Noble Intentions: Season Four

by L. T. Ryan

  Endrizzi had managed to move a few feet, collapsed and rolled to his back again. The outer edges of the light cone created by the BMW's headlights enveloped his head. Blood flowed from the guy's mouth, down his chin and cheeks. He looked like a deranged killer clown.

  Paolo stepped over Milano's still, lifeless body, driving the toe of his boot into the side of the guy's head for good measure as he did so. The guy didn't respond. Paolo continued toward Endrizzi. Stopped a couple feet away. The man was in bad shape. He'd probably die if Paolo left him there. No point in letting nature take its course, though. He bent over, grabbed a handful of Endrizzi's hair, and pulled backward, exposing the flesh of his neck.

  Then he began stabbing. Five. Ten. Fifteen times. Finally, he plunged the blade into the side and yanked across, severing the carotid.

  Paolo didn't stand around to watch the man bleed out.

  Milano laid with his chin perched on the ground. He had witnessed the slaughter. When Paolo spotted him, the guy attempted to roll to the side and crawl away.

  Paolo thought about locating the pistol lost in the grass, or perhaps finding Endrizzi's .22. He didn't want to get too close to Milano. The .22 was out of ammunition, though. And the pistol could take minutes to find.

  As he cautiously moved forward, he stumbled on a large rock. It was about a foot wide and twice as long. He slipped the knife into his pocket and picked up the little boulder.

  "Christ," Milano said, now on his back, looking up at Paolo, who held the rock over his head. "No, man, come on."

  "Should have let me out and driven off," Paolo said. "Or killed me instead of dicking around."

  "Come on, Paolo. I'm married to your sister, for Christ's sake."

  "And you were willing to kill me."

  "It was an order. What'd you want me to do?"

  Paolo answered by slamming the rock into Milano's forehead. In case that wasn't enough, he hoisted it up in the air again and whipped it back down, nearly splitting Milano's head in two.

  He left the rock and the men where they lay and walked over to the idling BMW. Light flooded the ground when he pulled the door open. He noticed his pants and boots were covered in blood.

  "Shit," he muttered, reaching inside and pushing the trunk release. He went to the rear of the vehicle and studied the contents of the trunk. While there wasn't much, what he saw gave him an idea.

  He fished through Endrizzi's pockets and came up with a wallet with three hundred in cash, and a pack of cigarettes and the lighter he'd used earlier. He pocketed the items, then dragged the man close to Milano. After dropping Endrizzi, he searched Milano's pockets. All he found was a billfold with six hundred dollars and an ID.

  Paolo kept the cash, smokes and lighter. He tossed the first two into the car and kept the latter in hand. He went back to the trunk and pulled out the full, red plastic gas can, which he then carried over to the bodies. After the contents were emptied onto them and the surrounding ground, he dropped the can, and then stripped down to his boxers, tossing the rest of his clothing on top of the dead captains.

  He went to the trunk again. Pulled out a pair of gym shorts and a t-shirt and put them on.

  Seated inside the BMW, bare feet touching the ground, he inhaled deeply from a lit cigarette. When the smoke had burned down about halfway, Paolo tossed the smoldering remains onto the pile of clothing and bodies. As he drove away, he watched the flames rising into the night sky in the rear-view, consuming his friends.

  Chapter 9

  London, England.

  SASHA KIRBY FLATTENED the lapel of her jacket as she entered the building affectionately known within the intelligence community as Legoland. Despite the playful moniker, the dealings that went on inside of Vauxhall Cross were anything but pleasant. The building acted as the headquarters of the British Special Intelligence Service, better known as MI6. The agency was responsible for keeping tabs on the world.

  And a great deal of that responsibility fell upon Sasha's shoulders, whether directly or otherwise.

  She passed through security with a nod and a smile, and continued on to the elevator bank. There were no buttons jutting out of a plate mounted to the wall. She swiped a card in front of the reader and waited for the doors to part. When they did, she entered the lift alone. She pressed the button for the fourth floor and waited while the lift dropped a few feet while the cable tightened, then propelled the car upward some forty feet.

  The lift halted. The doors remained sealed. Sasha used the same card and swiped it through a reader positioned above the floor and call buttons. A red light turned green. The doors parted.

  In the hallway, a security guard pushed off the wall and stood at attention with his hand precariously close to his sidearm. He gave a slight nod to Sasha as she passed, then reached behind his back and pressed a button. The lock to the double doors clicked.

  Sasha entered the gray floor.

  Every inch, drab and devoid of color. The floors, cubicles, walls, office doors. Even the blinds that covered the windows were dull. She often thought that the look of the space contributed to ineffectiveness, although some above her pay grade cited bullshit studies that said otherwise. She could counter in one of a hundred ways, but when someone who reached a rank too high gets an idea, they hang on for dear life. They wouldn't change. It had been that way for years, and it'd stay that way.

  As she approached her office, her assistant leaned forward in her chair and gestured for Sasha to stop.

  "Mason Sutton phoned and said he'd be ten minutes late for your meeting. Is that all right, or should I reschedule with him?"

