Noble Intent

by William Miller

  Sam chewed her bottom lip.

  A few motorists slowed to watch, thinking this was some extreme sport stunt.

  As the barge disappeared under the bridge, Noble hurled his length of rope over the railing. The line unspooled in the darkness and the excess plopped on the prow of the barge as it emerged from under the span. He grabbed the railing and climbed over. Sam threw her rope and scrambled out next to him. The barge was chugging beneath them, their view of the deck getting bigger.

  “Hey Jake,” Sam said and glanced over at him. She had her legs braced against the bridge, her right hand gripping the line and her left hand braking the excess. They were poised over the abyss, their landing zone getting bigger by the moment, precious seconds slipping away. “If anything happens…”

  “Don’t get all mushy on me,” Noble said and fixed a smile on his face. It came off looking like a nervous grin. “We still have work to do.”

  Sam nodded.

  Noble pushed off from the edge and let himself sink, using his left hand to brake the rope and slow his descent. The line purred as it played out through his harness. Friction heated his palms and his crotch felt like it was on fire. He caught a glimpse of the pilot in the wheelhouse. For one brief second, he locked eyes with Preston, then his feet touched the deck. He let his knees buckle to absorb the impact. It was like leaping off a first-floor roof onto concrete that was moving. Noble stumbled, but managed to recover.

  Sam wasn’t so lucky. She staggered and went down on her side with a sharp hiss.

  Line continued to play out through Noble’s harness as the barge motored away from the bridge. He stooped, gripped Sam’s elbow and urged her up. “You okay?”

  She put weight on her left ankle and grimaced. “I can fight.”

  Noble grabbed her line and jerked it free of the harness, before casting off the rest of his own. For the moment, they were sheltered by a stack of oil drums and a huge winch stand. The deck of the barge rumbled beneath their feet. Water churned and babbled around the prow. Standing on his toes, Noble could make out the pilothouse. He dropped back down and said, “You take starboard. I’ll take port. We’ll meet at the hatch. Got it?”

  Sam’s mouth was a thin line. The pain was obvious on her face. Her ankle was hurting bad. It would swell up like a balloon tomorrow, but she was determined to stay in the fight. She nodded.

  “They’ll be shooting to kill,” Noble told her. “You do the same.”

  “Let’s end this,” Sam said.

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  Preston, inside the pilothouse, saw the two figures rappel down and disappear behind the stacks of oil drums. He recognized Sam straight away and the other had to be Jake Noble. Those two didn’t know when to quit. Preston snarled a curse and toggled the intercom switch. “Grey! We have company. Grey, do you hear me?”

  The small speaker gave a hiss of static and then Grey’s voice came over the system. “Police?”

  “No,” Preston barked. “Sam and Noble. They just fast-roped onto the ship.”

  “How did they do that?” Grey wanted to know.

  “They dropped down from the bridge.” Preston told him. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Stay at the wheel,” Grey said. “Do what you can from there. I’m coming up.”

  Preston glimpsed the top of Noble’s head as he moved along the port side gunwale. He cast a look around the pilothouse, spotted a fire extinguisher hanging by the door, and grabbed it off the peg. He felt a stab of pain. His face pinched. His hand was a mass of melted skin and puss-filled blisters. It hurt even when he wasn’t using it. It was doubtful he could hit a target across a dinner table, never mind a target on the deck of rolling ship.

  He turned the fire extinguisher around and used the blunt end to smash the windshield. Glass rained out of the frame. Cold air and salty mist filled the pilothouse, blowing papers around like dry leaves. Preston dropped the extinguisher. It landed with a hollow bong and rolled across the floor. A dark splotch of blood had soaked through his bandage. Using his right hand wasn’t going to work. Preston gripped his pistol in his left and thrust it out the shattered window.

  Grey switched off the intercom. A growl worked its way up from his chest. This whole operation had gone completely off the rails. Coughlin’s scheme to draw Duval out into the open had backfired and thrown a big bright spotlight on them. Even if they found the failsafe and killed him before he could release the info, the damage was done.

