Piranha Assignment

  Copyright September 2011 by Austin S. Camacho

  All rights reserved. No part of this book shall be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, magnetic, and photographic including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher. No patent liability is assumed with respect to the use of the information contained herein. Although every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, the publisher and author assume no responsibility for errors or omissions. Neither is any liability assumed for damages resulting from the use of the information contained herein.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-0-9794788-5-7

  Cover design by Iconix.com

  Published by:

  Intrigue Publishing

  10200 Twisted Stalk Ct.

  Upper Marlboro, MD 20772

  Printed in the United States of America

  Prologue

  “It’s going to be a long five minutes,” Paul said, shifting his shoulders under his heavy blue sport coat.

  “True,” Morgan replied, stepping out the hotel door, “and with any luck, we’ll all survive them.”

  Morgan Stark walked point. A tall, wary black man, he glanced both ways before moving down the street. Noon was still a few minutes away but he could already feel the heat coming off the Los Angeles sidewalk. Paul followed him. He was a trim efficient looking man with ice blue eyes whose face seemed set in stone, as if he never smiled.

  The third man through the door was the client. Arturo Vallejo smiled too much, as all politicians do. Short and solid, he was also lighter skinned than Morgan expected. True Spaniards, it seemed, were not as dark as the Hispanics Morgan knew in California. Passers-by filled the air with Spanish conversation but it didn’t sound quite like the language Vallejo spoke.

  “I still do not feel the need for four bodyguards simply to take a walk, gentlemen.”

  “My information is that your enemies have chosen this place and time for their revenge,” Morgan said. He glanced over his shoulder, making sure the other guards were in proper positions. Paul walked on Vallejo’s right, between him and the street. Another man walked on Vallejo’s left. The fourth stayed about a meter behind. Good.

  “I have no enemies. I am in your country only to learn from those Los Angeles officials who have experience dealing with terrorists. Your police department has gained much expertise since the nineteen eighty-four Olympic games.”

  “Yes sir, and some of your Basque countrymen would rather your trip be unsuccessful,” Morgan said, scanning the street. “I have very reliable information regarding when and where you’ll be attacked.” He wished the weather were not so perfect. Too many people were on the street. Traffic was light. Maybe the shooter would approach on foot, like that blond fellow behind his rear man.

  “These people do not frighten me,” Vallejo said with excessive bluster. “I refuse to be cooped up in that cheap hotel room all day.”

  “That’s your choice, sir,” Morgan said, trying to conceal the fact that his patience was fraying. “You are free to do as you please. But I have a responsibility to keep you safe. Having you stay downtown in a less than luxurious hotel was one way to…” He stopped talking and his head swung around. No one else knew why. They might think he was reacting to the smell of fresh tortillas being made in a little restaurant they were passing. But Morgan knew that danger was approaching them.

  “Now,” he said, nodding toward the street. “There.” He heard the roar of a car’s engine, then the scrape of metal on metal, the sound of one car sideswiping another. Then a big black Volvo rounded the corner, moving at maybe sixty miles per hour. Morgan’s well trained team didn’t question his instincts, they just reacted. Paul pivoted to squarely face the street, pulling his automatic from its side waistband holster. The left man stepped forward one pace. The rear man also stepped forward, pressing himself against Vallejo’s back. Morgan sprinted ahead.

  The car’s rear driver’s side window was down. A neat three round burst from the Uzi in the window slapped Paul backward before he could get off a shot. He slammed against Vallejo, throwing him off balance. The other two bodyguards collapsed on top of their client. The woman walking behind them screamed and fainted.

  Morgan was on one knee between two parked cars as the Volvo passed. The machine gunner saw him and squeezed his trigger just as Morgan fired three shots from his Browning Hi-power. No score, either side. All the bullets ended up in car bodies.

  When the Volvo skidded around the corner to the left, Morgan knew where it would go. After one more left they would be on their way to the freeway. He sprinted into the mall shopping area behind him. Maybe, just maybe, he could change their plans.

