Noble Intent

by William Miller

  Grey said, “There are eight of you and one of him.”

  “That’s what he wants you to believe,” Mateen said. He was regretting his decision to work for the American spooks. So far a broken jaw was the only thing he had to show for it. Now he was caught in the middle of a war between counter-intelligence agents and all the money in the world can’t fix dead. Broken jaw aside, Grey was becoming increasingly difficult to work with. He was making demands, accusing Mateen and his men of incompetence, and questioning their methods. If that duffel bag actually had a half-million dollars in it, Mateen would shoot Grey and take the money for himself.

  Live and learn, Mateen told himself. Finish this bit of business and be done with it. He returned his attention to the subway entrance. Noble had done an excellent job of picking the exchange point. It was in a high-traffic area, making it impossible for Mateen’s crew to go in heavily armed.

  Mateen picked up a small handheld radio from the center console and pressed the talk button. “Hand guns only. We don’t want to start a panic.”

  He opened the passenger side door and cold air rushed into the car. The sudden change in temperature made his jaw ache. At a silent command from Mateen, the Range Rover doors opened and six mercenaries in overcoats piled out.

  Noble and Duval had taken up residence in a train car at the far end of the platform. Croix-Rouge lay in near total darkness. The few remaining bulbs had been smashed out and the shards scattered over the ground in front of the entrance. The station was now lit by the ghostly green radiance of the glowsticks. It gave the underground vault the haunted feel of a Hollywood horror movie. Noble had spent the last two hours parked on a hard seat, his feet up, staring out the window at the deserted platform. The hours slouched past like some slothful beast. Minutes stretched into vast, uncharted oceans. Noble checked his wristwatch. The hands were pointing at five to midnight. He thought of Sam and his mother and a lifetime later he glanced at his watch, but the hands hadn’t moved.

  Noble had once spent two days lying in a rock crevice on the side of a mountain in Afghanistan. Long stretches of time with nothing to do is par for the course in Special Forces. It made sitting in a bombed-out subway station easy, but the cold was seeping into his bones, making his joints hurt and his fingers stiff. Too young to be getting old, he told himself. He rolled his shoulders to keep them loose and flexed his fingers.

  Duval paced, breathing hard like he had just run a marathon. Broken shards of glass crunched under his shoes. Every few minutes he would stop for a glance out the window, rub his hands together, pace some more and then stop for another look.

  “Relax,” Noble told him. “It’ll happen when it happens.”

  “How can you be so calm?”

  “Worrying about it won’t help.” Noble checked the action on his weapon, spied a round in the breech and let the slide slap forward. In truth, he was probably more nervous than Duval, Noble just knew how to hide it better. He had joined the United States Army at the age of eighteen, fought in conflicts all around the globe, and after more than fifteen years come to realize you never really get over the fear. You just learn to deal with it. Some guys cracked jokes, others prayed, and some chain-smoked. No matter the method, it came down to silencing the demons in your skull, those voices that kept insisting this time your luck would finally run out.

  And then what? Noble chewed the inside of one cheek. What happened after? That was the question Noble struggled with. Not the dying part. That was easy. After he died? Then what? “Hello darkness, my old friend”? Or Hallelujah Choir? Sam certainly believed in a creator. So did Noble’s mother. Jake told people he didn’t believe, but the truth was he feared there might actually be a god and that was unfortunate, because Jake was mad. Mad at losing his father. Mad at the cancer that had nearly killed his mother. Mad at the villainous scumbags who raped and murdered and ripped the world apart. He was mad as hell and he wanted answers. All he got were more questions.

  Duval did another lap of the car, wrung his hands, and peered through the dirt-streaked glass. “I can’t take this anymore.”

  “Heads up,” they heard Sam’s voice coming from Noble’s pocket. They had a pair of burner phones on speaker. It was the best they could do without hands-free radios. Those were a little harder to buy last minute than climbing gear. Her words came through muffled but clear. She said, “I’ve got movement in the access tunnel.”

  Noble directed his voice at his pocket. “I read you, Sam. Stay out of sight and fall back to your position.”

