The Payback Assignment (A Stark and O'Brien Thriller) - Softcover

Austin S. Camacho

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0976218143 ISBN 13: 9780976218142

Publisher: Intrigue Publishing LLC, 2008

Synopsis

Morgan Stark is stranded in the Central American nation of Belize after a raid goes wrong. Felicity O'Brien is stranded in the jungle south of Mexico after doing a job for an American client. When these two meet, they learn that they have been double-crossed by the same person: Adrian Seagrave, a ruthless businessman maintaining his respectability by having others do his dirty work. Morgan and Felicity become friends and partners while following their common enemy's trail. They become even closer when they find they share a peculiar psychic link, allowing them to sense danger approaching themselves or each other. But their extrasensory abilities and fighting skills are tested to their limits against Seagrave's soldiers-for-hire and Monk, his giant simian bodyguard. After a series of battles from the California coast to the New York Public Library, they must face a final confrontation with Seagrave's army of hired killers in a skyscraper engulfed by flames.

About this title

About the Author

Austin S. Camacho is the author of seven novels about Washington DC-based private eye Hannibal Jones, five in the Stark and O’Brien international adventure-thriller series, and the detective novel, Beyond Blue. His short stories have been featured in several anthologies including Dying in a Winter Wonderland – an Independent Mystery Booksellers Association Top Ten Bestseller for 2008. He is featured in the Edgar nominated African American Mystery Writers: A Historical and Thematic Study by Frankie Y. Bailey. Camacho is also editorial director for Intrigue Publishing, a Maryland small press.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

The Payback Assignment

By Austin S. Camacho

Intrigue Publishing, LLC

Copyright © 2005 Austin S. Camacho
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-0-9762181-4-2

CHAPTER 1

It was hot, sticky, muggy country even at night, thickly overgrown, infested with every kind of disgusting insect in creation. 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. "Because the U.S. military can't be everywhere, fixing everything on the planet. 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 South America's version of a postage stamp country.

Up ahead, the point man flashed his light. It was okay to move on. 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, with heavily cabled forearms showing below rolled up sleeves. 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. This close to the target, silence was mandatory, making the light their only reasonable means of communication. 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.

For the money, of course! Morgan repeated in his head. Those weeks ago, when he first accepted this mission, he had no doubt the money was worth it. Watching saliva drip from this beast's fangs, he was not so sure.

CHAPTER 2

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 in silent mime. 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, 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. It was all very businesslike.

The man who had admitted Morgan sat at the opposite end of the table. He was a good two inches taller than Morgan but thin enough to imply frailty. A full shock of white hair made him appear older than he really was. His eyes did not quite match his hair, but Morgan had to strain to see the hint of blue there.

Morgan turned a chair so its back was to a corner. He sat with his toes braced on the floor, as if he were ready to leap at any moment. He opened his jacket and eased a hand toward his shoulder holster, all the while glaring hatred at his host.

"A problem?"

Morgan responded in a harsh baritone growl. "I told you not to post anyone, Stone. You put an armed man out front. May as well put up a sign saying there's some kind of clandestine business going on in here. I took him out before I came in. You're lucky I didn't kill him."

"Standard procedure." Stone's voice was so controlled, so bored sounding, it was almost a monotone. "I hope you didn't hurt him too badly."

"He's okay, but he'll have a hell of a headache when he wakes up. Now, why am I here?"

"Coffee?" Stone reached for the pot.

"No. You got work for me or what?"

Stone poured the thick, dark brew into his small cup as if he had nothing else to do that day. "Yes," he said, adding a sugar cube to his cup with no greater haste. "A brief job in Belize. You know the place?"

"An American ally on the Caribbean," Morgan said. "Good game preserves. Great scuba spots. Nothing going on down there right now."

"So it would appear. However, like many of the smaller countries in that hemisphere, the communist party there has not evaporated. Politically speaking, someone doesn't like the direction in which that little nation is going." Stone's voice was almost hypnotic, and Morgan made a serious effort to stay alert while listening to him.

