Noble Intentions: Season One

by L. T. Ryan

  "We can leave now, Conway," Aleksandr said.

  Jack stood up. Looked at the men on the boat. Two deckhands, three Russian criminals, two private contractors, and him. How many would die today?

  "Everyone take a seat," Jack said.

  Marcel and Guy sat at the back of the boat. Viktor sat near them. Dorofeyev, Olkhovsky, and Korzhakov sat at the front, in the fishing chairs. They had found the grey cooler stocked with beer. The three men held a beer in each hand. Aleksandr stood next to Jack.

  "Let's go," Aleksandr said.

  Jack purposefully overshot the first wreck by a quarter mile. Less chance the men would catch anything here. He figured that would make them more willing to move to the next spot that much sooner.

  "Captain," Dorofeyev shouted almost on cue. "Take us to another spot."

  "Restock your beer," Jack said. "It'll take us about an hour to get there."

  All three men turned to him and smiled.

  Jack motioned to Marcel. Handed him a bucket. "Take this, fill it with ice and put a dozen or so beers in it, then take it to them. OK?"

  "Sure," Marcel said.

  Marcel did as Jack asked. He started toward the front of the boat.

  Viktor stopped him. "What are you doing?" His spoke with a heavy accent.

  "C-c-captain's orders. Just bringing them some beer," Marcel said.

  Viktor took the bucket and looked at Aleksandr.

  Aleksandr motioned with his head and Viktor brought the bucket of ice and beer to the three men.

  Drink up, bastards.

  Jack put the boat in gear and adjusted his course to make up for his previous overcorrection.

  Jack started planning the hit in his head. By this point he had got past his anger over the job. Now he needed a plan, his own plan, to get this job done. The guards were armed, no doubt about that. How armed was hard to say. They carried at least one handgun each, most likely a semi-automatic nine millimeter like the Beretta he had on the boat. What about Dorofeyev, Olkhovsky, and Korzhakov, though? Would they be armed? Olkhovsky was a career military man. Good chance he had a personal firearm with him. The other two, maybe, maybe not. The guards had to be taken out first. Taken out fast. Olkhovsky had to be next. Then it would be a tossup between Dorofeyev and Korzhakov.

  So how to make it work? A diversion. He needed a diversion. Three miles off the southern coast of France.

  Jack slowed the boat and dropped the anchor. The sea was choppy and the boat rocked side to side.

  "Best spot in the Med," he said as he walked toward the front of the boat. "You gents ready for the catch of your life?"

  All three men shouted. They were drunk.

  Perfect.

  Jack gestured to Marcel to move up and help the men get their bait in the water. Marcel did as instructed and both guards followed him to the front.

  Jack pointed at Guy, who sat in the back corner of the boat. Guy stood up, arms crossed, as Jack approached. Jack took a quick look over his shoulder. No one was looking back. He leaned in and shoved Guy overboard. The push was enough to knock the young man off balance. He flipped backwards over the short rail, arms and legs flailing, and hit the water. The current pulled hard and no matter how hard he tried to swim against it, the water pulled Guy further away from the boat.

  "Man overboard," Jack shouted. He rushed to the wheel and put the boat in gear. Disconnected the anchor.

  "Help," Guy's shouts were barely audible over the roar of the engine.

  Jack moved the boat toward Guy.

  Aleksandr and Viktor moved to the back of the boat. Aleksandr found a rope and tossed it toward Guy, but the man was too busy trying to keep afloat to grab the rope. Aleksandr shouted in Russian.

  Jack looked back and saw Viktor nod and lift his arms. Aleksandr tied one end of the rope around his wrist, and the other end around Viktor. He pulled the mesh gate off the back of the boat. Both men stood at the edge. Viktor jumped in.

  Aleksandr looked at Jack. "Get us closer."

  Jack nodded and smiled when Aleksandr looked away. The current pulled Viktor, drawing the rope tight. Aleksandr strained to keep his footing and stay on board. He had one arm outstretched, the other held tight to the railing. He let go of the rail and reached forward, grabbing the rope with both hands. He squatted low, sitting back to balance.

