Lost Art Assignment (6 page)

Morgan's booted feet hung on Felicity's oak cube table. He was casual in black jeans and tee shirt, staring at her thirty-five inch television, half watching a movie with a lot of shooting in it. Paul sat stiffly on the couch, coldly appraising the unrealistic action on the screen. When Felicity entered from the hall, Paul stood up. She was hauling a small soft sided duffel bag and a suitcase barely within her lifting weight limit, which Paul took off her hands.

“I've got to go in about a fifteen minutes,” Felicity said, settling into her couch at the end away from Morgan. “I'm flying to New York with the charming Mister Davis and if all goes according to plan I'll be hip deep in his organization by tomorrow noon. Ought to have a lead on our missing artwork in a couple of days, Lord willing. Now, what we got on these guys?”

“Lay it out, Paul,” Morgan said, turning off the television. Paul stood before Felicity and pulled a small notebook from an inside breast pocket. He was an excellent employee, but Morgan felt he needed loosening up a bit.

“To start with your contact, Ross Davis does seem to be a legitimate name. A small time confidence man with five years known experience on the East Coast. Before that his history is cloudy.”

“Okay, so Ross is Ross,” Felicity said, slipping off her shoes. “So what about this team he's on? How big, how
diverse?”

“This information is too new to be solid,” Paul said. He glanced at Morgan, who gave him a nod to continue. “There appears to be a shake up going on in the New York underworld. A major power play by a newcomer known only as J.J. Slash. He has a team of, well, ‘convincers' they are called, convincing small criminal cells to become part of his apparatus. Appears to have a good feel for organization. Anyway, Davis is a small cog in Slash's machine. A middle man in the fencing operation, specializing in stolen paintings, swindles and such. They move a large volume of quality art, cars, antiques and rarities to an upscale clientele.”

“I kind of hate to get in the way,” Felicity said. “I love to hear about crime being treated like the business it is. It could be clean commerce, if it wasn't for the violence that so often goes along with this kind of thing.”

“Yeah,” Morgan added, “There was nothing wrong with bootleggers except for blowing away the guys who got in their way.”

“So, Morgan. You were saying you had a plan?” Felicity asked.

“Well, here's the deal.” He leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “I figure I'm not known in those circles, but a guy with my skills ought to be in demand. I'll just walk up to the front door and ask for a job. That way I'll be inside and I can get close if you end up in a jam. Paul will be backup on this at your place. We can both call in to him every day. If you miss a call, I'll come straight to you. If you're in serious danger, I ought to be headed that way anyway.”

“Miss O'Brien,” Paul said. “If I may be so bold.”

“Speak your mind, lad.” Felicity found Paul's attitude toward her either frustrating or laughable, depending on the
day. He treated her like a princess, but gave Morgan the respect and deference he would give a king. She would have liked that a lot more. “Paul, we've saved each other's life and you've been part of Stark & O'Brien Security and Risk Management almost from the beginning. You're practically a stock holder. Say what you've got on your mind.”

“Miss O'Brien, this is a dangerous position you are considering,” Paul said. “You must not underestimate these gang members. They are ruthless. If these people find you've lied to them, they may kill you immediately. Mister Stark may not learn of your endangered position until after the fact. I'm not sure recovery of a client's property warrants this extreme risk.”

“Well, I can buy myself some time with this little gift Morgan gave me,” Felicity said, tossing Paul her purse. “Not inside. Reach underneath.” Velcro held the bag's bottom together. From the small hidden pocket, Paul pulled what looked like a stainless steel toy revolver, four inches long and less than two inches high.

“North American Arms makes that little five shot,” Morgan explained. “It's called the Black Widow, and it's chambered for twenty-two magnums. Just thumb back the hammer and squeeze. Strictly for emergencies.”

Paul returned the little gun to its hiding place. “It hardly seems adequate,” was his only comment. Felicity glanced at Morgan as if to transfer something. He smiled, both in recognition and agreement.

