Noble Intentions- Season Four

by L. T. Ryan

  One of the men shifted on his feet. Started to lift his pistol.

  Don't do it, you bastard.

  Before the man could line up shot, his partner swatted the guy's arm down and jutted his chin toward the door.

  The wind carried the man's words. "The cops'll be here soon. We gotta go."

  With his cell phone, Jack snapped a picture of the men moments before they turned to leave, then buried himself deeper into the bush. The men would most likely take the quickest route out of the neighborhood. But there was the chance that they'd drive down the side street. And if so, the alley would provide them with a clear view.

  While waiting, Jack placed a call to Erin. He had to make her aware of the dangers so she could remain vigilant until he managed to get across the Atlantic. Doing so on his own name seemed unlikely at this point. Perhaps even as he currently appeared. It had been a long time since he last had to alter his appearance in order to board a plane.

  The line held for several seconds then proceeded to ring a half-dozen times in a double-toned cadence. The call went to Erin's voicemail. Rather than risk being overheard by leaving a message, Jack hung up with plans to call her back shortly. He'd have taken the chance to speak to her in person given the possible gravity of the situation in Tenerife.

  After a minute had passed, his thoughts turned to who he knew in the surrounding area. He returned a blank. Perhaps a friend could help. Brandon had contacts everywhere, and on both sides of the law. Surely the guy had someone within fifty miles who could assist Jack.

  First, he had to get away from the house, and the neighborhood.

  FRANK SKINNER REACHED for his vibrating cell phone. "Yeah?"

  "We got his location," the man on the other end said.

  "Where?"

  "I'm loading it to your GPS now."

  Frank stared at the LED display on his dash. The map zoomed out, panned right, then focused in on a spot. He made a mental note of the street names. The display zoomed back out and a bright red line was drawn from his location to the destination.

  "That's less than a mile away." Frank glanced at the man behind the wheel. "Turner, go."

  JACK KEPT HIS shoulder pressed against the siding as he crept down the grass alley. The faint sound of approaching sirens grew by the second. They'd enter the same way he and Charles had. Where would they go? To the house? Around the block? He stopped. Turned. Looked across the pond.

  Idiot.

  If he continued, he would place himself out in the open in the middle of the neighborhood. The opposite direction offered him a path to the main road. There he'd look less like a suspect and more like a passerby.

  Jack sprinted toward the pond, then turned left, away from the house with the dead body, and rounded the lake. He spotted an old man peeking out through his sliding glass back door. It didn't matter. By the time the cops got to the guy for a statement and then hauled him in for a composite, Jack would be deep in hiding.

  After he reached the other side of the pond, Jack hopped the first fence he came to. A German Shepherd emerged from a large wooden dog house positioned on the other end of the yard. The dog released a fierce bark, lowered its hindquarters, and lunged forward.

  The dog had fifty feet to cover.

  Jack had ten.

  The dog was faster, and it wasn't a contest. If Jack had any more distance to cover, he wouldn't have made it. He crossed the last five in a leap, landing with his right foot midway up the fence, and both hands grasping at the top. In a single motion, he vaulted over, landed square, then resumed his sprint. From behind, the dog let out a torrent of violent attacks on the fence.

  The sirens were closer, perhaps a couple blocks away from the neighborhood now. Jack didn't bother to look right or left down the street. He sprinted across, heading toward an open back yard that used high hedges to separate the home from the main road.

  "WHAT IS IT?" Hannah broke her gaze from the black sands and turquoise water and watched as Erin bit her lip while staring at her phone.

  Erin didn't respond.

  "Erin?" Hannah said. "What's wrong?"

  "Jack called a few minutes ago, but didn't leave a message."

  "He said he was coming today, right?"

  "He suggested it."

  Hannah shrugged. "Then there you go. Probably just letting you know he was boarding or getting ready to take off and didn't have time to leave a message."