  The three men at the front of the boat watched from their seats. Marcel clung to the side of the boat, his face drawn.

  Jack reversed the boat. He waited for Aleksandr to straighten up. The moment the man rose up Jack lurched the boat forward. Aleksandr fell face first off the boat. His right arm outstretched, attached to the rope. His left arm reached back and grasped at air.

  "Shit," Jack yelled. He left the wheel and moved to the back of the boat, which still moved forward.

  By this point the three men, Dorofeyev, Olkhovsky, and Korzhakov, had left their seats and moved to the side of the open wheelhouse.

  "Help them," Dorofeyev shouted.

  Jack turned around, walked back to the wheel. He motioned the three men toward the back of the boat.

  "Get ready to help pull them up," Jack said.

  Marcel sat next to the wheel. He stared at the back of the boat. His face was frozen. Eyes didn't blink. Jack patted him on the head to reassure him.

  He put the boat in reverse, figuring that would distract the men and keep them from looking toward him while he removed the gun from under the wheel. He ducked under the wheel and removed the layer of duct tape holding the gun to the column. He turned around, took aim and fired a round into Olkhovsky's back. The man stood up straight at the moment of impact, then his body fell forward into the sea.

  Dorofeyev and Korzhakov spun around. Jack held the gun out and alternated pointing it at each man. They both raised their hands. Jack looked beyond them and saw Aleksandr and Viktor fighting the current and getting close to the boat. Jack reached behind and put the boat in forward gear and slowly moved away from the distressed men.

  "Who's first?" Jack asked.

  "What are you doing?" Dorofeyev asked. "Don't you know who I am?"

  "Grigori Dorofeyev, member of the Russian government Defense Ministry. You are planning an overthrow of the government within the next five years. You have the support of some powerful people. Anyone who refuses to support you is imprisoned on false charges. Or killed."

  Jack took two steps closer to the men.

  "And you," he pointed to Korzhakov. "You're an up and comer in the party. You are the man they'll use to convince the younger generation that Grigori's plan is the right one."

  The men looked at each other.

  "What do you want?" Dorofeyev pleaded.

  "Nothing," Jack said.

  "Who sent you? How much are they paying you?" Dorofeyev asked.

  "The French government and they are paying me a lot."

  "I'll give you one million dollars to stop this now."

  Jack shrugged, nodded and lowered his weapon.

  Dorofeyev smiled, lowered his hands and stepped toward Jack. "I can have the money to you tomorrow."

  "Not good enough." Jack raised his arm and shot Korzhakov in the chest. The man stumbled backwards. One foot slipped off the back of the boat causing his body to give way and plunge into the ocean. Within seconds he disappeared from view.

  Dorofeyev clenched his teeth, his face, and his fists. "Damn you," he shouted.

  "Anything you want me to tell them? For you?" Jack asked.

  Dorofeyev straightened himself up. He dropped his arms to his side. "Yes. Tell them that I, Grigori Dorofeyev, was strong until the last--"

  Jack pulled the trigger and fired a bullet into Dorofeyev's chest. The man's body recoiled, staggered a step forward, a step backward, but he kept his footing and stood tall. Jack pulled the trigger again, hitting him in the stomach. Dorofeyev leaned forward, but stayed in place, his head held high. Jack took two steps forward. Fired a shot between the man's eyes. Dorofeyev's head snapped back then slowly rolled forw
ard. His body stood still. Finally it collapsed backwards into a heap on the deck.

  Jack took a deep breath and pulled his phone from his pocket. He snapped a picture of Dorofeyev's body and sent it to a number that would store the picture on a secure server that only he had access to. He took a few steps forward, leaned over and shoved the lifeless body into the sea. He stood and watched as the body was pulled out and under by the heavy current.

  Jack turned and saw Marcel standing there, holding a shotgun. Jack looked past him and noticed the radio was on and the receiver lying on the counter behind the wheel.

  "What did you do, Marcel?"

  Marcel raised the barrel of the shotgun.

  "Don't move," Marcel shouted. "Stay right there."