“Okay, Red,” Morgan said. “Why don't we head out to drop you at the airport a little early? You drive, and I'll run it down to him.”

Five minutes later, Felicity was weaving through the morning northbound traffic, driving toward Los Angeles
International Airport, barely seven miles up highway one. Morgan noted that the sun seemed brighter than in New York, even though Los Angeles had thicker smog. He leaned forward in the rental car's back seat, elbows on thighs, his fingers loosely knit together. Paul sat beside him, and Morgan could see concern on Paul's face. He was probably wondering if he had somehow stepped out of line.

“Red's right, you've been with us from the start. I should have told you long ago about her and me.”

“I know you care a great deal about each other,” Paul said. “And I know there is no romantic relationship.”

“Not what I mean, Paul,” Morgan said. Road noise made him talk louder than he wanted. Without thinking, he pulled a throwing knife from his boot and started fidgeting with it. “You've seen me in action. You know how I never get snuck up on.”

“I've known a lot of professionals, but you have the best instincts I've seen.”

“There's more to it than that Paul,” Morgan said, dropping his head to focus on the knife. “What I have is a little weird. I can sense when I'm in danger. It's a psychic thing, a danger sense I guess.” Morgan looked up, searching for any skepticism on Paul's face. Paul seemed to be waiting for more. He revealed no hint of doubt.

“Now, Red, she's got the same thing, see,” Morgan continued. “Can feel when danger's coming. Strange, huh?”

“A lot of mercenaries, thieves and bodyguards develop a sense of when things aren't right,” Paul observed. “I would say you two have developed this to a higher degree than most of us.”

“Yeah, well here comes the really weird part,” Morgan said. “We seem to be on the same wavelength, her and me. I mean, I can tell when she's in trouble and vice versa.
Sometimes, when things get really intense, I can even feel what she feels. You can imagine what that'd mean in a romantic situation.”

Morgan was remembering a night so many months ago. He had known Felicity only days and already they had saved each other's lives more than once. After escaping an ambush and fighting their way free, they had moved rather naturally into a romantic position. It was during an intense bout of lovemaking that they first received each other's sensory input. Morgan literally felt himself being penetrated, in a place he didn't have. It was a jarring, frightening experience he would never risk repeating.

Paul's face showed he clearly could imagine how that may have been. Then a memory prodded him.

“In Paris,” Paul said. “In that case with the terrorist O'Ryan. She knew you were being hurt. And she knew… she KNEW where you were.”

“That's right,” Morgan said. “She really knew. Just as I'll know where she is, as long as we're both in the city. If they bust her out on this case, I can go straight to her. I'm telling you all this because now you see why it's not an unacceptable risk.”

“Yes.” Paul paused to think before speaking again. He had to know Morgan had shared a well-kept secret with him. He now belonged to a very small group. “I accept all this because I know you, and I've seen a lot in this world. I've learned that the likelihood of a person being right is directly proportional to how sure they are. But a lot of people would not accept.”

“A lot of people would think we were nuts,” Morgan said. “That's why you're the only person in the organization who knows. But I think you're a good security risk.” Morgan smiled and slapped his shoulder. Paul responded
with a rare smile of his own.

Felicity kissed Morgan's cheek, gave Paul a good-bye wave and strode off as quickly as she could for Los Angeles International Airport's air conditioned comfort. A small duffel hung on her right shoulder, but it wasn't heavy enough to counterbalance her suitcase, so she leaned right a bit. She avoided redcaps because her luggage contained some special things, but her progress wasn't as fast as she would have liked. She bobbed down the hall, past shoe shine stands and newspaper kiosks toward the gate listed on her advance ticket.

She traveled in comfortable clothes, but her pleated shirt dress wasn't meant for athletics. Her long skirt got tangled with the suitcase. Freeing it, and pulling her hair from her face, kept her busy while she tried to avoid running into those arrogant businessmen and helpless old women permanently stationed, like barriers on an obstacle course, on all major airport walkways.

