Alejandra staggered between cars, leaving a trail of blood, to the windows. Broken glass crunched beneath her feet. Rain fell in heavy drops. Outside, a cartel soldier stalked alongside a decorative pool carpeted with large lily pads. He was so focused on the garden he never bothered to look behind him.
Shots rang out from a dark corner of the maze. The soldier turned his rifle in the direction of the sound and held the trigger down. He whipped his rifle back and forth like a fireman turning a hose on a burning house.
Using the noise as cover, Alejandra raised her weapon, sighted on his back and squeezed. The rifle kicked, sending a lance of pain from her wounded belly, up her spine, to her brain. Her bullets punched through the soldier’s back. He splashed face-first into the pond. The shooting stopped. Silence descended on the garden. The only sound was the steady patter of rain falling on leaves.
Noble snatched up the AK-47 and checked the mag. It was hard to say how many bullets were left without taking them out and counting. Instead he pressed down with his thumb and felt a mostly empty spring. His situation had improved only slightly. He rammed it back in the weapon and patted the dead thug’s pockets. No luck.
His only chance was to keep moving and pick off the bad guys one at a time. He retreated further into the garden, looking for another likely spot to use for an ambush, but hit a dead end. The garden butted up against the compound wall. Noble jogged along it in search of a hiding place.
A cartel soldier pushed through a hedge, saw Noble and yelled, “He’s here!”
The shout was like a shot of adrenaline. Noble side stepped, aimed, and mashed the trigger. The hired goon fired at the same time. Bullets whip-cracked over Noble’s shoulder, impacting the wall. Noble’s bullets found their mark, knocking the man backwards through the hedge.
His first thought was to take the dead man’s weapon. He started in that direction, but the ear-splitting thunderclap of a shotgun rent the air. Buckshot obliterated a hedge less than a foot from Noble’s elbow. He ducked and pulled his shoulders up around his ears like a turtle trying to crawl inside its shell.
Machado stepped around a large topiary. The green dot on his night vision goggles glowed like the hateful eye of Homer’s mythical Cyclops.
Noble was already moving, making himself a hard target. He leveled the AK-47 and loosed three short volleys before the hammer fell on an empty chamber.
Machado racked the shotgun. Another sharp clap assaulted Noble’s ears. Buckshot whistled through the air. He dodged a pair of benches and a stone cherub pissing into a fountain. Machado squeezed off three more rounds in quick succession. Boom—click-clack—boom—click-clack—boom. The cherub lost a wing and most of one chubby arm. Machado racked the weapon again. This time there was a hollow click.
Noble stopped and wheeled around.
Machado threw aside the shotgun and came at Noble like an enraged bull. His muscular legs ate up half the distance in the time it took Noble to drag the Kimber from his waistband. Machado slammed into him like a beer delivery truck without brakes. All the air went out of Noble’s lungs in a loud Oof! He lost his hold on the gun. It landed in the fountain with a ker-plunk. Machado carried Noble to the ground. Two-hundred and twenty pounds of muscle came down on his bruised ribcage. He let out a grunt. Meaty fists impacted the side of his head. Small fairy lights danced in his vision.
Noble’s brain felt like a scrambled egg. Desperate to stop the punishment, he jackhammered a fist into Machado’s cheek. His knuckles connected with enough force to check a charging mastiff. Machado barely registered the hit. Noble struck three more times. It did no more good than a wad of newspaper blowing against a brick wall.
Machado wrapped both hands around Noble’s neck and squeezed, cutting off his air supply. The vertebra in his neck creaked under the crushing force. His eyes bulged. He tried to pry Machado’s fingers off. It was like digging at tree roots. His brain screamed for oxygen. His face turned an ugly shade of purple. His vision narrowed to a pin prick.
“I’m going to kill you,” Machado snarled. “Just like your friend.”
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Alejandra was losing blood fast. Her whole body shook from cold. Her left leg was a club, forcing her to drag it behind. It was everything she could do to stay on her feet. The urge to lay down and close her eyes was overpowering. She turned a corner near the gazebo and spotted a furtive figure creeping along a row of statues. She recognized him at once. She didn’t know his name. He was one of the men that had raped her, after Machado finished and before she was too far gone to remember faces. He had taken a lot of pleasure in hurting her. Alejandra shouldered her rifle and whistled.
