Noble Intent
william miller
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Can’t wait for more Jake Noble?
Did you enjoy the Book?
About the Author
NOBLE INTENT
Copyright © 2018 by William Miller.
All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Book and Cover design by www.LiteraryRebel.com
First Edition: Feb 2018
Dedication and special thanks:
This book is dedicated to my father, who taught me to do the right thing.
I’d also like to thank John D. Patten, Natasha Lanckriet, and “Gunny” for their insight and feedback, my editor for laboring to catch all my grammar and spelling mistakes, and LiteraryRebel.com for the amazing cover and formatting.
Rescue the weak and the needy; deliver them from the hand of the wicked.
Psalm 82:4
Chapter One
A small craft cut through choppy black waves under the cover of darkness. The forty-foot SeaVee humped over a swell and back down into a trough. Saltwater lashed the open deck while the outboard engines churned water into white foam. Clouds blotted out the stars and icy rain fell in sideways sheets, cutting visibility to zero.
Sacha Duval sheltered in the pilothouse, his collar turned up against the wind and driving rain. Thinning white hair was plastered to his skull and, combined with a hatchet face, gave him the appearance of a drowned rat. He didn’t like boats, of any kind, and he didn’t like the ocean either. He brought an inhaler from his coat pocket, took a deep hit, held it, and let it out slow. His English was laced with a French accent. He asked, “How much longer?”
The pilot, a wiry Englishman, shrugged. His face was a road map of deep-set wrinkles from a lifetime on the open sea. He had learned his craft in the British Royal Navy and now made a living smuggling people and contraband across the Channel. “Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes, assuming we don’t run into any patrols.”
Duval crossed his arms over his chest and tucked his chin against the cold. His stomach was a mass of writhing snakes. Every swell threatened to bring up his dinner. His imagination insisted on showing him images of black helicopters with searchlights. After ten minutes of pacing, he peered through the rain streaked glass and now saw tiny pinpricks of light in the darkness. “Is that the mainland?”
The pilot nodded. “You’re home, mate.”
“I have no home,” Duval told him. “Not anymore.”
A pair of mercenaries stood in the bow, bundled against the rain in slickers and watch caps. Duval had hired them through back channels on the Dark Web. They were members of an organization called Le Milieu, which specialized in money laundering, extortion, drug trafficking, intimidation and, for the right price, murder. Protection was a bit out of their wheelhouse, but if they could kill people for money, Duval figured, they could just as easily protect people.
One of the mercenaries, a swarthy man who went by the name Mateen, moved along the gunwale to the pilothouse and stuck his head around the partition. His thick black brows came together over a crooked nose. He said, “We’ll be docking shortly. Gather your gear.”
Duval gave a jerky nod. “Thank you for this.”
“Don’t thank me until the job is done, bon homme,” Mateen said and then rejoined his partner in the bow.
The pilot dropped his voice. “You sure you trust these blokes?”
“They came highly recommended,” Duval said by way of explanation, as if that settled the matter. Reality was, his options were limited. He needed someone who could get him safely across the mainland and Le Milieu was the only group he felt reasonably sure hadn’t been compromised.
He shouldered a careworn duffel bag, then clutched the handle on a large suitcase stuffed with all his earthly belongings. Not long now, Duval told himself. He just had to make it across France to Italy and from there to Montenegro where he could finally live as a free man.
The pilot cursed, throttled down, and spun the wheel. The sound of the engines dropped to a gentle rumble. The boat swung to port and drifted over a swell. Waves lapped against the hull while freezing rain made a steady tattoo on the fiberglass deck.
“What’s happened?” Duval asked. His stomach gave an uncomfortable lurch. “Why are we stopping?”
“Look.” The pilot pointed.
Duval followed his finger and saw nothing but darkness. He started to say as much when his eyes picked out a shadow moving against the deeper black of the English Channel.
“Oh my God, we’re caught.” His dinner started to make its way north. He wrung his hands together. “Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!”
The mercenaries crowded into the pilot house. Mateen asked, “What is it?”
“Gendarmerie Maritime.” The pilot directed their attention.
