The Orion Assignment

Retired jewel thief Felicity O'Brian travels to her native Ireland to defend her uncle's Catholic parish. With her is her partner, Morgan Stark, a retired mercenary soldier. The job looks easy until they meet Ian O'Ryan, an IRA terrorist who believes he is the reincarnation of Orion the ancient hunter. He is determined to keep the violence alive in Ireland and to spread it throughout the island.

To avoid bullets, bombs and beatings, Morgan and Felicity rely on a special gift, a psychic link that alerts them to danger. But against O'Ryan they face danger from an entire army of enemies.

Trying to separate patriotic mercenaries from heartless terrorists leads them to a sniper mission on the rocky Irish coast, a deadly high speed motorcycle race in Belgium, and a final confrontation on an island off the coast of France where Morgan could die by slow torture if Felicity doesn't find him in time.

The priest had just finished the benediction when a rumble like the wrath of God burst in his right ear.

The explosion kicked fist sized bits of his small stone church across the front pew. Screams of panic filled the room, and all but the clergyman ran in a blind panic toward the door. His eyes went first to the crumbling wall, then to old Mrs. O'Casey.

Mrs. O'Casey, who spoke fluent Gaelic and walked with a halting tread on spindly legs to sit right down front every Sunday morning without fail just to his right. The stone wall was shifting, its mortar shattered by the explosive blast. Ancient rock would fall in seconds, crushing Mrs. O'Casey's brittle bones, and she was too shocked to move out of the way.

Ears still ringing from the bomb burst, eyes stung by mortar dust, the barrel-chested priest leaped down to the bench and swept his parishioner up in his arms. Breathing through clenched teeth, he jogged up the center aisle. Cradling the old woman like a child, he burst out into the morning's dampness and sunlight. He managed to stand Mrs. O'Casey up in the arms of two younger women before he dropped to his knees, racked with violent coughs.

* * * * *

A soccer field's length away, the window of a gray Mercedes limousine slid down, letting a wisp of the fine Irish mist in. The well dressed passenger in the back seat had a thick shock of wavy red hair. He watched the cloud of smoke roll out of the side of the small church building. The left side of the pitiful structure sagged inward. He could just hear the churchgoers, still screaming and running in circles.



A smile lit the red headed man's tan eyes as his window slid up. He tapped his driver's shoulder with his walking stick and the car moved off. His message had been delivered.

* * * * *

"Are ye all right, Sean?"

"No harm done," the priest said, brushing himself off. "At least not to me." His vestments were filthy, but he removed them with care, revealing a black suit underneath. "At least it looks like everyone got outside okay. But my poor church..."

A man in gray was pulling his hat down over his eyes as he stepped onto the stone path away from the church. Sean's congregation was small these days, and he knew every face in it. This man was a stranger, and strangers were rare in the Irish countryside.

Then Sean turned back to his little church, and walked around the side of the building as if afraid of what he might see. "It looked like it was a small explosion. But, dear Lord in heaven." He stared into a hole wide enough for him to force his broad shoulder through if he wanted to. "What kind of a monster would do such a thing?"

"Ye know full well what kind of monster," Mick Murphy replied. He was a portly man with a big chin and eyes like a ferret's. "You need help, Sean, and if you don't mind me saying so, we both know where you can get it. Go on and get the girl."

"The Lord will provide," the priest said. He watched his parishioners scrambling to the road, many of the women still wailing. His heart sank knowing he was helpless to comfort them or calm their fears.

"Remember the man in the flood, Sean?" Mick asked. "He's hanging on to the roof and a boat comes by. They call for him to jump in and he says `Begone. The Lord will provide'. When he dies on that roof, he ends up facing the Lord in heaven. He says `Lord, I trusted you to provide and you let me die', and the Lord says..."

"Yes," the priest said, "The Lord says `I sent you a boat, you fool.' I remember the story, Mick."

"Well, the Lord has provided you a way if you'll take it, Sean." Both men turned to watch the stained glass window above the hole slide to the ground and explode into shards. The priest's stomach clenched and he fought back tears of anguish or rage. He didn't know which.

"My friend, forget your pride. Go and get the girl. Bring Felicity home."



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It was the most glorious Easter ever. A brilliant sun was shining down through cotton ball clouds. The slightest breeze blew in from the lough, carrying the sweet smell of clover. Every person on the narrow street wore a smile of greeting. The little red haired girl stared around like Alice in Wonderland.

She was only six years old, and this was the high point of her young life. Her mother had made her a lovely new pastel blue dress. Father had bought her white shoes and gloves and a darling hat to wear to church. Her deep green eyes sparkled with delight when she looked in the mirror.

They were simple country folk, and the girl couldn't remember going to the city before. Belfast was a teeming metropolis in her eyes. The buildings fascinated her, huddled so close together that they rubbed shoulders. She marveled at the doors, each a different bright color with fan shaped transoms over them. The street was cobblestone, but it had a sidewalk. And it looked like a street lamp stood on every corner. And surely everyone here owned an automobile.