“I work for Lucas.”
“He recruited you?
Another nod.
“How many more men does Lucas have?”
“I don’t know,” he said and shook his head.
“Where’s the printing press?” Noble asked.
He hesitated and Noble game him a slap. “Hey! Where is the press?”
“A warehouse in Rijeka.”
“I need more than that,” Noble told him. “I need an address.”
“It’s in an abandoned torpedo factory. It juts out over the water. You can’t miss it.”
“How many men guard the warehouse?”
The hardcase shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Noble waved Eliška forward.
His eyes went to the pliers and he said, “Three men run the press. Six more are on the loading crew. That’s it.”
“How is Lucas planning to move the money?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know that. It’s all compartmentalized. Each man knows his job, and we don’t share information.”
“Who does Lucas work for?” Noble asked. “He hasn’t got the funds to bankroll an operation this size. Who’s funding the United Front?”
“I don’t know.”
Eliška held up the pliers.
“I don’t know!” The hardcase was weeping now. “I swear to God, I don’t know. Lucas is the only one I’ve ever had any contact with. I swear.”
Noble asked, “Where is Lucas now?”
“Probably on his way to Rijeka. The cash ships tomorrow evening.”
“Where? How?”
“I don’t know that part.” He laid his head down in the dirt. “I told you: It’s compartmentalized. You’ll have to ask Lucas. He’s in charge.”
“I’ll do that.”
Noble stepped aside. Eliška crouched down in front of the man with the pliers in her hand. Panic filled his eyes. His chin trembled. “You promised not to kill me!”
“I promised I wouldn’t kill you,” Noble told him and walked away.
The hired gun was going to die badly, but he had it coming. Besides, Eliška needed to vent all that rage and frustration. She needed to get it out of her system. Two months ago, Noble had spared Grey’s life and spent every single night since then imagining all the things he could have—should have—done to the man who had killed Sam.
Maybe revenge is good for the soul, thought Noble.
Noble made his way down the road to the Škoda. The countryside lay still and quiet. Stars glittered in the velvet blackness. He started the engine and turned on the heat. He didn’t want the support people at Langley hearing the screams of a dying man in the background. The analysts wouldn’t understand. They didn’t know what it was like in the field. To them, safe behind their computer screens, everything was a simple algorithm that fit within the parameters of a mission outline. Any questions could be easily answered by consulting a large ringed binder.
But in the field, things get ugly. Things get personal. People die and the survivors want vengeance. Eliška’s wanted her pound of flesh. Noble wasn’t going to deny her. He dialed and put the phone to his ear.
Gwen picked up and said, “What’s your status?”
“I’ve got Cermákova in custody,” Noble told her. “And the location of the printing press. It’s in a derelict torpedo factory in Rijeka. The phony cash is scheduled to ship tomorrow evening, but I just took out four of their guys. When Lucas figures out they’re dead, he’ll assume someone talked and move up the time table. We need to hit that factory with a Quick Reaction Force. What elements do we have in the area?”
“We’ll pass that information on to the Secret Service,” Gwen said. “Your job is to get Cermákova to Berlin. We have a team waiting there to receive her. There is a 2:30 a.m. train leaving out of Prague. You need to be on it.”
“Are you even listening to me?” Noble said. “We have a chance to stop this, but we have to act now.”
“Armstrong has called three times,” Gwen told him. “She’s breathing fire. She wants this tied off. We’ll pass the intel to the Secret Service and they can liaison with a local SWAT team to investigate the warehouse, but your part in this mission is over.”
“Lucas is a former Navy SEAL,” Noble said. “You send a Croatian SWAT team in there, they’re gonna get killed.”
“Let us worry about Randall,” Gwen said. “We’ll do everything we can from our end. You did your job. It’s time to come home.”
When Noble didn’t answer right away, she said, “Noble, are you still there?”
“I’m here,” Noble told her.
