Noble Intent

by William Miller

  Noble tucked the gun in his armpit. It was like ramming a hot curling iron under his arm. Ignoring the searing pain, he crouched down and dug a BIC from his pocket. It took him three tries to get a flame. He touched the fire to the frayed end of the rope and ghostly blue waves raced along the cord, engulfed the first of the lighters and started to melt the plastic. The orange body bubbled and warped, blackening around the edges. Noble sprinted from the narthex before the first sharp pop.

  Grey and Preston answered with a deadly burst. From outside, it was hard to tell the difference between an exploding lighter and a gunshot. As the fire engulfed the rope, melting another lighter every few inches, it added to the din. The end of the rope was stuffed inside a half-full gas can that would create a nice big bang. A stray bullet blew a chunk out of a stained-glass window and hissed over Noble’s head.

  He pulled his shoulders up around his ears and yelled to be heard over the constant barrage. “Time to go!”

  Sam dropped down through the open drainage ditch, ducked her head and disappeared into the dark, scrambling on hands and knees along the tunnel. Noble hopped in after her and pulled the heavy steel grate into place. Damp leaves mushed under his hands and feet.

  Grey sprinted to a scrawny tree and put his shoulder against it. As far as cover went, it was lousy, but it made him feel safer. Either his mind was playing tricks on him, or that last shot had been from a .22 caliber with a reduced load. It sounded too soft and high pitched. But it got a reaction. Preston hammered the front of the church with another long barrage. Every shot was a bullet that might accidentally kill the French journalist.

  “Hold your fire!” Grey yelled.

  Preston kept squeezing off rounds, sending lances of pain through Grey’s ears and into his brain. By the time he made himself heard, a flicker of orange fire was crawling up one corner of the door. Grey cursed. They had managed to set the place on fire. Another sharp crack made him flinch. This time he was sure of it. That was no gunshot. Sounded more like a firecracker. Noble had rigged a distraction to keep them busy.

  Grey called out, “Preston! I’ll circle round back. You go in the front.”

  A sharp pop brought their shoulders up around their ears.

  When Preston didn’t move, Grey shouted, “Now!”

  Preston popped up off the lawn and sprinted toward the double doors. Grey hustled toward the side yard with his gun leading the way. He was expecting Duval to emerge from the back of the church, trying to sneak away under the cover of darkness. Two more sharp pops like fireworks went off, followed by a rending explosion that shook the ground under Grey’s feet. An orange fireball blew out the windows and sent chunks of stained glass sailing through the air.

  Noble followed Sam along the low drainage tunnel. She was just a shadow in the deeper darkness up ahead. Damp soaked through the knees of Noble’s denims. His hands squished in cold mud and soggy leaves. In his hurry, he got distracted, cracked his head a good one against the curved roof and cursed.

  “You okay?” Sam hollered back. Her voice echoed in the enclosed space.

  “I’m good,” he assured her. “Keep moving.”

  They hadn’t gone far when the gas can ignited. The deafening whomp sucked all the air from Noble’s lungs and he had to stop. Hearing was gone, replaced by a high-pitched dial tone. Briefly, he wondered what kind of long-term damage this was doing to his ears. He would probably be deaf when he got older, but that was a small price to pay. He got his hands and feet moving again and ran into Sam’s bottom. He reached forward and gave her a push.

  The crawlspace emptied into a shallow drainage ditch running through the woods in back of the cathedral. Noble scrambled over a bed of sharp rocks, scraping his knees in the process. Sam helped him to his feet. He stood with his hands on his thighs, breathing heavy. Sam pushed a tangle of damp hair away from her forehead, smearing dirt on her brow in the process. “We have to keep moving.”

  Noble nodded, too out of breath for words. They went crashing through the woods, naked branches clawed at Noble’s cheeks. Exposed roots snagged his toes. His heart rode in his throat and his lungs burned. It was an effort to keep pace with a woman ten years younger. Sam ran flat out, her long legs eating up ground, dodging between trees like she could see in the dark.

