Noble Intentions: Season Four

by L. T. Ryan

  In French, Bear said, "I'm sorry to bother you at this hour. Is Pierre in?"

  The kid said, "Pierre? There is no Pierre here."

  His mother, presumably sensing something was not quite right, appeared. She looked to be early 40s, dark hair and features, heavyset. "Can I help you?"

  Bear leaned back and verified this was the correct apartment. "I'm looking for an old friend of mine. Man named Pierre Allard. I was told he lived here."

  "Perhaps he did," she said. "I only moved in a week ago." He spotted opened and unopened boxes lining the hallway behind her. She lifted her hand and wagged a finger in front of her face. "But, perhaps I have something that will help. Please, come inside."

  Too trusting, he thought, to invite a man his size inside. He followed the woman down the dim, narrow corridor, avoiding the containers in the way. Pasta and tomato sauce saturated the air. One of his favorite dishes since he was a kid and his mother made the meal from scratch every Sunday using tomatoes they grew in the side lot.

  The woman led him to the kitchen. A tall silver pot boiled over and hissed when the water took on the burner's flames. Red tomato sauce bubbled, the pockets of air bursting and flinging tiny drops of gravy.

  She must've caught him staring at the food. "I can fix you a plate. It's almost ready."

  Bear smiled and patted his stomach. "Appreciate the offer, but I really can't stay. I have someone waiting for me."

  She shrugged, turned, and reached up for a book perched atop her baker's rack.

  "They left this behind," she said, arm outstretched toward Bear.

  "They?"

  "I assume they were married or a couple." She pointed at the book. "Open. See."

  Bear peeled back the front cover and leafed through dozens of pictures of Pierre and Kat. Some went back in time. Others were recent. Pierre in a hospital bed, Kat at his side. His physical therapy. Kat at his side. Sitting at the dining table that Bear stood in front of. Again, Kat at Pierre's side. Perhaps Kat had put the book together for Pierre for his homecoming, but they left it in the apartment after he'd decided to let the place go.

  "And no idea where they went to?" he asked.

  She shrugged, turned her palms upward. "Sorry. A broker found this place for me. Perhaps he knows?"

  Bear reached the last page of the small album. A paper slipped out, previously held in place by the last page and the back cover. Bear reached down for it.

  "I think I have all I need," he said, turning toward the front of the apartment.

  She hurried after him. "Please, take this photo book. If you find them, I'm sure they'll want it back."

  Bear accepted the book from her, then made his way down the stairwell, leaving behind the smell of Italy. He considered trashing the photos. For some reason he didn't. As he pushed past the building's front door, his stomach tightened, refusing to relax until he spotted Mandy across the street.

  Hurrying, he dodged traffic and entered the restaurant. Italy re-found, but only momentarily.

  "Come on, we gotta go," he said.

  "I'm not going anywhere," she said.

  "What?"

  "Not until you say you're sorry."

  "Kid, I don't have time for this. We need to get to the train station."

  Mandy spun back toward the counter, lowered her head and scooped another spoonful of vanilla ice cream into her mouth.

  Bear took a deep breath, stepped forward, placed his large hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry, Mandy. Sometimes I get worked up when the situation is intense. I'm working on it."

  She turned her head to the left, angled upward at him. "Are you really going to ship me off to a boarding school?"

  "Is that what you want?"

  She shook her head.

  "Then I won't."

  She scooped one last bite of her ice cream, then hopped off the stool. "Where're we going?"

  "Nice."

  "What's there?"

  "Pierre."

  And Kat.

  Chapter 17

  Washington, D.C.

  BRETT LEFT THE USB drive on the kitchen table next to his laptop. He had walked in to his apartment, set it down, then rinsed off. For four hours the drive and the computer remained on the table as though he had forgotten about them. Of course, he hadn't. And the files couldn't remain unopened for long. Depending on the logistics of the job, two weeks might be plenty of time. Or it might not be enough.

