Noble Intent

by William Miller

  Chapter Three

  Mateen came awake and pain flooded his body in crushing waves. He groaned, coughed, and gasped for air. His jaw felt like someone had hit him with a sledge hammer. One side of his body was numb. He rolled onto his stomach and spit blood all over the damp stone jetty along with several chipped and broken teeth.

  His gun was gone. Duval was gone. And that meant the money was gone as well. Two months of careful planning shot to hell. The boat still bobbed in the harbor though. Mateen cranked himself up on one elbow and fought down a wave of nausea. The pilot was face down on the deck, counting.

  “Seventy-eight, seventy-nine…”

  Mateen probed at his aching jaw and knew it was broken. It felt like a sack of loose marbles. He moaned. Nerve endings screamed at the slightest touch. Another wave of nausea hit. He gripped the ground and waited for it to pass. Don’t throw up, he told himself. Do not throw up!

  The pilot finished counting to one hundred and rose up for a look. He spotted Mateen stretched out on the jetty, and hurried to release the mooring lines.

  With his broken jaw hanging at a grotesque angle, Mateen managed to croak out, “Wait! ‘elp me!”

  The pilot ignored him, threw off the lines and started the engines. The SeaVee burped to life. Water frothed around the stern as the craft reversed away from the dock.

  Mateen growled a curse, reached into his pocket and brought out a cell. He dialed, put the phone to his ear and waited for someone to pick up.

  “Have you secured the package?”

  It only took two tries to make himself understood. He said, “Da package is… in da… open.”

  “How in the hell did that happen?”

  “Sum hashole… show up… oudda nowhere…”

  “Get after them!”

  “Can’t…” Mateen groaned. “Been shot.”

  The line went dead. Mateen laid back down and reached a hand under his shirt. There was no blood, but his ribs felt mushy. Touching them was utter agony. He let out another long groan. He was going to find the guy who shot him and make him pay, but first he needed a hospital.

  Chapter Four

  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.

  Chapter Five

  Sam Gunn rounded the corner in time to see a silver Audi slide to a stop in front of the stone jetty. The rain was finally letting up, falling in a steady drizzle. The Audi’s tires locked and the front end dipped. Frank Bonner, the CIA Chief of Station in France and Sam’s boss, was behind the wheel. Three others were in the car. Sam couldn’t make out their faces from this distance but she didn’t have to. It would be Grey, Preston, and LeBeau.

  She drew a sharp breath through clenched teeth and jerked Duval’s collar like she was tugging a dog’s leash. He whimpered and pulled his shoulders up around his ears. Sam tried to backpedal around the corner, dragging Duval with her, but she was too late. The car doors flew open and all four men piled out. Bonner’s head swiveled in her direction and he pointed. “There!”

  A scant fifteen meters separated Sam from Bonner and his crew. She took a step to her right, shielding Duval with her own body, and brought the MP5 halfway up. Bonner and his men reached into their raincoats for their weapons. Sam’s heart was a jack rabbit, bouncing around inside her chest.

  Bonner took a few cautious steps in her direction. He was older and balding with a salt and pepper beard. He could have passed for someone’s kindly grandfather or a literature professor. He kept his gun down by his leg and shouted. “What’s this all about, Sam?”

  “You tell me,” she said.

  “We just want Duval,” he said. “You can walk away. I’ll forget you were ever here.”

  Sam shook her head. “That’s not going to happen, Frank.”

  The muscles in his jaw cramped. “Sam, I’m ordering you to walk away. This is your last chance.”

  “You know I can’t do that.”

  Bonner looked from Sam to the three hard cases on the other side
of the car. Rain dripped from his gold-rimmed spectacles. Sam could see the battle taking place just below the surface. Frank had been her mentor for five months now, working side by side, teaching her the finer details of tradecfraft. Sam thought of him as a friend. Just last month, she had helped him pick out a gift for his twentieth wedding anniversary. Frank hesitated, caught between their friendship and the mission. His face turned down in a scowl and Sam knew she had lost the battle.

  Bonner heaved a sigh. “Have it your way.”

  His weapon came up. He gripped a Sig Sauer P225 with both hands, straight out in front of him, in the classic isosceles stance.

