by L. T. Ryan
Jack slapped his cheeks, open-handed then backhanded. Left, then right. He shook his head and dispelled the paralyzing thoughts contained within. This was not the time to allow himself to be overcome with fear and panicked thoughts. If Dottie had set him up then he’d treat it like every other time he’d been set up.
Self-preservation, first and foremost.
Then revenge.
So the only thing for Jack to do was wait and watch. Watch the elderly couple pass by his car. Wait while the funeral procession of someone not very well liked passed by in a matter of seconds. He waited and watched as half the building emptied onto the sidewalks at lunchtime. And again when they returned. Through it all, there was no sign of Thornton Walloway.
So Jack waited even longer.
He paid particular attention to the people who entered and exited the building at irregular times. He’d make a quick assessment, then if he felt they fit his profile, he’d snap a picture with the cell phone Dottie had left in the car. There were only a few who deserved such attention. But he considered the fact that he didn’t know Thornton’s criminal partners, and he figured it wouldn’t hurt to have the pictures.
Through the scanning and profiling, one thing filtered through Jack’s head without being properly processed. A car had been parked behind him the entire day. Not too close. Not too far away. It had arrived shortly after he did. He never saw anyone get out. That didn’t mean nobody had. But if they had, he’d missed it. Which seemed unlikely considering that he’d noticed every dog that stopped to piss on the fire hydrant visible in the bottom right corner of his rear view mirror.
The sun reflected off the vehicle’s windshield, making it impossible for Jack to see if someone was inside. He contemplated getting out and walking over to the car. Decided against it. Not here, not in front of Thornton’s office building.
Then Jack got the break he’d been waiting for.
He shifted his focus from the car positioned behind him to the building. His gaze drifted from the first to the third floor, back down, and settled on the shadowy hole where vehicles had disappeared into and emerged from throughout the day. His focus once again started to drift, but before the entrance to the parking level had left his field of view, a black Bentley emerged.
And it looked to be the same one from the night before, outside the hotel.
The Bentley turned left out of the garage, drove forward, stopped at the corner twenty yards behind Jack. It made another left and approached his position from the rear.
Jack looked away. The windows of the Bentley were tinted on all four sides. Staring at the car would only get him noticed. The Bentley passed. Jack turned the key in the Fiat’s ignition. He punched the clutch, eased his foot onto the gas, pulled away from the curb. Shifted from first to second. He glanced up at his rear-view mirror and saw the car that had been parked behind him all day pull away from the curb too.
Jack paced the Bentley, staying about thirty yards behind. He took note of the names of each street he passed, committed them to memory. The layout of London, and most major European cities for that matter, did not mesh logically with his brain. They spread out from one central point with no grid to make getting from point A to point B as simple as requiring only the cardinal directions to navigate.
So he did his best to create a map in his mind. If it came down to it, he knew he could switch on the cell phone’s GPS. Although past experiences made him leery of doing so. He’d been tracked through GPS once before and preferred not to relive the experience.
The Bentley’s brake lights lit up like a pair of seductive eyes, and then the sleek black vehicle pulled off to a stop in front of a custom tailor’s shop named Federico’s. The driver’s door opened. A man stepped out. He looked a lot like one of the men Jack had seen in front of the hotel. The guy left his door open, took two steps toward the rear of the car, and opened the back door. The driver looked north, south, east, west. He lifted his sunglasses and his eyes swept side to side in huge arcs. He said something, then the man in the back of the Bentley stepped out.
The passenger was older. His silver goatee was cropped as close to his face as his hair was to his head. His dark suit told anyone within eyeshot that money would never be a hindrance. Without a doubt, this was the man Jack had encountered in Monte Carlo. The man who’d tried to kill Jack. This was the man who’d beaten Dottie within an inch of her life.
Thornton Walloway.