  Grey turned a menacing glare on Duval. Dried blood caked one side of the reporter’s face and his eyes were puffy red slits. He looked small and pathetic in the chair, like a terrified wildebeest surrounded by lions.

  “Your friends are here,” Grey told him. “But don’t get your hopes up. They won’t be here long.”

  Grey reached under his jacket for his gun, stepped through the hatch and moved along a short passageway, up a flight of steps to the galley. He heard the sharp crack of a pistol over the steady rumble of the engines.

  Noble edged along the port gunwale, his Kimber in one hand, the other hand gripping the icy railing for support. A stack of old drums provided some cover. The slowly rolling deck caused them to shift with creaking voices. The barge plowed through the water at a steady ten knots, kicking up chilly white spray from the bow. Cold drops hit the back of Noble’s neck and sent a shiver tip-toeing up his spine. His arms and legs felt electrified.

  Over the sound of the waves, Noble heard breaking glass, craned his head up for a look and saw Preston thrust a handgun out the shattered window. Noble pulled his head in like a turtle crawling back inside its shell. Bullets punched through the metal drums with piercing shrieks. Two holes appeared less than an inch from Noble’s face and pissed out streams of brackish water. Noble crouched and put his shoulder to the cold metal bellies. They were filled with saltwater for ballast. Good thing they weren’t full of gasoline, thought Noble. The whole barge would be a fiery inferno by now.

  He took a breath, leaned out, and squeezed off two rounds. Fire leapt from the muzzle. Thunder clapped. The rolling ship caused his shots to go wide and Preston replied in kind. More lead hornets stung the rusty drums.

  Sam had her back to the oil drums, her weapon clutched in both hands, easing along the starboard gunwale. Her heart beat a rapid tattoo on the inside of her chest. An icy spray caught her in the face and she spit out saltwater. The harsh jingle of breaking glass made her stop. Gunshots ripped through the air. The sound felt like a rubber band snapped against her eardrums. There was an answering volley from the port side.

  Sam edged along the row of barrels until she could see the hatch. She peeked in time to see the wheel spin. The rusty scrape of the hinges was barely audible over the furious exchange of gunfire. The hatch swung open and Grey filled the frame, a gun in his hand. His face was a mask of cold fury and his eyes locked on Sam

  She brought her weapon up, settled the front sight on his chest and yelled, “Drop it, Grey!”

  His hand came up with the gun.

  Sam felt her finger tighten on the trigger. The weapon kicked. An empty shell casing leap from the breech, went spinning over the railing and into the dark waters. The bullet struck Grey high on the right shoulder. His face pinched in pain. He stumbled backwards and squeezed the trigger. His shot skipped off the wall of drums and forced Sam to retreat. When she looked again, Grey was hauling the hatchway closed. She raised her weapon, but it was too late. The metal door clanged shut and the wheel turned, driving the locks in place.

  From the port side, Noble continued to trade shots with Preston in the pilothouse. Their bullets hissed and cracked, filling the air with the promise of a quick and painful death. Sam ducked her head and sprinted across the deck. She reached the hatch and gave it a pointless tug. The wheel refused to budge.

  A searing lance of blinding pain twisted Grey’s face. The bullet had gone in just below his collar bone. At first it was just numbness, like the aftereffect of being punched hard, then a crippling shockwa
ve raced from the ragged hole in his shoulder to his brain and made his legs want to buckle. Blood welled up from the wound and soaked through his overcoat. He could feel it running down the underside of his arm. A wave of nausea hit and he had to clutch at the bulkhead for support. He had never been shot before. He knew it was painful, but he never imagined it would be this painful.

  The pain turned to hatred, and focused in on Sam like a shark that smells blood in the water. She was to blame. She had started the dominoes falling. If not for her, Duval and his failsafe would be dead and no one would be any wiser. Grey would have gotten rich working for Coughlin and retired with more money than he knew what to do with. Now that future was gone and all because of Samantha Gunn. Grey hurried across the empty galley to a second hatch that opened onto the stern.

