Austin Camacho - The Payback Assignment

“Yes, yes,” Seagrave muttered, waving the question off without looking up. “Kill her.”

Morgan took a quick shower before stowing his gear in the guestroom. Clothes and personal items went into the closet and dresser drawers. He hated living out of a suitcase, even if he was only going to be in one place for a couple of days. After refreshing the shine on his boots with a polish kit he picked up at the airport, he pulled on a blue tee shirt and black denims. Out of habit his jeans were bloused, tucked into his combat boots. Adding a lightweight black windbreaker, zipped up a couple of inches, he grabbed one of the gun cases and returned to the living room. Felicity waited for him there, relaxed on the sofa. The flat screen that had imitated a painting earlier now displayed CNBC.

“About time,” Felicity said with a smile. “I need a long soak.”

Morgan fought shaking his head. “Got some business,” he muttered. “Need some expense money.”

“Where to?” Felicity asked. After the briefest hesitation, she drew a handful of bills from her purse and handed them to him.

“Just want to get ready for the trouble I know is going to come looking for me,” Morgan said, stuffing the money into a pocket. “How about you? After your bath, that is.”

“Well, I know I might have some nasty enemies out there,” Felicity said, “and I ought to do something about it. But then I think about the fact that I haven’t been in town for weeks, I’ve got a houseguest, and my refrigerator’s empty. Guess I’ll just follow my own motto. When the going gets tough, the tough go shopping.”

Morgan wanted to shout at her to take their situation more seriously. Instead he just mumbled, “Okay, see you,” and headed out. After another high-speed elevator ride he asked the security man to call a cab for him. He stepped out into the late morning sun and took a moment to settle his mind. Returning to the States was always a joy, even after a short trip away. He enjoyed watching the young girls wandering, seemingly aimlessly, and appreciated the current style in shorts. That sport lasted only a couple of minutes, until his taxi arrived. He gave an address he had found in the yellow pages and settled back for the ride.

Morgan had been away from the West Coast for a couple of years and was surprised at how much had changed. There was little he saw on the ride that distinguished Los Angeles from the rest of the vast country he labeled “Generica” in his own mind. The whole concept of the neighborhood seemed to be dying, and he found the loss of local identity depressing.

After much longer than the drive should have taken, the taxi swerved to the curb on a side street in the area between Gardena and Torrence that was and yet was not a part of Los Angeles. A painted wooden sign above the gunsmith shop’s door claimed it was owned by someone named “Pop.” Years ago, Morgan had chosen this shop purely based on its name. He figured the owner must have been in business for a while. He paid the fare, up quite a bit since his last visit to California, and entered the shop.

A tiny bell hanging over the door rang as he opened the door, and he knew he had chosen well. It was an old-fashioned shop run by a white haired, soft bellied fellow who smelled of gunpowder. Shotguns and hunting rifles hung on the wall behind the glass counter. Inside the counter Morgan scanned a collection of military handguns, a couple tricked out with compensators and tritium sights. Nothing had changed since the last time Morgan pushed that door open.

“How you doing, Pop?” Morgan asked the man behind the counter.

“Morgan! How the hell are you, son?” Pop moved around the counter to embrace Morgan, clapping him on the back. “Been a long time since you dropped by the old shop, my boy. What can I do for you today?”

Since no one else was around, Morgan got right to the point. “Actually, I’m hoping to use your back room for a while. I just got back in country and I need to take care of my tools.”

Pop glanced out the shop’s front window, his demeanor cooling a bit. “I don’t know, young fellow. It’s been a while since you came around, and California’s gun laws have gotten worse. And there’s all this talk about terrorists. Every time a professional like you asks to work in my shop it’s another risk to my license.”

“Aw, come on, Pop. You don’t have to go through that routine with me.” Morgan leaned casually against the counter and pulled a few bills out of his pocket. “Will this compensate you for the risk to your livelihood?”

“Oh, hell,” Pop said, sweeping the money off the counter. “I like you, son. Come on back. Just don’t make too much noise if you hear anybody come in.”

Morgan grinned as he followed Pop into the back. Some things never changed and, even in laid back Southern California, money talks. Once he was out of sight of the public part of the shop Morgan unzipped his jacket and settled onto a stool at Pop’s workbench. He pulled his pistol from the gun case and dropped the magazine out. Pop was watching him closely when he broke down his weapon and started to clean it.

“Relax, old man,” Morgan said without taking his eyes away from his work. “Like you said, I’m a professional. I know what I’m doing here.”

Pop nodded. “Don’t see youngsters who know how to treat a gun these days, except for some of the target shooters that come in here. But those are stunt guns with expensive doodads.”

“A craftsman’s got to respect his tools,” Morgan said. “This particular Browning Hi-power’s like an old friend. She’s been with me through four armed conflicts without a single stoppage. She’s real reliable, but I know, just like any other nine millimeter, she’ll jam up on me in a heartbeat if I don’t keep her clean.”

Pop turned his attention to inventory while Morgan completed the weapon’s disassembly. Morgan inspected each part carefully and lubed it with a light coat of CLP. He paid particular attention to the sear to make sure the tiny surfaces that make the trigger-sear connection were not worn. It would waste a lot of ammunition if his pistol decided to go full auto on him in the middle of a fight.

After reassembling the weapon, he ran a full safety check and a complete function check. After some self-debate, he also decided to replace the magazine spring.

When he was finished, Morgan slipped out of his windbreaker, revealing a side draw shoulder holster of stiff saddle leather under his left arm. He slid his pistol into place, giving a final light tug to make sure the steel spring would prevent its slipping free.

“Hey, that’s a beauty,” Pop said. “Bianchi?”

“Yep. Custom made. Just like the knife.” What hung under Morgan’s right shoulder was not a holster, but the sheath holding his fighting knife. With a firm downward tug he drew his blade, a Randall model number one pattern with a black micarta handle and brass fillets.

“In the field I can slip the sheath onto my belt,” Morgan said, sliding a carborundum stone toward himself. “That way it lays flat with the handle pointed to the side, so I can reach back and grab it with my right hand. That carry’s a little too visible on the street.” Morgan lovingly honed his seven-inch blade. When he was satisfied with the main edge, he turned it to sharpen the long “false edge” as well.

For him, weapons maintenance was almost a Zen activity, to which he gave total concentration. His left boot knife, a five-inch double-edged dagger, received the same close attention. By now, Pop was looking over his shoulder.

“Don’t recognize that one,” Pop said, “but it looks custom too.”

“Yeah,” Morgan said with a smile. “Ground it myself. This is my own work too.” He pulled and began to sharpen the throwing knife he kept in his right boot. “This one I forged and as you can see, Parkerized so it won’t reflect the light when I throw it.”