The Payback Assignment (Stark and O'Brien Thriller Series) Read online

  Back on Crazy Mike’s ranch, his team had spent ten days rehearsing this assault. They had built a wall, based on the photos and information Stone provided, and practiced with full-scale mockups until each movement was a conditioned reflex. Now Morgan lifted his watchband’s cover strap, counting seconds until the real show started. Three. Two. One.

  “Party time,” Morgan whispered.

  Around front, two rifle shots split the silence, almost as one. In the wake of those blasts, like thunder rolling across the sky, everything jumped. The two guards at the front flew against the gate. The other three perimeter guards ran around to the front. Morgan and his five men moved quickly to the rear wall of the fortress.

  At its worst it was no more than seven feet high. Lee leaped up, hoisting himself to the top. Straddling the wall, he heaved his “Willie Peter,” a white phosphorus grenade. It flew entirely past the main house and landed on the roof of the garrison building beyond. Then he dropped back to the ground outside the wall just before the blast.

  Morgan hopped up, hooking the top of the wall with his fingers, and pulled himself up until he could just see over its edge. In the distance he could see the first dim light of the new day approaching. Then the grenade went off like a miniature sun on the flat roof of the barracks.

  While Morgan scrambled over the wall, Fallon was boosting Crazy Mike up to straddle it. Mike carried an M249 machine gun, the lightweight weapon that the United States Army designated as the SAW, for Squad Automatic Weapon. Mike quickly slid an ammunition box into place beneath his weapon and yanked the charging handle hard. The two hundred round belt within the box was now engaged.

  Morgan dropped into the compound unopposed. Racing across the courtyard, he could picture all the action around him, just like a film running on a screen in his head. Maybe fifteen of the off duty guards would have escaped their building before the explosion. Crazy Mike would be cutting them down with the SAW by now. The other six mercs would be picking off stragglers with their AKM’s. Smitty and Josh would have long since cut down the other three outside guards from the safety of their concealment. If any of the outer ring guards with the dogs came within sighting distance of the compound, the snipers would eliminate them too.

  Reaching the main house, Morgan swung his submachine gun around on its sling so he could fire from the hip. A startled soldier stared out the first window Morgan came to. He cut the soldier down and shattered the window with a single three round burst.

  Soon he was standing in the bedroom doorway, shaking his head. Like most men of “power,” Carlos Abrigo stood in the middle of the floor in a pair of silk pajamas, looking back and forth in confused horror. To one side a woman in a matching nightgown screamed louder than the gunshots outside. What an idiot, Morgan thought. Thirty guards on staff, but only one had been in the house and only six on night duty within easy reach of the house.

  Abrigo yanked out the drawer of his end table and produced a small pistol. His shaking hands waved the weapon in Morgan’s direction.

  Morgan carried a Jeti machine gun. This Swedish weapon, smaller than an Uzi, sends its bolt up an inclined plane when recoiling, which eliminates the familiar muzzle climb found in other submachine guns. A four shot burst from that death machine slapped Abrigo against his bedroom wall and into Belize national history. Gunned down by terrorists, as the papers would say. A thorough man, Morgan knelt, feeling for a pulse in the fallen man’s neck. It was unnecessary.

  Abrigo’s female companion had never stopped screaming, her fists balled up in front of her chest. “Woman, shut the hell up,” Morgan snapped as he strolled out.

  Morgan clambered over the wall and pointed to Lee, who fired three shots into the air. That signal would tell Smitty and Josh it was time to retrace their steps. By the time the Belize Army arrived and followed their trail, they would be well out to sea.

  “Hey, Morgan. We get twenty grand apiece, right?” Smitty asked, his dirty blond hair in his eyes again. Bright sunshine filtered through the vegetation above them dappled his face with soft shadows.

  “Isn’t that what I promised you? Now, what you going to do with all that money?”

  “Me?” Smitty looked confused for a moment. “Well, you know my dad ain’t doing so well. I figure I better help out with his mortgage. It’ll sure come in handy but, damn. It seems too easy.”

