Noble leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. He let the grief and anger burrow down inside where it would turn to bitterness. He could handle bitterness.
Burke dusted crumbs from his fingertips onto his plate. “This is a dangerous job. We make decisions and sometimes those decisions go bad. Good men die. You, of all people, know that.”
“I guess it doesn’t matter now,” Noble said. “Torres figured it out in the end. That’s why he sent me the key.”
“Torres didn’t send the key to you,” Burke said. “He sent it to me.”
Noble sat for several seconds trying to process that information.
Burke said, “I’m sorry like hell about what happened. I really am. But he knew the score and he traded his life for hers.”
Noble chewed the inside of one cheek. A good man was dead and nothing Noble had done would bring him back.
Like he was reading Noble’s thoughts, Burke said, “You got his killer and stopped one of the most corrupt politicians in American history from taking the White House. That’s a win.”
Noble drained the last of his coffee without comment.
Burke finished his sandwich and took a few bills out of his wallet. “We good?”
“We’re good,” Noble told him.
“Keep your nose clean,” Burke said as he levered himself out of the booth. “Things are changing at the Company. You might be hearing from me soon.”
Noble watched him go, then turned his attention to the television. FBI Director Standish had just called a press conference to announce the formation of a joint bi-partisan committee to investigate Helen Rhodes.
The End.
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About the Author
I was born and raised in sunny Saint Petersburg, FL on a steady diet of action movies and fantasy novels. After 9/11, I left a career in photography to join the United States Army. Since then, I have travelled the world and done everything from teaching English in China to driving a forklift. I studied creative writing at Eckerd College and wrote four hard-boiled mysteries for Delight Games before releasing the first Jake Noble book. When not writing, I can be found indoor rock climbing, playing the guitar, and haunting smoke-filled jazz clubs in downtown Saint Pete. I’m currently at work on another Jake Noble thriller. You can follow me on my website WilliamMillerAuthor.com
Noble Intent
by
WILLIAM MILLER
Chapter One
A small craft nosed up to a stone jetty in the harbor town of Honfleur. Nestled on the south bank estuary of the Seine River, Honfleur is a picturesque port town of narrow lanes and closely packed buildings. It is home to medieval fortresses and the Sainte-Catherine church, built entirely of wood in the 15th century. The cafés and cobblestone streets have inspired Claude Monet and countless painters since. Rain was still falling, but now it was coming straight down. Sailboats bobbed on the water, sheltered from the worst of the storm by seawalls to the north and south. The fiberglass hull of the SeaVee bumped rotting wood pylons.
Duval tried to convince the pilot to take him down the Seine, all the way to Paris, but the old seaman only shook his head and cut the engines. The mercenaries leapt out and went to work securing the mooring lines.
The pilot said, “Good luck to you, Mr. Duval.”
“Thank you.” Duval paused to shake his hand.
While Jacques finished tying off the lines, Mateen went a little way down the jetty and checked their surroundings. The harbor faced a quaint little row of seaside shops, all closed at the moment. Street lamps glowed like fairy lights through the steady drizzle. A few boathouses lined the seawall and a row of cars were parked on the boulevard, but the town itself was asleep. Mateen nodded, satisfied, and returned to the ship. “All clear. Get your luggage.”
Duval grabbed the oversized suitcase and heaved it over the gunwale onto the dock. He grunted with the effort. Butterflies were zipping around inside his belly. He felt totally exposed. He didn’t like being on the boat in the middle of the ocean, but he didn’t like being out in the open either. He wanted to ditch his luggage and run to the waiting Renault. He would feel safer once they were in the car, headed south. He clambered over the gunwale, slipped on the clammy stone and went down on top of his suitcase.
Mateen said, “We need to hurry.”
Duval pushed himself up. “You could help.”
Mateen glanced around the empty harbor, sighed, and reached for Duval’s overstuffed suitcase. The moment he did, a sharp thwip-thwip-thwip split the air. Jacques made a sound like a seal giving birth, bent over at the waist and staggered. One foot slipped between the pier and the boat. He hit the side of the vessel and went into the water with a splash.
Duval’s heart climbed up into his throat. He hunkered down, looking for the source of the noise. A black-clad phantom appeared through the rain, wearing a ski mask and pointing a small automatic machinegun capped with a sound suppressor. Duval didn’t know much about guns, but he knew enough to recognize professional hardware.
Mateen dropped the suitcase and shoved a hand into his jacket. He didn’t even get his gun out before another short burst of muffled claps ripped through the pouring rain. Pthut-pthut-pthut. Duval was close enough to hear the impacts and see wet droplets explode off Mateen’s rain slicker.
The mercenary danced a jig. His hand came out of his coat with his gun. The assassin fired again. Thwap-thwap. Mateen’s head snapped back. He let go of the weapon and pitched over onto the dock. The gun bounced over the stones and came to rest a few inches from Duval’s feet.
His first instinct was to dive back into the boat, but his legs refused to obey. He felt rooted to the spot. His bladder surrendered the fight right then and there. He was standing up straight, leaning back away from the assassin. The weight of his duffel bag almost toppled him over.
The assassin moved along the dock, kicked Mateen’s handgun into the water and then turned the stubby automatic on the pilot. The Englishman’s hands went into the air and all the color drained from his face. He started to stammer out words. It might have been “Don’t shoot,” but it sounded like, “Donchuma!”
