by L. T. Ryan
"Didn't I say," Charles said, "that Mikey C. was off-limits? He was the only one from the old regime, from back when I was a damn grease monkey working in the garage, who remained neutral in the face of change. He had ties with groups outside our organization that wouldn't talk to me. Now we lost him, we lost them, and we lost a lot of damn money."
None of the three men spoke.
"I said don't touch him!" Charles kicked his chair, sending it to the left. It toppled over on its side. Caster wheels spun without resistance. "But now his body is torn into pieces and floating in the damn river."
Sunlight shone against the sweaty foreheads of the men across from him. One snuck a peek toward the office door, presumably in a failed attempt to locate Charles's bodyguards.
"We didn't know he was gonna be there," the guy named Paolo Almeida said. "I mean, once we started, he came out from a back room where I guess he was banging some whore. Charles, man, he saw what we was doing. He reached for his piece. I had no choice." The guy closed his eyes and flinched, having given up the critical information Charles searched for.
Charles leaned back against the window, massive arms crossed. "You two, out."
Paolo remained seated while the other two captains rose and exited the office.
"What are you thinking right now?" Charles said.
"I'm wishing I'd kissed my wife before I left today."
"You're single."
Paolo shrugged. "Figure of speech."
Charles smirked. "Well in that case, if you had one, probably woulda been a good idea."
"Look, I'm telling the truth. It was me or him. I had no choice."
"Yes, you did." Charles pushed off the window and planted his thick knuckles on the desk and leaned over it. "You could have known who the hell was in the damn house before going in, guns blazing."
Paolo said nothing. Better that way. Every word he uttered dug another six inches in his eventual grave.
"So what should I do with you?" He didn't wait for the man to answer. "Death is too simple an answer. It lacks the punch I'm looking for. Maybe a demotion. You know, knock you down a peg or six. You're young enough to hustle on the street. Of course, you won't have any protection if you get picked up."
"And I'll rat your ass out first chance I get."
"Oh, hotheaded Paolo. The moment you arrived from Brazil or Argentina or wherever the fuck you're from, I knew you'd be a problem."
Charles smiled at the guy while an internal switch flipped. Rage rose up within him like angry bile. Still smiling, he reached out, grabbed the back of Paolo's head and slammed it against the edge of the desk. Cartilage met solid mahogany. The desk won. Paolo choked on the blood that flooded his mouth and throat. Another round of head-meets-desk split Paolo's forehead and sent him to the floor.
With his heart racing and his breath rapid and uneven, Charles rounded his desk. A pool of blood seeped into the twenty thousand dollar rug. He slammed his foot into Paolo's midsection, cursing at the spreading tide of crimson, then he proceeded toward the door.
"You two," he said, aiming a finger in the direction of the men who had accompanied Paolo. "Get him off my floor. Clean him up, take him upstate, and get rid of him. Use the express elevator straight to the garage. Anyone asks, he slipped in the bathroom and hit the urinal."
Chapter 3
New York City.
TWO WOMEN. ONE blonde, the other brunette. Skimpy outfits. Did they run for exercise? Or for attention? The blonde glanced over, then back, smiling as she passed. The diamonds on her wedding ring glinted in the sunlight.
Jack Noble returned a complimentary nod as he stayed far to the right of the Washington Square fountain. In part to stay out of view should someone be watching from above. Also to seek shelter from the heat. But not even the cover of the trees could provide respite from the mid-July humidity. Even at nine in the morning. Didn't bother the kids at the playground, although few things did. They raced past, sidestepping adults without taking their eyes off one another.
The sight brought images of Mia to the forefront of Jack's mind. He hadn't seen his daughter since he left London to deal with a matter in his hometown of Crystal River, Florida. Things there hadn't gone as planned. Once again, his past had resurfaced, as it always did. And as much as he wanted to be near his daughter, her safety was paramount.
So Jack came back to the closest thing he had to a home.
