Austin Camacho - The Payback Assignment

“You keep them well,” Pop said. To Morgan’s surprise, the older man dropped a bottle of beer in front of him. It was the kind of amber flip-top bottle people refill at microbreweries.

“John Wayne Imperial Stout?” Morgan asked, twisting off the cap. “I take it this is local?”

“Yep, from the Newport Beach Brewing Company,” Pop said, opening a matching bottle. “If you like a real stout, you’ll like this. And now, if I remember your last visit, you’ll be moving over to the loading bench.”

“You’ve got me figured out, old man,” Morgan said, tipping his bottle up to take a swallow, and pulling it down with a grin. “Well, I guess they can do something right around here. That’s a big, bad brew. But I better go slow until I’m done with the focus work. So I guess I’ll need some supplies. Some hundred twenty-five grain Remington jacketed hollowpoint bullets, and Remington cases. I like the Bullseye powder, and CCI primers.”

Pop’s stool was on wheels, so Morgan rolled himself over to the loading bench. The bell rang out front, and Pop hustled out to greet the incoming customer while Morgan assembled the components to create his nine-millimeter cartridges.

Morgan hardly noticed when Pop returned to the back room a few minutes later. He was focused too closely on the repetitive action of pulling the big handle down on the reloader, and placing his new ammunition in neat rows beside it. Pop observed this tricky process for a moment before he started asking questions.

“Can’t help but notice you load your shells with less powder than usual.”

“You’ve been doing this too long,” Morgan said, grinning. “Yeah, I started using light loads back when I used to carry a Colt forty-five auto, to reduce the noise. Sometimes stealth is more important than power.” While maintaining the conversation, Morgan kept a meticulous eye on the number of grains of powder going into the shells. “I hate silencers on handguns. Sometimes I needed to keep the volume down, but silencers are just too unreliable and clumsy in my line of work.”

“Your line of work,” Pop said. When Morgan failed to elaborate, he added, “Well, either way you’re going to lose a few feet per second on the muzzle velocity.”

Morgan brushed a couple of stubborn cartridges into the hopper. “You’re right about the velocity, but if you’re at all accurate with the forty-five caliber, it isn’t enough to make any difference. But I was having trouble getting ammo in some of the places I was working, so I decided to switch to the nine millimeter round which is more popular overseas.”

“But the nine has less mass,” Pop said. “Less stopping power.”

“True, but I still wanted the quieter blast. So I decided to cheat. Now here comes the tricky part.” Morgan continued to narrate his actions. “I start with these common Remington nine-millimeter hollowpoints. I down load the cartridges just like I used to. Now, I put the complete cartridge in a vise, nose up, and I add just a touch of fulminate of mercury, there, right in the tip. Now I’ll seal it over with a little solder. Like so. Now, when the shot’s fired, she might leave the muzzle a little slow. But by the time that baby hits the target, that load in the nose is hot enough to go bang. Aside from the little explosion on impact, the hollow point spreads out all the way. Talk about stopping power. These babies always put ‘em down with one hit.”

Business was slow, so Pop decided to become involved in the loading process. The two veterans swapped war stories for a while, and time slid past unnoticed. Four hours later Morgan left Pop’s shop with eight full magazines, one cleaned and serviced automatic pistol, three very sharp knives and a renewed friendship. In the process of chatting with Pop he had mentioned his new female acquaintance. While talking about her he realized that his attitude had shifted. He decided that if the O’Brian girl didn’t come up with a lead to Stone by his deadline he would ask her to travel with him for a while. Some indefinable quality about her drew him like steel to a magnet. She was just so, well, comfortable. They connected, as if he had known her all his life. He thought that maybe they should team up on a long-term basis.

Maybe he would tell her so.

With thoughts of a more settled future going through his mind, Morgan was relaxed during his short taxi ride back to Felicity’s building. But he was feeling a little tension when he entered the building, and a bit more when the elevator stopped. By the time he reached Felicity’s floor, he stepped out of the elevator on tiptoe. He did not know why. The flowers were still as fragrant as they were on his first visit, and the little landing was just as quiet. As he approached the door his old familiar feeling was there again, stronger than ever. He put down his small gun case beside Felicity’s door, already beginning to plot his next move.

He had leaped behind the center island of foliage before he realized he had heard the elevator door open. From his vantage point he saw the lone occupant emerge from the car. It was Felicity, carting a collection of bundles and shopping bags that she could barely manage. She wore a green and white pinstripe cotton dress and her hair, he noticed, was now tied back with a wide green ribbon. It matched her eyes, which wandered warily, worry showing on her face. He stepped into the open and their eyes locked for one intense moment. He opened his mouth but Felicity spoke first.

“You felt it too,” she said, more a surprised statement than a question.

“Yes,” Morgan said. “I’ve got kind of an instinct, a sense of danger. But I didn’t know you…”

“Yes. All my life.” With no further explanation, Felicity put down the bundles and pointed to her cipher lock. “Look at this.”

“What do you mean?”

“Right here,” Felicity said. “On the edge of the button plate. See these marks? It’s been pried off. Someone’s broken in, someone who knows these locks but got sloppy.”

“A thief friend stop by to surprise you?” Morgan asked.

Felicity shook her head. “I don’t have sloppy friends. So now what do we do?”

“Several options if they’re waiting inside,” Morgan said. He was annoyed with himself for not noticing the lock had been tampered with, and was happy for a chance to take the lead. “As usual, there’s a safe way, an easy way and a best way.”

“Well, what’s the best way?” Felicity asked.

“Let me teach you the cross door maneuver.”

Inside Felicity’s apartment a pair of dangerous animals in cheap suits waited. Pearson sat on the couch half turned, gazing aimlessly out the window with his gun hand resting on his thigh. By shifting his eyes he could see Shaw, who had pulled the big chair forward and pointed it toward the door. Shaw looked relaxed but alert, with his Smith amp; Wesson. 38 pointed toward the apartment’s only entrance. Pearson’s ears perked up as he heard buttons being pushed and saw the doorknob slowly turning. The pigeon had come home at last. This was too easy a job for a pair of experienced killers, but they got the assignment because they had been in the neighborhood. Stone said to kill the girl ASAP. It would be a nice change to receive an assignment and complete it the same day. Shaw took careful aim at the door and Pearson returned his smile as he thumbed the hammer back on his own pistol.

With an air of relaxation Felicity pushed the door open and entered, crossing to her left, toward the occupied chair. She was staring into a grinning face and a gun barrel. Her hands opened, and her packages began their fall to the floor.

Before her eyes finished widening, Morgan came in fast and low, crossing behind her in the opposite direction. His gun barked once before Felicity’s packages reached the carpet. The man in the chair didn’t move, but his chest burst open like a blossoming scarlet flower before Felicity’s startled eyes.