Ice Woman Assignment by Austin Camacho Page B

open her door’s cipher lock. Inside, she ran down the hall to her bedroom. Once there she dropped the jacket to the carpet. In her full length mirror she stared at her new injury. The thin line of blood had become a long, narrow scab. She stared at herself in shock and horror, letting tears flow freely down her cheeks, onto her damaged breast.
    She leaned over her dresser to drop the contact lenses out of her eyes. Only one fell. Amidst the tension and chaos she had not noticed that the left lens was missing. It must have flown when Anaconda slapped her. She shed her tattered clothing and wrapped herself in a big white terrycloth bathrobe. She felt an overwhelming drive to wash the color out of her hair and off her skin. Was this how a rape victim felt, this need to be clean? The desire to shower and shampoo, to get back to her own look, was strong but she knew she had more important matters to attend to first.
    Morgan.
    Perched on the sofa’s edge, Felicity pushed buttons on her cordless telephone. After three rings a familiar voice said hello.
    â€œThis is Conrad, right?”
    â€œWho’s this?” the voice asked, too carefully.
    â€œIt’s O’Brien. Listen, have you heard from Morgan?”
    â€œI don’t think I know any…” Conrad began.
    â€œLook, don’t give me any of your silly spy malarkey. Morgan’s been taken by those Chicanos and he might be hurt, or worse.”
    â€œI’m sorry,” Conrad said. “You must have the wrong number.” Felicity heard a click, then silence, then a dial tone.
    â€œArsehole!” She screamed into space, and then dialed again. Her photographic memory kept her from having to look up any number she had ever dialed. This time she called Chuck Barton’s hotel room but got no answer. He must have already left for Corpus Christi. Damn. Next she dialed a number in Panama. She waited impatiently through long distance clicks, until she heard the remote ringing sound.
    â€œYes?” It was Mark Roberts’ voice. Roberts was Barton’s control agent, an old acquaintance of Morgan’s, and CIA bureau chief in Central America which for some reason included Colombia. She knew he would not talk to her until he could verify her identity and switch on a scrambler.
    â€œIt’s O’Brien,” she said. “Call in thirty minutes. Priority one.” That meant life and death. Then she hung up, thought for a moment, and dialed again. “Tim, it’s Felicity. I need some help.”
    â€œAnything, Miss O’Brien,” the guard said. “After all, you’re the boss.” He meant it literally. Felicity and Morgan insisted on providing security for the building their offices were in, and her apartment above them.
    â€œTim, I need you to bring me a phone book.” She paced as she spoke, her nerves on edge.
    â€œMa’am you sound nervous,” Tim said. “And, seriously,do they still print those things? I have no idea where I’d find one. Why don’t you tell me whose number you need? I’ll just look it up online, or call information.”
    â€œNo good. I’ve got to find Morgan. I might need the phone number for every police station in the state. And all the hospitals.” Her voice faltered, cracking. “And maybe the morgue.”

-9-
    In the dark, they could be anywhere. Six yards off the freeway they stepped into a patch of transplanted evergreen forest which could just as easily exist off the New York State Thruway or Highway 95 in Georgia. Morgan could not be sure they were still in California.
    A soft breeze flipped his collar and cooled his face. The whoosh sound of passing cars was linked to lights rushing by, catching the three Chicanos in a chilling strobe effect. Morgan stood on soft, springy ground. He faced the trio, hands locked behind him. Again he wished he could open handcuffs as easily as his partner. As it was, he was prepared for a