"Uh-huh." He watched his host sip his coffee. "Someone. Your principal. Who shall remain nameless?"

"Of course, for your protection as well as his. There is a man named Carlos Abrigo. I won't bore you with the details, but he is a very influential man in the Belize national assembly, the head of their committee controlling exports. And he is leaning heavily to the left."

Morgan nodded, keeping silent for a moment. He reasoned that the mysterious customer really wanted more favorable trade arrangements or something of the sort, but what the hell. The target was a commie and that was all he needed to know. Cuba was sufficient proof that communism was not a dead philosophy, or a defeated enemy in the Western Hemisphere.

"So? You want this guy to disappear? Not my thing. I'm a soldier. Sounds like what you need's a hit man."

"What I need is a professional who can carry out a raid on a well defended compound," Stone replied, unruffled. "Abrigo lives in a rural area, some distance east of Belmopan, the capital city, in a veritable fortress of a forgotten mission. He maintains a staff that includes some thirty armed guards. They are labeled law enforcement, but are in fact military personnel."

"Politics as usual in South and Central America," Morgan said. So you want me to kill him?"

"We need his influence terminated permanently."

Morgan almost laughed at Stone's subtlety. "Fine. Sounds like a simple enough assignment. I won't know how simple until I've had a chance to do a thorough recon."

"I can provide you with maps and details of the target's defenses. You see, this assignment is time dependent. It must take place within the next thirty days. My research tells me you're the best professional available for the job. Will you take it?"

After his recent work in Sierra Leone and a messy bit of business in the Sudan, Morgan was looking for something quick and easy. This certainly looked like it. He figured he'd signal his interest by throwing out an opening price, just to start the haggling.

"I'd have to assemble a team. Equip and train them. Plan for identity concealment afterward. And of course I'd have to see the defenses before I gave you a firm estimate. But, based on what you've said, I figure I can handle what you require for a total cost of, say, two hundred fifty thousand American dollars. Plus expenses."

Stone listened impassively, then nodded and picked up the telephone. He pushed one button and waited for the speed dial to go through its motions. After a few seconds it was clear that a connection was made, but Stone didn't say hello or begin a conversation. He simply said Morgan's last name and the amount he had mentioned. He listened for a moment, his face impassive, and nodded once before resting the telephone in its cradle. Stone had an excellent poker face, and Morgan could not predict the answer.

"This amount is acceptable," Stone said, his words falling like ice crystals. "My client will supply advance intelligence and transportation to and from the site. You will of course deal only with me in this matter."

"Naturally."

Stone sipped from his cup, but kept his pale eyes on Morgan. "I will deposit one quarter of your total fee into the account you name, to cover set up and acquisition costs. The remainder will be transferred to you when the job has been completed to my principal's satisfaction. You have complete autonomy as far as training, equipping and paying your team, and for the actual planning of the event. These are the terms. Are we in business?"

Morgan suppressed a smile. "We are."

CHAPTER 3

That business had brought Morgan to this frozen moment in the Belize jungle. While he watched, a big hand reached out of the darkness behind the uniformed guard and clamped across his face. That would be Smitty, the point man. Morgan heard a thump as the guard's head arced back and his body jerked forward, as if something had hit the small of his back.

Nerveless fingers dropped the harness leash, and the huge dog leaped forward. Morgan's right hand reached to the back of his belt. When he brought it forward, it was filled with the handle of his fighting knife. He held the knife in a reverse grip, its spine pressed along his forearm.

In less than a second the dog was on him, close enough to smell its breath. The beast hung in midair, its jaws set to snap over Morgan's face. His arm swung in front of him, the edge of the blade slashing across the dog's throat. Momentum carried the beast forward, its bulk smashing into his chest. Slammed to his back, Morgan felt hot gore pumping onto him from the animal's slashed throat. Even above the natural stench of the jungle, the odor made him gag. Revolted, he thrust the body away, watching the dog's final death throes before rolling to his knees and looking over the mound again.