  Duval looked stricken. The last of the color drained from his face, leaving him a waxy shade of pale. He swallowed with an audible click. “Mon Dieu,” he stammered. “Mon Dieu, I don’t think I can do this.”

  “Too late to change your mind.” Noble stood up and shook out his legs, then hunkered down in front of the window. His heart was slamming against his chest. Seconds ticked past before he glimpsed the beam of a flashlight spilling from the access tunnel that opened onto the Croix-Rouge station.

  Duval joined him at the window. “Mon Dieu, Mon Dieu. They’re here.”

  Noble said, “Try to relax, will ya? You’re making me nervous.”

  “I can’t do this,” Duval hissed. He put his back to the wall of the train and covered his face with both hands. “There has to be another way. Call it off.”

  Noble caught his sleeve. “Don’t lose your nerve.”

  Duval yanked his arm free. “Easy for you to say. I’m taking all the risk!”

  “In a few minutes those mercenaries are going to try to kill me,” Noble told him. “You’ve got the easy part.”

  Sam’s voice came from Noble’s pocket. “Duval, listen to me; you can do this. Everything is going to be fine. I promise.”

  More flashlight beams spilled from the passage as the mercenaries got closer. Duval squeezed his eyes shut. His face crumpled into an ugly mix of terror and sadness. A long mewling sound escaped his throat. “I hate this plan.”

  “I’m not crazy about it either,” Noble admitted. “But it’s too late to turn back.”

  The first of the mercenaries filed through the accessway onto the platform. Boots crunched in broken glass and flashlight beams played around the abandoned station, along the line of cars.

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Glowsticks were scattered near the mouth of the access tunnel, shining on the ground like radioactive turds on cracked concrete. Noble used the light to count heads. He tallied up eight bad guys along with Grey, toting a duffel bag, and Preston with his hand wrapped in thick gauze. Mateen, with his broken jaw, emerged from the tunnel last and the group fanned out across the platform, putting some distance between themselves in case this was a double-cross. It told Noble these guys were professionals and this wasn’t their first rodeo. They weren’t going to scatter when the bullets started flying. They had come here to kill Noble and they weren’t leaving until the job was done.

  “That’s far enough,” Noble shouted.

  The hired guns oriented on his voice. Flashlights reflected off the grime-encrusted windows of the subway car. Noble shrank from the light and yelled, “Show me the money.”

  “First show me Duval,” Grey shouted back.

  Noble grabbed Sacha by the arm and hauled him in front of the glass long enough for them to see the bloody bandage wrapped around his head, then shoved him out of view. “I want to see the money or the deal’s off.”

  Grey held up the duffel bag. “It’s all here. Send Duval out to me. I’ll put the bag down and we walk away.”

  “How do I know you won’t double-cross me?” Noble said.

  Grey tossed the bag halfway across the platform. It landed with a soft flop instead of the heavy thud half a million dollars would make. Grey lifted both hands and took a step back. “Happy? It’s all yours. We just want Duval.”

  So far so good, Noble told himself. Grey thought he was the player instead of the other way around. Noble turned to Duval. “Showtime. Stick to the plan and rem
ember what I said—keep ‘em talking. That’s key.”

  When Duval didn’t move, Noble grabbed his collar, steered him out the door, and gave him a shove. “He’s coming out!”

  Mateen dug a bottle of pills out of his pocket, shook a pair into his open palm and tossed them back while Grey was negotiating for the reporter. It wasn’t long before a bruised and battered Sacha Duval came stumbling out of the train car. A white bandage was wrapped around his skull and his blond hair stuck up in places. He held up both hands and started to stammer. Preston darted forward, grabbed Duval’s collar, and dragged him away from the train.

  So far so good, Mateen thought to himself.

  Grey and Preston herded the struggling reporter across the platform. They had him by the elbows and his feet barely touched the ground. Spittle flew from his lips as he begged for his life. Pathetic, Mateen thought. He handed Grey the keys to the Alfa Romeo and said, “Don’t scratch the paint.”