  Without looking at the target's information, he had already begun forming a plan. Ballard had mentioned it'd be wise to go after one of the target's associates in an effort to draw the man out. A female, presumably, would be the best choice. Most men could not rebut their irrational side when a woman he cared for was placed in a dangerous situation, whether real or perceived.

  He turned to the evening news as a means of procrastination. They had nothing of note. Their versions of some events were off a hair. Most wouldn't know. Nor would they accept the truth if it were presented to them.

  Brett fixed a dinner of chicken and green beans, ate, then after clearing his plate, settled at the table again with a beer in hand. It was the first he'd had in two weeks. The carbonation burned as the alcohol slid down his throat. He exhaled, took another pull.

  Then he set the bottle down and powered on his computer. He checked the USB drive, first scanning it with a device aimed at detecting a bug or tracking device. The drive was clean. He inserted it into the computer and began browsing the files, starting with the pictures.

  It took a moment for his reaction.

  "Son of a bitch."

  The face staring back at him was one he knew. Not well, but the men had bled together, at one time, under the oddest of circumstances.

  In 2007, Brett had been targeted for execution. The order had originated with a young Syrian terrorist cell leader living in France. Four years prior, the man had been a college student studying in the U.S. He was also part of a sleeper cell at that time. Willing to give his life to kill innocent Americans in a coordinated attack that never went down. Mostly thanks to the SIS. And as fate would have it, the guy responsible for expelling the terrorist would later receive the order to terminate Brett.

  But life, as it often does, had different plans for all three men.

  The terrorist, Bashir al-Sharaa, rose to prominence in France in a short time. In twelve months he accomplished more than some do in five years. Not only did he have a strong cell in place in Paris, but he had satellites and sleepers spread throughout Europe, and American expansion was well underway.

  Brett at that time devoted ninety percent of his resources to tracking al-Sharaa down. The drive to bring him to justice consumed his life. He had infiltrated al-Sharaa's group in Paris with an asset. Not only did she provide information about the Paris cell, she had mapped out a framework of the operation, and had started to nail down the identity of the people al-Sharaa reported to. Nothing could be done until Brett had the information that led him to the next level. Unfortunately the woman was murdered in broad daylight when she was on the verge of making the connection. Her sins had been discovered. And Brett's involvement was known.

  Al-Sharaa arranged with not one, but two separate contacts who had the reach and capability of assassinating a man like Brett. Both were almost successful. One was an FBI agent who, oddly enough, had close ties with al-Sharaa and Brett. Joe Dunne had been married to Brett's foster sister, Reese McSweeney. Dunne had also used al-Sharaa as an asset when the man was in the States as a student. The other to issue a hit was a politician who contracted the SIS, and ultimately a man named Jack Noble, to handle the job.

  As it turned out, Noble discovered the sham behind the operation, and saved Brett's life.

  Word was that Noble also removed the politician from office, though the rest of the world thought the guy had a coronary.

  And now, as fate would have it, Brett Taylor stared at the face of the man who had risked everything to save Brett back in 2007.

  That was why he hesitated. Br
ett hadn't known it at the time, but he was not forceful in acquiring the USB drive from Ballard, nor did he open it immediately, because somehow, someway, he knew Noble was the target.

  A professional killer undergoing a crisis of morality leads the assassin on a path that results in no death other than his own.

  The words had been spoken by Brett's mentor a hundred times. If faced with a situation where he felt he couldn't complete the job, for whatever reason, he had to back down. Once the thought was in place, there was no avoiding the negative consequences associated with it. If he continued, Brett would be looking over his shoulder and questioning whether being involved was the right thing to do.

  Not a good scenario in light of the executions the shadowy side of the government had been ordering.

  Brett knew if he turned down the job after seeing the details, he could count on some like him paying a visit.

  Either way, he was fucked.

  "Get it together," he muttered.