  Chapter Seventy-Nine

  A hailstorm of lead ricocheted off the tops of the oil drums. One round buzzed past Noble’s ear and hit the water with a tiny burst of foam. He put his back to the barrels, bent his knees, and sank down a few inches to keep from getting his head shot off. His eyes narrowed against the constant barrage and his mouth formed a strict line. Preston held the high ground and could keep Noble pinned until he ran out of ammo.

  Noble considered retracing his steps, trying to circle around, but that would only bottleneck him and Sam together, making them easy targets. He needed to deal with Preston. He stuck his gun up over the barrels and fired blind. The Kimber locked back on an empty chamber and Noble dug in his pocket for his last mag. His shots inspired a loud reply. Angry lead hornets buzzed around the barrels and stung the lids. Noble winced at the sharp metal thwacks.

  Think of something fast, he told himself.

  Sam appeared at the corner of the pilothouse with her back to the wall. Preston wouldn’t be able to see her from his angle. If he wanted to shoot her, he would have to lean out the broken window. Sam kept her weapon close to her chest and shouted to be heard. “You okay?”

  “Never better.” He winced as another bullet sizzled overhead.

  “I clipped Grey,” she hollered. “But he’s still alive and he locked the hatch.”

  “There’s another way below decks,” Noble shouted and pointed along the narrow ledge which circled the pilothouse. It had no railing, only a frayed rope for a handhold. It was a risky maneuver, but they had to get inside or be cut to pieces out here.

  Sam stepped out, glanced along the ledge and then turned back to Noble. “You going to be alright?”

  “I’ll be fine,” Noble said, thinking of Duval. Every second they wasted out here brought him another second closer to execution. Noble said, “Get to Sacha before Grey kills him.”

  Sam nodded and started to turn.

  Noble saw movement at the rear of the pilothouse and fear flooded his belly. Grey stepped around the corner, one hand pressed against his shoulder and the other aiming a pistol. Noble couldn’t fire without hitting Sam. He opened his mouth to shout a warning and never got the chance. Grey fired four quick shots. A series of rapid bull-whips split the air. Sam jerked and strangled out a cry. Her eyes opened wide in fear and surprise. Her body tensed. Then she was falling.

  She dropped over the side, hit the dark waters with a splash, and disappeared below the surface.

  “No!” Noble screamed. The fear turned to hate, boiling over and setting his brain on fire. He thrust his gun out and triggered a volley, but Grey was already gone. He had ducked back around the corner before Sam even hit the water. The bullets ricocheted off the wall in a series of violent sparks.

  Crushing grief threatened to cripple Noble, turning him into a howling lunatic crouching on the deck of the ship. But he couldn’t let that happen, not yet. Sam was dead and the men responsible had to pay. A rip formed in Noble’s soul and a terrible blackness oozed out. Preston and Grey had to die. Nothing else mattered.

  He didn’t stop to think about what he did next. He was on autopilot: a heat-seeking missile aimed at a target. Noble grasped the top of the barrels and hauled himself up. His face formed a grim mask. He wasn’t worried about getting shot. If he died, so be it. He clambered atop the oil drums, heedless of the danger.

  The move was so sudden and unexpected that it took Preston by surprise. His eyebrows went up and his mouth dropped open. By the time he recovered, Noble was standing up and taking aim. Preston raised his weapon to fire.

  Noble centered his front sight and pulled the trigger until the slide locked back. Bullets stitched Preston’s chest and shoulders, driving him backward. He hit the rear wall of the pilothouse and slid down, leaving a trail of dark blood.

  Noble dropped the empty Kimber. It bounced off the lid of a drum and fell down between the barrels with a clatter. A blast of cold air whipped through his hair as the barge rolled slowly on the river. Noble stripped off his coat and wrapped it around his hands, then ran and launched himself at the open window.

  He sailed across three meters of open space, stretched out his arms, and managed to grasp hold of the window ledge. Fragments of broken glass shredded the coat and sliced into his palms. His body impacted the wall of the pilothouse with a muffled bang. His feet scrabbled at the slick metal until his toes found a rivet, then he pulled himself up over the frame and through the shattered window. Mean little shards buried themselves in his arms and legs. The pain fueled his hate.