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Burke was on his feet with his fists clenched and his fingernails biting into his palms. The large center screen showed two figures creeping across the ground toward a rambling structure. It was hard to be sure from the angle, but the analysts assured him it was an old cathedral. Drones circled overhead. Both units had switched to Starlight video, turning Grey and Preston into white phantoms picking their way across a field of black. The situation room watched the approach with baited breath. Dana was at Burke’s side, one hand over her mouth.

  “Coughlin, I’m telling you for the last time,” Burke was saying. “Call your men off. Tell Grey to stand down. They need to wait until we can get a Quick Reaction Team over there.”

  Coughlin snorted and shook his head. “And let Gunn slip away again? No chance.”

  Burke rounded on him. “Noble is a former Green Beret, for cryin’ out loud. He’s going to take these two apart.”

  Coughlin, his eye twitching, shot him a nasty look. “Grey and Preston both have military backgrounds.”

  “But you don’t.” Burke jabbed a finger at Coughlin’s chest. “You’re about to get them both killed. Or Duval.”

  “This is happening, Burke. Now get your finger out of my face before I have you thrown out of this situation room. You did your part. You found them. Now I’m going to do mine, so back off.”

  Burke shook his head and turned back to the action on screen.

  The ghostly white apparitions came within a dozen yards of the structure. A brilliant flash caused the picture to bleed out momentarily while the cameras adjusted to the change in illumination. Burke had seen enough firefights through a Starlight scope to know a gunshot, even without sound. A brief but intense exchange of rounds followed. It was like watching an avant-garde science fiction movie. White ghosts sent arcs of laser light zipping at the front of the church. There was a brief lull and then another brilliant display. Then one of the attackers rushed the front door while the other went around the side. Before either man could reach the building, a major heat signature washed out the picture.

  Burke’s mind struggled to make sense of what he was seeing. Had he just watched Jake Noble and Sam Gunn blown to bits? When the image adjusted, the cathedral was a white-washed conflagration. Bright spots of fire illuminated the field of black. For one brief second, Burke thought he glimpsed a flash of muted white in the trees behind the church, but it was impossible to say if it was a person, an animal, or just flaming wreckage.

  Coughlin took a breath and let it out slowly. His fists were planted on his hips. “What the hell just happened?”

  One of the analysts turned in his seat. “Looked like an explosion, sir.”

  “Did they hit a gas main or something?” Coughlin wanted to know.

  Burke said, “We won’t know until we go through the wreckage.”

  Coughlin said, “Get fire and rescue units en route in case there are any survivors. Keep two drones overhead. I want to know if anyone comes out.”

  A chorus of Yes, sirs greeted his request.

  Coughlin said, “I’ll inform the Director.”

  “Do that,” Burke said, watching him go.

  Dana laid a hand on Burke’s shoulder and whispered, “I’m sorry.”

  Hot tears of pain and sorrow gathered behind Burke’s eyes. It felt like someone had dropped a load of cinder blocks on his chest. He cleared his throat. “Excuse me a moment. I need the restroom.”

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Coughlin started across the floor of the Operations Directorate, shot a quick look around the sea of cubicles to be sure no one was looking, then ducked into an unused conference room. The long, windowless cube had nicotine stains on t
he walls and a table the size of a battleship crammed up the space, but it was swept twice a day for listening devices, so Coughlin wasn’t worried about anyone picking up his conversation.

  He perched on a corner of the table, dialed, and put the phone to his ear. The muscles around his left eye convulsed. Stress and lack of sleep made the myoclonic twitch worse. The uncontrollable jerk had earned him grade school monikers like Winky Pete and Mr. Twitchy. College hadn’t been much better. Coughlin didn’t score his first date until the ripe old age of twenty-two, and she had been a wallflower with Coke-bottle glasses and a lisp. In his career with the CIA, the involuntary contraction had kept him out of field work, but that wasn’t always a bad thing. It’s hard to get shot when you’re running an operation from the other side of the globe. However, it meant he was constantly one move behind the action, making decisions after the fact, trying to collect information on a fluid situation and adapting as new facts came in.

