by L. T. Ryan
NOBLE INTENTIONS SEASON FOUR
BY: L.T. RYAN
PUBLISHED BY: LIQUID MIND MEDIA, LLC
COPYRIGHT © 2014
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced in any format, by any means, electronic or otherwise, without prior consent from the copyright owner and publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and events are the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously.
Quick Links
Start Reading
Other Books by L.T. Ryan
Table of Contents
Jack Noble Series in Order
The Recruit
Noble Beginnings
A Deadly Distance
Thin Line
Noble Intentions Season One
Noble Intentions Season Two
Noble Intentions Season Three
Never Go Home (Jack Noble)
Beyond Betrayal (Clarissa Abbot Thriller)
Noble Intentions Season Four
Visit http://ltryan.com/newsletter to join L.T. Ryan's mailing list, and receive a complimentary copy of The Recruit: A Jack Noble Short Story
Chapter 1
Aspen, Colorado.
THOSE WHO WERE close with the man sitting at the head of the table called him Butch. He let his subordinates call him by his last name, Monaco. Even at age sixty-three he was tall and straight and lean and lanky. A smooth scar a centimeter in width ran the length of his cheek from the corner of his mouth to the spot where his earlobe met his head. The reminder stood out most when his skin was tanned, like now. When asked, he always told different versions of over a dozen stories. A single version of one of those stories contained the truth. Only Butch knew which. Despite the danger that plagued his life for so long, he had aged well. Aside from a few wrinkles around his eyes and his mouth, he looked much the same as the last time he conducted a secret meeting in Aspen, Colorado.
He couldn't say the same for the five men he knew in the room. They'd gone bald or had bellies that hung over their belts or sprouted double chins or had faces that looked like scuffed leather. Taken as a whole, the description described one of the men to a tee. The rest were some variation. He let three of those men call him Butch. Two addressed him as Monaco.
The other five men at the table were unknown. And chances were that the last time he held a meeting around that same table in that same room, those five guys were in high school or college. Perhaps they'd had some experience since then. Maybe not. At least not the kind Butch accepted. It didn't matter, because he needed ten men in the room for the meeting and the other five original members of the group were dead. Some from natural causes. The others, not so much.
Butch Monaco looked at every man in turn. The blank stares returned to him said more than words ever could. None of them wanted to be there that day. Hell, even Butch had a knot in his stomach. Up to this point, the purpose of the meeting had been left unstated. Too many words led to too many trails, which led to people in Butch's position being sentenced to life in prison or death by firing squad, if you lived in the right state. The rest got the chair or lethal injection. They'd go to sleep, never to wake. And if he were honest with himself, he'd admit that every man in the room deserved it.
So the meeting had been arranged in a private manner. The only guy Butch trusted, Waldron, went man to man, speaking in a code that only twelve people knew. He found all of them, minus one, Goetz, who had disappeared four years ago and hadn't been heard from since.
Like the previous meeting in Aspen, there would be no documentation. Nothing would be recorded. And every man in the room would deny ever having been in Colorado that day. What need was there? They all knew that it had to be done, and they were the only ones who could sanction it.
And what was the purpose of the meeting Butch Monaco held that day? The organization they had formed over twenty years ago had to be shut down.
And to do so, secrets had to be eliminated. The men who held those secrets, at least the ones outside of the room, had to die.
Butch drummed the fingers of his right hand on the table, tips to pads to knuckle, growing in intensity. Chatter died down like the tail end of rolling thunder. When all eyes were on him, Butch took a sip from his glass of water, then set it down near the edge of the table. Condensation ringed the bottom. Enough vibration, and it might carry the glass over the side.
Rising, Butch addressed the group. "In 1991, eleven of us met in this same exact room. That meeting, like today's, was unprecedented, unsanctioned, unrecorded, and never happened."
The five men who had been there twenty-two years ago smiled.
The others glanced around the room. Two shrugged. One lifted an eyebrow. The other two remained stoic. They all knew the outcome. None of them knew the story of how it started.
Butch continued. "We all know what we did that day. We might describe it in different ways, depending on who we're speaking with. I'm sure there are those who consider us prognosticators, ahead of the rest of Washington and every intelligence agency in so many ways. I know I consider us the original Homeland Security. A decade ahead of our time."
A man named Davinski chuckled. Butch cut right through him with a cross look. Davinski brought a fist up and coughed into it. His cheeks puffed out and his face turned red.
"What we created, our own police force that could operate anywhere, anytime, and without scrutiny, was a beautiful thing twenty some years ago. Hell, most people, even the high ranking, never even heard of our baby. We dodged some bullets, of course, but for the most part, over two long decades, it operated flawlessly. Then, a few months ago some intelligence fell into the wrong hands. Possibly through the aide of someone in this organization. We know of at least one agent who was working for the other side. She's dead now. But there could be more. On its own, this is not the issue, for we've dealt with such things in the past. This group has been great at policing itself, and we've used them for it. But this time, it goes too high. It's above all of you. Above me. Someone, and I can't name who, has ordered this thing shut down, or it's us who'll pay the price."