  Jack took two steps forward. He didn't want to get caught close to the back of the boat.

  "Put the gun down," Jack said.

  Marcel stomped his foot. "I said don't move."

  Jack took two more steps forward. He had watched Aleksandr remove the shells from the gun. Was there a chance there were more? It didn’t matter. He stepped closer to Marcel until he was inches from the barrel of the gun.

  "You saw what I just did," Jack said. "Do you want me to kill you too?"

  Marcel didn't say anything.

  "Who did you call?"

  Marcel looked away.

  Jack reached out and yanked the gun from his hands. He stuck the Beretta to Marcel's forehead. "You dumb sonovabitch. All you had to do was keep quiet. Dammit."

  "Please don't kill me," Marcel said.

  "Shut up."

  "Please don't kill me," Marcel said again.

  Jack tucked the handgun in his pants and picked up the shotgun. He slammed the butt of the shotgun into the side of Marcel's head. The deckhand fell to the floor, unconscious. Jack secured the rear of the boat and moved Marcel out of the way. He checked his charts and set the boat on a course to the northwest. He locked the wheel and pulled out the stolen scuba gear. He prepped the gear in the event he needed to use it.

  He looked up and spotted a plane. It flew low. It passed overhead, circled around and passed over again.

  Jack cursed under his breath. He took position at the wheel and increased throttle. The boat sped up. The roar of the plane diminished. He checked over his shoulder and watched the plane drop back. He lowered his eyes. Marcel was waking up. Jack locked the wheel and knelt in front of Marcel.

  "Who did you call?"

  "No one." Marcel held the side of his head. He pulled his hand out and stared at the blood on his palm.

  "Then why is that plane following us?"

  Marcel shrugged. "I'm telling you Conway, I didn't call anyone."

  Jack reached for the handgun tucked in his pants. He aimed it at Marcel's head.

  "You never saw me, got that?" Jack said.

  "I-I never saw you," Marcel repeated.

  "You don't want to screw with me, Marcel. I'll find you, find your family. Kill all of you. Got it?"

  "Yeah, I got it," Marcel said.

  "OK, this is how this is going to go down. When we get closer to shore I'm gone. Jumping off the boat."

  Marcel nodded without saying a word.

  "When they board, you tell them you knocked me overboard," Jack said.

  Marcel nodded.

  "I find out you told them anything other than that, I'm coming after you."

  Jack went back to the wheel. He checked the GPS and compared it to his charts. Close enough. He put on the scuba equipment and slowed the boat. The roar of the engines diminished. The plane approached. Jack kept himself hidden under the canopy over the wheel. In the distance he heard another boat approaching.

  "There," Marcel said, his arm outstretched pointing to a dot on the horizon. "Police boat."

  "Ship’s yours," Jack said. He leaned back against the rail and fell backwards into the sea.

  12

  Jack ditched his gear a couple hundred yards from shore and swam above water the rest of the way. He treaded water and stared at the deserted landscape in front of him. He could make out no discernible landmarks. A compass kept him on track, but the strong current pulled him further to the east than anticipated. He expected to be slightly east of Monte Carlo, but could tell that wasn't the case.

  He carefully pulled himself up on the slippery rocks along the edge of the water. Stripped off his clothes and wrung the water out. He put his pants back on and started walking to his right. Just beyond the trees was a clearing. He'd get a better idea of the area from there. He hoped.

  From the clearing he saw a sliver of black pavement. He jogged through the clearing and made his way through a group of trees. Stopped at the edge of the road where it curved sharply. Jack closed his eyes and listened. The sound of an old engine filled the air. A rusted pickup truck appeared from around the corner. It slowed down as it approached the curve. An old man with glasses and a short white beard peered at Jack through the windshield. The truck came to a stop.

  "You in trouble?" the man asked in Italian.

  "Yes," Jack answered in English. "Do you speak English?"

  Jack could understand basic Italian phrases, but couldn't speak it very well.

  The old man nodded. "Hop in."

  Jack stepped into the cab of the truck and sat down on the passenger side of the blue cracked vinyl bench seat.