By the time she arrived at her destination, Felicity had also reached a high level of quiet frustration. She simply wanted to check her luggage and board the blasted plane. She started to perspire, something she hated except when jogging or doing her gymnastics routine. With a huff, she dropped her suitcase beside the conveyor belt, building up her strength to heft it up onto the scale. An instant before she actually yanked the handle, she felt another hand slip over her own.

“You look like you could use a hand,” Ross Davis said, putting her suitcase in its place. He reached for the duffel bag, but Felicity grabbed its straps.

“Not this one, thanks. It rides with me. Got some nice pictures in here of my time in California.”

Felicity was cheered by the pragmatic thought that she now had clear evidence that Davis represented no threat to her. If he did, she would have felt him there before his smooth hand contacted hers. Maintaining serious thoughts was hard around him. Today he wore a Brooks Brothers blue pinstripe suit with a gray French cuff shirt. The pattern on his tie was composed of those two colors with a midnight blue back. His shoes were gray alligator, she guessed from Stacy Adams. It worked for him. She found herself thinking he had the natural fashion sense Morgan lacked.

This was bad. When she started comparing a man to Morgan it was a sure sign of trouble.

In the waiting area, Felicity stood at the wall sized window, watching her plane get into position. Davis walked up beside her as if they were strangers.

“Have they filled the tank and checked the oil yet?”

“I'm waiting for them to check the tire pressure,” Felicity said. “Do I look like a nervous flyer, Mister…?”

“Davis. Ross Davis.” He took her hand. “And please call me Ross. Are you on the flight to New York as well?”

He was good, Felicity reflected. She reminded herself that he had just picked her up with the smooth practiced ease of a master confidence man. She must not forget that putting people into their comfort zone was his business.

Their conversation continued until a nasal voice called them to board their plane. As they started down the portable tunnel, Felicity picked up a gentle nudge from her
danger sense, the kind she felt when she was under surveillance. It could be nothing, a pick pocket in the crowd looking for a target or a mugger attracted to her legs. Just in case, she scanned the group boarding behind her.

The woman pulling a shopping bag seemed a little too nervous. The small Japanese man gave a broad smile when her eyes slipped onto him. Too much? Two black businessmen hustled into the crowd, both quite determined that no one would pass them on their way to their seats. The one in front was tall, thin and very light for a black man. He was working hard at not looking at her. Shy, or an amateur tail?

“Something wrong?” Davis asked, his voice soft but guarded in her ear.

“Runaway paranoia,” she said with a smile. “Felt as though someone was watching me.”

“Any man behind us who ISN'T watching you is either blind or gay.”

Felicity was still chuckling when she found her assigned window seat. Davis paused long enough to feign surprise at his seat being next to hers. Then they settled into their places and became good passenger zombies for a few minutes. They straightened their seats, fastened their safety belts and folded up their trays. Then they watched attentively as a stewardess explained how to get oxygen and use their seats for flotation in case the unthinkable happened. They checked the location of the exit nearest them.

A moment later they were bumping down the tarmac. Then came that stomach yanking elevator feeling and their wide bodied Boeing leaped into the air, arcing for the clouds. Felicity felt an invisible cord stretch, strain and finally snap, disconnecting her from her support group.

Whatever happened to Felicity O'Brien, cat burglar and jewel thief, she wondered. She had been a loner all her life, and happy with that life, until she took a robbery job for someone else, a simple job which turned sour. A double cross had left her stranded in a South American jungle, lost and terrified.

Along came Morgan Stark, mercenary soldier and self-proclaimed adventurer. He saved her life and so much more. They couldn't be lovers, but he became her best friend, and she loved him now as much as a brother. He seemed to complement her, as if they thought with one brain sometimes. When they discovered their mysterious psychic link, it seemed they were destined to work together.

Her knowledge of alarms and locks dovetailed with his experience with bodyguard and counter terrorist work. The business they started, based on their individual and joint talents, had grown over a few short years. From personal, physical and information security, they had expanded to include major sub-sections of investigation, surveillance and a courier service.