Austin Camacho - The Payback Assignment

“This hardly seems like the time or place for this conversation,” Marlene Seagrave said between sips of champagne. “I’m not sure I’m ready to ruin my figure that way.”

Adrian Seagrave scanned the room, his eyes sliding over the other wealthy couples.

“You may have been a beauty contest winner when I married you…”

“I think maybe that’s why you married me,” she said.

“…but too much good living has already loosened your figure, my dear. Before you grow too far, I want an heir.”

Marlene spun off under the grand chandelier. Her shorter husband had to sprint to keep up with her. Marlene inspected the other wives as she passed through the festive crowd. She was younger than most of the women in the Canfield Casino that evening, because Mrs. Whitney generally invited old money to her Saratoga Springs soirees. But many of these more mature women looked great. Better than Marlene had lately, she had to admit to herself. Her legs were not what they once were, back when she was Miss North Carolina, and her abdomen had swelled just a bit with what women called a pooch. Still, her complexion was as clear as ever, her natural blonde hair retained just the right amount of curl, and she knew her face was still striking.

Besides, she was still in far better shape than her husband, and weighed considerably less. She turned to review his appearance. His once-handsome face was beginning to sag under the weight of a double chin, and his hair was rapidly deserting his scalp. Of course, she knew that all of that was beside the point.

As a waiter walked by she captured another glass, exchanging it for her empty one, throwing words over her shoulder at her husband. “You’d have a better chance at getting me pregnant if I was a little drunker.”

“All right, I get it.” Seagrave sidled up to her, his little pig eyes pressed almost closed by a bigger smile. “I’m being selfish. Is that the message? Okay, Marlene. What do you want?”

This was not the way she imagined her marriage would turn out when she said those vows seven years ago. Everything came down to a negotiation with him. He assumed that her comfortable life justified the neglect. He expected her to tolerate the other women. Now he wanted an heir, a foal from his prize filly, just like the Saratoga horse owners around her. She knew that she could always leave, but the Seagrave fortune was as seductive as the power it gave him was chilling. She glanced around the room, and her eyes settled on a handsome couple holding hands beside the roulette wheel.

At the woman’s throat, pinned to her Halston original, was an antique diamond brooch of uncommon delicacy and beauty.

Marlene caught her husband’s eye and pointed subtly at the prize.

“I want that.”

Adrian Seagrave flashed his teeth, much as a shark does when it spots its prey. “All right, my dear. As always, you will have what you want.”

Even that casual promise chilled her.

It was hot, sticky, muggy country even at night. Bugs and birds competed to see which could create the most irritating sounds. The river they sloshed through carried the stink of sewage. Mud sucked at their boots. Leeches clung to anything that moved. A field of brilliant stars and a sliver of a moon did little to illuminate the potential animal and reptile dangers lurking in the darkness.

“You know, Mike, I’ve asked myself a million times,” Morgan Stark whispered. “Why do we always get ourselves involved in other countries’ petty political bullshit?”

“Well, because there are still times when the U.S. government just refuses to get involved,” Mike answered with a grin. “And for the money, of course.”

The men made little sound, despite the water flowing around their knees. The river they waded through was really little more than a stream in Belize. The tiny backwater nation southeast of Mexico was Central America’s version of a postage stamp country.

Up ahead, the point man flashed his light. The sun would rise in half an hour or so. They were right on schedule. Morgan signaled his seven followers to move out. All wore camouflage uniforms, black berets, combat boots, and a wide variety of personal weaponry.

Morgan Stark, team leader, was a couple of inches over six feet tall and a slim looking two hundred ten pounds. He was the only black man in this racial grab bag of professional mercenaries. However, if someone had asked his men to describe him, they would have first mentioned his long, quick fingers, the little mustache he still kept within Army regulations, or perhaps his sharp, clear, light brown eyes. In their business, you learned to judge a lot by the eyes. But in the world of professional mercenaries, color was almost an afterthought.

They moved along through the river, about two meters from shore, because it was faster and easier than travelling over land. Unfortunately, the map in Morgan’s head indicated it was time to branch off into the tropical forest.

The tiny light flashed again, just as Morgan was about to crest a low hummock. That flash warned Morgan of nearby patrolling security personnel. Not that he needed such a warning.

He pressed himself up over the edge of the earthen mound, his fingers tangled in the thick undergrowth. In the near darkness, he found himself face to face with a uniformed guard. Neither Morgan nor the guard reached for a weapon. The guard’s dog looked as startled as its master did. To Morgan’s eyes it was more wolf than dog, huge and gray in the darkness. It was a Belgian shepherd, the type the Israelis used for border patrol. Slowly a growl began in its throat and it bared its teeth for war.

A friend of a friend had made contact with Morgan, as usual. The go-between was a well-known sub-contractor named Stone. Morgan had arranged a meeting, but still he had circled the little bungalow on the outskirts of Brussels four times before going to the door. On the last and closest circle, he noticed a Renault parked across the street and three houses down. The man inside it puffed on a cigarette and read the paper as if he were merely waiting for someone. Maybe he was.

Morgan pulled a map out of his pocket, and walked to the car with a confused look on his face. In bomber jacket and aviator sunglasses, he hoped that he looked like a befuddled tourist. The driver, a small dark man with a thick Gallic nose, looked up as he approached. Morgan saw him start to reach under his seat, but he withdrew his hand as if reconsidering something.

Once beside the car, Morgan began to gesture and mutter at the map. At first the driver stared straight ahead. When Morgan stared at him helplessly, the driver released an exaggerated sigh and rolled down his window. Morgan mumbled helplessly.

“Pardon moi, monsieur, ou est le palais? Je suis… oh hell, je ne parle pas francais tres bien.”

“My English is better,” the driver said in an exasperated tone. “You are looking for the Royal Palace?”

“Not really.” Morgan leaned close. “Just half wit lookouts.”

His left hand shot inside the car, clamping onto the driver’s throat. When both the driver’s hands locked onto Morgan’s arm, Morgan pulled his right hand back, and then snapped it forward. The heel of his palm thumped against the driver’s temple, and the man slumped over, unconscious.

Jogging across the street, Morgan leaned into the bungalow’s door as he rang the bell. He waited a long ten seconds before locks began to turn inside. The door opened, and Morgan followed it in.

The parlor was empty except for four chairs around a small table. The house was cool, but it carried the musty smell of vacancy. Morgan assumed it was only used for meetings like this one. A coffeepot sat on the table, along with two cups and a creamer. Two sugar cubes and a wafer rested on the edge of each saucer. There was also a note pad at each place, with a ballpoint pen. A telephone rested on a scrambler near one end of the table.