  "You're right. You're right." Smiling, Erin set the phone on the table. "Want to get some dinner?"

  Hannah nodded, rose and walked to the door. A moment later she was met by Mia and Erin, who had left her cell where she had set it down.

  JACK STEPPED IN between the hedges. The jagged waxed-over leaves sliced into his skin. He kept one hand in front of his face to part the foliage. Then he stopped, just shy of exiting. The sirens were loud now, deafening almost. He estimated his position to be no more than 300 feet from the neighborhood entrance.

  The sound stopped approaching, leveled off. They had turned in.

  Slowly, Jack pushed through far enough to see the street. No more blue lights, only red, fixed to large box trucks. Jack stepped out and started walking away from the entrance.

  Across the street and another couple hundred feet down, a dark sedan idled at the end of a driveway. The driver's window was down. Jack caught the guy looking his direction for a moment before looking away.

  Jack couldn't turn back, not with an onslaught of emergency services heading toward the neighborhood. So he stuck the pistol in his right pocket and kept his hand on the grip, ready to draw should the car move.

  The sedan backed up. It stopped after a few feet, paused, and then continued backward until hidden by the trees.

  Jack kept walking. He had no choice.

  The sedan reappeared. It pulled out into the road, but came to a stop as a line of cars approached from behind Jack. After the vehicles had passed, the sedan started inching out.

  An engine roared from behind. Before Jack could look over his shoulder, brakes locked and equaled as the tires grated against the asphalt. A dense chemical cloud washed past.

  "Get in!"

  Jack pulled the pistol into plain view. Glancing over the top of the vehicle, he spotted the dark sedan, which had crossed the street and headed toward him.

  "Jack! Now!"

  He leaned forward and saw Frank Skinner, one hand on the dash, the other clenched around a pistol. The man's face was tight and lined with beads of sweat.

  The dark sedan skidded to a stop, maybe fifty feet away. Doors opened. Hard-soled shoes hit the ground.

  Jack grabbed the rear driver's side handle and yanked.

  A shot was fired. Went high. Whistled through the hedges and slammed into someone's house.

  Jack dove into the back seat.

  "Turner," Frank yelled. "Go."

  Chapter 30

  Washington, D.C.

  THE CITY REMAINED a mystery to Clarissa, though it had been her home for several months now. Sinclair had kept her busy, working everywhere but there. Aspen, Miami, London, the months had flown by. During that time she spent all of three nights in the nation's capital.

  Then she was handed a special assignment at the White House. But it only took a couple days for things to turn, and Clarissa was on the run, fighting to save her life.

  It was after the resolution of that when Beck offered her a position in the Service. Only she had to attend training, which required her to live at the facility for the duration.

  She walked from the realtor's office to the Lincoln Memorial. Leaned against a large pillar. Stared up at the imposing figure.

  How about lending me some of that fortitude, Abe?

  She'd need it. Facing Charles was the same as taking inner demons head on. It made her break out into a cold sweat thinking about the guy.

  But there was a difference.

  She wasn't just a bartender or a dancer anymore. She didn't serve criminal lowlifes. One thing remained the same. She could
still kick their asses. Only now, it was legal.

  Turning toward the stairs, she spotted a man at the base, aiming a camera up at her. Of course, chances were he was taking pictures of the monument. But there was a second where she caught him looking right at her.

  Clarissa veered to the left where a large crowd of students all wearing blue shirts stood. She stood inches taller than even the tallest child. Both advantageous and not.

  Winding her way through the tangle of kids, she glanced back. The man stood in the same spot, camera aimed toward the monument.

  Her heart rate dropped a bit. Muscles relaxed. She moved until she was out of sight and continued back toward her apartment.

  Seven blocks into the city, Clarissa stopped in a store. She lacked something nice to wear for dinner, figuring if Beck had made reservations, the place would be nice.

  She picked out a blue sleeveless summer dress and paid cash.

  As she left the store she glanced right before turning left.