  “Make sure you kill him this time,” Grey murmured. Then he and Preston shoved Duval toward the dark access tunnel. Duval started to scream but Preston stuck a gun in his ribs. “Make a scene and I’ll pump a round into your guts.”

  Duval stopped shouting. He walked on stiff legs like Frankenstein’s monster, supported on either side by the corrupt CIA agents. Mateen waited until they had disappeared into the dark, then turned to his men and drew a thumb across his throat.

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Noble shifted his feet, clearing away the grit under his shoes. He wanted a stable shooting platform—for the first shot anyways. His attackers had the advantage in both numbers and firepower, but Noble had the gift of sight. Between the glowsticks and flashlights, Noble could see them, but they couldn’t see him. Amateurs like flashlights because it makes them feel tactical and because humans have an instinctual fear of the dark. But flashlights make perfect targets. Just aim at the light and pull the trigger.

  As Duval was ushered away from the platform, Noble spoke softly into his phone. “Get ready, Sam.”

  “Roger that,” she whispered back.

  The exchange and the money had all been a lead-up to this. Play time was over. With Duval out of the way, both sides could drop the act and get down to business. No more subterfuge. No more games. It was kill or be killed. Noble took in some air and let it out slow.

  At a silent command from Mateen, the tunnel came alive with the steady crack of small arms fire. Bullets hissed and snapped, obliterating the windows in a shower of glass. Muzzle flashes winked, blurring Noble’s vision. He sighted on nearest gunman and squeezed the trigger. Two loud bull whips sounded inside the subway car and the Kimber kicked. Brass shell casings spun from the breech, clattering over the floor.

  The slugs caught the hired gun high on the chest and knocked him backwards, but Noble didn’t see it. He had bent down below the window frame and duck-walked to the open door. Lead impacted the walls with bone-jarring force. The old train car had been constructed of heavy timber and overlaid with aluminum. The wood and metal design caught most of the hollow-point rounds, but not all. Bullets chewed through the sides of the train, buzzed around Noble’s head, and imbedded themselves in the benches with loud thwacks. Noble’s nerves hummed like high tension wires. He could feel his pulse pounding in his ears. Smoke trailed from the barrel of his weapon and the smell of cordite hung in the air. He leaned around the open door frame, aimed at a flashlight beam and fired.

  The shot was rushed and missed, but served its purpose. The hired guns saw the muzzle flash and focused on the middle of the car, pumping rounds through the door. Noble turned and sprinted to the end of the train. The emergency door stood open and Noble leapt down onto the tracks while Mateen’s crew obliterated the subway car with a hail of gunfire.

  “Sam,” Noble yelled. “I’m headed your way!”

  “I’m ready,” she said.

  Noble stuffed the pistol in his waistband, pulled three glowsticks from his pocket and gave them a quick twist before tossing them over his shoulder.

  Mateen ducked his head and pulled his shoulders up around his ears. The pain killers were dulling his senses and slowing his reactions. He knew he needed to get behind cover, but everything seemed to be happening so fast. One of his men was down, screaming in pain, another was tending to the wounded man. The rest were firing blind. The cavernous subway station echoed with the sharp thunder claps; it felt like white-hot needles stabbing Mateen’s eardrums. He jogged to a pillar, put his shoulder against it, and leaned out far enough to see the train. His crew had turned the open doorframe into matchsticks.

  “Hold your fire,” Mateen yelled through clenched teeth and winced at the shot of pain. He wanted another pill, but that would have to wait. If he ever laid hands on the girl, he was going to make her suffer before she died. He put his free hand to the side of his throbbing jaw and yelled again. “Hold your fire!”

  The guns fell silent, the last shell casings rolled to a stop and an oppressive quiet crowded the station. The wounded man had died or passed out; either way, he was no longer making noise and in the absence of sound Mateen caught the quick stab of heels in gravel echoing softly from the tunnel behind the abandoned train. “He went down the tracks,” Mateen said. “Get him.”

  Sam had her back to the wall, using a crumbling stone arch for cover. This section of the tunnel was built with alcoves that made perfect ambush points. Sweat gathered on her forehead despite the cold and her heart thudded inside her chest. She gripped a BIC in one hand and the other held a spring with a flint attached. Noble had showed her how to take the disposable lighters apart, attach the flint striker to the spring and use it as a tiny flashbang grenade.