Jack rolled by slowly. He used his left hand to shield his face from view. Kept his sunglasses down to hide his eyes. The seconds it took to pass felt like minutes. He pulled against the opposite curb and let the Fiat idle. Using his side and rear view mirrors, he watched Thornton step inside the tailor’s shop. The tinted glass door shut. The driver disappeared inside the Bentley. Headlights cut into the dreary mist that hovered over the street. The black luxury vehicle pulled away from the curb, passed Jack, turned left at the intersection.
“Dumb luck,” Jack muttered.
He could end it right there. Best case, he’d walk in and place a bullet in the center of Thornton’s forehead. There was the possibility of accidental casualties, but Jack could live with that. Worst case, he’d have to kill a few people in the store and then take on the driver, who probably doubled as Thornton’s bodyguard. Either way, he liked his odds.
He pulled out both Brownings. The pistols were well taken care of, recently oiled. He switched the safeties on. Cocked each gun’s hammer. He had two shots before any manual intervention would be required. For a man like Jack, that was plenty.
He leaned over, opened the glove box, rifled through it looking for something to cover his face. He found a blue rag of a t-shirt, stained with oil. He held it up to his head. A perfect fit. He tugged on the emergency brake and pulled the keys from the ignition. Gas fumes filled the cramped interior. He rolled down the driver’s side window a couple inches, then opened the door and exited onto the sidewalk. He scanned the street, north to south. Quiet aside from a few pedestrians. His preparation ended there.
In most scenarios, time was an ally. Not today. Not here. Jack decided he couldn’t even take the time to walk down the sidewalk opposite the shop, then cross the street and loop back. By that point, the driver might be on the street again. And the driver might know what Jack looked like. The driver could position himself between Jack and the Fiat, and that would complicate matters greatly.
Jack knifed through the damp air, headed across the street diagonally on a line toward Federico’s. He planned to turn his head the opposite way when he hit the sidewalk, preventing anyone inside from seeing his face. At best, they’d have body type to go on. And while Jack was somewhat of a physical specimen, he wasn’t impressive enough to be one of a kind.
But it didn’t go according to plan. He didn’t reach the other side of the street. Instead, the car that had been tailing him screeched to a stop in front of him. The driver’s side window rolled down. A man with buzzed blond hair and almost white eyebrows aimed a gun at Jack.
“Get in the car, Jack.”
Jack hesitated, took a step back. He realized that the vehicle was government issued.
“Don’t try to run. I’ll gun you down.”
Jack’s hands went to the handles of his pistols.
“Don’t even think about drawing on me.”
Jack looked down both ends of the street. To his left, the tailor’s shop, and half a dozen vehicles climbing toward him. To his right, the driver of the Bentley.
“Hurry, Jack, before you get shot.”
The Bentley’s driver stared in Jack’s direction. He reached into his coat pocket. Was he going for a handgun? Or a cell phone? Was it better to face that man, or the blond guy inside the cheaper government sedan?
The Bentley’s driver pulled a pistol.
“Now!” the driver of the government sedan said.
Jack stepped to his right, grabbed the rear door handle, dove into the vehicle as it peeled away.
CHAPTER 11
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“What are you doing, Jack?”
Clarissa hunched behind the wheel of her small car, full of disbelief at what she had just witnessed. It was bad enough that Jack appeared to be ready to attempt a hit inside a store in a busy area. But to get inside a vehicle owned by British Intelligence? What the hell was he thinking?
As she eased down the street, she realized that Jack had only had two options after the car pulled up. Get in or get shot by either the driver or the man who stood on the sidewalk between the shop and the corner. She recognized him, having seen him before at Naseer’s place. The guy gave her the creeps. She’d do her best to look away when she passed. A guy like him would not likely believe in coincidences. He’d put two and two together, tell his boss. His boss would get on the phone to Naseer, then all hell would break loose. The last thing Clarissa needed was Naseer questioning her about her whereabouts and intentions. She’d be pulled from the assignment the moment she sent a status update. If she lived that long.