  The man was there. He quickly looked away, turned to his right and crossed to the other side of the street.

  Clarissa continued as though she hadn't seen anything. She reached for her phone and called Beck. No answer. She stared down at her contact list. After months of basing herself out of the city, the only one she could reach out to was Beck.

  A passing cab halted on her signal. She entered, gave the cabbie her address and asked him to take a long way there. As the vehicle pulled away, she spotted the man. He watched her pass, his hands covering his chin, mouth and nose. Sunglasses over his eyes.

  Who was he, and how long had he been on her tail?

  Fifteen minutes later, she entered her building. Her apartment was on the sixth floor. She took the elevator to the eighth floor, descended the eastern stairwell, walked the length of the building on floor number seven, then down the western stairwell to her floor. Her door was a ten-second walk from there.

  She drew her pistol, then grabbed and turned the knob. It didn't budge. She unlocked it and entered, sweeping the room right to left, then back. She locked the door behind her, then cleared the place and found it empty.

  Through the windows, she scanned the street below. She only had access to one side of the building, but it was the front, and her money was that the guy would be out there if he knew her address.

  Once again, she tried calling Beck. Again, she received no answer. Seven o'clock wasn't that far off. And she had no plans to leave until then. She'd tell him about the man at that time.

  Chapter 31

  Nice, France.

  ELECTRIC LIGHT PIPED in through parted blinds. Prison bars made from shadows stretched across the ceiling and down the far walls. Pierre bore a trail through the middle of the room, pacing from one end to the other. Every step slow, deliberate, heel-to-toe. His head down, focused on the next spot he'd step.

  Bear alternated between the kitchen and a barstool positioned near the corner of the main room where the windows met. Despite Pierre's warning, Bear continued investigating the surrounding area. He hadn't stepped outside. Didn't intend to. Not until they left. From inside, he saw enough. And nowhere along the opposite side of the street or in the buildings that stood across from theirs did he notice someone looking back.

  Perhaps the men were there. Maybe they had left. If so, it could have been at any time. Regardless, the inaction started to get to Bear.

  "What're we waiting for?" Bear asked, averting has gaze from a recently illuminated window toward Pierre.

  The Frenchman raised his cell phone and said nothing.

  "How long should it have taken them to get there?"

  "They were supposed to have arrived an hour ago."

  Tightness started in Bear's abdomen and sprung upward, like a jaguar pouncing on its prey. Fear gripped his muscles, his lungs, and nose. The air he drew in through his opened mouth bottlenecked in his throat, not making it any further. His heart pounded against his chest like a wild gorilla suddenly caged.

  Pierre continued to pace.

  The edges of Bear's vision hazed over. He reached out for the window, fingers spread wide and sending three vertical blinds swinging side-to-side. The prison bars that lined the ceiling and walls melted into one another. Bear fell forward. His shoulder and the right side of his face slammed into the window. The glass bounced but didn't break.

  The persistent thump-thump of Pierre's pacing halted. "You OK?"

  Bear nodded. At least, he thought he did. His abdominal muscles tightened and cramped and it seemed as though they were jumping underneath his skin. He could no longer feel his hands. The numbness crawled to his forearms, then his elbows, finally working up through his large biceps and triceps. The lights beyond the glass exploded with large halos. His oxygen-starved lungs burned.

  Am I having a stroke?

  The same thought arose every time panic struck this hard. Normally, air travel brought about his attacks, but none this intense. Bear managed to control the sensations with almost every other situation that occurred. He was an anomaly for that, considering the work he'd been involved in for twenty years.

  Of course, with Mandy all bets were off.

  He suffocated under an oxygen blanket, draped across him yet impenetrable. But he wouldn't die. Not at that moment, at least. He worried about the effect the stress of the attacks had on his body, his heart. Only in recent months did these concerns surface. The worry coincided with the increased role the girl had in his life.