Her voice took a hard edge. “Get Cermákova to the train station, Noble. That’s an order.”
He hung up and drove the Škoda up the side of the mountain.
Eliška sat in the gravel, elbows propped on her knees and blood dripping from her fingertips. She had on a thousand yard stare. The dead guard lay at her feet. His mouth was stretched in a silent scream. Noble ignored the body—it wasn’t a pretty sight—and hunkered down in front of Eliška. “I’m sorry about your father.”
She sniffed and ran one blood-streaked hand under her nose, leaving a trail of red. “He was a good man. He didn’t deserve to die like that.”
Noble nodded. There was nothing more to say.
Eliška went on staring into the distance. Her face was slack, emotionless. She said, “What now?”
“Now we’ve got a train to catch,” Noble told her.
Chapter Fifty-One
Lucas Randall felt the Cessna touch down with a gentle lurch and a long shiver. The private jet hurtled along the runway, wind shearing against the flaps as gravity reasserted itself. Cabin lights came on, accenting the dark walnut interior in a warm glow. Lucas sat slumped in a calfskin leather seat with a glass of bourbon in one hand and his phone in the other. He was scrolling through a collection of pictures from Iraq and Afghanistan, looking at pictures of his old unit. Just having the photos was an operational risk, but they were the last remaining vestiges of his old life. He swiped a thumb across the screen. Jake Noble’s grinning face and disheveled hair popped up time and again. Noble had been a First Sergeant with an A-team back in those days. Randall was a SEAL, but their paths had crossed, first in Afghanistan, then again in Iraq. Special Forces is a close-knit community of top-tier operators where everybody knows everybody. When Noble got sheep dipped by the CIA and placed in charge of a Special Operations Group, Lucas had heard the rumors and asked for a spot on the team.
Lucas was between deployments at the time. He had been twenty-seven years old and spent his days working out and drinking. His nights were spent chasing tail. None of it seemed real. For Lucas, the months between deployments were the hardest. He struggled to fill up the time. In reality, he was just waiting. Waiting to get back to his real life killing bad guys in Indian Country. So when the call came from Noble, Lucas had jumped at the chance.
He had spent the next six months learning tradecraft at the CIA’s top-secret training facility in Tidewater, Virginia—known to insiders as simply the Farm. After that, Lucas was always in the field. The world was his operating theater and every day was a mission. Operating in the black meant he was always on, even when he was home in America. Espionage doesn’t recognize international boundaries. A threat can come anywhere, anytime.
Noble was his team leader back in those days, and he was one of the best. He had a natural gift for tradecraft, a talent for languages, and could think on his feet. Their SOG team had quickly gained a reputation for pulling off missions the desk jockey’s back at Langley deemed impossible. They became Langley’s go-to for high-risk operations that needed complete deniability.
All that changed when Noble gunned down a politician in an effort to liberate a bunch of human slaves. After that, the team was disbanded. Lucas found himself driving a desk at an embassy in Morocco, working under the most boring Station Chief in the world. The guy was more afraid of missions going bad than collecting u
seful intel. He wouldn’t greenlight an operation unless the success probability was one-hundred percent, which was never. So Lucas spent his days shuffling papers.
When he finally had enough, Lucas quit the CIA and took work as a private contractor. That’s when Keiser found him. The old man had opened Lucas’s eyes to so many things. Keiser had shown Lucas that he was the pawn of a corrupt system that used young men with too much testosterone and too little experience to wage wars in far-flung places like Afghanistan, all to appease the big oil donors, who in turned filled the war chests of the politicians.
It all came back to money. And that was why, in the end, money would be their downfall. Fitting, thought Lucas, almost poetic. Keiser had developed a plan to take down the capitalists using the very thing they loved most: money.