  Morgan nodded his agreement. As leader, he would net ninety thousand dollars for one hour’s dirty work this morning. Despite Stone’s insistence to the contrary, this had not turned out to be a combat mission after all. The slaughter of Abrigo’s poorly trained protective force had been almost incidental. Perhaps the client had wanted to send some message to Abrigo’s backers, but an assassin could have handled this business much more cleanly. All things considered, he preferred combat and would never even consider a mission profile like this one again. On this assignment they had been over-manned and over-gunned. And they would certainly be overpaid.

  At that moment the team broke the jungle line and stood within sight of the coastline. Morgan’s aching eyes welcomed the sight of the cool blue expanse of ocean and the large yacht that had delivered them to these strange shores. She stood at anchor, no more than a quarter of a mile out. Lee fired the three-shot signal that signified the mission’s success. The blast echoed through the jungle, but at that point, seconds away from leaving, Morgan figured a little noise could not make any difference. Besides, once a job was done he figured it was time to relax. His arms were feeling leaden and his steps shortened.

  “You look kind of washed out, Morgan,” Mike said. “I don’t know what happened in that house, but you look like it wore you out.”

  “Well, it wasn’t the combat I was expecting,” Morgan said. “Not that it matters. All that’s left is for us to paddle our inflatables out to our patiently waiting transportation.” What he really needed, he thought was a cup of hot, fresh brewed coffee. He was dirty and exhausted. A real bed, a hot meal and that coffee would square him away.

  But, as he approached the landing boats, his head suddenly snapped up. He was getting that old familiar feeling. That funny tingle at the nape of his neck. That jangling of nerves that told him something was wrong, that he was in deadly danger. But, where was the danger? Neither the local army nor the police could have found them so quickly. Was some jungle beast stalking them? Could a survivor from Abrigo’s compound have followed them? He was staring around for some clue when Smitty shouted.

  “For Christ’s sake, Morgan, look.” All eyes turned seaward. The boat they had returned to looked smaller than it had before. A barely visible wake showed behind her, and she was turned at a slightly different angle to the shore.

  “Son of a bitch,” Morgan snarled. “She’s heading out to sea without us.”

  “Well, what now?” Josh asked. Seven pairs of eyes turned to rest on Morgan Stark.

  “Sorry guys. I guess I screwed us all.”

  “Hey, not your fault,” Crazy Mike said with a grin. “Stone’s been around this business a long time. We’ve all worked for him before. You can’t figure a guy with his experience and reputation to pull something like this.”

  “Well, it’s done,” Morgan sighed. “I give the federales about twenty minutes to get here. Like amateurs we left a trail behind us a blind man could follow, and those signal shots will pinpoint us for sure. I think maybe we better split up.”

  “Mexico’s only about a hundred fifty miles away, but they’re on pretty good terms with Belize, so they’ll be bottling up the border pretty fast,” Lee said.

  “Panama’s good,” Fallon said. “We can get lost there easy and get in and out easy. Of course, it’s a bit of a hike from here.”

  “Okay,” Morgan said. “Here’s the best way to play it. We’ll make two teams. Four go south, four go north. Anybody who makes it out can find me in the usual way. I’ll make your money good. Okay?”

  “In that case, I’m going with you,” Mike said. “If you get caught, nobody gets paid.�
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  Everybody chuckled, and they began choosing teams. Despite the tension inherent in a mission gone wrong, Morgan knew that their professionalism would keep them in a positive frame of mine. As long as leadership is confident, the men are confident, he thought.

  Then Morgan’s head whipped around, his eyes riveted on the jungle they had just left. His men’s laughter and light hearted banter trailed off, replaced by the grinding screech of an ill-tuned transmission.

  -5-

  “Scatter!” It was all Morgan had time to say before the fireworks started. Four of his men fell in as many seconds. Dirt and foliage was scattered through the air.