  Preston lay on the floor of the pilothouse, covered in his own blood. Fear flashed in his face as Noble climbed over the control panel. His words came out small and strained. “Help me. I need a hospital.”

  “You need an undertaker,” Noble told him as he shook off the jacket.

  Preston whimpered and spittle flew from his lips. He held up one blood-stained hand and croaked out, “Wait. It was all Coughlin. I just follow orders.”

  Ignoring the wounded man’s pleas, Noble glanced around and found Preston’s weapon. He picked it up, pressed the muzzle against Preston’s forehead and pulled the trigger. The gun thundered and the back of Preston’s head sprayed across the floor in a violent shout of pulpy red mass.

  Chapter Eighty

  Jaqueline Armstrong sat behind her desk with her heart pounding gently in her chest, while she listened to the torture of Sacha Duval. It was just after seven o’clock D.C. time.

  A computer cowboy named Ezra Cook sat on the sofa, sweating through his shirt. His hair was disheveled and he had dark circles under his eyes. He had arrived at Armstrong’s office an hour ago looking like he hadn’t slept. He apologized profusely for interrupting and then demanded she see the information on a flash drive.

  Armstrong had listened to his story and then cross-checked the files against Langley’s database only to find them missing, verifying Cook’s claims. Before she could act on this new information, she got a call from her knight errant. Noble had given her an ISP and told her to start a trace. He had relayed the feed from the ruggedized laptop to a cellphone and from there to the CIA’s SIGINT office. The tech gurus in signal intelligence recorded the incoming call and uploaded the feed, with a slight delay, to Armstrong’s office.

  Duc leaned a shoulder against the bookshelf, his muscular forearms folded over his barrel chest, and listened in silence, a slight frown on his face and his beard sticking straight out.

  The head of SIGINT, a lifer named Bob Moberly, sat across from Ezra. He had run a quick scrub to make sure it was genuine and then cleaned up the audio. It was hard to listen to. Armstrong had witnessed recordings of enhanced interrogations before. Torture, while sometimes necessary, was never pleasant. But it sounded like Grey was enjoying himself. When Duval finally cracked and divulged the name of his source, Ezra sat up a little straighter.

  “That name mean something to you?” Armstrong asked.

  He shook his head and shrank back down in the sofa.

  “You sure?” Armstrong asked.

  Ezra shrugged. “It’s a character from a movie.”

  Armstrong nodded. “I go to the movies. You sure it doesn’t ring any other bells?”
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  Ezra shook his head again.

  On the recording, Grey was making a phone call, but the voices started to break up. Static interrupted the feed and then it shorted out altogether. Armstrong looked to Bob Moberly.

  “The boat moved out of range,” he explained.

  “That’s all we’ve got?” Armstrong asked.

  Moberly said, “That’s it, I’m afraid.”

  She frowned. “Have we had any word from Noble or Gunn?”

  Duc shook his head. “We have a drone inbound to see if they can pick up the boat and a local contact en route.”

  “That recording came through less than fifteen minutes ago,” Moberly said. “Near as we can tell, the situation is still unfolding.”

  Armstrong jabbed the intercom button and her secretary came on the line. “I need to see Coughlin in my office right away.”

  “I believe he’s preparing to leave for the day.”

  “Call down stairs,” Armstrong said. “Don’t let him leave the building.”

  While they waited, Armstrong backed the recording up to the part where Grey made the telephone call. She checked the log and compared that to the local time in D.C.

  When Coughlin arrived, he looked no better than Ezra. His eyes took in all the players and his face went into a series of spasms. He tried to smile, but it came off a snarl. “You wanted to see me?”

  Armstrong played the recording for him.

  Coughlin stood there, his hands at his side and his face a twitching mask of silence.

  “May I see your phone?” Armstrong said.

  Realization dawned on Coughlin’s face. When he didn’t move right away, Armstrong turned to Duc.

  The big Navy SEAL uncrossed his arms and took a step in Coughlin’s direction. The threat alone was enough. Coughlin reached into his coat pocket and came out with his cell. Duc passed the phone to Armstrong.