  "Where you headed?" the man asked.

  "Nearest train station," Jack said.

  "Well, I'm not going that far. But I can help you get there."

  "OK."

  "What's your name?"

  "Jack."

  It didn’t matter what name he used.

  "I'm Sal." He pushed in the cigarette lighter on the dash, reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of filterless cigarettes. He handed one to Jack. "How come you're soaking wet?"

  The cigarette lighter made a popping sound. Jack grabbed it, lit his cigarette and handed the lighter to Sal. He drew on the cigarette and exhaled slowly, blowing the smoke out through the window.

  "Boating accident," Jack said.

  "Alone?"

  "Yeah."

  Sal nodded. "Sorry about your boat."

  Neither man spoke for the next fifteen minutes. They passed a sign that said Levanto. Sal pointed at the sign then up ahead toward a cluster of shops. "That's your stop."

  Sal pulled over a couple hundred yards from town. He reached in his shirt pocket and pulled out the pack of cigarettes. He handed them to Jack. "Figure you might need those after the day you've had."

  "Know where I can buy a phone around here?"

  Sal threw back his head and laughed.

  Of course he doesn't. Old bastard has no need for a phone.

  Jack watched as Sal dropped the shifter into drive and pulled away, leaving Jack standing on the side of the road.

  He walked into town with his head turned to the west, eyes fixed on the setting sun. Most of the shops were closed. A drugstore still had its lights on. Jack went in to see about a phone.

  A woman stood behind the counter.

  "You sell mobile phones?" Jack asked in English.

  She looked up from her magazine, brushed her blond hair out of her face and smiled. "Sure do." Her smile faded, but the thin lines next to her eyes and lips didn't. The rest of her face was smooth. He figured she was in her mid-thirties, maybe forty.

  Jack reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. It was soaked through with water despite being in a plastic bag. He pulled out forty euros and placed the money on the counter. "Sorry, the money's wet."

  The woman shrugged. "No matter to me." She returned to her computer and programmed the phone.

  "I'll be right back."

  Jack went to the back of the store. Found the restroom and washed up. On his way back to the front of the store he grabbed a generic t-shirt and a pair of shorts. He changed his clothes in the middle of the store. He turned around and saw the woman looking at him, smiling.

  He waved.

  She blu
shed.

  He returned to the front, placed his damp clothes on the counter.

  "Don't see that every day." She peeked at him through her dangling hair.

  Jack laughed. "Sorry, had to get out of those clothes. Getting a chill."

  "Your phone is ready." She slid the cell across the counter.

  "Across the street," Jack said. "They serve food?"

  "You asking me out?"

  Jack winked, picked up his phone and walked out of the store. Crossed the street. He pulled open the door to the dimly lit bar and took a seat near the bartender.

  "What will you have?" the man asked in English with a heavy Italian accent.

  "A shot. Make it a double."

  "Of what?"

  "Something that will knock me on my ass."

  The bartender laughed. "You got it."

  Jack pulled out the pack of cigarettes and reached for a clean ashtray with a pack of matches sitting on top.

  The bartender placed a tall shot glass in front of Jack.

  "Can't do this in New York anymore. You know that?"

  The bartender shrugged.

  Jack threw back the drink, grimaced and exhaled loudly.

  "One more," he said. "And a beer."

  Two more shots and six beers later, Jack felt relaxed for the first time in over a week.

  The crowd in the bar grew. A mix of tourists and locals intermingled, sharing stories and jokes. Jack had become friendly with the other patrons. Anytime someone asked him his name, he'd ask them theirs. Whatever they said, he told them that was his name too.

  He chatted with a couple from Long Island, talking about all things New York. He felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned and saw the blond woman from the drug store. She greeted him with a smile.

  "Buy me a drink?" she asked.

  "What's your name?" he replied.

  "I’ll take whatever you’re having,” she said.

  "I’m Jack."

  Again, it didn't really matter.

  She smiled. “Gianna.”

  They continued to talk. Jack continued to drink. Gianna continued to move closer.

  Hours passed and the bartender started shutting down.