Noble Vengeance (Jake Noble Series Book 2)

by William Miller

  “And Torres promised you revenge,” Noble said.

  She nodded. “Every night while he laid next to me snoring, I wanted to put a gun in his mouth and blow his brains out. Diaz kept me sane. He helped me see the big picture. Killing Machado wasn’t enough. He wanted to dismantle the whole organization from top to bottom.”

  “How did it all go sideways?”

  “Machado has an informant in the CIA.”

  Noble made a skeptical face.

  “We did it right,” Alejandra insisted. “The first two months before I infiltrated, Diaz taught me tradecraft: cutouts, dead drops, ciphers, blinds. We set up multiple channels and firewalls. We never made a move unless we were clean. Someone on your end blew our cover.”

  “You’ll have to do better if you want to convince me.”

  She turned to face him. “Machado got a call one night. We were watching one those ridiculous American gangster films he loves so much. I could tell something was wrong by the way he was looking at me. I went to the bathroom and locked myself in.”

  “Who was Machado talking to?” Noble asked.

  “I don’t know.” She shook her head. “But he called Santiago right after and said there was a leak. I heard it all through the bathroom door.”

  “He said Diaz was CIA?” Noble asked.

  She nodded. “I called Diaz on my cell and warned him before Machado could break the bathroom door down.”

  “How did you get away?”

  “Diaz traded himself for me.”

  “And you’re sure the leak was on our side?” Noble asked.

  She nodded. “It’s a woman, that’s all I know. She usually talks with Machado’s accountant, an Englishman by the name of Blythe.”

  The muscles in Noble’s jaw bunched and released. If someone in the CIA had exposed Torres, Noble would find out who and make them pay. He took the key from his pocket. “What’s this go to?”

  Alejandra shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  “Torres sent it to me,” Noble told her. “It’s important. You sure you don’t know what it unlocks?”

  “I’ve never seen it before.” Alejandra insisted.

  He clenched the key in his fist. She was lying. He didn’t know why, and he wasn’t going to force the truth from her, yet. He changed subject. “Who's Santiago?”

  “Machado’s top lieutenant. You met him at the Santa Ana Mission. He killed Diaz.” She pointed to the bandage on her face. “He’s the one who did this.”

  “Keep talking,” Noble said.

  “Santiago used to be a cop. Now he works for the cartel. He’s smart and ruthless. If Machado dies, Santiago is next in line. I’m surprised he hasn’t tried to take over already. The other members of his crew are hired muscle, except for el Lobo. He’s pretty crafty. They’ll want payback for Ramone, the one you killed.”

  “Good,” Noble said. “We can use that to our advantage.”

  “Diaz was your friend?” Alejandra asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “You will avenge him?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’ll help.”

  Noble motioned to the tray of food sitting on the dresser. “Eat. You’ll need your strength.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  HUNT AND HIS TEAM set up shop in the American Embassy on Paseo de la Reforma. They secured an unused office on the second floor that smelled like cigarettes and stale coffee and they turned it into their command post. Folding tables were loaded down with computers, printers, fax machines, encrypted modems and secure telephones. The room was so cramped they had to climb over one another. Carry-out boxes littered every unused surface. A flat-screen television hung in one corner, showing Noble’s escape from the Santa Ana Mission on repeat. A map of Mexico was tacked to the wall with a map of the capital next to it.

  For three days, they watched and waited. They monitored airplanes, busses and trains all the way from Texas to Colombia without sign of their prey. Gwen and Ezra translated intercepts and napped in shifts on a threadbare sofa crawling with dust mites. Hunt spent most of his time pacing. Inaction and spicy local cuisine were taking a toll. His eyes kept returning to the television screen. He wanted to know who the girl was. Why was she so important? Noble had shot up a church and led a bunch of gang bangers on a high-speed chase through the city to rescue her. Why?

  Hunt had gone to the mission and questioned the priest. All he got was a name, Alejandra: a common Spanish name and useless without a family name. Hunt sipped coffee from a Styrofoam cup and pulled a face. He was ready to kill for a decent mocha latte. He put the cup down and asked, “Where are we on the girl?”