But there wasn't much left for him in New York. The properties he co-owned with his former partner Riley "Bear" Logan were all up for sale or sold. It had been Jack's idea. Bear followed through with it. The properties were a waste at this point anyway. They sat unused, and would remain that way if the duo hung onto them. Better Bear have the money to set aside for his and Mandy's futures, than the condos and apartments go to waste.
Bear had kept another promise Jack forced upon the big man. He and Mandy had disappeared. Calls to his main forwarding number were met with a fast busy signal. The line was gone. All other numbers Jack tried received a message indicating the same.
Better this way. At least, Jack convinced himself of it. Anyone connected with him met an untimely and painful ending. Somehow, Bear had managed to survive for close to twenty years as Jack's partner, first in the military, then in business. The odds weren't in the big man's favor if he remained in that capacity.
At the northeast corner of the park, Jack crossed Washington Square North and continued along the busy sidewalks of University Place until he reached 11th. He'd made the same walk four other times in the past month. Each time, his knocks went unanswered. Had they gone unheard? All he wanted was proof that Clarissa was OK. The last time he'd seen her, she'd saved his life by stopping a rogue SIS agent from filling him with bullets.
Since then, she'd been a ghost.
Perhaps that meant it was time to accept his duty to her was done. He'd protected her long enough. She obviously could make her own way now.
From 11th, Jack made his way to the Upper East Side. An eccentric millionaire had reached out to him through a private channel and showed interest in securing Jack's services as head of security for the duration of the man's stay in New York. The call came as little surprise. He'd fielded several over the past month after gaining a reputation in some circles. The reason? He'd prevented the assassination of a rising political star in London. In retrospect, it would have been best for all involved had she died. Eventually, she did. Regardless, Jack's status in the wake of the event offered new prospects. This one, being close to home, intrigued him.
He didn't need the money. Even after turning ninety percent of his assets over to Bear, his bank accounts provided enough to live on for years to come. But Jack wasn't ready for retirement. Yet. And rather than eat up his accounts, he figured a better plan would be to add to them while he still had the ability. Short-term security gigs would provide an opportunity to do just that. Plus, they had the added benefit of giving him something to do every day. He expected his senses to dull over time due to age. Little could be done to prevent that. Maybe slow the decline down. But there was no need to accelerate the process by sitting around on a barstool all day.
Upon entering the millionaire's condo building, the phone in Jack's pocket buzzed. He'd acted on a whim and purchased a smart phone. It had gigs of memory, and multiple gigahertz of processing, and cloud capabilities. At first none of that meant anything to him. The phone had nearly ended up in the trashcan on more than one occasion. But he took the time to figure it out. The devices, he figured, were here to stay. No point fighting them.
A man the color of coal and the size of a box-truck entered the lobby. He had a dark t-shirt on that said, "Yeah, I'm That Guy." Jack figured he got asked the question a lot. The man gestured with his head for Jack to follow, so he did. They took the hallway to the left and entered a small windowless room.
"I'm sure you know how this works," the guy said.
"I'll save you the trouble." Jack reached behind and retrieved his Beretta. He released the magazine and set
it and the pistol on the table, grip facing the other man.
"Appreciate that, but it ain't gonna keep my hands off of you."
Jack didn't resist the man's attempt. Wasn't like he was going to find anything. Hands ran roughshod up and down Jack's torso, legs, ankles. Finally, the guy stepped back and opened the door.
"Let's go."
They took the elevator to the top floor and walked the length of the building where they came to a stop in front of the last door. The man made Jack wait in the hallway. Murmurs escaped through the gap between the door and the floor. They were too low to decipher. After a few minutes, the guy returned and waved Jack inside the condo. The drawn curtains, perhaps purple in color and made from velvet, blocked out all the light. One dim bulb illuminated the room. A flash of orange shone from the corner. Jack didn't recognize the face behind the cigarette.