As Clarissa approached the intersection before the tailor’s shop, she had a decision to make. Turn and drive up two blocks, then merge back onto the road, and risk losing Jack. Or continue on and pray that the man didn’t see her. She was already losing ground to the sedan, so turning at the intersection looked to be the less attractive option. She pressed the gas pedal. The little car shook and picked up speed.
The guy now stood closer to the entrance to the tailor’s. His head moved inches. His eyes did the heavy work, scanning the street, the buildings. He looked relaxed, but aware. He’d been spooked by Jack, but in the end, the government car might have aided Jack. Perhaps the guy figured it was a regular shakedown. She knew he was trained to spot anomalies and to take action immediately. And that was something Clarissa could use to her advantage.
So she made herself look like everyone else on the road. She brought her left hand up to her head, cell phone cradled in her palm, pressed to her cheek. Her right hand waved wildly in front of her, animating her fake conversation. At the last second, she whipped her head to the right like she saw something super cute in a store window. The effort served to further conceal herself from view. After she passed, Clarissa checked her side mirror. The guy stared off in the opposite direction. If he’d noticed her, he hid his reaction well. Likely, he’d seen a woman in a car and filed her away as a non-threat.
She reached the next intersection and slowed to a stop. A line of three cars approached from the left. Five from the right. She glanced up toward her rear view mirror. The guy approached her direction. Her eyes lowered an inch. The government sedan distanced itself further. If she didn’t make it across the intersection soon, she’d lose them.
“Come on, come on, come on.” She tapped the heel of her free foot and bounced her knees.
Knuckles rapped against her passenger side window.
Clarissa gasped, jumped, looked over.
The guy peered back at her over the top of the sunglasses now perched atop his nose. He motioned with his hand for her to roll down the window.
She reached with her right hand and pressed a button. The window glided down.
“You’re Naseer’s lady, right?”
Clarissa said nothing.
“What’re you doing in this part of town?”
“I don’t answer to you.”
He smiled, placed his forearms across the window ledge. “What say you come have a drink with me?”
She said nothing.
“No? Perhaps I should dial up Naseer and tell him you’re out and about clear across town from him.”
“And while you’re at it, why don’t you mention to him that you just hit on me.”
The guy’s smile faded. He lifted his head a few inches, worked his lips side to side. He muttered something under his breath that ended in bitch.
“What’s that?” Clarissa said.
He shook his head, said nothing.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Get your grubby hands out of my vehicle, bitch.” She pressed the gas and pulled away before he had a chance to fully disengage from the car. His arm or elbow or hand collided with the door frame with a thud and maybe a crack. She glanced up at her rear view mirror and saw him bent over, cradling his right arm.
Her elation faded when she realized that she’d lost sight of the government vehicle.
And Jack.
CHAPTER 12
“I’ve been watching you since you arrived,” the guy told Jack. “We couldn’t believe your name flagged. Thought it had to be a mistake, or maybe some other Jack Noble traveling from the U.S. to London. I mean, why would Jack Noble travel under his own name? Really, why would you?”
Jack massaged his temples with his thumbs. He took a deep breath, sucking in the stale air that carried the faint odor of pine needles. His fear had been realized.
“Why should I tell you?”
“I’m Security Service. MI5, mate. I already know a lot about you. Former Marine with CIA ties. At one time you worked for an agency that shares an acronym with our MI6. You left long ago, but still contracted with them for non-sanctioned hits, both foreign and domestic. You were working with them as recently as a week ago. A Russian General was assassinated in a theater just north of Moscow. You were there. Ask me how I know that?”
Jack said nothing, focused on the road ahead.
“Look, mate, I’ll find out what you’re doing here one way or another. You can tell me here. Or you can tell me in a cell, if that’s what you prefer.”
Jack turned away, looked out the side window, sighed.
“Or if you really don’t like yourself, I can find people that you do like and start questioning them. How ‘bouts I start with my old boss? Reckon she’ll be more cooperative.”