The man seated at the opposite end of the table lifted his hand in the air. Butch stared him down for a few seconds. Said, "Name?"
The guy rose. "Ballard, sir. Joe Ballard."
"You've got a comment or a question?"
Ballard ran his right hand through his short black hair. Flecks of silver caught the sunlight coming in through the panoramic window behind him. "What if one of us were to object to what you're proposing?"
"Then you won't leave Aspen alive."
The guy straightened, held his left hand out in front, fingers splayed. "So you're saying that-"
"Shut up, Ballard, and listen to me. There is no choice here. We are not taking a vote. And what's more, you don't have a say in this thing. The SIS is being shut down, and all members, current and former are to be eliminated. That clear?"
Ballard said, "Crystal, sir."
Butch waited for the guy to sit back down. Then he picked up a folder on the table to his right. Inside were a dozen copies of the same information. He handed five to his right, six to his left. The men each kept one and passed the rest down.
"First, these are to be handed back to me in a minute."
"What's the point then?" Davinski said.
"The point is that I want you all to look over this list and tell me if you object to any of the names on it."
"There's gotta be fifty names here."
Butch hiked his shoulders an inch, and said, "And?"
Davinski had no response. His gaze, like the gazes of all the men in the room, shifted to the paper. Their eyes m
oved right to left repeatedly as they read the names to themselves. Butch felt his stomach tighten even more. He knew the five men who had been in the original meeting would not speak up. This was part of the weeding out process. Any man who objected could be a man who might leak what they planned to do. And a guy who would do that needed to be dealt with immediately.
At the other end of the table, one man lifted his hand.
"Yeah, Ballard?" Butch said.
"I know a name on here."
"Who?"
"Jack Noble."
"And do you object to Mr. Noble being on that list?"
Ballard looked down at the paper, fidgeting and tapping his thumb against the table. He shifted his eyes. Glanced up at Butch.
"Well?" Butch said.
"No, I knew him from his time in the Marines is all. I have no objection to him being on this list."
Chapter 2
New York City.
THREE MEN MADE the trek from Queens to Brooklyn to lower Manhattan in a black BMW 750i on a humid and cloudy Tuesday morning. They crossed the river by way of the Williamsburg Bridge. While suspended over water, one made a remark that he saw at least a dozen heads bobbing below, racing in the currents and heading toward sea. They were former friends of his. Guys that had remained loyal to the Old Man after his passing. And more importantly, guys who'd refused to accept Charles DeCosta as the new leader of their organization. Charles gave them time to come around, the ones he deemed worth keeping around, at least. But time, finite in this world of crime, had run out.
So the three men in the luxury vehicle had acted the part of good soldiers and captains and performed their jobs and arranged the executions, because there was no other way to refer to it when friends kill friends, though the three men tried, and had the bodies disposed of in a rather conspicuous manner.
Twenty-four hands. Same number of feet. A dozen heads. And the leftover bodies. All cast into the river in various locations with no attempt at concealing the task. Charles didn't care if the remains washed ashore, got tangled up in fishing nets and crab pots, or if they found their way to the Atlantic. He gave little regard to the idea that a group of kids might hook into a decapitated head, reeling it in and coming face-to-face with a ghost. Or that a group of old women on their morning walk might stumble over the ass-up headless body of a criminal.
So long as the act achieved the intended effect.
Fear begets more fear, which in turn creates allegiance.
Charles's thinking, at least.
The deepening of the new boss's maniacal nature had coincided with his rise to power. From a street hustler to a private mechanic for Feng, the Old Man and notorious gangster that led the organization. From driving Feng around town to becoming the Old Man's most trusted adviser. And when the Old Man was assassinated in broad daylight outside a Queens restaurant, Charles returned to New York from Europe, where he had headed up overseas operations, and stepped into position to claim control over the organization.
He met with resistance. More than two dozen, a third of them captains, disagreed. The most vocal were dealt with immediately. The rest fell into line, for a while, at least. Murmurs of dissent made their way through the compound, through Queens, bypassing Brooklyn, and finding their way to Lower Manhattan where they were whispered into Charles's ear.
So he formed the plan that required a mass assassination. Kill to keep the peace, he said.
None of the men in the BMW wanted to think about the screams and pleads of dying. Men they had laughed with and hustled with and killed with. For simply killing wasn't enough for Charles. The bastards had to suffer. If things had gone the other way, they would have done the same to Charles before casting him into the Atlantic after fitting him with concrete pants and shoes.
The transition from the bridge to Delancey Street erased the thoughts from their collective memory. For a while, anyway.
"Who's calling the overgrown bastard?" the driver said. He forced a laugh to cover up the remark, but none of the men in the car bought it.