Lucas sat staring at a picture of him and Noble together, smiling for the camera. It had been taken just before the fateful mission in Qatar. A lot of water had passed under the bridge since then. Lucas’s eyes were open now. He was no longer wearing the rose-tinted lenses of patriotism that had blinded him to the truth for so many years. He understood that America wasn’t the solution. It was the problem. The good old US of A—that shining City on a Hill—was nothing more than an imperialist oppressor. But Lucas still considered Noble a friend. He regretted giving the order to kill him. What choice did I have? Lucas asked himself. It was for the greater good. They were soldiers on opposite sides of the battlefield now. Noble was working for the enemy. Simple as that.
The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth. Lucas downed the last of his bourbon in one long swallow. Eric was sitting across from him, apparently lost in thought. The former Captain had a boating magazine open on his lap, but he hadn’t looked at it in more than thirty minutes. He was staring out the window at the tarmac.
As the Cessna taxied toward a private hangar, Lucas noticed his mobile had reception again. He used the opportunity to dial Müller. The phone rang a dozen times before going to voicemail. Lucas dialed again with the same results. The first hint of worry started deep in his gut. He dialed a third time.
Eric tossed the magazine into the empty seat beside him and leaned forward. “The team in Prague?”
Lucas nodded.
“Not picking up?” Eric said.
Lucas nodded again and fixed the German with a hard stare that said plainly, Your boys screwed up.
Eric pulled out his own cell and started calling the rest of the team. One by one their phones went to voicemail.
Lucas looked at the phone in his hand, as if staring hard enough would make it ring. He tried willing Müller to call him back, but the phone remained stubbornly silent. He told himself not to panic. There were plenty of reasons why they might not pick up. Maybe they’re out of range of a cell tower? Or maybe they’re busy working Noble for info and not paying attention to their phones? Or maybe they are all dead, Lucas thought.
If the team in Prague was out of commission, the operation in Croatia was compromised. Lucas carefully weighed his options. He had to assume Noble was alive and that he knew the location of the intaglio press. Everything Lucas had spent the last six months working for was in jeopardy. He shook his head and dialed again. Only this time, he was calling Keiser.
Keiser picked up and cut right to business. “Have our interests in Prague been settled?”
“We ran into a slight hiccup,” Lucas said. “A guy I used to work with showed up in Prague. Walked right into the middle of the deal. He’s working with the freelancer.”
“I thought your people were taking care of it?” Keiser asked.
“The team has gone dark.”
“You mean they aren’t answering their phones,” Keiser said.
“There could be any number of explanations. They might be out of cell range or just keeping a low profile,” Lucas said, trying to put lipstick on a pig.
Keiser dropped all pretense and said, “If your team isn’t answering their phones, they’re dead. We need to move up the time table. Where are you now?”
“I just touched down in Rijeka.”
“Shut down the operation and get the last of the cash ready to move,” Keiser told him.
“It’s too early,” Lucas argued. “I’ve had that press running round the clock and we’re still several hundred million short of our goal.”
“Let me worry about the math,” Keiser said. “If the Americans are onto us, the entire operation is at risk. Get the cash ready to move right away.”
Keiser hung up before Lucas could argue.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Noble stood in the mostly empty terminal at the Praha Smíchov Railway Station, staring up at the departures board. Smíchov station is south and west of the city proper, a lonely station separated from the city center by the Vltava River and seldom used except by businessmen passing through on their way to someplace else. The remote location meant less traffic and less security.
A loudspeaker announced the 2:15 train to Salzburg. Half a dozen American backpackers hurried for the gates. Their shoes made peeling noises on the grimy floor. Noble got a whiff of pot as they passed. American college students often add Prague to their European itinerary as a place to get high. Czech laws are pretty lax. Recreational use is against the law, but personal possession is not a crime.
Eliška stood with her hands in her pockets and her eyes downcast. She hadn’t spoken a single word since they left the cabin. She had allowed Noble to load her into the Škoda and drive to the station without resistance. He kept expecting her to make a move, but all the fight had gone out of her.
