“For a lunch date?” Felicity asked. “It isn’t ten thirty.”
“Yeah, but I got things to do before I talk to anybody,” Morgan said. “Which means I better go suit up.”
“Changing clothes?”
“No, just want my gear for this little meeting,” Morgan said.
“Mind if I watch?”
Morgan shrugged and headed for the guest room with Felicity close behind. In the room she watched the ritual with rapt attention. She wondered what went on inside this man’s mind as he placed a series of weapons so carefully about his person. One knife went into each boot. She watched him push on the top bullet in is magazine, confirming that it was full, and function check his pistol. After loading his automatic, he pulled back the slide and let it slam forward. He pushed a button on the side of the gun and the magazine dropped back out. Now he was able to add another bullet to the top of the column. She figured one must have stayed in the pistol.
“Aren’t there enough in there?” she asked.
“Well, it’s a ten round magazine in case I get stopped. Ten’s the legal limit, as if that somehow makes a gun less dangerous. I like to start with one in the chamber.”
“I’d think ten would be enough for anything you’d want to be doing,” Felicity said.
“There’s something to that, but on the other hand, that eleventh cartridge might be the one that saves my life,” he said. The grip looked thick to her, but in its custom made shoulder holster it was quite invisible beneath the lightweight black windbreaker Morgan pulled on.
“Lord, it fits like it was made for you,” Felicity said, trying to lighten the mood.
“The shoulder rig? It was. Wet molded and hand boned, with a hand rubbed oil finish. Got this half harness for maximum concealment, and the premium saddle leather it’s made out of will last a lifetime. At least, the lifetime of anybody in this business.” While he talked, Morgan pulled on a belt with a large square steel buckle.
“Won’t that thing hurt you if you’re moving around, like if you get in a fight?”
That brought a grin from Morgan. “Believe me, this special buckle might actually help me in a fight. I’m real careful to dress for comfort these days. I remember one time I hurt my back. In the field I wear this big knife in its sheath at the small of my back. Took a fall wrong and man, that hurt. Had to find a better way.”
After a final glass of juice, Morgan gave Felicity a peck on the cheek and left the apartment. When he closed the door, his mind was alive with conflicting thoughts.
He hailed a cab and pointed it downtown. In the taxi, his mind centered on Felicity. He was most uncomfortable with what he was feeling for this mysterious but beautiful redhead. He liked being in control of a situation, but he had certainly lost control of this one. Here he was, working for a woman, taking care of her business.
Or was he? Right now, he admitted to himself, he was on a self-motivated mission of revenge. The rules of the game had changed since yesterday, when Pearson and his partner had suddenly turned up. Morgan had made some nasty enemies who clearly had no qualms about killing and could set their machinery in motion in a matter of hours, cross-country. That alone implied incredible power. For his own selfish interests, he had to end that threat. He couldn’t simply leave dangerous people in a position to hurt him.
And wasn’t that the point? This was no time for beginning a long-term relationship, especially with an unpredictable, bullheaded, white, Irish expatriate, professional criminal with expensive tastes. Damn.
While the cab bumped down Fifth Avenue, he managed to drag his mind back to the business at hand. Hopefully, by moving to New York so quickly, he had gotten the jump on the enemy. He knew enough people in this town that, with any luck at all, he could track Stone down before Stone got him pinpointed. With luck! All in all, he liked it better stalking his enemies in the jungle.
He left the cab at Washington Square, four blocks from the small cafe in the heart of Greenwich Village at which he would meet Griffith. The sun was harsh, the sky unusually clear and the air thick and stagnant. Not the best day for a hike through New York, but he wanted to walk in and tour the area before the meeting.
For a hundred and fifty years the West Village has been the home of writers and artists of all types. Something about those twisted, narrow streets in the midst of an otherwise grid work city has traditionally made it the place where society’s oddballs fit in. It has been through beatniks, hippies, heads, freaks and punks, and while the residents have changed, the area has not really changed much. It remains a good place for a meeting if you do not want people to notice you.
J.D. Griffith, Morgan’s “date”, was ex-Marine Recon. He served his country in Vietnam, and himself later in Rhodesia and the Congo. Morgan had worked with him briefly, and had kept in touch for professional reasons. Both men were respected team leaders when they worked, and they did not want to get in each other’s way somewhere when the action got hot.
Morgan crossed the street within a block of his planned meeting place without looking toward it. He passed a storefront Thai restaurant, and its sweet and sharp aroma followed him around the next corner. Halfway down that block Morgan hopped to grasp a rusty fire escape ladder. The squeal of metal against metal set his teeth on edge, but the ladder did come all the way down and Morgan scrambled up it to the roof four stories above the street.
Standing at the edge of the roof he could see the heat rising off the black surface, and it somehow reminded him of his youth. Crouching low, he lumbered three quarters of the way across the roof before dropping to low crawl the rest of the way. The asphalt’s pungent odor stung his nose. He relaxed at the end of his brief journey, absorbing the warmth from the tacky surface. Looking over the roof’s edge, he was directly above Georg’s Cafe, a little Greek place with umbrellas over its outdoor tables that said “Cinzano” in red and blue letters. In about twenty minutes he would meet Griffith under one of them. Now he carefully scanned the windows across the street.
There! Second floor, second window to the left. That had to be one of Griffith’s men in the window. And on the near corner to the left, that dude loitering in the doorway was just a little too alert. He found another to the right across the street. The man in that telephone booth was not really talking to anyone. Griffith had covered the street quite well. Simple caution, Morgan wondered, or something more?
He backed off from his vantage point, retracing his steps down the fire escape. As he sauntered around the corner, he zipped his windbreaker halfway up. He started whistling and relaxed his pace. Morgan’s normal gait was very much like marching, but now he exaggerated his walk into the inner city “bop” so many black men have, as if he were listening to some dance track no one else could hear. The impression he gave was extremely casual.
He recognized Griffith’s grin as he approached the table. He was at least five years Morgan’s senior, but he still retained a jocular baby face. His hair was cut in the style Marines call a “high and tight”: short on top and nearly shaved to the skin on the back and sides. He wore a wrinkled corduroy suit and top quality hiking boots. A typical blond haired, blue eyed, bullet headed type, Morgan thought.
“S’happenin’ my man?” Morgan called in greeting as he sat down, extending his hand.
“You know the deal,” Griffith replied, adding a strong handshake to the habitual military greeting. “I took the liberty of buying you a beer. Hope you don’t mind a Michelob.”
“Well, I still prefer that Black Cat we used to get in the ‘Nam. However…” Morgan picked up his bottle and tipped it up, putting down half of the brew. It was light, crisp, cold, and unremarkable, as Morgan found all mass-produced American beers to be. Griffith also took a strong pull from his amber bottle. Morgan figured that should take care of the opening rituals.