"I'll do it," the guy in the backseat said, pulling his cell from his pocket.
CHARLES STOOD WITH his back to the reinforced steel door that separated his office from the rest of the complex. Designed to stop a .50 caliber round, the door provided him with a sense of security. A false one considering his only other way out was down, but he found solace behind the door. If someone reached it, Charles knew his chances of getting out alive were closer to zero. But at least he'd have the opportunity to take a few of the assailants out with him.
He glanced back at the three silent men seated on the opposite side of his dominating mahogany desk.
Two bodyguards remained outside the office any time Charles was present. Near them sat two assistants who handled Charles's day-to-day schedule. One for legit activities. The other for all things related to the organization. A wall separated the bodyguards and assistants from the receptionist who sat behind a counter, with a headset on, underneath an oval sign labeled CDC Industries, INC.
The place had to look legitimate for a crime boss to work out of it. Not that it fooled anyone. Charles took notice of the stares in the lobby. He felt the judgmental thoughts in the elevator. Women would stop short and allow the doors to close before stepping on if he was the only one inside it.
The top floor looked down on West 3rd Street, and offered an unblocked view of the fountain in the center of Washington Square Park. Charles had grown accustomed to staring down at the park while mulling over important, and not so important, decisions. Even on a humid mid-July morning, the place teemed with activity. The high-powered binoculars perched on the ledge allowed him to watch the women as they jogged or roller-skated along the walkways. Stress relief. Nothing more. So far.
Looking to the northeast, Broadway stretched to 14th Street. With a brief smile, Charles recalled how he longed to perform there when he was a kid. His mother had taken him to see Fiddler on the Roof when he was eight or nine. He even took two weeks of dance lessons, but quit when his friends found out and turned on him. The secret wish didn't die, though. But when he filled out and his size offered easier and more immediate ways to make a buck, Charles gave up on his dreams of fame under the lights and embraced the criminal life. A couple bucks here and there grew into a hundred a pop. Before long, he had more money than he knew what to do with. His favorite theater was a benefactor of that wealth. Anonymously, of course.
Stretching his arms overhead and directing his gaze to a spot just over the city horizon, Charles contemplated why the Old Man never moved to a proper office. Even when Charles had urged Feng to do it, the old bastard stubbornly refused. The compound served a purpose. No denying that. It made a great base of operation, and housed several of the underlings at any given time. But as a place to bring in guests and conduct business?
Not anymore. Not a chance.
Another mistake Charles refused to duplicate was Feng's inability to delegate. The Old Man's refusal to do so until the end led to a near-Civil War within the organization. It also resulted in the Old Man's assassination. The geezer could've retired four or five years back, enjoyed time with this granddaughter. Instead, the little girl witnessed Feng's brains exiting his cranium at high velocity.
To appease those in the organization on the fence about Charles's overseeing the operation, he promised to avenge the Old Man's death. He didn't care if he ever did. Killing off two-dozen dissenters would be enough to get everyone in line. The timing had to be right. And finally, it was.
So now he had the office, where he spent most of his time, and the compound, where he only made brief appearances. There were people Charles trusted, and those were the ones who remained in charge in Queens. He also had snitches on call should his captains turn on him. Loyalty, as far as he was concerned, did not exist. Charles and the Old Man had turned on each other. And over what? Something to do with a woman and Jack Noble?
No, even the concept of loyalty only got one so far. If a concept could be
packaged into something similar, then his group would be considered as loyal as they came. Which meant a quarter to a third were scamming and skimming off the top. To be expected, though. Charles did it when he was coming up. He presumed Feng did as well. Didn't mean he had to accept it. He'd already decided that would be the next order of business.
From the compound, Charles's captains oversaw day-to-day activities. From the high-rise, Charles worked on broadening and expanding his empire. Opportunities existed that Feng never bothered to investigate. The money the Old Man had, which now belonged to Charles, meant a chance to move into businesses other than drugs and racketeering and selling secrets. And now that things had been handled and he expected operations to run smoothly here on out, that was precisely what he planned to do.
Charles reached for the binoculars. He followed two women, one brunette, the other blond, as they jogged through the park, honing in until their brightly colored running shorts disappeared behind the thick leafy cover. His gaze lifted over the tops of the trees, down the shimmering, hazy corridor of 5th Avenue. His eyes switched focus from the cityscape to the reflection of the three men seated behind him.
"Which of you thought this would be a good idea?" Charles turned, folded his forearms across the top of his expensive high-backed leather chair. It swiveled to the left until his weight settled.
The first guy that spoke drew Charles's wrath.
"Shut up," he said before the guy managed a second syllable. "All three of you are lucky I brought you down here and didn't have you dismembered and dissolved in the compound basement."
The looks on the faces of the men were as varied as they were. Each had come up in Feng's organization in a different manner. None of that mattered, though. They remained loyal to Charles when others hadn't. They carried out his wishes exactly as requested. Until the final slaughter.