  He set Jack's photo off to the side and leafed through the documents. They listed Noble's last known location.

  New York.

  Where he'd been previously.

  London.

  Who he'd worked with while there.

  Both MI5 and MI6.

  There was mention of the British Prime Minister. It detailed the previous five years, a life of working for the highest bidder, answering to the dollar, not any sense of higher purpose. Not until the past year, when Jack reacquainted himself working with, not for, the SIS. Classified documents detailed how Noble helped orchestrate the take-down of a Russian government-backed terrorist cell, and a corrupt General named Ivanov, who was involved in operations top to bottom.

  A long pull drained the beer bottle. Brett got up, trashed it, opened another, then carried it outside. The terrace faced west, overlooking an expanse of concrete and asphalt. The modern day jungle. The sun hung low in the sky. Red, orange and purple spread across the horizon and painted the buildings. A steady exhaust- and smog-laden breeze blew toward him. The bottle seemed to sweat in his hand. He placed it in a cup holder fixed to one of the chairs.

  Leaning over the railing, he contemplated his next move. Jack Noble had spared his life. And why? Simply because Brett and his foster sister, Reese, had given Noble their word. For that reason alone, the job could not be completed. But Brett couldn't turn it down for reasons he'd already considered.

  He thought through the supporting documentation on the drive. The Jack Noble he knew and the one portrayed within the digital walls were not the same man. Neither of them were choir boys, and Brett was aware of that. However, there was a line that was not to be crossed.

  Noble had stepped over that line and left any semblance of moral code behind.

  For that, his death could occur and it would not weigh on Brett one bit.

  Bullshit.

  Nothing Noble had done in the previous six or seven years could outweigh the debt Brett owed to the man. Further, there was evidence that the guy had in some ways redeemed himself. When it came to it, he did right by his country.

  The second bottle went down quicker than the first. Three or four more and he might feel the effects of the alcohol coursing through his system. Despite that possibility, Brett re-entered the apartment and opened a third beer. Somewhere toward the bottom of it, he went back to the kitchen table and scrolled through additional documents on the drive. The second half contained information on Noble's associates. The ones that had or might have inside knowledge of the things that he had done with the SIS.

  The first name was one Brett recalled. Riley Logan, the way Brett remembered him, was a mountain of a man, aptly nicknamed Bear. He'd been with Brett when Joe Dunne's guys kidnapped him. At the time he thought they had killed Bear. They probably should have. The big man's current location was unknown. That was the first problem. The second was that if Brett planned on drawing Noble out, using a six-six former spec ops soldier was a bad idea. Bear could, and would, take care of himself. And he'd have no qualms removing Brett from the picture if presented with danger.

  Moving on, he came across a few pages dedicated to Clarissa Abbot. Noble had served under her father while in the Marines as part of a special assignment working alongside CIA operatives. After Clarissa's father's death, Jack looked out for her. The timeline turned murky about a year ago. Clarissa had made a transition in her life, but it wasn't obvious as to what. Something had been in print, but later redacted from the file. Brett made a note to follow up and find out what she was involved in. If it was tending bar, there'd be no reason to hide her current location. It wasn't like Bear's file, where they didn't know. Someone knew, but wouldn't reveal the information. As far as Brett was concerned, Noble already had an affinity for looking out for the woman. All Brett had to do was place her in harm's way, and Jack would come calling.

  Next, he read through the file of a woman named Sasha Kirby, a top agent within MI6 on the fast-track to a director's position. Jack worked closely with her for a few months while in London. She'd attempted to remain in contact with him after he returned to New York. Phone records indicated that the requests were not reciprocated. Sasha made for a bad potential target at this stage. While being on the list made her susceptible to termination, using her to draw Noble out would likely land Brett in a UK prison. Not ideal.

  When he moved to the next target, a lump rose in Brett's throat and his gut tightened. He'd thought Clarissa was the obvious answer. She wasn't. But could Brett really engage this target? Could he hold them for the time it would take to involve Noble?