The guy took a step forward. Curly silver hair with traces of black adorned a chiseled face.
"Ah, Mr.-"
Jack held out his hand and said, "No names."
The guy nodded. "No problem."
"Can we get some light in here?"
"I'd prefer not." He paused a moment. "Took a bullet to the head twenty-five years ago, eyes haven't been the same since. I've got special glasses to help when outside, but I don't like wearing them inside the house."
Jack's eyes adjusted. He made out the scar on the man's right cheek, between ear and eye. Maybe a remnant from the bullet that affected his tolerance for light.
"So what happened? Mugged? That why I'm here?"
Laughing, the man stepped forward again. His frame was slender, but muscular. "Twenty five years ago I was a SEAL. Do the math."
"Panama."
Nodding, he said, "At least I wasn't one of the unfortunate twenty-three souls who perished there. Anyway, what about you?"
"Panama? I was in eighth grade. I was ready to go, but they wouldn't take me."
The guy's smile widened. "No, not Panama. Military?"
"You invited me here, figured you knew that already." Jack paused to allow the man to rebut. He didn't. Jack continued. "Eschewed college to join the Marines. Selected for a special assignment early on for some new program they were testing."
"With the CIA."
Jack shrugged and continued. "Did that for a couple years before the whole thing fell apart. They threw a lot of money at me to get me to retire early. I took it. Considered making it a permanent situation. Problem was, being a drunk in the Keys didn't pay all that well, so I hopped on board the government wagon again and worked for another agency. Couple years there, then went into business for myself. Picked up the security gig for that politician by accident after working with British Intelligence a few months back."
"And I heard you did an excellent job."
"I suppose." Jack glanced around in an attempt to locate the large man who'd escorted him through the building. "Then again, she's dead."
"Not your fault, from what I hear."
"Don't believe everything you're told."
The man fidgeted with an envelope and said nothing.
"What's this all about?" Jack said. "You obviously have the skills and contacts to take care of yourself. You're not some eccentric that's being stalked or extorted or living in fear of his own shadow. So why me? Why here? Why now?"
The envelope disappeared behind the man's body. "Perhaps you are right. Maybe I don't need your services right now."
For a moment, Jack's gut tensed, and he had the feeling that mortars were incoming. "Was it something I said?"
The guy said nothing.
"What's in the envelope?"
"Down payment, that's all." He brought his hands around, empty. "Seems we won't be needing it."
"The hell is this all about?"
The guy lifted his hand and snapped. "Martellus, please escort our guest out."
The big black man crossed the room. Each step reverberated through the floorboards. Sensing he had a few seconds left in the condo, Jack spoke up.
"Never got your name."
"You don't need it," the older man said.
"Why'd you bring me here?"
The big man's hands wrapped around Jack's shoulders. He didn't budge.
"Easy way or hard way, man. Either way, I get paid the same," the man said.
"Why?" Jack said.
The older man turned away and went into the next room without saying a word. The door shut behind him, sending a slight gust toward the windows and ruffling the dark drapes.
"Last chance of easy way," the guy said.
Jack broke free of the man's grasp and started toward the door. "I can find my own way out."
"You want your piece?"
Jack stopped, turned, held out his hands.
"Elevator," the guy said.
A minute later, the bronze-plated doors opened up to an empty lobby. The big man didn't get out. He handed Jack his Beretta, then tossed the magazine halfway across the room. By the time Jack reached it, the elevator had started its ascent to the upper floor.
Not quite sure what to make of the meeting, Jack exited the building and walked north one block. Heat reflected off the concrete surrounding him. The temperature had risen ten degrees since he stepped foot inside the building. The humidity was close to maxed out. Despite that, the sidewalk was packed, and the park across the street too. The meeting played over again in his mind. What had the man wanted with him? Maybe he'd built a team of some sort, security or mercenary. Not much difference these days. The guy had some interest in Jack, but apparently not enough to extend an offer. What had he said to discourage the guy?