  Steadying against the glass, Bear sucked air through his nose. Didn't matter how far down it traveled. He held the breath. Forced the air out through his mouth. He repeated the process several more times, each time inhaling deeper, exhaling longer. The veil of terror exited his system with every oxygen-stripped exhalation. Feeling returned to his extremities. His abs and chest muscles relaxed. Pain lingered. He could deal with that. The ability to think clearly would keep him alive, pain or no pain.

  "You sure you're OK?" Pierre asked from a few feet away.

  Bear backed away from the window, steadying the swinging blinds. "I'm fine. Had a moment is all."

  Presumably satisfied, Pierre resumed pacing, as though the constant back-and-forth would accomplish something.

  The slow, methodical breathing continued to ground Bear. Within ten minutes it was as if the attack had never happened, except for the trickles of sweat running down his forehead and cheeks. He resumed his post at the corner where the windows met. The throng of people on the street below morphed into a new crowd. Different, but still the same. Summertime nightlife in the South of France.

  Bear stepped away to splash cold water on his face. When he returned, the Frenchman stopped pacing.

  "You up for hitting the streets?" Pierre asked

  "Beats standing in here doing nothing," Bear said.

  "Come with me." Pierre led him into the master suite. They entered a sparse walk-in closet. A luxury in France. At the back was a small black safe. Pierre knelt in front of it. A few seconds later, he pulled the door open. The Frenchman reached inside and retrieved a pistol and some cash. He turned at the waist and handed both to Bear.

  He balanced the Glock 17 in his open palm, gaining a feel for the weapon. He could tell it had a history to it. Well maintained though. Recently oiled. Perhaps Pierre's early service piece, relegated to back-up duty in the past half-decade or so. Bear closed his fist around the grip and lifted the weapon to eye height and stared down the barrel at his reflection in the bureau mirror. Pierre appeared at his side.

  "I have a shoulder holster that'll fit you, but no jacket."

  Bear shrugged then tucked the pistol into his waistband. "Too hot out. Anyway, this'll do."

  Pierre held up a finger. He opened a drawer and pulled out a small leather holster. Tossed it to Bear. "Fits inside your waistband. More secure."

  Bear fixed it into position and slipped the Glock into it. Better. Less chance of the pistol being detected. Easier for him to get a hold of. Reduced the risk of the s
idearm slipping, becoming unreachable, or falling to the ground.

  They exited the apartment. Tomato sauce saturated the air. The temperature rose ten degrees in the hallway. Another five or so in the stairwell. At each landing they paused. Listening. Confirming the silence after the echoes of their footsteps faded. When they reached the bottom, Pierre stopped at the thick metal door. Pressed his ear against it.

  "No way they've been hanging out in the lobby for four hours," Bear said.

  Pierre glanced back, shrugged, resumed his position. "Maybe they've been across the street the whole time and only now entered because they saw us leave the apartment."

  "No chance. If they've been waiting there, they'll continue to wait there. By now, they've got friends here, too. All of them hanging on, hoping for that perfect opportunity."

  "Which opportunity is that?"

  "What do you think?"

  For all Bear knew, the Frenchman had a hundred different thoughts. The life he'd led, much the same as Bear and Jack, would have provided him with plenty of possible outcomes to consider.

  "Are you ready to become bait?"

  Bear nodded, brushed Pierre to the side and opened the stairwell door.

  Chapter 32

  Central France.

  "ARE WE LOST?" Mandy stared at Kat's face as the street lights briefly illuminated it. "I thought we'd be there by now."

  Kat glanced over and offered a smile that appeared to be for Mandy's benefit only. Shadows returned, and all the girl could see were the whites of the woman's teeth.

  "No, not lost," Kat said. "Just taking the long way around."

  The hilly terrain they encountered shortly after leaving Nice had given way to mountains that rivaled those Mandy had seen in Montana. Their peaks were barely silhouetted against the night sky. The only delineation being that the stars stopped where thrust rock met the horizon.