Noble kept her in his peripheral vision while he inspected the board. There was a 2:30 train to Berlin and 2:45 bound for Zagreb, capital of Croatia. From there, it was a little over fifty miles to the coastal town of Rijeka. Noble chewed the inside of one cheek. Going to Rijeka was a direct violation of orders, but Lucas had been one of Noble’s men, and that made it his responsibility. Special Forces operators are the best of the best, modern-day ninjas. America trains some of the most highly skilled fighters on the planet, and those sheepdogs are expected to use their skills for good. If Lucas Randall had gone over to the Dark Side, Noble considered it his duty to stop him. Even if that meant getting fired—again.
Eliška finally spoke up. “What are you waiting for?”
Noble said, “Still want to get the guy responsible for your father’s death?”
A dangerous light kindled in her eyes. “You know I do.”
Noble nodded. They stepped up to the ticket counter where a tired man with a five o’clock shadow grunted at them. Noble paid cash for a pair of first-class berths on the sleeper coach bound for Zagreb. The vendor pushed the change, along with the tickets, under the partition and grumbled, “Leaves in thirty minutes.”
Noble led the way up the stairs to the platform where a gleaming blue and yellow train waited. An attendant greeted them at the door, shined a flashlight on their tickets, and directed them toward the first-class coaches. Noble let Eliška go first, wondering if he had made the right decision. Armstrong would likely fire him the moment she found out. Noble pushed that thought aside.
Eliška found the cabin, slid the door open, and slipped inside. Noble crowded in behind her. A pair of bunks took up most of the space, along with a small table and a seat. A narrow door opened on to a private bathroom with a toilet and a shower stall.
Noble sat down in the seat next to the window where he could watch the platform. He was looking forward, toward the stairs. Eliška dropped onto the bottom bunk and watched the opposite direction. She was watching his six without having to be told. We work well together, Noble thought for the second time since meeting her. She was a natural. Too bad she was a murderer. He glanced at his wristwatch. It was 2:32. The train to Berlin was gone. He was officially off the reservation. He returned to his vigil. They waited in silence as the seconds ticked slowly past. At last, the train started to move with a loud chuffing of air brakes. The platform slid out of sight and
the lights of Prague dwindled.
As soon as the train left the station, Eliška unzipped her leather jacket. A splotch of dark blood stained her T-shirt. She pulled at her collar for a look at the damage. Her face pinched.
“Is it bad?” Noble asked.
“I think the bleeding has stopped.”
“We need to bandage you up,” Noble told her.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Noble made his way along the carriage to the connecting corridor where he spotted a white plastic box emblazoned with a bright-red cross attached to the wall. He glanced around—the passage was empty—and jerked the box free with one sharp tug. The screws let go with a wrenching shriek. Noble tucked the medical kit under one arm and made his way back to the first-class cabin. He knocked twice to let Eliška know it was him before sliding the door open.
She hadn’t moved from her place by the window. Her face was blank and her eyes were unfocused. One hand cradled her injured breast through the T-shirt. The blood had dried into dark copper stains. She didn’t react when Noble entered. She might be going into shock. She had been through a lot, even for a hardened assassin. She had been captured, tortured, and watched her father die. It was enough to break even the toughest of soldiers. Eliška was made of stern stuff, but everyone had their limits. The stress of the situation was finally catching up with her.
Noble locked the door behind him and sat down next to her on the bunk. “We’d better have a look at that.”
When she didn’t respond, Noble laid a hand on her shoulder. “We need to doctor that wound.”
Her eyelids fluttered, like she was coming up from a dream. She looked down at her chest. The palm of her hand was flecked with dried blood. She glanced briefly at Noble, before shrugging out of the jacket. She peeled off the Rolling Stones T-shirt and Noble got his first look at the damage. Müller had done a job on her left breast. Unfortunately, she hadn’t been wearing a bra. The padding from a good pushup would have taken some of the damage. As it stood, her left breast had borne the brunt of the torture.
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