  Five jeeps stood at the tree line, and Morgan figured more must be hidden beyond it. His jaw dropped open when he saw Crazy Mike standing straight up at the edge of the shore, returning fire with his M249. The lead vehicle crumpled as 7.62 mm NATO rounds chewed it up at the rate of six hundred rounds per minute. Knowing that some of those rounds would find the gas can in the back, Morgan clenched his eyes shut just before the jeep exploded into shrapnel. The piercing blast tortured Morgan’s ears, and a thick black cloud burst skyward.

  Mike’s courageous cover fire, and the explosion it caused, gave the remaining men a chance. Morgan saw at least two of his teammates make it back into the forest, unseen by their attackers. Over his shoulder he saw Mike grinning like a child on a roller coaster, before a hail of bullets knocked him back onto the shore.

  Morgan circled wide, creeping through the woods like one of its native animals. Tall grasses and ferns slapped at his face as he crawled through the underbrush. He continued to move in a shallow arc until he got behind the convoy. Crouching in the undergrowth, he saw there were seven jeeps, each with a four-man crew. All of the soldiers were armed with automatic weapons, a random mix of M-16s, AK-47s and older rifles. Old Abrigo must have been far more important to someone than Morgan had guessed.

  He imagined his men, those who survived, were long gone, faded into the bush, on their way to another country. These under-trained Belizean soldiers were probably just taking sound shots at shadows, or, with any luck, each other. This was the time to make his move, during the confusion. He had made one decision. He did not intend to walk out.

  After scanning the options he selected an isolated jeep. Half of its crew was out chasing “terrorists” in the woods. The driver sat in the jeep, smoking a cigarette. His partner leaned against a tree some ten feet away, cradling an old M14 rifle in his arms. He stared dreamily in the direction of the last few shots.

  Morgan’s chances would not get any better. He crept toward the standing soldier. He traveled with the stealth and patience the United States Army taught him years ago when he was an underage tunnel rat for MACVSOG, the so called Studies and Observations Group of the Military Assistance Command in Vietnam. They trained him well, but he perfected his skills after the war, during years of experience in every kind of dangerous environment on earth.

  He stopped barely seven feet from his intended victim. His hand slowly slid down his right leg. From his boot he drew a blackened double-edged throwing knife. With his other hand, he smoothly slid his machete out of its belt sheath.

  The young soldier with the rifle was apparently day dreaming, probably about some young lady back in town. Morgan imagined him inventing his story of this day’s adventure. How many terrorists could he say he killed? Twelve? Fifteen maybe?

  Of course, Morgan could only guess at the soldier’s thoughts as he stared off into the woods. Whatever occupied his mind, he did not notice the tall, grim black man rising to his full height behind him. Morgan’s left arm drew back and arced down sharply, burying the twenty-four inch tempered steel machete blade between the man’s neck and left shoulder, not quite deep enough to touch his heart, but certainly deep enough to do the job. Almost in the same motion, Morgan’s right arm blurred. The driver was still fumbling with his rifle’s safety switch when the blackened throwing blade buried itself hilt-deep in his throat. His eyes were wide with shock, blood still spurting from the wound when Morgan kicked him out of the seat and fired up the jeep’s engine.

  He managed to get the clumsy vehicle turned around on the narrow trail and headed out in a burst of loose dirt and dead leaves. Five or six soldiers waited up ahead, startled by his sudden appearance. Morgan hardly considered them an obstacle. Driving with his left hand, he unlimbered his Jeti and cleared the road with one quick burst.

  Everyone who could have seen which way Morgan had gone was dead. Still, stopping now would mean an increased risk of detection, even pursuit and capture. Turning around would be suicide. Besides, the trail was too narrow to even swerve without ramming his bumper into a tree. He really had no choice.

  Gritting his teeth, he down shifted and gunned the engine. His stomach clenched as he bumped over Smitty’s body, the sound of cracking ribs reaching his ears. He feared he would be sick. He squeezed his eyes tight for a moment, swallowing hard.

  When he looked up, he spotted a lone rifleman on the edge of the dirt road, maybe sixty meters ahead. The soldier was taking slow, careful aim at the target rolling toward him. Morgan pointed the Jeti, squeezed its trigger and heard the hollow sound of an empty magazine.