  Gwen had headphones against one ear, monitoring local police bands. “She hasn’t shown up in any hospitals. It’s like they just disappeared.”

  “They didn’t disappear,” Hunt growled. “They’re in Mexico somewhere. Find them.”

  Gwen turned back to her computer with her head sunk between her shoulders.

  Hunt immediately regretted the outburst. He was still trying to get in Gwen’s pants—what better time than on assignment in a foreign city—and losing his temper wouldn’t help. He pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. Find the girl. She was the key. Find the girl and they would find Noble.

  “Here’s something interesting,” Ezra said. He was stretched out on the sofa, leafing through a stack of mission files with Noble’s name attached. “Gwen, do you remember Samantha Gunn? She was in our training class. Asian, dark hair, super cute.”

  “I remember. What about her?”

  Hunt’s ears perked up at Sam’s name.

  “I just came across her name in an operation report.” Ezra sat up and swung his legs off the sofa. “It’s heavily redacted but it looks like Samantha Gunn helped Noble rescue a diplomat’s daughter from a human trafficking ring in Hong Kong.”

  Hunt said, “That can’t be right. Noble was blacklisted before any of you joined the Company.”

  “It gets weirder,” Ezra told him. “This operation report is almost seven months old. That’s before Sam was at the Farm and after Noble was blacklisted.”

  “That is weird,” Gwen agreed.

  “Right?” Ezra turned to Hunt. “You probably don’t remember her.”

  Hunt remembered her alright. He had been tasked with teaching a hand-to-hand combat class at the Farm between field assignments. It was an easy posting and afforded him opportunities to meet cute female recruits. He had made sure to get plenty of “hands-on” experience with Sam. She was Ivy League, smart, and ambitious. They hit it off right from the start. She had never mentioned Jake Noble, or Hong Kong.

  Hunt took out his cell and dialed.

  Sam came on the line after three rings. “Well, well. Mr. Hunt. I thought you were on assignment in some far-flung corner of the globe, making the world safe for democracy?”

  “I am,” Hunt told her. “I need a favor.”

  “I don’t hear from you for two months and now you need a favor?” She asked, but her tone was playful.

  “I would have called sooner but the DDO is keeping me on the run. I haven’t slept in my own bed more than two nights in a row.”

  “Whose bed have you been sleeping in?” Sam asked.

  “Jealous?” Hunt asked.

  “I’d be lying if I said no,” Sam told him.

  Gwen and Ezra exchanged glances.

  Hunt leaned his hips against the window sill. “Tell you what, I’ll have some personal time when I wrap things up here. Why don’t we spend a few days at my family’s cabin? Just you and me, no distractions.”

  He could hear the smile in her voice. “You know my policy on sex before marriage.”

  “I promise to be a perfect gentleman,” Hunt lied.

  “I’m listening,” Sam said.

  “I need any info you have on a guy named Jacob Noble.”

  There was a pause on the other end. “Why are you asking about Jake?”

  “So you do know him?”


  “I know him,” she admitted. “What’s going on?”

  Hunt knew he would have to embellish a little if he wanted to enlist her help. He said, “He’s blown a gasket. He’s totally off the reservation. He killed several people. I need to find him before he does any more damage.”

  “There been some kind of mistake,” Sam said. “I know Jake. He wouldn’t do that.”

  “Listen, Sam, it’s important I find him,” Hunt said. “Do you know any safe houses he might use in Mexico? Any friends?”

  “Safe houses? No. He never mentioned Mexico.”

  “Did he ever talk about a girl named Alejandra?” Hunt asked.

  “What? No. I’ve never heard that name. Greg, what’s going on?”

  “Listen, Noble’s on the run. He might try to contact you. If he does, you need to call me right away, do you understand?”

  When he didn’t get a response, Hunt said, “Sam, this is important.”

  “I understand,” she said. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything, but I’m telling you, there’s been some kind of mix up.”