  Le Milieu gunmen hammered the side of the train with a continuous barrage of small arms fire. Windows blew out with a small sound barely audible over the whip crack of barking pistols. The cacophony of noise filled the deserted tunnel like a symphony of jackhammers in an amphitheater. Sam narrowed her eyes and her lips peeled back in a painful grimace. She wanted to cover her ears and scream.

  When Jake jumped from the back of the train, Sam flicked the lighter, ran the flame over the flint and watched it turn red hot. Slow and steady, she told herself. Just like they taught at the Farm.

  Noble shouted into his phone and Sam let him know she was ready. He tossed a handful of the glowsticks over his shoulder. Seconds later the green luminescence filled the tunnel in back of the train with a ghostly light. The guns stopped, then the French mercenaries shouted commands and came around the back of the car with their weapons leading the way. The first man dropped down onto the tracks and advanced. Sam could just make out his silhouette limed by the light of the glowsticks. At the same time, Noble went sprinting past her position.

  Sam recalled the first time she had ever shot a man. She was on a ridgeline above a rock quarry in Kowloon, terrified out of her mind, but determined to save her friend. A lot had changed since then. Instead of a scared college girl with no weapons training, she was now a trained field officer for the CIA.

  The striker was glowing white-hot when Noble dashed by. Sam leaned out, hurled the flint at the ground in front of the hired guns and turned her face away. It impacted with a thunderous pop and a brilliant flash.

  The lead gunman gave a surprised shout and threw a hand up in front of his face. The explosion had no force behind it, just a burst of light and sound, but in a dark space it could render a man blind for several seconds.

  Sam pulled her Springfield XD-S, sighted on his chest and eased the trigger back, trying not to anticipate the recoil. The weapon jumped and the man went down on his back with surprise still etched on the lines of his face.

  The rest of the gunmen sprayed the tunnel, blasting chunks from the walls and sending rounds skipping off the tracks. The sound was deafening. Sam ducked behind the arch and waited for the hailstorm to end.

  Meanwhile, Noble had stopped, taken a position in an archway further up the tunnel and returned fire. The glowsticks revealed hi
s targets and a third mercenary caught a bullet in the belly. He jackknifed over, clutching his bloody stomach and moaning in pain.

  Sam used the distraction to turn and sprint along the tracks. Her ankle, still tender, sent stabbing pains racing up her leg with every step, but she willed herself to keep moving, pumping her arms for speed. Bullets snapped past her ears and whined off the walls. A stitch formed in her chest. She darted past Noble’s position, to an open tunnel on the left and threw herself behind cover.

  While Noble fired off the rest of his mag, Sam heated another flint with her lighter. Her hands shook so badly it took three tries to get a flame. Noble’s Kimber locked back on an empty chamber. He dropped the spent mag, reloaded and racked the slide. The gunmen were advancing up the tunnel, firing as they came, using the arches for cover. Noble yelled, “Sam?”

  “Almost,” she yelled back. The flame slowly turned the flint red then white and she shouted, “Now!”

  Noble leaned out, squeezed off two rounds, then sprinted for the side tunnel. As he ran past, Sam reared back and flung the glowing flint at the advancing gunmen. Another brilliant flash lit the tunnel.

  Blinded, the hired guns all started firing at the same time. One of the men in front caught a bullet in the back and was thrown face down on the track, screaming in pain.

  Sam and Noble retreated along the side passage to an adjoining tunnel barred by a heavy gate. They had scouted it out before making the exchange, picked the rust-covered padlock, and left the door open. Near as they could tell, it was the only other exit from Croix-Rouge for several miles. Any other escape would require the hired guns to travel long loops of dark and deserted track. Noble went through first and snatched the padlock off the ground where they had left it. Sam was on his heels. She leapt through the opening and swung the gate shut with a loud clang. Noble threaded the hasp, snapped the lock, and gave it a tug to be sure it held.