A French Géranium class patrol boat slowly materialized out of the darkness. The ship took shape as the sound of the engines reached their ears. The large craft cut through the black waters at a steady fifteen knots. She was running with minimal lights, trying to stay invisible in the darkness.
Duval paced faster, wringing h
is hands and repeating, “Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!”
“Have they spotted us?” Mateen asked.
“Don’t think so.” The pilot thrust his chin at Duval. “Bit nervous, isn’t he?”
Mateen glanced in Duval’s direction. “You would be too if you spent the last decade living in exile.”
The French coast guard continued to bear down on them. It would pass within fifteen meters of the starboard bow. The pilot kept the engines running as long as he dared, trying to increase the distance.
Mateen said, “Can you outrun them?
“Sure thing. Only they’ll radio a helicopter and then where’ll we be?”
“Haven’t they got radar?” the other mercenary wanted to know.
“I’m throttled all the way down,” the pilot assured him. “Not giving off much signature.”
“We’re caught,” Duval told them.
The pilot said, “Try to relax, mate. I’ve not been caught yet.”
When the patrol boat was fifty meters out, the pilot cut the engines completely and let the SeaVee bob in the water. The engines died with a cough and the only noise came from lapping waves. Duval went on pacing and now he was muttering to himself as well. The others watched in silence.
A shaft of light shot out from the patrol boat. Drops of rain looked like diamonds flashing in the brilliant radiance. The search light played across the choppy surface of the Channel.
“They spotted us,” Duval nearly shrieked.
“No, they haven’t,” the pilot hissed. “They’re just searching. Stay quiet.”
Duval hunkered in the boat, rocking on his heels. He wanted to run, but where would he go? He was in the middle of the ocean. This was a stupid idea, he told himself. A stupid, stupid, stupid idea! He was going to be caught and he’d spend the rest of his life in prison. He never should have left the embassy.
Then you’d be dead, he thought.
The beam moved back and forth over the water. It came within a few meters of their prow. Duval gasped. Mateen cursed in French. Then the light was moving away. The pilot let out a shaking breath and spoke in a whisper, “That was a near thing.”
The French patrol boat held her course, twenty meters off their starboard side. The noise from the twin screws grew to a throaty rumble as she passed by and the little SeaVee rocked in the cruiser’s wake.
Duval chanced a peek over the gunwale and nearly laughed out loud. “I thought we were dead.”
Mateen said, “They must know we’re out here. Why else would they use the search light?”
“Probably picked up a blip on the radar,” the pilot said.
“Won’t they circle around and come back?” The other mercenary, a Frenchman named Jacques, wanted to know.
The pilot shook his head. “They can’t be sure it was a boat.”
“How do you know?” Mateen asked.
“If they had a good signature, they would cut their engines and search until they found us.” He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned his hips against the wheel. “We’ll just float here a while until they’re out of range. Everybody relax. Like I said, I’ve not been caught yet.”
For Duval, the next five minutes were the longest of the whole operation. Rain continued to hammer the deck and icy little spears attacked his bare head. The boat rocked side to side, making his stomach twist. He was sure he would vomit and was fighting to keep it down when the pilot finally pressed the starter and the outboard engines roared to life. Relief flooded his belly like a swallow of good strong cognac. He let out a trembling breath and mopped wisps of white-blond hair from his forehead.
Chapter Two
Ten minutes later, the small craft nosed up to a stone jetty in the harbor town of Honfleur. Nestled on the south bank estuary of the Seine River, Honfleur is a picturesque port town of narrow lanes and closely packed buildings. It is home to medieval fortresses and the Sainte-Catherine church, built entirely of wood in the 15th century. The cafés and cobblestone streets have inspired Claude Monet and countless painters since. Rain was still falling, but now it was coming straight down. Sailboats bobbed on the water, sheltered from the worst of the storm by seawalls to the north and south. The fiberglass hull of the SeaVee bumped rotting wood pylons.
Duval tried to convince the pilot to take him down the Seine, all the way to Paris, but the old seaman only shook his head and cut the engines. The mercenaries leapt out and went to work securing the mooring lines.
The pilot said, “Good luck to you, Mr. Duval.”