  He set the file down, finished the beer and grabbed another. It wasn't until the bottle was empty that he made his decision.

  It had to be done.

  Brett's life was more valuable than Jack's, and anyone else in the file.

  The job was on.

  And Jack Noble's child and her mother were the way to draw Jack Noble out.

  And off his game.

  Chapter 18

  New York City.

  THE ORANGE GLOW rose up from the concrete horizon and expanded to the east and west, passing through the expansive windows, illuminating and tinting Charles's office.

  Between working his contacts in the FBI and New York State Police - and wasting minutes staring out the window looking for Feds watching him - Charles had accomplished little during the daylight hours. And that was why, at nine-thirty in the evening on a Friday night, he sat behind the overbearing mahogany desk, in his office, across the street from Washington Square Park.

  He hadn't managed to swing by the Queens compound that afternoon. The task had become an afternoon ritual. Check up on the locals. He supposed no one there missed his overbearing presence. When he called Trevino for an update, all he received were questions from the captain about the three missing men: Endrizzi, Milano, and Paolo. Charles played coy, telling Trevino that they must've taken a trip to one of the reservation casinos. Best to stick to one story, and this one placed the trio upstate. Trevino had no further response. Perhaps he knew something, and held back. It'd come out in time if he had.

  Similar calls took place through the late afternoon and early evening. Charles cemented the casino story with everyone he spoke to, leaving enough doubt to keep them from prying into what had really happened that night. Hell, he remained unclear about that.

  Rising from his chair after placing a sixth unanswered call to Detective Harris, Charles turned toward the panoramic window looking out over the park and toward high-rise buildings of Upper Manhattan. Lovers lingered on benches. Shadows darted past the fountain and disappeared under the dark green canopy. Cars drifted past on the road. Didn't matter what time of day or night, traffic was always present. At least the sounds of horns and engines couldn't filter in through the windows. Foot traffic flowed along the sidewalks.

  He focused on anyone who remained stationary. Of the half-dozen he saw, none stared back at him, or toward the building's entrance. At least, not anyone visible. Perhaps the n
eed had gone. They'd spotted him leaving the building and later returning to it. There wasn't much else to piece together. Didn't matter what agency the guy watching him talk to Harris worked for.

  For all Charles knew, they could be standing outside his door at that moment. He'd sent his assistants home early, and the hired guns didn't hang around much longer. Their contract stated nine to five, and they abided by it. When Charles raised a concern, they said something about unions and walked out. After that, he had considered bringing in someone from the organization, maybe rotating a couple trusted guys. Problem was he couldn't trust anyone enough at this stage to have them protect him while he sat behind closed doors. There was still dissent remaining since Feng's assassination, though they'd purged the vocal minority already. But that didn't mean all who were opposed were gone. Bring the wrong guy into the office, and it could be a bullet or iron bars in Charles's future.

  Standing in front of the mirror, he dialed the detective again. The previous calls had been made from the office line. Perhaps Harris had ignored them because he hadn't recognized the number. Ten rings later, that theory was bunked.

  "Where are you, Harris?" Charles walked past his desk, toward the washroom. Halfway there, he noticed a shift in the light under the office door. Movement. Charles stopped, turned. Shadows now blocked half the light passing underneath. He took a step back, toward his desk, where he knelt down for a clearer view.

  Six shoes. Three men. Outside his office.

  One rapped on the door.

  Charles rose, took another step back, said nothing. He reached down with his right hand and slid open the upper desk drawer. It housed his Glock 21. .45 caliber. One shot. One man. Stopped dead. Repeat two more times before they got to him and call it a day. He gripped the pistol tight, brought it up and aimed it at the door.

  Another knock, three hard raps, this time followed by a guy calling out, "We know you're in there, DeCosta. Open up. We just want to talk."