The color drained from his face.
She shot him twice in the belly.
He dropped his weapon and sat down in the grass, held his stomach and moaned. Alejandra stepped around him, pushing deeper into the garden. Shots rang out. It was a short, rapid exchange, and then silence. She wanted to run, but only managed a stumbling shuffle.
Noble’s eyes rolled back in his head. He clung to consciousness through sheer force of will. His lungs screamed for air. One hand landed on his cellphone in his pocket. With the last of his fading strength, he pulled out the phone and snapped a picture. The flash triggered.
Machado shrieked, reeled backwards and clawed the goggles off his face. The sudden flash, magnified through the night vision goggles, must have felt like knitting needles in his retinas.
Noble gasped. Oxygen flooded his aching lungs. His eyelids fluttered open. His fingers and toes tingled as blood started to circulate again.
Machado was on his knees, blinking and rubbing at his eyes.
Noble lifted his foot and drove his heel into Machado’s face. He felt the impact. A nice solid hit. Machado pitched over backwards with a noise like a wounded buffalo. His lips split open and two of his front teeth landed in the grass. Blood spilled down the front of his suit.
Noble kicked again, pressing his advantage, trying to put the big man out of commission. The force of the blow put Machado flat on his back. He rolled onto his hands and knees and tried to crawl. He looked like a drunk, flailing across the grass.
Noble struggled to his feet, almost fell, caught himself and kicked Machado in the ribs. The force of the blow lifted the big man a few inches off the ground.
Machado gasped for breath.
Noble kicked him in the face, rolling Machado over onto his back. Blood bubbled from both nostrils.
“You scared?” Noble croaked through a throat that felt like someone had scrubbed it with steel wool.
Machado coughed up blood. “Go to hell, Americano!”
Noble swung a kick at his face, meant to break his jaw, but Machado’s hands moved like twin cobras. He caught Noble’s foot and twisted. It felt like his leg would rip right out of socket. He went down in the grass with a piercing scream.
A fist the size of a bowling ball hammered his kidney. Noble grunted through clenched teeth. The giant fist impacted his temple. Fireworks exploded behind his eyelids. He managed to ward off another blow with his forearm. Machado swatted his arm aside, gripped Noble’s head in both hands and twisted. Noble fought against it with the muscles in his neck but his head turned slowly, inexorably to the right, until his spine was at the breaking point.
“Let him go!” Alejandra shouted.
She pressed the muzzle of her rifle against the back of Machado’s head.
The pressure on Noble’s neck disappeared. He scrambled away, trying to get out of reach of those murderous hands, scooting over the grass until he bumped into the stone fountain.
Machado crouched in the wet turf, a bib of blood on his chest. His shoulders tensed, ready for action. He looked over his shoulder at Alejandra. “Go ahead. Pull the trigger, you whore.”
Alejandra did. The rifle clicked on an empty chamber. A small noise—one part surprise, one part disappointment—escaped her lips.
Machado ripped the rifle out of her hands and swung it lik
e a club. Her head rocked to the side. She fell to the earth like a broken puppet.
While Machado was busy with Alejandra, Noble had pulled himself up on the fountain in search of the fallen Kimber. He spotted the gleam of polished steel under the water and lunged for it. His fingers closed around the pistol grip.
Machado dropped the empty rifle and turned to find himself staring down the barrel. He crouched slightly, a jungle cat ready to pounce. His hands twitched. His eyes narrowed.
Noble said, “Try it.”
Machado leapt.
Noble pulled the trigger. The Kimber clapped thunder. A brass shell leapt from the breech, trailing smoke. The bullet punched a hole the size of a nickel in Machado’s forehead and blew off the back of his skull. His legs went out from under him. He landed flat on his back, staring up at the sky with blank, lifeless eyes.
Noble, every muscle in his body aching, crawled across the grass to Alejandra and scooped her up in his arms. Her eyelid peeled open. Her lips moved. No sound came out. She tried again. “Machado?”