“Thank you.” Duval paused to shake his hand.
While Jacques finished tying off the lines, Mateen went a little way down the jetty and checked their surroundings. The harbor faced a quaint little row of seaside shops, all closed at the moment. Street lamps glowed like fairy lights through the steady drizzle. A few boathouses lined the seawall and a row of cars were parked on the boulevard, but the town itself was asleep. Mateen nodded, satisfied, and returned to the ship. “All clear. Get your luggage.”
Duval grabbed the oversized suitcase and heaved it over the gunwale onto the dock. He grunted with the effort. Butterflies were zipping around inside his belly. He felt totally exposed. He didn’t like being on the boat in the middle of the ocean, but he didn’t like being out in the open either. He wanted to ditch his luggage and run to the waiting Renault. He would feel safer once they were in the car, headed south. He clambered over the gunwale, slipped on the clammy stone and went down on top of his suitcase.
Mateen said, “We need to hurry.”
Duval pushed himself up. “You could help.”
Mateen glanced around the empty harbor, sighed, and reached for Duval’s overstuffed suitcase. The moment he did, a sharp thwip-thwip-thwip split the air. Jacques made a sound like a seal giving birth, bent over at the waist and staggered. One foot slipped between the pier and the boat. He hit the side of the vessel and went into the water with a splash.
Duval’s heart climbed up into his throat. He hunkered down, looking for the source of the noise. A black-clad phantom appeared through the rain, wearing a ski mask and pointing a small automatic machinegun capped with a sound suppressor. Duval didn’t know much about guns, but he knew enough to recognize professional hardware.
Mateen dropped the suitcase and shoved a hand into his jacket. He didn’t even get his gun out before another short burst of muffled claps ripped through the pouring rain. Pthut-pthut-pthut. Duval was close enough to hear the impacts and see wet droplets explode off Mateen’s rain slicker.
The mercenary danced a jig. His hand came out of his coat with his gun. The assassin fired again. Thwap-thwap. Mateen’s head snapped back. He let go of the weapon and pitched over onto the dock. The gun bounced over the stones and came to rest a few inches from Duval’s feet.
His first instinct was to dive back into the boat, but his legs refused to obey. He felt rooted to the spot. His bladder surrendered the fight right then and there. He was standing up straight, leaning back away from the assassin. The weight of his duffel bag almost toppled him over.
The assassin moved along the dock, kicked Mateen’s handgun into the water and then turned the stubby automatic on the pilot. The Englishman’s hands went into the air and all the color drained from his face. He started to stammer out words. It might have been “Don’t shoot,” but it sounded like, “Donchuma!”
A woman’s voice, muffled by the rain-soaked ski mask, said, “Do you want to live?”
The pilot nodded. “I’ve got two little girls at home.”
“Get on the deck. Put your face down and count to one hundred, slowly.”
He threw one terrified glance at Duval, muttered an apology, and then sank to the deck of the ship.
Fear turned Duval’s arms and legs to rubber. A tortured sob escaped his throat. He screwed his eyes shut and waited to hear the pthut-pthut-pthut and feel the bullets punch through his chest.
Instead, the assassin grabbed his collar and hauled him along the deck. His toes caught
on uneven paving stones and his knees threatened to give out. Air exploded from his lungs in panicked little gasps. He tried to beg for his life, but fear so powerful it was a physical force shorted out the circuits between his brain and mouth.
At the end of the jetty, the assassin steered him along the sidewalk toward an unmarked van with tinted windows. This is it, Duval told himself. He would be forced into the back of the van, duct taped, and driven to a black site where they would torture him. When they had wrung out every last bit of useful information, they would put a bullet in the back of his head. No one would ever find his body.
That thought finally tripped something in his brain. Survival instinct overruled his fear. In desperation, he drove an elbow over his shoulder, catching the assassin off guard. Her head snapped back. She made a noise that was more surprise than pain, but it was enough to throw her off balance. She lost her grip on Duval’s collar and he ran for his life. He didn’t know where he was going, only that he needed to put as much distance between him and the assassin as possible. Fear coursed through his veins, turning to blind panic, urging his legs to move faster.
Noble Intent Page 1