  Sam pulled the trigger. The Heckler & Koch burped out a three-round burst muffled by the sound suppressor. Shell casings leapt from the breech in a tidy little arc and jingled over the paving stones. Frank’s head snapped back. One of the rubber bullets had hit him between the eyes, shattering his glasses. He sank to the ground like a trap door had opened beneath his feet. Sam knew right away he was dead. Her heart squeezed inside her chest. She had been aiming center mass, but bullets don’t always go where you point them, and accidents happen.

  The rest of the team returned fire. Thunderclaps split the air. Bullets whined off the wall to Sam’s right and blew out a shop window. An alarm started to peal from inside.

  She walked backwards, triggering two more bursts, and then fled around the corner. The MP5’s bolt had fell on an empty chamber with a distinctive click. Sam dropped the weapon and ran. Sacha Duval was one step ahead of her, blowing hard.

  “Get to the tram,” Sam yelled.

  He didn’t need convincing. He ran flat out, pumping his flabby arms and legs in a desperate race to reach the station.

  Sam pulled even with him, grabbed his elbow and hauled him along. His breath came out in tortured gasps. He started to slow. Sam felt precious seconds ticking away. She risked a look over her shoulder in time to see Grey and LeBeau round the corner.

  A giddy rush of panic sent speed to her legs. She urged Duval to move faster. He tried, but he couldn’t keep up and Sam was forced to slow down or leave him behind.

  Grey stopped at the corner and took aim. He was about to pull the trigger when a gleaming white shuttle hurtled around the tracks. He checked the movement, lowered his weapon, and glanced around for witnesses.

  The tram slowed to a stop at the station. The doors hissed open. Sam pushed Duval into the rear carriage and then drew a Springfield XD-S from her tactical vest. This one was loaded with 9mm hollow-points. Sam levelled the weapon at Grey and LeBeau, and they scattered, taking cover behind parked vehicles. She didn’t fire. She was just trying to hold them at bay long enough for the tram to pull away from the station. It seemed to take forever. She backed up to the door and waited. When she heard the pneumatic sigh, she stepped backwards into the car. The doors slid shut. A moment later the tram was picking up speed.

  Chapter Six

  Grey watched the shuttle pull away and shouted a curse. His profanity echoed along the empty boulevards. Six months of careful planning. Everything had gone off without a hitch until Sam Gunn showed up and blew the op. Now Duval was in the wind and Frank Bonner was lying on the street. He turned to LeBeau and pointed at the retreating train. “Where does it stop?”

  LeBeau hitched up his shoulders. He was a squat man with stubby legs. A long leather coat made him look even shorter. He said, “Je ne sais pas.”

  “Find out,” Grey barked.

  LeBeau used his smartphone to bring up a map of the Honfleur tramway stations.

  “We need to get out of here,” Preston said. He had a long face and sad eyes, bearing a striking resemblance to a basset hound. “The police will be here any minute.”

  Grey agreed with a nod. They hurried back to the waiting Audi. Frank Bonner still lay on the wet asphalt with his eyes rolled up. A large purple welt had formed on his forehead. Preston pressed two fingers to his throat. “He’s dead.”

  “Take his gun and ID,” Grey ordered.

  “We can’t leave him,” Preston said.

  “We can’t take him with us,” Grey shot back.

  LeBeau looked up from his phone. “The next stop is le Garde de Grande. Two miles!”

  “Let’s go,” Grey said and slid into the driver’s seat while the other two rifled the dead man’s pockets. He had the car in gear by the time they piled into the back seat. The Audi leapt forward. Grey steered around a corner, in pursuit of the tram. The automatic transmission screamed through second and into third, then fourth.

  Chapter Seven

  Sam put her back to the carriage door, closed her eyes, and breathed out a long sigh. A simple snatch and grab had gone completely off the wire. Why did you take off the mask? Sam asked herself. What were you thinking? They were never supposed to see your face! Now she was exposed. What am I going to do? she wondered. She couldn’t go back to the safe house tomorrow morning and act like nothing had happened.

  Time enough to worry about that latter, Sam decided. Right now, she had to finish what she started. If Grey and his crew caught up with them, they’d kill her and Duval would disappear forever. She opened her eyes.