  Sasha had forgotten about the meeting. It was the first of a planned series of weekly meetings between Mason and her. He occupied a similar role in MI5. After the terrorist bombings a few months ago, they realized their collective intelligence might have helped prevent the carnage.

  "No, that will be OK," she told her assistant. "Send him in when he arrives please."

  She continued to her office, the one place where she could personalize and colorize. The wide window behind her desk overlooked the Thames. Stormy conditions kept the scullers off the river. Pictures of nothing but color splattered on canvas hung on each wall. She'd filled the space with flowers and plants, real and fake. Her desk was bare except for a single vase with three roses. She replaced the flowers every week on Monday morning. A habit started two months prior.

  The current batch made it the week without wilting or losing a petal. Unusual.

  Sasha unlocked her computer, logged into the system and pulled up her email, quickly prioritizing the messages. She knew that nothing important had come in overnight, having checked her phone both before leaving home and during her commute while in the tubes. Likewise, nothing had arrived for her in the time it took to reach her office.

  A quiet Friday. For once.

  She immediately wished she hadn't allowed the thought to manifest.

  Sasha performed a quick check of the major news sites, then MI6's internal bulletin board for any updated threat assessment information. Nothing new today. Moments later, there was a rap on her door.

  "Come in," she said.

  Mason Sutton opened the door, took a step, stopped a foot inside. His gaze traveled over her head, toward the sky or the water or whatever else might have caught his fancy across the river. His attire was casual for MI5 standards. MI6, for that matter. And though his short hair was presentable, he'd left his face unshaven.

  "Day off?" she asked.

  "Late start," he replied, tracing his thumb along his jaw line. "Keep an electric shaver at my desk for days like this."

  "And your clothing?"

  "Why do you care, Sasha?"

  She swiveled side to side in her chair. "I don't, really. Just like getting a rise out of you lads."

  He glanced away and shook his head, then stepped forward. She hadn't reached the point of trusting the man yet. Jack did, for whatever reason, even when the guy had threatened him hours after Noble had entered
the UK. There was something Jack liked about Mason Sutton. Sasha couldn't quite put her finger on it, though. Maybe in time, after a few of these meetings, she'd feel the same way.

  "Anyway," he said. "What are we going to start with? Foreign or domestic?"

  She reached down for her bag and pulled out a Moleskin notebook. The damned things were expensive, but they seemed a good fit for her.

  "Why don't you start?" she said.

  He pursed his lips together and exhaled through them. They vibrated and his cheeks puffed out. After, he said, "Samir Parsa. Let's start with him."

  "Parsa," she repeated. "He took over for Naseer Shehata, that millionaire, or was it billionaire, terrorist wannabee?"

  Mason nodded and scratched something into his notebook. Upon closer inspection, it was a cartoon head. His shabby clothing and stubbled face had not betrayed him, after all. But as the image came together, she recognized the face from the papers, the news, and their files.

  "So what is Samir up to these days?" She aimed her pen toward the drawing.

  "Seems he's been importing talent from all over the Middle East. Most are coming in on mangled passports, entering through France."

  "Are we thinking they are planning an attack? If I recall correctly, Naseer wasn't much into that. He seemed to like to attend parties while dabbling in organized crime, and consorting with billionaires with loose morals, like that Thornton Walloway character that turned up dead a few months ago."

  They both remained silent, avoiding the other's stare. Walloway had been assassinated. A hit planned by his ex-wife, and carried out by Naseer's men. Maybe even Naseer himself. The only witness they knew never divulged the details.

  "Right," Mason said. "Ancient history now, though, isn't it?"

  She agreed.

  Mason continued. "Samir has been rather quiet since Naseer died. If not for two of these travelers getting picked up for petty crimes, we might not have found out he was importing a whole host of soldiers."

  "So are you going to move?"

  "Over this?" He leaned back in his chair and wrapped his hands around the back of his head. "It'd be pointless. The only thing that would happen is Samir would start shifting money and assets around. He wouldn't do any time. And no judge would allow us to keep him penned up for too long. Right now we are working on the two guys the police picked up. Hopefully we can convert one or both to work for us. Each believes the other has already flipped, and if he doesn't join up, he'll be hanged."

  "And if you can't?"

  "Convert them?"

  "No hang them." She paused, smiled. "Of course convert them."

  Mason had no reaction. "Just have to hope no one finds the police report and comes nosing around looking for them. If that happens, they'll be shipped off to Iraq or Jordan or Syria or whatever God-forsaken place they come from."

  Sasha glanced toward her desk and frowned. She often found herself uncomfortable in such discussions. While most in her line of work associated countries with the terrorists they fought, she realized that not all inhabitants and citizens shared the views of the extremists. Hell, the UK and USA had homegrown extremists who would love nothing more than to overthrow their respective governments. Should all citizens of those nations be treated as suspects in turn?

  The question made her feel nauseous every single time it crossed her mind. The sad truth of it was that they had to act first in this new world. If they were reacting, that meant people had died. Mason and the rest of MI5 had it worse, since national security was their primary effort. Sasha bent the rules to keep tabs on the rest of the world. Mason did it to his countrymen for their own protection.

  "So, what do you have to share Sasha?" Mason asked.