  Morgan raced through the crowd of shoppers, dodging around the slow-moving human obstacles, and panting with the weight of dress pants, sport coat and dress shoes. He shouldered a teenager aside who started to react until he saw the gun. He prayed running with his automatic out didn’t get him stopped by a well-meaning policeman.

  Bursting into the bright sunshine at the other side of the block, Morgan could hear a car approaching from the right, very fast. It had to be them.

  That Uzi could hit Morgan if he stood behind or to one side of the car, but one place was safe. He dashed into the middle of the street ahead of the Volvo and assumed a strong two handed stance. He knew the machine gunner would have to hold his weapon out the window to aim at Morgan, but he couldn’t fire without peppering his driver with hot shells.

  Funny what you can learn in several years as a mercenary soldier.

  The Volvo’s driver stomped on the accelerator. Morgan struggled to control his breathing after his run, to get a steady sight picture. He wished he had a more powerful gun. If he did, he could stop the car. As it was, he would have to stop the driver.

  Morgan blinked sweat out of his eyes and squeezed the trigger in a fast double tap. The first nine millimeter hollowpoint cleared away the windshield. The second slug erased the driver’s face and showered the machine gunner with gray matter and red liquid. The car swerved left and slammed to a stop, wedged between two parked cars.

  Morgan smelled no gasoline, but he approached the vehicle with care. He reached past the driver’s body to turn off the ignition. Then he pressed fingers against the neck of the man in the back seat. He was unconscious but alive. Good. Roberts would want him.

  A siren’s wail announced the approach of a police car. Morgan left the way he had come. This time he walked through the mall at a normal pace, his gun now tucked into holster. Back on the street on the other side, he ran once more, past the scene of the first shooting and back to the hotel. He found one member of his team in the lobby with a much more sedate Vallejo.

  “Mister Stark I am very sorry. Obviously your information was correct and I…”

  “Later,” Morgan said. “Where’s Paul?” Vallejo pointed and Morgan jogged to the other side of the lobby. Paul was laid out on a large elegant sofa. The man with him had removed his jacket and pulled down his tie. As Morgan got close, Paul’s eyes fluttered open.

  “He’s just coming around,” the other guard said.

  “You okay, pal?” Morgan asked.

  “Yes,” Paul said. “The Kevlar tee shirt and the jacket’s Kevlar lining were enough to stop any bullets from penetrating. Knocked me out, though. Might have a couple of bruised ribs.”

  Morgan grinned at Paul’s gift for understatement. “Yeah, and I’d bet on a cracked co
llarbone.” He could see one bruise despite Paul’s shirt, because it showed over its top edge. One inch higher and Paul would have a nine millimeter hole in his neck.

  “I think you’ve earned a couple of days off,” Morgan said. “I’ll call in a replacement on this job for the last day.”

  He leaned back, shaking his head. It had all worked out. His company was getting bigger and bigger personal protection assignments and this one would boost their reputation. They had kept the client safe and nailed the shooters. Roberts would square things with the local authorities and take custody of the Uzi gunner, who would probably yield some useful information. Most important to Morgan, none of his team got seriously hurt. Only one thing bothered him.

  If Morgan was going to be in debt to someone, he would rather it not be the CIA.

  -1-

  Morgan Stark stared down the long, narrow tunnel that was his new, two station underground target range. He knew he would have to go upstairs and end his work day soon, but he had this new gun to test and that was work too, the kind he liked.

  His hearing protection looked like stereo headphones. They fit snugly, the headband crushing his short crinkly hair on top. He could hear the comforting sigh of the induction fans, because the electronic earphones employed special valves in each muff that let normal sound in. They only reacted to stop high level impulse noise from striking his ears. That was good, because he was about to make a very loud noise.