A woman’s voice, muffled by the rain-soaked ski mask, said, “Do you want to live?”
The pilot nodded. “I’ve got two little girls at home.”
“Get on the deck. Put your face down and count to one hundred, slowly.”
He threw one terrified glance at Duval, muttered an apology, and then sank to the deck of the ship.
Fear turned Duval’s arms and legs to rubber. A tortured sob escaped his throat. He screwed his eyes shut and waited to hear the pthut-pthut-pthut and feel the bullets punch through his chest.
Instead, the assassin grabbed his collar and hauled him along the deck. His toes caught on uneven paving stones and his knees threatened to give out. Air exploded from his lungs in panicked little gasps. He tried to beg for his life, but fear so powerful it was a physical force shorted out the circuits between his brain and mouth.
At the end of the jetty, the assassin steered him along the sidewalk toward an unmarked van with tinted windows. This is it, Duval told himself. He would be forced into the back of the van, duct taped, and driven to a black site where they would torture him. When they had wrung out every last bit of useful information, they would put a bullet in the back of his head. No one would ever find his body.
That thought finally tripped something in his brain. Survival instinct overruled his fear. In desperation,
he drove an elbow over his shoulder, catching the assassin off guard. Her head snapped back. She made a noise that was more surprise than pain, but it was enough to throw her off balance. She lost her grip on Duval’s collar and he ran for his life. He didn’t know where he was going, only that he needed to put as much distance between him and the assassin as possible. Fear coursed through his veins, turning to blind panic, urging his legs to move faster.
Chapter Two
Duval darted between parked cars and took off running along the line of shops fronting Quai de la Quarantaine. The duffel bag humped against his back as he ran. He was surprisingly quick for a paunchy, middle-aged man. Fear and adrenaline, mixed into a potent cocktail to give him a burst of speed. He turned down Rue des Logettes and then mounted the steps to Église Sainte-Catherine. He raced along the narrow corridor behind the old church that let out onto Rue du Puits. Fear carried him two more blocks before poor cardiovascular fitness took its toll. His tired legs started to slow and his feet grew heavier with every step. The muscles in his thighs burned with the effort.
He shot a glance over his shoulder, saw his pursuer and let out a terrified squeak. The assassin, built like a runner, was quickly closing the gap. Duval pumped his arms for speed. His head was on a swivel, like a rat looking for a bolt-hole to slip through. His eyes locked onto the glowing blue and white sign for the tram. A train car was pulling into the station. The long white shuttle slowed to a stop. Air brakes hissed and wires rattled. There were only two people waiting on the platform at this time of night. Fluorescent lights bathed them in a sickly artificial glow. Pneumatic doors sighed open. Duval was almost at the platform. If he could just make it onto the train…
The assassin stopped, shouldered the MP5, aimed low and triggered a three-round burst. The bolt carriage sounded out a rapid clack-clack-clack.
Pain, like he had never felt before, lanced Duval’s right butt cheek. He clapped both hands over his bottom, gave a shout and went face down on the paving stones. The initial sting turned to a crushing throb that threatened to send him tumbling down a dark abyss. He fought the urge to pass out. He had to stay awake, had to escape. But all he managed to do was roll around on the ground, holding his bottom and moaning. Fear wrote itself on his face in large capital letters.
The train doors hissed shut and the gleaming white shuttle moved away from the station, slowly at first, then picking up speed. Duval made one feeble attempt to gain his feet but the exquisite hurt in his bottom convinced him running was, for the moment, out of the question. “Please, for the love of God, don’t kill me.”
The assassin closed the last few yards, knelt, and pulled off the ski mask. A long curtain of jet black hair fell around her shoulders. She was Asian, with high cheek bones and eyes that gave away mixed parentage. “I’m not going to kill you,” she said. “My name is Samantha Gunn. I’m trying to save your life.”
He spluttered. Rain flew from his lips. He heard the words coming out of her mouth, but they didn’t make any sense. He took one hand away from his butt, inspected his palm and was surprised when he didn’t see any blood. His face wrinkled in confusion.
“It was a rubber bullet,” Samantha explained. “It’ll sting, but it doesn’t penetrate.”
“Rubber bullet?” Duval muttered. His hand went back to his butt. The pain made him want to vomit. He had to fight down a wave of bile trying to climb his esophagus.
Samantha Gunn mopped rain water from her face. “Listen to me. We don’t have much time. Those mobsters weren’t your friends. They were going to sell you out.”
Duval’s brain was starting to catch up with events. He said, “Mateen? Jacques? They were going to turn me over?”
“I don’t have time to explain it all,” she said. “You’re going to have to trust me. There’s a CIA wetwork team on their way right now. We need to get you out of here. Can you stand?”
She gripped his elbow and helped him up. He put weight on his right leg and gasped. His eyes opened wide. “I can’t.” He shook his head, trying to lower himself back down. “You shot me. It hurts.”
She hauled him back up. “They’re going to do a lot worse if they catch you.”
A pitiful whimper escaped his throat, but the threat had the desired effect. His legs started to move. His bottom still hurt. Putting weight on his right leg was utter agony, but once the shock wore off, he managed an ungainly trot. His rescuer urged him to go faster. Duval could hear his own pulse pounding in his ears. Every beat came with a stabbing pain.
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