As soon as a break in traffic presented itself, Jack jogged across 5th Avenue. A curb marked the crossover from asphalt to concrete. He imagined a sniper rifle protruding from a window in the condo, aimed at his back and tracking every move. The cover of the trees on the opposite sidewalk failed to provide the security he needed. So he hopped the solid fence and cut across Central Park, always moving forward, resisting the urge to look behind.
Chapter 4
Paris, France.
A COOL MIST enveloped Bear as he emerged from the sweltering metro station. Glancing up, he couldn't tell where the mist ended and the clouds began. The breeze chilled the droplets of water that clung to his cheeks and bare arms. They did little to counter the stifling humidity, though. Was the weather typical for Paris in the middle of July?
Bear shielded his eyes from the pervasive mist and scanned the street and sidewalk. The haze made it difficult to spot any landmarks he might recall from his last visit to the City of Lights. As he began to gather his bearings, he felt a tug on his shirt. Glancing back, Mandy stared up at him. She cupped both hands over and around the sides of her eyes.
"I need an umbrella," she said. "Or a jacket with a hood."
He spotted a drug store a block away. Gesturing with his chin, he said, "Come on, kid."
She stepped to his side and the two of them made their way down the crowded sidewalk. Outside the store entrance, he handed her twenty euros and remained there while she went inside. The drizzle and mist didn't bother him. He'd endured far worse during his years in the Marines. Hell, he'd purposefully sat through worse just to bag a ten-point buck.
Crowds passed in waves, most emerging from the metro, intertwining with those already in place. They all had the same reaction to the weather upon emerging from the covered stairs. They scrunched their faces and winced at the hovering mist as though they entered a field of pissed off honeybees. Bear recognized none of the people that passed. And none of them recognized him.
And that was how Bear liked it.
Mandy exited the store with a multi-colored umbrella large enough for the two of them. Quite a feat, Bear thought. While she was still a petite thing, Bear was massive. She extended the umbrella and handed it to him.
Bear declined. "Change?"
She deposited a couple coins into the palm of his hand.
"That it?" he asked.
Bear started forward on a path that led away from one metro station, and invariably toward another, which they ignored.
"Bear," she said, fumbling with the umbrella before sliding it open. "Wait up."
He slowed his pace until the sound of her labored breathing caught up to him. He'd grown concerned over her wheezing, which had worsened in recent months. The entire time Mandy had been at his side, he hadn't brought her to a doctor for a check-up. Not something that occurred to him. And now that it had, he had no idea where to take her. She had spent time at Number 10, the British Prime Minister's residence. Had they checked her? If so, they hadn't addressed any concerns with Bear. After a few moments, her breathing returned to normal, and his concern faded, yielding to another set of thoughts.
It wasn't that Bear didn't want to tell Mandy why they were in Paris. He didn't know how. Months ago, a woman had caught his attention, even though they had only spent moments together. Sometimes it took no more than that. To make matters worse, she was with Pierre, a man that, while they had their ups and downs, was as close to Jack and Bear as anyone. Of course, the Frenchman had been laid up in intensive care, the victim of gunshot wounds, the last time Bear had seen him. The doctors had given Pierre a fifty-percent chance to live. Could've died, for all Bear knew.
So he hesitated again when Mandy asked why they were in Paris. The girl hadn't had the easiest year of her life. Abandoned. Abducted. Orphaned. That was only the beginning. She might have been better off had Jack left her alone on the sidewalk back in New York City. They all might've been. Some agency or organization would have picked the girl up and found a foster home for her. He shuddered at the thought. He knew the life of insanity they shared was better than anything an orphanage or foster family could ever provide for her.
Stability.
Bear's only goal. He was the constant in her life. A shaky one, but a constant nonetheless. And here he was, ready to shake things up for her again. He ran a hand through his hair, squeezing the water out as he went.