  Grey picked up with a brusque hello.

  “What happened?”

  “I’m not sure,” Grey said. Coughlin could hear the crackle of flames in the background. “They started shooting and next thing I know the whole place goes up in a ball of fire.”

  “What about Duval?” Coughlin said.

  “Not much chance he lived through that,” said Grey. “The place is a wreck.”

  “You’d better pray he’s still alive.” Coughlin stood up and paced the narrow space. “He’s the only one who knows the name of his failsafe. If that next Cypher Punk vault gets released, we’re going to find out the hard way what dirt he’s got on us. If it’s even half what we suspect, we are looking at life in prison.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Grey said.

  “Get in there and sift through the ashes,” Coughlin told him. “If they’re dead, I want to see the bodies. And be quick about it. Police and fire are on their way.”

  “Fine,” Grey said, “I’m on it. What about the computer?”

  “My two hard-luck cases managed to hack the database and delete all of the medusa files. I think they might be suspicious, but they can be dealt with.”

  “And who’s going to do that?”

  “I will,” Coughlin told him.

  Grey snorted.

  “Just because I don’t work in the field doesn’t mean I’m afraid to get my hands dirty,” Coughlin told him. “I’ve got my end under control.”

  “A fat lot of good that’s going to do us if Duval is dead,” Grey said.

  “And whose fault is that?” Coughlin massaged the skin around his eye in a useless attempt to relax the muscle. “I practically dropped him in your lap.”

  “Don’t pin this on me,” Grey said.

  “Why not?” Coughlin said. “It’s your fault.”

  “First Sam Gunn shows up out of nowhere and kills Frank, then this Noble guy comes along. How is that my fault?”

  “I’ll make it your fault,” Coughlin said. “I’ll march into the Director’s office right now and pin this whole thing on your head. I know all about your account in the Caymans. I’ll freeze your assets. You won’t make it out of France alive.”

  “You bastard,” Grey said.

  “If you don’t want to spend the rest of your very short life looking over your shoulder,” Coughlin said, “get in there and find those bodies. If they’re dead, get on the first plane to D.C.”

  “What do you have in mind?” Grey asked.

  “Maybe we can use CyberLance to incriminate Frank Bonner and Sam Gunn. They’re both dead. We can make it look like they were in on it together and had a falling out. CyberLance is the perfect tool to make that happen.”

  He hung up and ran a hand over his face. This whole thing had gone balls up. With Duval dead, Coughlin could only wait and hope the fallout from the Cypher Punk release wasn’t as bad as Duval claimed it would be. If it named names, then Coughlin would have nowhere to hide. He tugged at his collar. It felt like a noose tightening around his neck. He could go home, pack a bag and disappear, but that would be an admission of guilt. He thought about CyberLance and the pair of computer nerds in the basement. Frank had been their resident tech guru. Not that he had any great skill with computers, but he had known enough to put CyberLance to use. Maybe it was time for one last hack. Coughlin formulated a hasty plan. He would need some leverage, which meant one of the techies had to die. It appeared he would be getting his hands dirty after all.

  Chapter Sixty

  Burke and Dana shared a high-top at the Smoke & Barrel, a trendy D.C. watering hole known for expensive bourbon. The clientele is a mix of corporate lawyers in bespoke suits and college kids in Georgetown sweatshirts affecting a knowledge of good liquor. An old Charlie Parker tune was on the sound system and a basket of curly-cut fries sat untouched on the table between them. It was just after four in the afternoon and the crowd was still thin. By six the place would be packed and the volume would peel paint from the walls, but for now it was quiet enough. Burke nursed a drink while a fat man in an apron ran a broom over the floor. The bristles made a soft whisking sound against the hardwood.

  Dana reached across the table and laid a slim white hand over Burke’s meaty black paw. “I’m really sorry, Matt.”

