floor. Morgan's danger sense went off like a burglar alarm in his
head. And Yellow Shirt pulled out a gunmetal gray Zippo lighter and spun the striker.

“Let's make this a little more interesting,” he said, waving the flame near Morgan's glass. The alcohol ignited easily. Then he lit his own. Morgan gave him a half smile while picking up his glass.

Morgan had done flaming shots in bars in Vietnam, Hawaii, and New Orleans. The trick is to shoot it decisively. Hesitation could prove painful. He tipped his head back and threw the flaming liquid down his throat. The rum burned all the way to his stomach, a delicious, enervating burn. It felt too good. He hoped he was not getting drunk. What if something happened?

Something did.

As Morgan's glass hit the bar, the lights went out. Shadowy forms and smoky images were replaced by a wall of blackness. The other drinker's glass provided a lone spot of light, glowing on the bar. Each man behind Morgan grabbed one of his arms, just above his elbow. Yellow Shirt produced a thin knife blade and held it in front of Morgan's face. It was a smooth setup, and Morgan could appreciate its professionalism. It meant that these men would not get jumpy or hurt him out of macho bravado. Morgan would calmly go along wherever they took him, hopefully to meet more interesting people. Then he heard a shrill whistle.

It was Felicity's distress call. Her whistle cut through the roar of the half laughing, half frightened crowd, even above the DJ's assurances that their light problem was only temporary. Concentrating on the sound, Morgan fixed her location in his mind. Then he focused on the knife.

“Let's go outside for some air, Red,” Yellow Shirt said. Morgan almost chuckled at being called by that nickname, forgetting his disguise for a moment.

“I've got another appointment,” Morgan said. His left hand swung forward. He could not reach his enemy, of
course, but he did manage to sweep the shot glasses off the bar. Flaming rum splashed on the man facing him. The yellow silk shirt became a torch, sending blue flames licking at its owner's face. He turned, hands covering his eyes, and raced through the darkness. People around him screamed, trampling each other getting out of his way. Morgan sent one heel crashing into a knee, then slammed his other down onto an instep, and spun away from his two captors.

Charging like a linebacker through the crowd, Morgan crashed into three or four bodies before a heavy masculine form stopped him. He thrust forward with stiffened fingers for where he figured the man's solar plexus would be and got a loud grunt in response. Then he got moving again, stiff-arming people out of his path. He could only tell men from women by how yielding their forms were. He moved steadily toward the source of Felicity's whistle. Then he heard her voice say “No!”

Morgan's knee hit a table he knew was not there before. Pain arced up his leg. Then a fierce blinding light hit his eyes. Through the floating blue spots he could now barely make out the open door and the darkened room beyond. The voices of the bar's scrambling patrons combined into a cacophony of white noise. The total confusion in the crowded space overwhelmed his senses, blunting his danger awareness. Something hit him in the back, forcing him forward through the doorway. As he stumbled into the room beyond, a heavy fist caught him in the stomach, bending him forward. Something harder than a fist hit the back of his head. The darkness got darker and he slid peacefully into it.

Felicity saw Morgan collapse. Sprawled on a carpeted floor, she heard the heavy door slam shut with grim finality. Then came the sound of a heavy bolt being thrown.
Beyond the door, she could hear voices becoming calmer. She figured the bar's lights had miraculously returned as soon as they were locked into this back room. The situation wasn't ideal but she remained calm. She knew where they were, and this would be a poor setting for murder. The room wasn't soundproof and she was not restrained. Besides, Morgan would not be out for long. Besides, being captured could pay off. Their captors could be taking them to Rico's connection.

Then she heard a low rumbling somewhere ahead of her. The room started vibrating like low level earthquakes she had felt in California. She jumped at an air blast noise like a dragon snorting, and the room slowly lurched forward.

A husky female voice with a heavy Spanish accent said “Relax yourself, mi amigos. This could be a very long ride.”

When his eyes opened, Morgan had a worm's eye view of the room. His cheek scraped a businesslike brown carpet. Three pairs of men's shoes stood nearby. Two more pairs flanked Felicity's distinctive legs, which hung down from an office chair. She sat beside a small table. Beyond her, at the other end of the long room stood a desk flanked by two empty chairs. It seemed hotter in the room, which carried a faint jasmine scent.

Morgan heard a subtle background sound he could not place, and the world was vibrating slightly. Sitting up hurt, but he did anyway. His hands were cuffed behind him. Felicity's were too. He wished he could get out of them as easily as she could.

Track lighting on each side of the ceiling burned into his eyes. He did not recognize his three muscular guards, but one of Felicity's escorts was her dancing partner. He examined them all with care, evaluating how dangerous they might be based on their stance, their alertness, their hands, and the hard look in their eyes. Those eyes stole repeated furtive glances at Felicity, and the reason was obvious. Her dress, torn in front, revealed her left breast. Had she resisted capture? Or did one of the men just decide to debase her?