  Morgan lifted the matte black Desert Eagle automatic pistol and held it in a two handed grip. He stared through amber glasses down the sights at a man shaped paper target. Morgan had better vision than almost anyone he knew, and he wanted to keep it that way. The lenses covering his light brown eyes were safety glasses.

  From a rock steady stance, Morgan fired one .44 magnum round from the big automatic. His hands shifted slightly with the kick of the slide slamming back. It wasn’t nearly as bad as he expected, the pistol’s weight helping to reduce recoil.

  Wrapping long fingers more firmly around the rather large grip, Morgan emptied its eight-round magazine at rapid fire. This gun felt good, although at a bit over four and a half pounds fully loaded it could never replace the Hi-power he normally carried for business. The Hi-power and his special hand loaded rounds had served him well enough that day, as had his danger instincts. Did any of his employees suspect his unexplained ability to know when some peril would threaten him? He doubted anyone would believe the advance warning he felt. That was fine. He preferred it that way.

  At the push of a button, the target rolled back toward Morgan on an automatic pulley. He smiled as he examined it. He had only set the target about fifty meters away. The eight big bullets had torn a single ragged hole in the middle of the paper man, less than half an inch across. Morgan didn’t need to measure. He could judge distances with machine like precision.

  Well, fun time was over. His new watch told him it was nearly five o’clock. It was time to lock up for the day. Morgan put the gun back in its case, planning to give it a more thorough shakedown later, and headed for the stairs. It was one short flight to the ground floor, then eighteen to his office. He was glad he had left his jacket upstairs. He wore lightweight slacks and a cotton dress shirt open at the top two buttons so he wouldn’t get too sweaty on the way up. He took the stairs two at a time.

  Sandy Fox’s head snapped around as Morgan pushed into the outer office. Her eyes gathered him in without betraying her feelings, but she licked her lips without thinking.

  “Did I miss anything, Ms. Fox?” he asked.

  “Not much, Mister Stark,” the young blond receptionist replied. “You have a visitor, a Mark Roberts. Says he knows you from Africa.”

  That brought a warm smile to Morgan’s face. “Yeah. We met in Angola, late seventies. I was just a kid.”

  Morgan’s chest was still rising and falling from running up the stairs, and the girl pushed her glasses back up her nose for a better view. He was everything she wanted in a man: intelligent, at least two inches over six feet, and muscular. Not massive like a body builder, but with the smooth, supple muscles of a gymnast. On top of it all, he was one of the handsomest black men she had ever seen. She had heard he was a soldier of fortune before cofounding Stark & O’Brian, which only added to the mystique.

  She knew he saw her as a piece of office furniture, and she hoped her boss never suspected how attractive she found him. Her eyes followed him as he left the reception area, walking past his office toward the lounge.

  Morgan smiled as he stepped into the room. The man waiting on the main sofa still had an air of alertness about him and this pleased Morgan. His visitor held a cup of coffee, but sprang to his feet when Morgan entered. He was six feet tall and well built, with very black, shiny skin. His hair was conservatively cut, as was his gray suit.

  “Mark,” Morgan said, reaching forward to shake hands. “Or should I say ‘Marcus Roberto’? As I recall, you were a Swahili warrior when we met.”

  “Angola was a long time ago, my friend,” Roberts replied. “The jungles have moved around, but the game is the same.”

  “Yeah, I understand you’re doing your snoopin’ and poopin’ south of the border now,” Morgan said.

  “How secure is your office?”

  “Didn’t you notice the door?” Morgan asked, perching on a corner of the table. “It says Stark & O’Brian, Security Consultants and Crisis Management. We don’t just do bodyguard work. My partner knows more about security systems than anybody I’ve ever met. Hell, my office is probably more secure than yours.”

  “Forgive me. Agency service makes you paranoid after a while. So, can we talk? It’s been a long time.”

  “That it has,” Morgan said. “And I know you want something from me. But, look, I’ve got some things to check out. Come take a drive with me. After that, we can stop somewhere for a drink.”

