Austin Camacho - The Payback Assignment

Morgan continued his charge, driving his shoulder hard into the second man’s midsection before the killer could quite get his pistol aimed at the new target. As the two men grappled on the sofa, the revolver bounced across the carpet. An unthinking reflex drove Felicity to snatch it up.

“Stop it!” she shouted. The killer froze, staring into his own gun’s muzzle. Morgan stood calmly, straightening his clothes.

“I’ll keep him in line,” he said, leveling his automatic on the other man’s eyes. “Got any wire or twine around?”

Felicity nodded, looked down at her hands and gingerly placed the revolver on the coffee table cube. Then she backtracked to close and lock the front door before running down the hall to the second room. It was small, but sufficient as a storage room. She spent only seconds rooting through the climbing gear arrayed neatly in the closet. She sprinted back to the living room with a five-foot length of nylon cord. Morgan hadn’t moved, and she was surprised to see no expression of anger on his face.

“You know the drill,” Morgan said, accepting the rope. “Turn around, on your knees, hands behind your back.”

Morgan held the rope in his right hand with his pistol, while he drew his big knife from under his jacket. He cut a ten-inch bit from the cord, dropped the rest, and tied the other man’s thumbs together behind him. It was a simple bind, but Felicity could see that it would be far more effective than big clumsy knots around the wrists and arms. Once the big man was secured, Morgan turned to Felicity.

“Stay here, Red,” he said. Morgan walked his charge to the bathroom between the two bedrooms. The gunman was built like a college halfback, but Morgan had no trouble alternately pushing and pulling him, keeping him off balance. Once they were in the bathroom, Felicity saw the man’s shoes fly out into the hall, followed by his socks, trousers and underwear. The she heard a loud thump that could only be the shooter’s beefy form slamming down into her deep bathtub.

“Come out, and you’ll join your partner in hell,” Morgan said. Then he walked out, closed the door, and jogged to the living room.

Felicity had not moved and now stood facing him. Her eyes were brimming with tears. She glanced furtively at the corpse in her armchair, the chair she had spent weeks selecting. Blood dripped rhythmically onto her light colored, hand dyed deep pile carpet. Lit by the approaching sunset, the dead man looked like some bizarre, macabre statue melting in a wax museum. Her lips trembled and a barely audible whisper slipped through them. Morgan stepped forward and put an arm around her, cradling her head in his own massive shoulder.

“Take it easy, Red. I know it’s kind of a shock but, well, death’s really a natural thing, I mean in nature, you know? And if it’s you or them, sometimes you just got to go all the way.”

“It’s not that,” Felicity stammered. “I’ve seen death before. And don’t call me…” she stopped in mid-sentence. Somehow, for the first time in her life, it seemed okay for someone to call her “Red.”

He was such an enigma, this great black bear of a man. Only seconds ago, she had seen him show total ferocity, killing with ice cold efficiency. Yet now he was able to exhibit unexpected tenderness. It seemed perversely symbolic that his shoulder felt so soft and warm and comforting to her face, even as her right breast was crushed against the hard outline of his shoulder holster.

“It isn’t the death, not really,” she murmured. “It’s just, he wanted to, he was going to, to kill me.” She put a shaky emphasis on the last word.

“Yes,” Morgan said slowly, “Let’s go find out about that.”

With a gentle tug, Morgan eased Felicity toward the bathroom. When they opened the door, their tough guy prisoner was sitting on the floor trying to look belligerent. He was built like a linebacker, but now Morgan could see a bit of softness around his waist. His nose had been broken and a scar was visible just below the line of his short brown hair.

Morgan thought he recognized that kind of scar. It was probably a legacy from the less glamorous days of professional wrestling. In those days guys used to go flying out of the ring and they’d always come up bloody. Morgan knew they often cut themselves with razor blades in their hairline for the effect. If this guy was a veteran of the small-time professional wrestling circuit, he was probably pretty tough. Morgan considered what little he knew of this man for a moment before deciding how he should proceed. He decided to use a reasonable, uncaring approach.

“You know, we were kind of lucky out there,” Morgan said, drawing his big knife out of its sheath again. He pulled his prisoner to his feet and sat him back in the bathtub. “If anyone heard that gunshot, they must have assumed it was something else, like a car backfiring. As usual in any big city, nobody wants to hear a gunshot so they just don’t. Now, turn over.” The thug glared at Felicity for a moment, then squirmed over onto his stomach. Morgan put his pistol to his prisoner’s head while he cut the cord, freeing the killer’s hands.

“You won’t be able to get out of that slippery tub too quickly,” he said. “I’ll ask the lady here to keep the gun on you all the same. Now turn back over.”

While Morgan gave Felicity the pistol, Pearson slowly squirmed around into an upright position. Morgan held out his hand, and his captive handed over his jacket, his tie and finally his shirt. Morgan tossed them all past Felicity, out the door. The gunman hunched over, hatred glaring from his eyes. Felicity held the pistol in two hands at arms’ length, staring down the sights. It pleased Morgan to see a deep blush on the killer’s face as he tried to hide his nakedness. Embarrassment was a good start for questioning. He did not enjoy torture, but he definitely would get certain information from this man.

“Now pull up your feet, please.” When Pearson did not respond to the request, Morgan opened the hot water tap. First cold, then warm and finally hot water gushed out. By hugging his knees the nude man could just keep his feet from being scalded. Felicity smiled in spite of herself. Morgan sat on the edge of the tub at the faucet end, facing his prisoner. He took a deep breath. It was time to demoralize his subject.

“Now I need to know who sent you to kill the lady.”

“You go to hell, nig…” The thug interrupted himself with a scream louder than Morgan’s earlier gunshot had been. Felicity gasped in surprise. Morgan had flipped the knob that shifted the water flow to the shower spout. The steaming water was only on the hired killer’s body for a single second, but his dripping body was glowing red. His breath was a series of rapid gasps.

“First rule, no profanity,” Morgan said casually. “It upsets the lady. And you call me by my name. Mister Stark. Now again. Who sent you here?”

The silence lasted for three long seconds before Morgan gave his captive another second of heat. Now the red body quivered with each short, panting breath.

“Look, I don’t like doing this.” Morgan maintained his relaxed smile. “However, I need these three bits of data, see? And after trying to shoot us, I figure you owe me. So tell me, who sent you?”

The thug gritted his teeth. Felicity clamped her eyes shut. Morgan, relaxed, waited four seconds this time, before giving the killer two seconds of steaming pain. After that he imagined he could smell broiled meat. He saw Felicity’s stomach heave. He knew she wanted to run from the room, but this strange ritual held her mesmerized.

After all, a grown man, stripped naked, was flopping around in her bathtub like a beached whale. He was moaning and whimpering, probably knowing he would eventually talk. Yet he went on. Morgan understood. This was part of his business, and he feared he would be seen as a coward if he spoke too soon. Morgan carried on with his distasteful duty in a businesslike manner, because he knew this was the way the game was played.