“Dead,” Noble told her.
She nodded. Her face pinched in pain. A cough wracked her frame. Blood spilled from one corner of her mouth. She raised her left hand and Noble took it in his right. She urged him closer. He bent down. A long, rattling noise escaped her throat. In a small voice she managed, “Train station.”
Noble touched the key in his pocket. She nodded. One last breath escaped her lips. A spasm gripped her body. Her pupil dilated. Noble felt for a pulse but she was dead. He laid her down in the grass, feeling exhausted and empty. A lump formed in his throat. The rain had stopped. It was time to get out of here. Before he could convince his legs to stand, someone pressed a gun to the back of his head.
Chapter Eighty
Every nerve ending in Noble’s body hummed like a high-tension wire. His heart tried to crawl out through his throat. The muscles in his back tensed. He was just about to make a desperate attempt at disarming whoever was behind him when he heard Hunt say, “I want my gun.”
Noble passed the Kimber over his shoulder.
“What did she tell you?” Hunt asked
“She thanked me,” Noble said, “for avenging her parents’ murder.”
Hunt looked at the scattered bodies. “Your missions always end like this?”
“Pretty much.” Noble climbed to his feet. His knees popped, letting him know he was getting old. “Anybody left?”
“A few. They took off in trucks. We’re the last men standing.”
Noble pointed to Hunt’s thigh. “You got clipped.”
“Shrapnel from an RPG.”
“Hurt much?”
“Stings.”
“So what happens now?” Noble wanted to know.
Hunt gave it some thought. “I still don’t like you, Noble. The Company should have tossed you in a deep dark hole somewhere.”
“But,” Noble prompted.
“But Sam asked me to give you the benefit of the doubt,” Hunt said.
Noble nodded.
Hunt said, “The next time we meet, I’m taking you down.”
“Let’s hope we don’t meet,” Noble said.
Hunt turned and limped away. Noble legged it back to the mansion. The explosion had destroyed a good portion of the house but the storm had put out the fire before it got out of hand. There was evidence of looting. Several of the more expensive artworks and a lot of electronics had been liberated by the last remaining Los Zetas soldiers before they fled. Ten minutes later, Noble roared out of the compound gate behind the wheel of the ‘67 Ford Fastback.
Chapter Eighty-One
Three days later, Noble walked into the Buenavista Railway Station in downtown Mexico City with a laptop bag slung over one shoulder. A loudspeaker announced a train to Juarez departing in ten minutes. The electronic voice echoed around the cavernous terminal. Noble sat down at a lunch counter with a back mirror, ordered a cup of coffee and watched the crowd. No one stood out.
He nursed his coffee for five minutes then tossed a few pesos on the counter, crossed the busy terminal, located locker 314. The key fit. Noble opened it and peered inside. There were no files, no papers, no disks. Nothing. He stared into an empty metal cube. Noble chewed the inside of one cheek. Torres wouldn’t have sent him the key to an empty box. He examined the inside of the locker for a message. He even studied the graffiti for hidden meaning. No dice.
Noble raked a hand through his shaggy locks. He closed the door and was about to turn the key when he got an idea. He opened the door and reached inside. There was a narrow metal lip where the door met the frame. A thumb drive was balanced on the ledge. A thrill of satisfaction went through him. He pocketed the USB, closed the locker, and turned toward the busy terminal. A hand came down on his shoulder. He felt the sharp point of a knife in his ribcage.
Hunt said, “I’ll take that.”
The last boarding call for the Juarez-bound train echoed over the loudspeakers. Busy travelers hustled past. Noble said “You’re not going to stab me, Hunt.”
“Yeah? Why not?”
“You want to know what’s on this thumb drive as much as I do. If you give it to Foster, it’ll get buried.”
“That’s what makes us different, Noble. I follow orders.” He dug the knife a little deeper. “Now give me the thumb drive.”