  She stared for a moment, then smiled. "Nothing."

  "Nothing?"

  "Odd, isn't it?"

  His face darkened. "There's no point in these meetings if you aren't going to share information with me. Yes, I know as a whole our departments do. But this is for us, two people in very similar positions across the river from one another. And… Dammit, do you want another bombing on our soil? Huh? I'm talking a mile, maybe two, away from where we are seated? Might be able to watch it from this view you've got here. Don't you get it that the things you are withholding from me could turn the noise I'm hearing into the plans of those meaning us harm?"

  Sasha leaned back in her high-back leather chair and folded her hands in her lap while she studied the man across from her. It wasn't an act, his rant. He appeared to truly be pissed off at her. She wondered how long it would take for his boss to call her boss and in turn for him to call her to ream her out for being obstinate despite his orders for her to cooperate.

  "Mason, I can assure you, I am being open and honest with you. My group has flagged nothing this week which would bear any impact on the whole of England. Outside of that information, I am not required to share what we gather regarding other nations. Nor should I, as I don't see quite how you would use the information."

  He remained motionless for several moments. The red faded from his cheeks and ears. Finally, Mason rose and exited the office. At the door, he looked back, said, "I expect you'll call the moment you do turn something up, eh?"

  "Sure."

  She remained seated until after the door slammed shut, then spun her chair around and stood. The rain fell heavier now. White-capped waves, driven by the fierce wind, skated across the river and crashed into the banks. Hopefully, the weather would let up by the time five o'clock arrived. A good portion of her commute was on foot, and there was no one who lived close to her that she wanted to share a cab or catch a ride with.

  As she scanned the blurred horizon, her computer emanated a soft beep so quiet that it almost went unheard. A second beep caught her attention. Sasha turned, nudged her chair out of the way and leaned over her keyboard. A few strokes later, her monitor's screensaver dissolved into tiny fading squares. She clicked on the mail icon on her desktop. Nothing in the inbox was flagged important. She checked all her main folders, the ones where mail diverted based on a set of rules, yet still found nothing.

  The alert sounded a third time.

  "What the bloody hell?" she muttered.

  As she slid the mouse around, it slipped to the bottom of the screen and her hidden task bar surfaced. There, a light flashed in the system tray. She double clicked the tiny red icon.

  "Shit."

  She stared at an alert she had programmed into a proprietary software only available to select agents in MI6. The program violated every treaty they'd ever signed. It monitored worldwide and reported access or hits on a specific individual's files. Most agents used it not only to watch persons of interest, but also to keep tabs on themselves. If someone intended to slit their throat or slip them a radioactive cocktail, they wanted to know first.

  But Sasha wasn't looking at a personal alert. More of a personal interest.

  Someone had accessed Jack Noble's files.

  Twice.

  Chapter 10

  Paris, France.

  BEAR WATCHED MANDY sleep while the coffee brewed in the hotel's cheap coffeemaker. For what the place charged, damn near three hundred euros a night, they could afford to put a Keurig in each room and stock it with those little plastic cups of coffee grounds. No point in complaining. They wouldn't be there long enough for management to do something about it.

  He thought back to the day before. Kat's empty apartment. Nothing left but the kitchen table and the woman's cat. The feline took to Mandy, so they brought her home. Now she cuddled with Mandy in bed, black-and-white head poking out from the covers, one ear back, the other at attention.

  One of the neighbors had come out when Bear and Mandy were leaving. The woman couldn't provide much information. She and Kat had never been friendly. They managed a bit of small talk when the building put on a cookout, but nothing else.

  The final drips fell into the pot, signaling the brew was ready. Bear rose, poured a mug, and took a seat at the table again.
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  Coming to Paris was a mistake.

  He couldn't shake the thought. It played over and over since the moment he pushed the door open and saw the abandoned room. And what potential danger had he put Mandy in by taking this sabbatical? He should have used the time to find her a good school in the countryside. One where she'd be safe and could make friends her own age. It didn't matter that she shot the idea down every time he brought it up. He knew what was best for her, and lately, he'd begun thinking it wasn't living with him.

  And as soon as those ideas surfaced, counterarguments made themselves heard. The internal tug-of-war never idled. Sure, it took a day off here and there. Usually when it benefited him. Which made the argument for placing her in someone else's care and leaving a million dollars in an account for her future that much stronger.

  He drained the last sip from his mug, set it next to the coffeemaker, then went to the bathroom and showered. After he'd washed, shaved his neck and cheeks, and dressed, he reentered the room and poured another cup of coffee. The cat met him by the brewer and wove around his legs in a figure-eight pattern.

  "What time is it?" Mandy asked groggily.

  Bear glanced back. The girl sat up and stretched her arms over her head while yawning.

  "Almost nine-thirty."

  She looked toward the window. The sunlight knifed across her face. She winced and shielded her eyes.

  "Why didn't you wake me up?"

  "You looked peaceful. And you know we never can tell how much sleep we're going to get the next night. Figured I'd let you catch up, or get ahead, whatever."

  He'd taken to saying whatever now too. Although, rarely with the same meaning as Mandy.