Felicity gave Morgan an encouraging look, her face telling him that she was relaxed and confident. Morgan returned a small nod, while thinking that he would have to figure out which of the men exposed her. He wanted to
make sure he killed the right man.

Then Morgan saw the woman behind the desk. She was small, but not petite. In fact she was nicely rounded with black, straight hair. She had a strong face with the Native American's high cheekbones and reddish cast. And then there were her eyes.

“They really are silver,” Morgan said, standing.

“They are indeed,” the woman said with only the slightest accent. She jumped down from her executive chair and walked around her desk. With nothing for comparison, he would not know she was so short. She wore very tight black pants and boots. Her tank top revealed a flat, muscular stomach. As she walked her hair bounced against the backs of her thighs.

“So you're the ice woman,” Morgan said. “And the room is moving.”

“It's a tractor-trailer,” Felicity said. Despite her torn dress, her posture did not reflect modesty or shame and she made no effort to cover herself. Clearly she had more important things to worry about than being gawked by lowlifes. Besides, she had reason to be proud of her body.

“So where are we?” Morgan asked.

Felicity faced the woman in charge. “We're wandering the freeways, aren't we? It's rather a nice setup. That door we came through actually opens onto a loading dock. They just park this thing up against it. Looks like any other room from inside the bar but it's really a very nice mobile office.”

“I don't like being watched in your country,” their hostess said.

“Oh, like we're supposed to know you,” Morgan said.

“Of course you do. I am Anaconda.”

“Seriously? Like the snake?” Morgan asked. “Your friends call you Anna?” The man nearest him punched him in the stomach. He slouched, but continued to stand.

“I wanted to meet you,” Anaconda said, hopping up to sit on the desk like a child. “You are really quite remarkable people. I suppose I should be flattered that you chose to get mixed up in my business. Despite my resources you were hard to track. Oh, and my man Eduardo wants to meet you again, Mr. Stark. You ruined his whole day.”

“Eduardo?” Morgan asked. “Tall guy, yellow shirt, gold chains for days?” Anaconda nodded, and Morgan returned a smile. “Boy seems to have a lot of trouble with his face.” Morgan's nearest neighbor punched him in the side. He grunted.

“I've learned a great deal about you in the last few days,” Anaconda said. “You, Mister Stark, were a professional soldier for hire for some years. Martial arts expert. Apparently gifted in judgment of distance and direction. Now you own a security firm with this woman.”

“That's all a matter of public record.”

“True, Mister Stark,” Anaconda said with a serpentine smile. “The fact that your Irish-born partner spent years as a jewel and art thief, and is an accomplished escape artist, that is not in the public record. Nor that she has a photographic memory, and can apparently tell the time without a watch. Nor is it public knowledge that you are currently in the employ of your Central Intelligence Agency.”

As she spoke, Anaconda played with several items on her desk. There beside Morgan's pistol sat his two boot knives, one for throwing and one for stabbing. His larger fighting knife lay on top of its sheath. Anaconda picked it up. In her hands, its seven inch blade made it look like a short sword. “What do you call this?”

“That's a Randall Model 1 fighting knife,” Morgan said. “It belongs under my right arm, opposite the gun's holster. It hangs handle down in a friction sheath. You can return it
now, if you like.” That remark earned Morgan another punch in the ribs.

“Is this a part of your act?” Anaconda asked, replacing the knife. She dropped to her feet and walked over to Felicity. “He talks while you sit and listen? Very good. You are all my reports said you were. You are smart, skillful, and dangerous. But not smart enough or dangerous enough to interfere with me. I wanted you to see that you can be captured, even if you can see danger coming. And you can, can't you?”

“How is it that you're knowing so much about us?” Felicity asked. Seated, she was almost at eye level with Anaconda.

“Oh I've been checking on you for the last two weeks, my girl,” she said, stroking Felicity's dyed hair. “It's really red, isn't it?”

“Two weeks?” Felicity snapped her head back. “Bollocks! We didn't even know you existed two weeks ago.”

“Ah, but I knew of you,” Anaconda said, smiling again. Her canine teeth seemed just a little too long. She reached out unexpectedly and slapped Felicity's face, a jarring blow that whipped her head around. “Didn't they tell you I was a priestess of the ancient religions? My slaves can see the future. Maybe if I show you, you will know not to cross my path again.”

Anaconda raised her right hand and snapped her fingers. “Frederico,” she said. For the first time, Morgan noticed two boys crouched in the shadows in the trailer's forward corners. One stood, the other ran to his mistress' side. This boy was really a young man, about six feet tall with a sleek but muscular build. He had golden skin, with pure Indian features. He wore only shorts. Anaconda nodded and he knelt before her.