Noble Intentions: Season Three

by L. T. Ryan

  Leon lowered his head. He brought his hand to his face and rubbed his cheek. “You’re right, Jack. I want revenge.”

  “Then let me take care of Thornton. Alone.”

  A moment passed, the men said nothing. The silence stretched on for five long minutes. Finally, Leon rose and walked to the door.

  “Make him suffer,” he said.

  Jack nodded, said nothing. He waited for Leon to leave the room, then he engaged the security lock and returned to bed. As he reached for the TV remote, his cell phone vibrated on the nightstand.

  “What now?”

  He grabbed the phone, didn’t recognize the number.

  “Hello?”

  “Jack, it’s Mason.”

  “What?”

  “Nice to talk to you too, mate.”

  “Piss off, Mason. What do you want?”

  “There’s a meeting tomorrow morning. All the principal parties will be there. It’s in an old warehouse, abandoned. We need to get you in there tonight.”

  Jack took a deep breath, exhaled. “OK, tell me where.”

  “I’ll send a guy out to get you.”

  Jack didn’t like that idea, but he had little choice in the matter. “OK, I’m at the—”

  “I know where you are. He’ll be there at two a.m.”

  “Great.” Jack pulled the phone away from his head.

  “And Jack…”

  He didn’t bother to listen. He pressed the red end call button and tossed the phone to the foot of the bed.

  CHAPTER 17

  A muscular man with a shaved head arrived at two a.m. He did not introduce himself. Simply asked if Jack was ready. He had been ready since quarter after one, so naturally he replied yes. They left in the man’s car, a vehicle so small their shoulders touched. He mentioned that the vehicle was more economical since it ran on battery power.

  Five minutes into the drive the guy said, “Hungry?”

  Jack said, “Nah.”

  The guy said, “OK, we’ll stop.”

  They pulled behind a twenty-four hour Italian restaurant in Soho. Despite the hour, the place was packed. The guy ordered meatball marinara. Jack ordered coffee and two slices of cheesecake. He figured pasta would be just as heavy in his stomach, so why not get his favorite dessert instead. They were in the restaurant for thirty-five minutes, during which time neither man spoke. Jack glanced at the guy occasionally, only to find the man staring right at him. It made him a little uncomfortable.

  At three in the morning the guy drove past the warehouse.

  “That’s it,” he said.

  Jack turned his head, focused on the warehouse as they drove by. “Big place.”

  The guy nodded. “That it is, my friend.”

  The car rolled to a stop two blocks away. The guy got out and started walking toward the warehouse. Jack waited a second, then joined him.

  Wide-spaced street lamps cast hazy orange pools of light. The wet street glistened. Their muted footsteps echoed off the buildings that made up the industrial corridor. A dull mechanical roar persisted.

  They stopped in front of the warehouse’s main entrance. The guy reached into his pocket and produced a key. He inserted it into the lock, winked at Jack, turned the key.

  “How’d you get a key to the place?”

  “After we heard where the meeting was to be, we sent a guy.”

  Fair enough, Jack figured.

  The man pulled the door open, stepped inside. Jack followed. Heavy, musty air enveloped him. Every step they took resulted in dust kicking up two feet into the air. Jack thought he could feel the mold spores entering his respiratory system, anchoring themselves to the lining of his lungs. If the place was still in use, the men and women that worked there probably had one hell of a lawsuit to file in the future.

  Jack stopped in the middle of the room. Something scurried across the floor, a few feet away. He shifted his duffel bag from his right hand to his left. Wrapped his arm around his back and took hold of his Beretta.

  “Just rats, mate.” The guy closed the door, switched on a flashlight equipped with a red filter. The diffused light was less likely to be noticed from the outside should someone be watching the dilapidated old building.

  Jack followed the light, committed the room to memory.

  “Figure they’ll be gathering over there.” The guy panned the light to his right, Jack’s left, the north end. The space was bare. Beyond it a bunch of trash and wooden pallets.

  “Why?” Jack said.

  “Why not?”

  “It’s out in the open.”

  “No one gonna be in here, mate.”

  “Why not the office?”

  The guy shone his light along the floor and brought it up at the south end of the room. Aimed it at the office. “Take a look.”

  Jack walked toward the office. The door had been boarded shut. The glass pane covering the front was cracked, but still intact. Unless these guys wanted to spend precious minutes deconstructing the barrier, they’d meet on the warehouse floor.

  The man raised his arm, pointed a bloody beam of light to the corner of the ceiling. “Up there.”

  “What about it?”

  “That’s where you should set up.”

  Jack wasn’t keen on being told by the guy where he should wait and later carry out his job. “What about the other corner?”

  “Well, for one, you won’t have the same kind of cover. Look up there.”

  Jack did. He saw a solid metal box, maybe six by nine feet, about six feet tall, a slit that looked to be six or seven inches high spanning the width of the front.

  “Now,” the guy said as he swung his arm toward the other corner. “Look up there.”

  Jack saw a platform wrapped with steel railings. A good spot to shoot from, but no cover. He’d be spotted the moment they entered the warehouse. Up in the box he had protection. And if something happened, and they decided to investigate, he could pick them off one by one.