  Gwen stood half way up from her chair, her face flush with excitement. “I found her! Alejandra Domingo!” She pointed at the computer screen.

  Hunt covered the phone and shot her a hard look.

  She sat back down and said more softly, “I found her.”

  “Hey, Sam?” Hunt said into the phone, “I’ve got to go. Call me if you hear anything, okay?”

  “Okay, but you have to do something for me.”

  “Name it,” Hunt said.

  She said, “Promise me you’ll give Jake the benefit of the doubt.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” Hunt said and hung up. He turned to Gwen who was looking apologetic. “What did you find?”

  There was a color surveillance photo on Gwen’s monitor of a Mexican woman coming out of an office building, wearing a jacket and a skirt with her hair up.

  Hunt leaned over Gwen’s shoulder for a closer look. “You sure?”

  “That’s her.” Gwen tapped away at the keyboard. “Her name is Alejandra Domingo. She was part of an operation called AE/RIPTIDE. It was set up to gather intel on an organization called Los Zetas. Apparently they’re a drug outfit.”

  All three of them gathered around Gwen’s computer for a look at Alejandra Domingo without the bandages.

  Ezra said, “She’s hot.”

  “What happened?” Hunt asked.

  Gwen consulted the operation file. “The op went bad. The officer running it disappeared. Suspected dead. Ms. Domingo disappeared as well. The information channel dried up and we tied it off.”

  “Who was the field officer?” Hunt asked.

  Gwen brought up the file. There was a black-and-white headshot of Torres with a devilish grin on his face. Next to his headshot, in red letters, his status: DECEASED.

  “They don’t even know if he’s really dead,” Ezra said. “They just abandoned him?”

  “One of the job hazards,” Hunt said, but something about operation RIPTIDE didn’t feel right. In fact, this whole mess had a stench to it.

  Ezra and Gwen exchanged looks. This was their first real assignment and the cold hard truth of intelligence work was hitting home. A field officer works deep behind enemy lines and if anything goes wrong, no one was coming to the rescue.

  Hunt said, “Let’s find out more about Ms. Domingo.”

  It took some digging. They went to work compiling everything they could find on Alejandra Domingo, tracing her life from grade school all the way through college. After that, Gwen had to penetrate the Mexican law enforcement database.

  “She’s PFM,” Gwen said at last.

  “What’s that?” Ezra asked.

  “Policia Federal Ministerial,” Gwen explained. “It’s the Mexican equivalent of the FBI. It was created in 2006 by President Vicente Fox Quesada in an effort to combat the cartels and corruption in Mexico.”

  Hunt was more interested in Alejandra’s family history. He said, “Her father was a judge. He was killed by the Los Zetas cartel.”

  “That explains her motives,” said Gwen.

  “Pull up everything you can on the father,” Hunt said.

  Gwen pecked at the keys. A moment later they had a file on Judge Domingo. Near the end was an old news report and a series of photos of a burned-out villa in the countryside north of Mexico City. Hunt jabbed a finger at the pictures on the screen. “Where is that?”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  AFTER CONFIRMING the information on the thumb drive had been used, Taggart had put in a call to the DHS. The next morning, the FBI director had investigators crawling through his personal life. The investigation made national headlines. Media pundits convicted Standish in the court of public opinion and insisted he was a misogynist pedophile using his position in the FBI to ruin Rhodes’ shot at the White House. Forty-eight hours later, when the investigators came up empty-handed, the DHS was forced to issue an apology. Then it came out that they had acted on an anonymous tip, the media surrounding the whole affair turned into a full-blown circus. It dominated every news cycle. Shawn Hennessey was making passionate pleas for an investigation into the DHS and the anonymous tipster, but a snowball in hell stood a better chance.

  Rhodes was getting dragged through the mud, Standish had become something of a minor celebrity—a Robin Hood figure fighting a corrupt system—and Sam, well, she had a tough couple of days.