Noble spoke through clenched teeth. “I had a feeling you’d be that way about it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Noble had stopped through the local library on his way to the train station and filled the laptop bag with hardbacks. He used it to deflect the knife blade, then turned and threw an open hand strike to Hunt’s throat. The knife bounced across dingy linoleum. Hunt’s head snapped back. He lost his balance and sat down hard. His face scarlet.
Noble hustled through the terminal toward the gates.
Hunt scrambled to his feet and pressed a hand to his ear. It took him a minute to get words out. “Converge!” he said into a radio. “Converge on target. Cut him off. Don’t let him on the train.”
Noble saw the support team closing in from either side. Ezra was closest. His eyes were full of fear. He took short, jerky steps, like Frankenstein’s monster. He looked like a man stepping into the Colosseum with a hungry lion.
Noble gave him an icy stare and reached into the laptop bag.
“Oh my God.” Ezra stopped in his tracks. “He’s got a gun. He’s got a gun.”
Gwen fell back a step, looking for help that wasn’t there. Hunt was too far away to provide any support, and she wasn’t going up against Noble by herself.
“Get him!” Hunt croaked. “Don’t let him on the train.”
Noble reached the gate. He handed a ticket to a dour-faced Mexican who stamped it and wished him safe travels. Noble passed through the metal detector without setting off the alarm and down the steps to the platform. He had to hustle but he made it onto the train. He watched as Hunt reached the gate. The attendant held up a hand and asked to see his boarding pass. Noble grinned and waved his ticket as the pneumatic doors hissed shut.
Chapter Eighty-Two
Noble parked the ‘67 Fastback in front of the Hangar in downtown Saint Petersburg. He took the same booth overlooking the runway and ordered a plate of eggs with bacon and coffee. Steam rose from the mug in quiet little curlicues. Aretha Franklin was on the juke box, singing Chain of Fools. There was a high definition flat screen mounted in one corner showing the latest scandal surrounding presidential candidate Helen Rhodes. Shawn Hennessey had received a thumb drive from an anonymous source containing proof that Rhodes had been taking large sums of cash from a Mexican Cartel in exchange for classified intelligence in America’s war on drugs. The report had been airing daily for more than a week. All the other major networks had picked up the story—except CNN, who was doing their best to discredit Hennessey.
Noble, gazing out the window at a Cessna taxiing onto the runway, picked up his coffee and sipped. He had almost finished bre
akfast when Burke squeezed his bulk into the booth. The cheap vinyl creaked under his weight.
Noble asked, “Were you followed?”
Burke shook his head. “The Company’s too busy dealing with the fallout to bother keeping tabs on me. Everything Foster touched is radioactive. A lot of good operations had to be shut down.” After a moment he added, “I guess that’s better than the alternative.”
“What’s going to happen to Foster?”
“Undergoing enhanced interrogation right now.” Burke flagged down a waitress, ordered a sweet tea and a turkey club.
“Those enhanced interrogations tend to break people,” Noble commented over the rim of his mug.
Burke agreed with a nod. “He claims he had no idea Rhodes was passing intelligence. She promised him the director’s chair in exchange for keeping her in the loop on Company operations. Hard to say how much he knew. One thing is certain. He’s finished as Deputy Director of Intelligence. They’re looking for his replacement as we speak.”
“What about Sam?” Noble asked.
“She’s been reinstated,” Burke said. “But she’s got a permanent black mark. One more and she’s finished.”
“And Hunt?”
“He’s young. His reputation might recover.” Burke hitched up a shoulder. “Might not. He blames you, by the way.”
Noble dismissed that with a shrug.
Burke’s food arrived. He ate in silence.
Noble watched planes come and go. “Think Helen Rhodes will go to jail?”
Burke spoke around a mouthful of food. “A good politician can wade through hip-deep horseshit and come out smelling like roses, but her shot at the White House is finished.”
“You should have told Torres what you were up to,” Noble said.
Burke put down his sandwich. “I never suspected Foster. I included the mission in Mexico to cover my bases, but I was surprised as hell when it went off the rails. Hand to God, Jake, it wasn’t supposed to happen like that. I ordered Torres to walk away. I had no idea he was in love with the girl.”
Noble Vengeance Page 26