  “Damn!” Dropping the submachine gun on the seat next to him, Morgan yanked his Browning Hi-power from its shoulder holster. One bullet smacked the jeep’s hood, just before Morgan fired. The rifleman’s head exploded under his helmet. Morgan pressed the accelerator to the floor, passing the rifleman’s body before his helmet hit the ground.

  He kept the jeep rolling unerringly north, a talent having nothing to do with his training, but rather a gift he had possessed since birth. He had an unnatural, uncanny sense of direction and distance. Someone had once told him he was psychic or something, but he couldn’t care less what others called it. All he knew was, he had a grid map in his mind on which he could see himself moving. And he never needed a compass, because he could literally feel magnetic north. For him, getting lost was a complete impossibility.

  So he would drive to Mexico. From there he would go on to the United States. He would track down Stone, and through him, his mysterious boss. Someone was going to pay and pay big for cheating him, for stranding him, for getting his men killed. Someone was going to pay, and soon.

  -6-

  Jonathan Stahl saw himself as just another wealthy man in a crowd of wealthy men. The Acapulco beach on which he stood was cluttered with the rich and a few of the famous. He considered it a tragic waste to be listening to the surf gently tapping the sand while wearing a tuxedo.

  When a woman eyed him, it made him feel as if maybe he wasn’t just one more man on the beach. Looking around, he thought he was perhaps a shade thinner, a bit taller than some of the others, and the gray starting to show at his temples could be seen as distinguished.

  For whatever reason, the beauty standing at one of the portable bars was looking him over. What distinguished him from his peers in her eyes? He really did not know or care. All that really mattered right then was that Victoria was off making one of her interminable visits to the ladies’ room. That meant that he could return the beauty’s stare and maybe even risk a smile. Could she possibly be there alone?

  This girl apparently took his smile as an invitation. When she stepped away from the bar Stahl’s breath caught in his throat. She was stately, perhaps five feet nine or ten inches, and quite svelte in an emerald gown clinging tenaciously to her hips. She wore no watch, no jewelry of any kind except for one finely cut emerald on her left hand. He knew it was a cliché, but the only phrase he could think of to describe her skin was peaches and cream. Not just her face, but her shoulders and the satin globes bursting from her bodice as well. Her gown was simple, sleeveless and low cut, with a slit up the left side exposing long, well-muscled legs as she walked toward him. Her hair was that deep fiery red that can only be natural, and it hung to the small of her slender back.

  Every element of the picture was a point of beauty. Despit
e all this, her most striking feature was certainly her eyes. Slanted almost like a cat’s, they matched the color of her gown and glinted with life.

  “Hello,” she said, stopping just out of reach. Her voice was summer honey with the slightest hint of Irish brogue. “They call me Felicity. And you are...?”

  “Stahl. John Stahl.” Although flustered, he recovered quickly. “You’re the first new face I’ve seen in this crowd in quite a while.” He left the obvious question unvoiced.

  “Oh, I’m recently widowed,” Felicity said, sipping from a highball glass. “My husband was, well, he was a bit older than I. I’m looking for a way to get rid of some of this money. When I heard about this beach party, it sounded like a good place to start doing that. And I thought I might find some other things I’ve been missing.”

  Felicity had stepped closer. While she spoke she ran her free hand down Stahl’s side in a manner that he found quite disconcerting. His voice failed for an instant. Another, shriller voice chimed in from behind him.

  “You won’t find them here, missy,” Mrs. Stahl snapped. She was a smart looking blonde, although a bit shorter and somewhat older than Felicity. She wore bright red lipstick and nail polish. Her evening gown was basic black. At her throat sat a brooch holding a brilliant diamond, surrounded by pearls, in a marbled green malachite setting.

  “You should be less suspicious, madam,” Felicity responded coolly. “And you should show more appreciation for what you do get from your husband. That single bauble you’re wearing is probably worth something in six figures. A man deserves a little more respect from a woman at those prices.”