  “Great. We’ve got some catching up to do.”

  The sun was dipping on their left an hour later, when the two men drove in from Los Angeles International Airport by a somewhat indirect route. Roberts watched Morgan easing his Jeep CJ gently through traffic.

  “Why are we driving so slowly, if I may ask.”

  “Just double checking the route,” Morgan said. “I’ve been contracted by the city to provide extra security for a group of Colombian politicians coming here for a conference on drug control. The city and state are in on it of course, but we’re driving them in from the airport. And I picked the hotel, since we’ve got to cover night security. But right now I just want to verify the travel time from the plane.” Morgan glanced at his wrist as he said it.

  “Nice watch. Don’t remember you wearing flashy stuff like that in the old days.”

  “That, my friend, is a Breitling Old Navitimer II,” Morgan said with obvious pride. “Eighteen carat gold and as accurate as anything you can wear. This little dial tallies seconds, that one minutes and the other one hours. The scales on the outer dial and the bezel make a circular slide rule. I’ve figured how to convert currency with it, and change miles to kilometers. A gift from my partner for my last birthday.”

  “That’s what I call a partner. She the reason you gave up the mercenary business?”

  “No, just wanted to settle down a little,” Morgan said. “And I’m pretty well qualified for this business. I train guards, drivers and such, and provide them to those that need them. And when I get bored I’ve still got a lot of independence. For instance, I’ve been in a couple of movies, doing some stunt work. Really, this life’s not all that different from being a merc. Except I don’t get shot at. Well, not as much anyway.”

  “Yeah, I heard about the action this morning. Hope my heads up helped.”

  “You might have saved one of my men’s life,” Morgan said. “Let’s grab a beer and talk about how I pay you back for that.”

  Morgan was proud of himself when they walked into Patrick’s. Proud that he had managed to find such a place, not far from his office. It wasn’t
a gay bar, or a glitter bar, or a cocktail lounge, but a real bar with quiet corners and a dart board and three televisions only the bartender could reach. The whole place carried the faint odor of stale beer, as if it had seeped into the floor and the furniture. The jukebox was rocking, but not that heavy metal stuff, and none of that alternative or underground or whatever they called it this week. Kicked back behind a pair of frothy brews, he and Roberts could relax and talk about forbidden subjects.

  “I’m bureau chief down there now,” Roberts said. “When I arrived I thought Panama was a hot spot, but it wouldn’t last after the turn of the century when we turned the canal over to them. But it’s still a major drug trafficking hub, and with a healthy American population we have enough interests to protect.”

  “Of course,” Morgan said, sipping his beer. “And if it ever did calm down, they’d find another trouble spot for you to watch over. You’re too good at that stuff to be left out.”

  “Thanks for nothing,” Roberts said. “This is a lifetime’s worth of trouble. But I don’t want to talk about me. Tell me about this partner of yours. How’d you get hooked up with her?”

  Morgan took a deep breath, grinning as he shook his head. “That’s a long story, pal. I never thought I could work with a woman. Business, I mean. But, she’s so damned capable. And the best with locks and alarms. Unbelievable. Nothing can keep her out, or keep her locked up. Know how she got so good? Used to be a jewel thief.”

  “I know,” Roberts said, lifting his glass. “I did a little checking before I called you. I was hoping to meet her.”

  “She was working out of the office today,” Morgan replied, watching the Chargers on one of the screens out the corner of his eye. “She had to do a site survey. A computer warehouse in Silicon Valley. How do you keep people from walking out with computer chips? Well, she’ll figure it out.”

  “Yeah, I’d sure like to get a chance to talk to her.”

  Morgan stop short of responding, realizing how much he had been talking. Across the table from him, Mark Roberts stared at the wall for a second, then out the window. Something was making him uncomfortable, that was for sure. Morgan got quiet, replaying their conversation in his mind. Mark’s remark about a little checking stood out.