He saw another flash of light, then two more. All clear. Shaking off the picture of the huge dog charging him, he signaled his men to continue.

Swinging machetes, the small group of professional soldiers moved through the brush at an aggressive pace. His point man aside, Morgan led the way, feeling sweat pooling in his boots and sliding down his back beneath his belt and other carry straps. He wished he could stop someplace and wash the blood off his uniform, but he knew the mission needed to proceed as planned. As he trudged on, Crazy Mike drew up beside him, smiling despite their exertion.

"The other outer ring guards will find the bodies," Mike said.

"We're less than ten minutes from the target," Morgan replied in hushed tones. "By the time they get back to the compound they'll find us there."

"We might move a little faster if you weren't so ..."

"What? Paranoid?" Morgan asked.

"Over prepared." While Mike had a machine gun slung across his back, Morgan carried a greater variety of tools. He liked to travel with everything he might need. In addition to the machete he used to carve his path through the brush, he wore a shoulder holstered pistol, a fighting knife at his back, a submachine gun at his side, a pair of boot knives, and several extra fully loaded magazines. As Mike had hinted, it all added up to a lot of extra weight.

"You know my attitude," Morgan said. "Better to be over prepared than dead."

"Yeah, well there's no sense killing yourself before ..."

"Freeze!" Morgan snapped with unexpected urgency. Mike stopped in mid-swing, holding an awkward, twisted stance. Behind them, the rest of the team dropped to one knee, their rifles thrust forward.

For a full minute, no one moved while Morgan looked around in all directions. When Mike started to ask "What?" Morgan silenced him with an upraised palm. Having checked everywhere else, Morgan looked toward the damp ground. He bared his teeth and muttered "Jesus" under his breath.

"Mike. Don't panic or anything, but your left boot is pressed against a wire. It's pretty taut and I'm afraid whatever it's attached to might go off if you back off. See anything?"

"I can't even see the damned wire," Mike answered. "I don't remember any mines or snares on that map Stone gave us."

"That's because there weren't any. This is probably new since his recon. Now you just hold real still and I'll try to keep you in one piece, okay?"

CHAPTER 4

Morgan was sure he remembered every bit of intelligence Stone had given him, even though he had not had much time to study it. A month ago, he had been faced with the task of gathering a team, based on the size of Abrigo's guard force and the defensive measures he had taken.

Crazy Mike was the first man he had contacted. A big ruddy Texan with a broad, blunt nose, known for his fearless antics, Mike was a good man to have at your back. A quick phone call had brought him in. The day after his conversation with Stone, Morgan was sitting under a tall pecan tree on Mike's south Texas ranch. After so much time in the tropics, Morgan had almost forgotten how clear and blue a sky could be, and how fresh air could smell.

"After that time in Laos I didn't know if I'd ever see you again." Mike poured more Jack Daniel's into Morgan's glass as he spoke. "Which would have been too bad, because I really dug working with you. I mean, a guy needs a team leader he can trust, and you're just about the best NCO ever led me through the bush. Yeah, that was a good time, but it seems like our time's passing. Ain't done much work since then, except some demolition work in Saudi. And since I ain't up for getting married, life's pretty boring. Nobody to fight with."

"Well, you got a lot of heart, Mike, and I know you worked in Belize before. I figured you'd be just about perfect for this thing."

"And then there's this place, right?" Mike tipped his head back, draining his glass. "I mean, you'll need a training site and a staging area."

"You read my mind, pal. I could use your land and your connections. I've already called Smitty and Josh, a couple of guys I worked with in Angola, but if you know a few more fellows like you, looking for work, give them a call. I figure on an eight man team, counting me."

(Continues...)

Excerpted from The Payback Assignment by Austin S. Camacho. Copyright © 2005 Austin S. Camacho. Excerpted by permission of Intrigue Publishing, LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Edition details

• Publisher: Intrigue Publishing LLC
• Publication date: 2008
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 0976218143
• ISBN 13: 9780976218142
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 244