by L. T. Ryan
“What was it?”
Jack studied the man for a moment before deciding against telling him about the Mandy and Clarissa situations. No reason to give the guy extra ammunition. “Let’s just say it was something I’d never dealt with before.”
“OK.”
“So anyway, this chain of events leads me to France, Italy for a brief time, then to Russia. I had a pit stop in a lovely place called Black Dolphin, narrowly avoided a shallow grave, and found myself relaxing in Greece for a few months. I got roped into helping out the SIS, you were right about that. But I had to do it. It was, for all intents and purposes, my mess to clean up. And I did. I ended it. Lost a few friends in the process.”
Mason narrowed his eyes, rubbed his chin, said, “You took out that old coot, Ivanov, didn’t you?”
Jack hiked his shoulders in the air an inch, looked away. He did both on purpose. Two simple gestures that both affirmed Mason’s thoughts, and said I didn’t do a damn thing.
“So, great, you’re a hero. You saved the world. You cleaned up your mess. How does that get you to London? What does it have to do with Walloway?”
Jack stared ahead. He hadn’t been paying attention to the route they had taken and wasn’t sure where he was. The cityscape had turned into a quickly diminishing suburban setting. A densely forested area was ahead. He shifted in his seat, looked between Mason and the road.
He said, “I had a chance encounter with him in Monte Carlo.”
“What were you doing in Monte Carlo?”
“Killing time.” Jack paused for further questioning. When there was none, he continued. “I ran into Dottie there. It had been more than a few years since we last worked together. I bought her a drink. Walloway comes up and makes a scene. Total hothead. I ran into him again that night, him and his guys.”
“You kill any of them?”
Jack said nothing.
“Right, OK. So what else?”
“Who says there’s more?”
“I get that you and he have a history. But it doesn’t jive that you’d risk everything to come over here just based on that. You said yourself, you’re done, retired.”
“He lit into Dottie that night. She spent a month in the hospital. He bought off the courts down there and got off scot-free. That is, minus the time he spent in jail.”
“Ah, so she reached out to you and asked you to take him out.” Mason turned his head and made eye contact with Jack and added, “Don’t reply to that.”
Jack didn’t. He kept his mouth shut, his eyes open. The car started to slow. Up ahead he saw a clearing on the right that led to a gravel road or driveway. The vehicle continued to decelerate, then turned onto the path. Neither man said anything as the car dipped and bounced and swayed left to right and back again. Finally, the sedan rolled to a stop and Mason put it in park.
“Here’s the deal, Jack—”
“I’m armed, Mason. You might shoot me first, you might not. But before you do anything, take into consideration the fact that I have two Browning HP pistols on me, both locked and loaded.”
Through his laughter, Mason said, “You think I brought you out here to kill you?”
Mason’s upturned, squinted eyes and full-on belly laugh set Jack at ease.
“Just being cautious,” Jack said.
Mason took a moment to compose himself, exhaled with a high pitched whew. “I’m here because I wanted to find out your intentions toward Walloway and to tell you that we want you to take him out. We’ll pay you two-hundred thousand euros over whatever Dottie is paying you.”
Dottie wasn’t paying him anything. Jack had taken the job for personal reasons. That would not prevent him from taking money from the British government, though.
“So why’d you stop me back there. I had him. He was alone in that store with one, maybe two employees.”
“We know when we want it done. There’s going to be a meeting.”
“MI5,” Jack said. “You’re counter-terrorism, right?”
Mason nodded, a singular and decisive movement.
“So that means…?”
Another singular and decisive nod of Mason’s head confirmed that Thornton Walloway was involved with some bad men.
“And this meeting, there’ll be others there you want taken out?”
“Not necessarily,” Mason said. “We want them scared. We want them to know that we know about them. “
“So that’s why you need me. Walloway is the only target. The hit won’t be from a distance, though, so the shooter has to get close. Close enough that he might be spotted. And you can’t have one of your operators being seen at the hit. But being close is going to put me in a precarious position. Others might die.”
Again, a single nod. No words spoken.
Jack understood. They had enough on Walloway to justify it, but not the others. If Jack had to kill them, so be it.
The heavy odor of wood smoke had filled the car. Jack’s gaze drifted, darting around the surrounding forest. Odd shadows spiked his awareness. He still didn’t know if he could trust Mason. Why did they have to come out here to discuss this? How close was the nearest person or house? He’d noticed several driveways after they passed the last neighborhood. Someone was probably close enough that any gunfire would be heard. Would it be unusual, though? Did people in England hunt? Of course they did. But did they hunt here, in these woods?
“Open the glove box,” Mason said, breaking the silence that had lingered the way wood smoke hovered in the leafy canopy covering them.
Jack slid his hand along the pitted dash until he found the latch. The glove box door dropped open. Inside was a Beretta M9, Jack’s preferred handgun. He pulled the weapon out, inspected it.
“The Browning HP’s nice and all, but if you need to fire more than one shot, you’re damn dead, mate. That’s a real pistol there.”
Jack nodded his agreement.