  “See my point?”

  Jack nodded, aware that the man might not see the gesture in the dark. He thought about asking about the other end of the room, but figured he’d have to investigate on his own after the guy left.

  “What you got in that bag, mate?”

  “Rifle, spare pistol, sandwich.”

  “Mind if I take a look?”

  “Yeah, I do mind.”

  The guy shrugged. “Whatever. Here.” He held out a spare flashlight.

  Jack grabbed the solid handle, felt the weight of it in his hand. If necessary, he could use it as a weapon. Of course, things would have to be pretty dire to do so. He switched it on, focused the beam toward the corner of the room, started toward the ladder.

  “Wait,” the guy said.

  “What?”

  The guy reached into his pocket, pulled out a small cell phone. “Press and hold five and it’ll connect you with us.”

  “Will you answer?”

  “No.”

  “OK. Who?”

  “Someone.”

  “When should I use it?”

  “When the job’s done.”

  “What if things go bad?”

  “Use it.”

  “Will they send reinforcements?”

  “No,” the guy paused a moment, smiled. The red glow of his light cast devilish shadows across his face. “It’ll just let them know they need a plan B and they have to collect your body.”

  Jack turned again, headed toward the corner of the room. He heard the guy stop at the door. Said, “Hey, Baldy.”

  “Yeah?” the guy said, his shoulder pressed against the door, hand on the knob, flashlight reflecting off the floor.

  “This turns out to be a setup, let Mason know I’m coming for him first.”

  The guy said nothing. He pushed through the door and disappeared into the night.

  Jack waited until he heard the door close, then he walked every inch of the ground floor. He checked behind every piece of left behind machinery, moved every weathe
red pallet. He shone his light inside the boarded up office. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular.

  He returned to the ladder near the warehouse office, located in a small corridor between the office and the outer wall of the building. It led up to a thin catwalk consisting of wooden planks placed over irregularly spaced metal cross beams. The planks were gray and splintered. Every few steps he took, the wood bowed and creaked. He slung the duffel bag across his chest and grabbed hold of the railing with his left hand. It would buy him a few seconds in the event the wood below his feet gave way. There was no right railing, so the sudden drop would be painful. Perhaps enough to separate his left shoulder or bend his wrist until it snapped.

  But it didn’t come to that. The old wood held and Jack reached the metal enclosure. It was the only thing in the place that looked like it had been constructed in the past twenty years. He rapped on it with the barrel of his gun. The resulting sound indicated that the enclosure was thick, solid. A good place to hide out, he figured. Only thing was he didn’t like the idea of being confined inside after he fired.

  One problem, though. The enclosure was secured with a thick chain and padlock.

  Jack pulled on the chain. It threaded through two eye bolts. The padlock connected the ends of the chain together. Very little slack. He could pull the enclosure door open, but only about four inches. Nowhere near enough for him to squeeze through. He knew he could attempt to shoot through the lock. But even with a suppressor, the sound might be heard by anyone passing by. In an industrial area like this, people worked all hours of the day and night. If one person heard the sound and called the cops, the setup would be ruined.

  He saw a gap between the enclosure and the ceiling. He grabbed the ledge, pulled his head up until he could see over the top. The roof of the enclosure looked like it had been cut from a chain link fence, and below that were several crisscrossed thin steel beams. There was no way inside. He could set up on top, on the fence, but that would leave his head exposed when he took aim.

  He dropped to the catwalk, shone his light across the room and scanned the perimeter of the upper level of the building. The catwalk extended another few feet to his left, then continued down the left wall. On the opposite end of the room he saw a ledge that extended out maybe eight feet. There were a few large barrels, and what looked to be two canvas tarps. He figured he might be able to take cover there.

  Jack grabbed his duffel bag, slung it over his shoulder and started down the catwalk. He reached the middle of the room, heard the door below being pulled open. The door cracked open, allowing a sliver of light to penetrate inside. It started off thin by the door, expanded to maybe three feet wide at its zenith. Jack pressed back against the wall. He clicked off his flashlight, which he’d previously tucked against his stomach to hide the beam. He heard voices, but couldn’t make out what they were saying. No one entered. They hung around the entrance while talking. Then the door closed, but not all the way. It remained open a crack. Still no one had entered.

  Who was out there? A couple drunk guys, lost? Some guy just off work, looking for a place to get high? A whore turning a trick?

  Jack kept his back to the wall and sidestepped the rest of the way to the other end. The boards creaked and bowed and bent. They felt like they were going to snap, but they never did. If someone had come inside, they would have heard the racket, no doubt about that. Perhaps they could hear it from outside the warehouse.

  Jack reached the platform, took two minutes to stand in the shadows and listen. When he felt sure no one was outside, he went to work. He dragged the two barrels to the edge, separated them by four feet. He draped one of the canvas tarps over the side of the barrel to the left, pulled the tarp as far over as he could toward the outer wall. He bunched the other tarp up in between the two barrels. That’s where he planned to take cover. He hoped the stretched tarp would draw glances away from his position.

  He crawled under the musty tarp, laid his M40 to his right, his MP7 to his left, kept his hand around his M9.