  He nodded, took her fingers and gave them a squeeze. “Noble was a good soldier. They both were.”

  Her brow pinched. She said, “I’ve never seen Coughlin like that before. He was possessed. He took the whole thing way too personally. I don’t believe for a second it had anything to do with Frank Bonner being killed. I think he wanted to make certain Gunn didn’t live long enough to talk to anybody.”

  “I’m sure of it. Only I don’t know why,” Burke said. “Now we’ll never know. Everyone involved is dead.”

  “Or working for Coughlin,” Dana pointed out.

  Burke nodded. “You can bet your garter, Grey is never going to roll on his boss.”

  They sat in silence for a while, each lost in thought. It had been a long couple of days. Burke picked up his whiskey and swirled the amber liquid around in the glass. He was not normally one for hard liquor. A strawberry daiquiri was his drink of choice, but today called for something stronger. He sipped and pulled a face.

  “Speaking of my garter.” Dana lowered her voice to a throaty whisper. “How’d you like to walk me home and help me out of it?”

  Burke’s lips pressed into a thin line and turned down at the corners. “It’s been a long day,” he told her. “How ‘bout a rain check?”

  Her cheeks flushed. “Is something wrong?”

  “No, I’m just tired.”

  She slipped off her stool and held out a hand. “At least walk me home?”

  “Sure.”

  He dropped a few bills on the table, took Dana’s hand and led her up a flight of stairs to street level. A blustering wind tugged at the hem of his overcoat. To Burke, it felt late, like the stars should be winking in a cold black sky, but an orange sun still hung in the clouds and their shadows stretched out behind them on the sidewalk. They strolled along, Dana clinging to his arm, and Burke cloaked in his grief. It was hard to imagine Jake Noble dead. Burke’s mind refused to accept the idea. Partly because Jake wasn’t the type to leave anything to chance, not if he could help it. And because, if true, Jake’s death was Burke’s fault. He loved the kid like a son. He would never tell that to Jake, but they both knew it. The thought that he might have sent Jake to his death left a hole right in the center of Burke’s chest.

  They walked in silence until they reached Dana’s stoop. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pecked him on the lips. When he didn’t reciprocate, she pulled back. A frown creased her forehead. “Did I do something wrong?”

  “It’s nothing,” Burke lied. The truth was, he had been talking with Madeline the last few days. He had gone through the house last week to pick up some clothes and found her under the sink, trying to fix a busted pipe. Burke asked if she needed any help and afterwards she made coffee. They sat around the kitchen ta
ble, reminiscing about their first apartment in Savannah. It had been a two room flat in a rundown slum that needed constant repair.

  Sitting in the kitchen, with mugs of warm coffee in their hands and ice frosting the windows, they had chatted about old times, laughed a lot, and Burke realized how much he missed his wife.

  Dana was young and vibrant, with long blonde hair, a narrow waist, and a killer set of thighs. She was everything a guy could ask for in bed, but deep in his heart, Burke still loved Madeline.

  Too bad it took him so long to figure it out.

  Dana said, “Is it the job?”

  Burke shook his head, put his hands around her waist and pulled her into a kiss. He should have thrilled at her touch, but the magic was gone. The forbidden fruit had lost its flavor. Instead of sweet nectar, her lips were a bitter reminder of what he had lost. It left a taste like ashes in his mouth.

  Dana pulled back and said, “Something’s wrong.”

  “I stopped through the house the other day,” Burke admitted. “Maddie was there.”

  She loosed her hold on his neck and took a step back. “I thought you two were finished?”

  “We were,” Burke said, then corrected himself. “We are.”

  She waited.

  Burke said, “It’s complicated.”

  “It’s complicated?” Dana’s brows climbed her forehead. She dug in her purse for her keys. “Why not just admit you’re getting back with your ex?”

  “It’s not like that.” Burke reached for her arm.

  She shrugged him off and slotted her key in the door. Pink splotches formed on her cheeks and tears streaked her mascara. She choked back a sob. “You’re a bastard!”