“There’s a silencer and spare magazine in there too.”
Jack reached in and placed his hand on the silencer. He threaded it on the end of the barrel. He pulled the spare magazine out, then closed the glove box.
“OK,” Mason said. “Now get out.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Out. I’ll be in touch soon.”
“I have no idea where I am. Got no car.”
“A man is going to be along with your car shortly. They left just after we did.”
How many had there been following him? Jack placed his hand on the door handle, hesitated.
“Go on, Jack. Do you really think I’d leave you here to be ambushed after giving you a weapon?”
The sound of tires crunching and spitting out gravel roared from behind. Jack craned his neck and saw the Fiat approaching.
Mason held out his arms. “Happy?”
Jack nodded, opened the door, stepped out.
Mason’s car roared to life and pulled away and stopped fifty feet from the road. The Fiat pulled up next to Jack. A man hopped out, pushed past Jack and ran to Mason’s car. The guy got in and took the seat Jack had occupied. The sedan started forward, hurling gravel in its wake.
Jack found himself alone with the Fiat in the middle of nowhere.
CHAPTER 13
Naseer drummed the fingers of his left hand in a rhythmic pattern along the edge of his desk. One, two, three, four, pause. Over and over again, his fingertips repeated the beat.
Thornton was fifteen minutes late for their meeting. Naseer had little patience for tardiness, but today he did not allow it to upset him. He did not wait patiently or impatiently. He was neither calm nor anxious. He just was.
And he continued to be.
His feet rested on the corner of the antique desk that had cost him several thousand dollars. The desk had a history, but Naseer didn’t know it. He paid little attention to the man who rattled off names of people who had some prominence in history. The desk had the look that Naseer wanted. Visitors often commented on it, too. That was what really mattered to Na
seer. That and the fact that the big, bold piece of furniture immediately put him in a position of power, something he found helpful, most of the time.
Not that he needed help in that area.
In addition to his money, of which he had plenty, he had forces that would carry out any command he ordered, and with nothing more than a phone call. Anywhere in the world, anytime he wanted.
Walloway brought something new to the table. He had the money to match Naseer’s wealth. He also had contacts that Naseer couldn’t touch. Important people in industry and the government. For that, he’d put up with the man longer than the guy’s personality and attitude warranted. Lately, he’d grown tired of Walloway’s demands and incessant narcissism.
The still image on the security monitor on his desk came to life. One of his men walked down the hall toward Naseer’s office. The guy stopped in front of the office door. Naseer waited for the knock on the door, then he pressed the button that controlled the lock and said, “Enter.”
Samir walked into the office, cast aside formalities. “He’s here. Him and one of his guys.”
“Which one? Bodyguard?”
“Maybe.”
“How is he?”
“He’s a prick, as usual. Seems hopped up a bit.”
“How so?”
“Going on about how he shouldn’t have to wait.”
Naseer placed his hand over the computer mouse and guided the pointer to a thumbnail image below the footage of the hallway. He clicked the small square and the feed switched to the lobby. He saw Walloway standing, back against the wall, right arm over his left, left leg crossed over his right. His cheeks looked red. His eyes were narrow. Naseer thought the man looked like an angry little troll.
“Naseer? Should I bring him back?”
“Yes. Only him though, not his mate.”
“Very well.” Samir took a step back, turned, closed the door behind him as he left Naseer’s office.
Naseer switched the main screen footage back to the hallway outside his office and he unchecked the box that muted the sound. If Walloway decided to fuss and bitch on the way, he’d know.
Feeling the need to ensure his own protection, Naseer slid open the top left desk drawer. It squeaked as the bent slides scraped against one another. He pulled out a titanium case, opened it, retrieved his Heckler & Koch MARK 23. He secured the suppressor and tested the laser sights. If he had to use it, it would be both silent and accurate.
Naseer owned several expensive firearms. Behind him, mounted on a shelf, was a Pfeifer-Zeliska .600 Nitro Express Magnum. He’d fired it once and it had nearly knocked him off his feet. The gun was made for hunting elephants. It had cost him close to twenty-thousand dollars. A pittance for a man of his stature. Locked up in a safe was a silver plated P-38 made by Walther that he’d paid over one million dollars for at auction. He’d never fired that one.
He didn’t need an expensive weapon when it came to his personal defense. He required power and carnage. The MARK 23 was more than capable of providing both.
Walloway and Samir appeared on the monitor. Through hidden desk speakers, Naseer heard Walloway’s hard soled shoes reverberate off the hardwood floor. He shifted the MARK 23 to his left hand, grabbed the mouse and clicked the mute box. He figured it would be best to conceal his weapon, so he slid the middle desk drawer out a half-foot and placed the handgun inside. Easy enough for him to retrieve, if necessary.
There was a sharp rap at the door. Large knuckles struck three times in rapid succession.
Naseer reached under his desk, pressed a button. A click from across the room signaled that the door had been unlocked. The knob turned, the door swung open. Samir stepped inside. He extended his arm and ushered Walloway into the office. Walloway walked toward Naseer’s desk, stopped, extended his hand.