Jack whipped his head around, studied the guy for a moment. Would he really go after Dottie? He decided to buy some time and try to figure out what the guy really wanted. “Got ID?”
The guy produced a badge and ID card. Both had the name Mason Sutton printed on them. He worked for British Intelligence, Security Service, MI5. The address on the badge said Thames House. Jack knew that was across the river from Vauxhall Cross, MI6 headquarters. Jack had spent time there in the past when working for Dottie on sanctioned hits. He recalled what the badges looked like then. If Mason had faked his credentials, he’d done a pretty good job. His badge looked the same as the ones Jack saw in his head. He figured the design hadn’t changed much in the past ten years. Didn’t have a reason to. British Intelligence didn’t succumb to a version two-point-oh.
At this point, Jack’s options were limited. Give Mason what he wanted or fall between the bureaucratic cracks and become indefinitely incarcerated.
“What do you want to know?”
“Like I said, why’d you travel under your real name?”
“Quit jerking me around.”
Mason smiled, leaned in, placed a hand on Jack’s forearm. Said, “Humor me.”
“I’m retired,” Jack told him. “My name’s good. I’m free and clear in the U.S. and all friendly nations. I’m not wanted in connection with any crimes. I’m not wanted for questioning in regards to any crimes. I can travel without restrictions. Why would my name flag in your system? Maybe you’re looking for another Jack Noble. Ever think of that?”
Mason let go of Jack’s arm, began laughing. “Oh, Jackie boy, you are something else. You know that, right?”
Jack didn’t reply.
“You are who we think you are, mate. Yeah, you’re right, you’re not wanted for anything. Now. But you better be certain that when your name pops up, governments are going to worry about what you’re doing in their country. Hell, Carnival Cruise Lines would worry if you showed up on their itinerary. A guy like you doesn’t travel for pleasure. And don’t you bother feeding me a bullshit story. I’m not a stupid customs agent pushing through the day until it’s time to punch the clock.”
“I told you, I’m retired.”
“Yeah, so you said.” Mason steered with hi
s knees while he lit a cigarette. He took a deep drag, exhaled in Jack’s direction. “Men like you don’t retire, Jack. Not until someone puts a bullet in your fucking brain.”
“Is that what you’re here to do?”
Mason shrugged, puffed out his cheeks and forced air through loosely sealed lips, creating a flapping sound. “Give me a reason, and yeah, I’ll terminate you.”
“Have I given you a reason?”
“Not yet.”
“Then what do you want from me? You didn’t stop me in the middle of the street and drive me out of town to ask me why I got on a plane using my real name. And I don’t know of any popular shops that a cross dresser like yourself might visit. So, what is it?”
Mason smiled, nodded, said, “Right, I’ll get to the point, mate. What’d you want with Thornton Walloway?”
“Who?”
“It is not in your best interest to—how did you say it—jerk me around, Jack. As of this moment, I’m your friend. Got that? Friend. You don’t want me as an enemy.” Mason paused. His eyes flitted between Jack’s. He continued. “You’ve been outside his office building all day long. As soon as his car hit the street, you took off after it. His Bentley stops, you drive half a block then pull over. He gets out, goes inside a clothing store, then you get out of your little car and cross the street looking like you were hell bent on introducing him to his forsaken fate. I’ve got your number, Jack. I could build a case for conspiracy to commit murder right there. So what say you let me in on what’s going on?”
“Seven months ago I messed up. Did something I knew I shouldn’t have. I wasn’t given the whole story and could plead ignorance, but the fact is I knew what was going on. I figured that what I’d procured would never end up in hands of someone with the ability to execute. And I did it for the money, plain and simple. I’d been thinking about getting out of the business, setting off into the sea, retiring. That job would have allowed me to do so. But then I had a life altering experience, minutes before I was supposed to make the drop. Everything changed.”