  The tram car was lit by the anemic glow of fluorescents. The tracks made a soft hum. Sacha Duval had collapsed onto a bench. He dug out his inhaler and took a deep hit. Pink blossomed in his pale cheeks. He held his breath and let it out slow. “I thought I was dead.”

  Sam holstered her weapon, grabbed Duval’s sleeve and jerked him out of the seat. “Don’t get comfortable.” She dragged him toward the back of the car. “We aren’t out of the woods yet.”

  “What?” He jogged to keep up. “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s not going to take them long to figure out the next stop,” Sam told him.

  Panic flooded back into Duval’s voice. “What are we going to do?”

  She led him to the rear of the car and Duval’s eyes went to the emergency exit door. His steps faltered. “That’s your plan?”

  “You got a better one?” Sam asked.

  Duval pulled free of her grasp. “That’s insane.”

  Sam rounded on him. “I didn’t have to save you. I could have let those mercenaries turn you over to the CIA. Now they’ve seen my face. They know I’m a part of this. I stuck my neck out for you.”

  “I’m not jumping off the back of a moving train!”

  “Then you’ll die.”

  His mouth worked soundlessly.

  Sam pointed. “Those men back there? They’ll be waiting at the next stop. They’ll catch you and when they do, they will make you talk. You want to be tortured?”

  Duval glanced around at the empty seats, looking for help that wasn’t there. They were all alone on a train hurtling through the heart of Honfleur. Florescent lights turned his skin a sickly shade of yellow and his chin trembled. A shaking breath escaped his lips. “I’m scared.”

  “You should have thought about that before you leaked classified intel,” Sam told him and moved toward the exit door. “I’m getting off this train, Duval. Come with me or take your chances.”

  “This is insane,” Duval muttered.

  Buildings flashed past the windows on either side. The tracks unspooled behind the car, dwindling in the distance. Every second brought them closer to the next stop. Grey and his team were probably there already, waiting. At this time of night, with no traffic on the streets, they could push eighty miles an hour the whole way.

  Sam gripped the emergency exit handle—a sign warned her an alarm would sound—and yanked. The ear-splitting siren drove needles into her brain. The door popped open with a metallic clunk. Air rushed in to fill the cabin. Sam heard a honk, barely audible over the siren, and then had to grope for the door frame as the train started to slow.

  She peered through the windows separating the carriages. In the lead car, the driver was out of his booth, checking on the alarm. He saw Sam at the same time. The tram was slowing down, the sound of the tracks changing pitch. Sam turned to D
uval. “Jump!”

  He shook his head. “I’m not sure I…”

  Sam took hold of his duffel bag, spun him around and pushed him backwards out the door. Gravity did the rest. Duval’s eyes shot open. A scream ripped from his throat. He pin-wheeled his arms for balance like a cartoon character climbing on air and then landed on top the duffel with a heavy thump.

  Sam stepped to the edge, bent her knees, tucked her chin, and bunny hopped like she was stepping out of an airplane. The sound of the tram died away and Sam had the feeling of weightlessness for a brief second before gravity reasserted itself. The CIA requires all recruits to complete basic jump school, but that’s a long way from mastery. The idea, according to her instructors, was to hit the ground with soft knees and let the momentum carry you. Sam had all of three training jumps under her belt and figured the skills were transferable.

  The ground came up to meet her. She landed on her heels and momentum knocked her flat, rolling her over several times. The world spun end over end. Her shoulders and hips took a beating. She finally tumbled to a stop and lay there for several seconds, breathing the cold air. Silver clouds steamed from her open mouth.

  Duval had rolled onto his side. His face was stretched in terror. Blond hair hung in limp, wet tangles. He clutched at his throat and gasped for air.

  “Use your inhaler,” Sam told him. She tried to stand. Her right ankle gave out with a shot of pain that forced her to sit down. She had landed on it wrong and twisted it. No time to think about that. She crawled over and patted Duval’s pockets. His heels beat out a panicked tattoo on the wet blacktop. Sam found his inhaler and forced him to close his mouth on it. He squeezed three shots, coughed and managed to croak out, “You trying to save me or kill me?”