  And Jack waited. A minute stretched to ten. Ten stretched to thirty. Passersby blocked the sliver of light produced by a street lamp that spilled across the warehouse floor. The smell of cigarette smoke wafted in. He felt a slight crave for nicotine, pushed it aside. The rhythm and cadence of the voices were similar, but the tone always sounded different. Never the same people. Were they people on their way to or from work? Or was a large group of people hanging out in front of the building?

  Still, no one entered.

  Two hours had passed and faint traces of light, warm and bright, not artificial and contrived, filtered in through painted over windows and cracks in the exterior, ceiling and the slightly open door. A single window ten feet up hadn’t been covered by paint or boards, just a bit of grime. Through it Jack saw the crest of the shimmering sun, like liquid silver behind thick clouds. Its rays dulled by the gray sky. He watched for a moment, breathed deeply, relaxed.

  And then, someone entered.

  CHAPTER 18

  Clarissa walked toward the platform, surrounded by at least two hundred other travelers. She checked the time on the large clock that hung at the north end of St. Pancras International station. Seven-fifty a.m. She looked up, mesmerized by the intricate latticed steel beams. Though stuck in the middle of a mob of people, she felt happily alone. No one here knew her. No one had any idea of her past. They knew none of what she did for a living. She was simply Clarissa, an American tourist traveling from London to Paris.

  Alone.

  A fact that had not gone unnoticed by some male travelers, and possibly a few females.

  She ignored them, though. Kept her eyes focused ahead.

  The crowd thinned slightly as people veered to the left or right to get their tickets or a paper or grab a cup of coffee or a Danish.

  Clarissa carried on, forward. So did a portion of the crowd. Together, they made their way to the platform and stopped in waves. She found herself about a quarter of a way from the front of the line. She stood motionless for a few moments. Forced air blew warmed recycled air down. She checked her watch. Seven-fifty-eight.

  She heard a low hum in the distance, possibly the train. Maybe the sounds of people talking.

  The hum grew louder. She leaned forward, looked up and down the track. The train appeared, yellow and white. It pulled into the station, brakes squealing sharply. A blast of hot air blew past her, lifted her hair into the air. She inhaled deeply. It reminded her of the subway in New York.

  The train came to rest. Air brakes settled, steel and fiberglass popped and groaned. It sounded like an old man flopping into his worn out recliner.

  Doors slid open, stale air eased out. Clarissa stood at the front of her line and was the first to enter the cabin. She assessed the seating area and made her way to the end, took a seat that placed her in the corner, allowing her views of everyone inside as well as anyone who entered from the doors on either end.

  Fifteen minutes later, they were in motion. She leaned back, tried to relax. Not an easy thing to do.

  Twenty minutes after that, they approached the tunnel. She recalled watching a show that detailed the construction of the tube that ran beneath the English Channel. The Channel Tunnel. Some referred to it as the Chunnel. From what she remembered, it’d take thirty minutes or so to pass through.

  Five minutes after the train entered the Channel Tunnel, she spotted the man as he stepped through the far door. He locked eyes with her, walked toward her. He had dark hair, shoulder length. Long stubble lined his jaw, framed his chin and his mouth. A quick smile formed on his lips. He stopped three feet in front of Clarissa, looked to her left, then right, then sat down next to her.

  “Clarissa,” he said.

  She said nothing.

  He leaned in closer, staring at her the entire time.

  “What do you want?” she said.

  He smiled, shrugged. “Nothing really.”

  “Then move along, sport.”

&nbs
p; “Don’t be like that, Clarissa.”

  “How do you know me?”

  “I just do, Clarissa.”

  “Don’t use that name here.”

  “Why not?”

  “Who do you work for?”

  “You know the people.”

  “CIA?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “Are you with Naseer?”

  “No.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Why should I?”

  She reached into her pocket, wrapped her hand around the .22 caliber pistol she had placed in there. She lifted her hand, gestured toward him. “Who are you?”

  His smile retreated. “You wouldn’t.”

  “I would.”

  His eyes narrowed. She figured he was sizing her up.

  “Name’s Spiers. I’m in a group similar to yours. Mainland Europe, mostly. Some North Africa. You could say the job I do is more like what your Randy does.”

  Randy is there to clean up the messes they made.

  Clarissa gripped the handle of her pistol tighter, threaded her index finger between the trigger and trigger guard.

  “I got a call last night about a potential problem. They sent me your name, picture, general information. Told me to get to London and get on this train. So I did.”

  “What are your orders?”

  “Aside from meeting you here and escorting you to Paris, I don’t know.”

  “What do they want with me there?”

  “Like I said, I don’t know.”

  She shifted in her seat, straightened her aim.

  He glanced between her face and her gun, then back again. “Don’t worry. If I was here to take you out, they would have told me right away so I could make the necessary preparations.”

  She glanced around the train. Saw nothing but blank stares and nowhere to run.

  “You’ll only make it harder on yourself if you run.”

  The look on his face told her he meant the words he spoke. She leaned back in her seat, settled in for the rest of the ride. She knew there was no getting rid of him. They emerged from the tunnel, and Clarissa shifted her focus from Spiers to the scenery outside the train.