Naseer declined to take the man’s hand. Instead he pointed at a chair and said, “Sit.”
Walloway fell back into the chair, crossed his right leg over his left. “What’s this all about?”
“They are ready to meet with you,” Naseer said.
“Who?”
“My people.”
“If they are your people, why the hell do I have to meet with them?”
Naseer sat back, smiled. He rhythmically tapped his fingers on the ledge of the open drawer that held his handgun. The weathered wood there felt like sandpaper. Thornton Walloway had become more of a pain than he was worth. Naseer had the money to fund this entire operation. But he needed a patsy. He planned for Walloway to be that guy. The man had money, a need to fit in, and a lack of common sense. However, Naseer began to doubt he could deal with the man much longer.
“I say that only in a sense of the word, Thornton. These are people I have done business with in the past. They have reached out to me. They are willing to do business with you. You want to work with me, and therefore, with them. Only thing is, they want to meet you first.”
“Yeah, whatever. When?”
“Tomorrow morning at eight.”
“You had me come out here to tell me to meet again tomorrow morning?”
Naseer smiled, said nothing. Everything was a power play.
Walloway’s cheeks turned red. “I’m beginning to wonder what you even bring to the damn table, Naseer. It’s my money being used. My contacts that are going to get the right people to look the other way. My guys that are going to be doing the heavy lifting.”
“If you want out, the door’s right there.” Naseer extended his arm, pointed at the door. “We’ll get by with or without you.”
Walloway’s entire face reddened. He forced air in and out of his wide nostrils. A wheezing sound emanated from his throat. He sat still, hands gripping the padded leather chair arms.
“OK, then. I’ll call later with the location of the meeting.”
“One more thing,” Thornton said.
“What’s that?”
“Jack Noble. You turn anything up on that?”
Naseer nodded.
“Well?” Thornton said, arms out, palms planted on the desk, their heat forming a ring of condensation around his hand.
“He’s here to kill you.”
Episode 12
CHAPTER 14
Jack drove for an hour before he finally made the decision to turn on the GPS. The navigation system confirmed that he had been traveling in the right direction. He was only a few miles from Dottie’s house. He didn’t plan on returning there, but he wanted a hotel close enough that he could get to her in a few minutes if necessary.
The time Jack had spent lost did him some good. Things had happened so fast that he hadn’t had time to formulate his own plan. He had expected he’d have time to perform some reconnaissance and map out the hit ahead of time. While not one to step out of the way of opportunity when it presented itself, attempting to take advantage of the situation outside the tailor’s shop had been out of character. There were too many things that could have gone wrong. At the time he’d been pissed at Mason for interfering. Now he knew the man had done him a favor. If Jack had pulled off the hit, he might now be sitting on a metal bench, shackled and confined in a nine by nine cell.
So Jack decided that the best option was to wait for the moment when preparation and opportunity met. Random chances had to be ignored from now on.
He began to feel the need for a partner now that a third party had become involved. He was concerned that MI5 had been added to the mix. He couldn’t discount that MI6 might be involved as well since they were the agency that monitored worldwide events and likely notified MI5 to his presence.
Who could he get to help? His closest trusted option, Pierre, was laid up in a hospital in France. Although Jack planned to visit the man after he completed his work in London, he knew that the Frenchman would be of no use to him in this situation.
Jack reached inside his coat and retrieved his cell phone from an interior pocket. He dialed a familiar number, placed the phone to the side of his head, listened to it ring. He glanced
up from the road and noticed at the last possible moment that the traffic light had turned red. He slammed on the brakes, reached for the steering wheel with both hands, dropped the phone. The car screeched to a stop halfway into the intersection. Horns blared, old men stared. One waved an obscenity at him. Jack waved back, then lowered his hand down between his knees and felt along the floor for the cell phone. It didn’t take long to find it. He looked at the display and saw the cell was still connected, so he pushed the speaker icon. Still ringing. Jack kept the line connected and it kept ringing, never diverting to voicemail.
Finally, he hung up and redialed. Perhaps he’d hit an inadvertent number last time.
The line connected, rang. No answer. No voice mail.
“Come on, Bear,” Jack said. “What’s going on?”
He knew what was going on, though. He had dialed Bear’s forwarding number. In the past, it had always rang to whatever phone the big man had on him. It was obvious that Bear had removed the forwarding. Now it rang into emptiness, drifting away like a wayward asteroid that had recently passed by Earth and been sling-shotted around in orbit, hurled back out toward deep space.
He couldn’t blame Bear. The man had found peace in his life, had Mandy to live for. Her life had been at risk twice because of Jack. It was in Bear’s best interest to stay away from him.
Still, Jack figured that perhaps there’d been a mistake with the forwarding number. So he did something he’d never done before. He dialed Bear’s personal number direct.
The line didn’t ring though. Instead, there were a series of tones and then the voice of a woman who’d probably been dead for twenty years came on the line and told him that she was sorry because the number he was trying to reach had been disconnected. And, unfortunately, there was no more information available that she could provide.