  When the files didn’t turn up on Standish’s computer, she had been chewed out, first by Taggart and then by Helen Rhodes herself. The old battle axe had summoned Sam to her office on Capitol Hill and screamed herself hoarse. At one point, Sam thought Rhodes might actually give herself an aneurism. No such luck. Sam stood there and bore the insults in silence until Rhodes shrieked a dismissal.

  When Rhodes had finished with her, Sam’s boss in the Secret Service placed her on administrative leave. Sam had never been fired from a job before. It stung.

  The call from Hunt was the only bright spot to her day, and that had been marred by disturbing questions about Jake Noble. He was the last person Sam wanted to discuss with Hunt.

  She was wading through a confusing tangle of emotion when she arrived home that evening and found an X drawn in chalk on a blue mail box outside her flat. Instead of looking for a spot to park, she hung a left at the corner and headed downtown to the E Street cinema. She had put a pink mark on the box before leaving that morning. It was a prearranged signal. Burke had added the other half of the X to indicate he was ready for a meet.

  Sam paid for parking in a garage and crossed E Street to the theater, still dressed in the secret service blazer with a white button-down and slacks. She had her hair up in a ponytail. A few damp tangles framed her face. She examined the collection of movie posters outside the theater. One of the polished brass frames bore a small chalk mark in the bottom corner. The show was To Have and to Have Not. Sam consulted her watch. The mark was on the bottom left corner, which meant the showing closest to seven o’clock. She waited through the line and paid for the 7:15 showing.

  A teenager with braces behind the ticket window said, “It already started.”

  “It doesn’t get good until the second half,” Sam told him.

  She handed her stub to another teenager, this one with a face like melting wax. The cinema seemed to be run exclusively by post-pubescent high school students. He ripped the ticket and mumbled a theater number. Sam passed the concession stand for an elevator located at the end of the hall next to the restrooms. She rode it to the second floor. The doors opened and she was face to face with another teenager. This one had a nose ring. He was busy typing a message into his phone.

  Sam squared her shoulders, hoping the business attire would be enough to sell the lie. “We don’t pay you to text, young man.”

  The phone disappeared with the efficiency of a three-card Monte dealer collecting bets. He started to ask, “Who…”

  “The concession stand is backed up,�
�� Sam cut him off. “See if you can make yourself useful.”

  “Yes ma’am.” He stepped into the elevator and punched the button for the ground floor.

  Sam breathed a sigh of relief, located Theater 7’s projection booth and knocked five times. Two fast, three slow. Burke opened the door. Sam stepped inside and closed it behind her.

  The projection machine filled the small space with a steady hum. Gone are the days when an actual person had to change reels. Now, the projectionist can simply load a disc, press play and come back when the movie is over. Which meant they had the place to themselves for the next hour and a half.

  Sam said, “I nearly got caught by the puberty patrol.”

  Burke should have cracked a grin—Sam knew his sense of humor—instead he perched himself on a stool and scooped up a tub of buttered popcorn. A whiff of booze added to her sense of foreboding. Burke stuffed a handful in his mouth and asked, “Did you get anything useful?”

  “I can prove Rhodes is using the Secret Service as her own personal gestapo, but that’s about it.” Sam said.

  “Keep digging,” Burke said.

  “I’m on administrative leave,” Sam told him. “Are you drunk?”

  “I’m getting there,” Burke admitted.

  “You want to talk about it?”

  He thrust his hand into the tub of popcorn but lost motivation. His large black fist lay half buried in the yellow pile. “Madeline and me are split up.”

  Sam laid a hand on his massive shoulder. “I’m so sorry. What happened?”

  “I screwed up.”

  “What did you do?”

  “You know Dana?”

  “Your secretary?” Sam said.

  He nodded.

  “She’s half your age, Matt.”

  “You think I don’t know that?” Burk put the popcorn down and picked up a cola, big enough to be classified a bucket. He drank until the straw gurgled.

  “What did Maddie do when she found out?” Sam asked. Burke was a good man and his wife was a sweet lady but the relationship had been rocky for a while now. Sam had been wondering if they would pull out of the nose dive or end up in the side of a mountain.