Noble saw it and hissed.
“Keep pressure on it,” he said. “We’ll get you to a hospital.”
She slid down the door to a sitting position, leaving a dark red smear on the wood. “Go. Save the girl.”
“I’ll get you out of here,” Noble said.
She shook her head. “Not unless you are going to carry us both.”
“Give me a minute. I’ll think of something.”
“Go,” she said. “I’ll hold the door as long as I can.” Her mouth was filling up with blood and it painted her lips crimson.
“You don’t have to do this.”
She managed a weak smile. “Hurry.”
Noble felt like someone had rammed a rusty nail through his heart. He couldn’t carry them both and the cartel soldiers would break down the door any minute. He said, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” she said. “Not… your fault.”
Indignant at the thought of leaving a nun to bleed out on the floor, he turned and threw open the window. The porch roof was only a few feet below. Noble lifted Alejandra over the sill and lowered her down.
“You have to use your legs,” he told her.
She nodded. Her bare feet touched tiles. She clutched the window frame for support. As soon as she was stable, Noble climbed out onto the overhang. Shingles buckled under his weight. He looped his left arm around her slim waist and she winced. There was no time to be gentle. Thirty yards separated them from Father Cordero and the BMW.
People on the street ran for cover. Cartel battles are common in Mexico City. So are civilian casualties. A few brave—or stupid—people took video with their cellphones from a café across the street.
Noble carried Alejandra. Clay tiles cracked underfoot, threatening to send them sliding right off the overhang. It forced him to slow down. He expected to feel a bullet punch through his back any second. Time stretched as he struggled to haul Alejandra the last dozen yards. It was like a dream where the faster you run, the slower you go. The corner seemed to move further away with every step. He finally reached the edge and spotted a black BMW covered in dust. Cordero stood in the open door, pressing the horn like a wire operator tapping out Morse code.
“Head’s up,” Noble yelled as they rounded the corner.
Cordero’s eyes went wide at the sight of Noble on the porch roof with Alejandra, naked, clinging to his side.
“Help me,” Noble ordered. He tucked the revolver in his waistband, took Alejandra by her wrists and lowered her onto the roof of the BMW.
Cordero hesitated, his sense of propriety at odds with the desire to help.
Noble glared at him. “Help me!”
The young priest gave himself a shake and reached up. Noble let go. The roof buckled under Alejandra’s weight. Cordero caught her and helped her down.
Noble dropped from the overhang, denting the roof under the impact. He leapt to the ground. The driver’s seat was caked in dried blood. The keys were in the ignition and the engine was running. While Cordero carried Alejandra around the front bumper, Noble threw himself behind the wheel. The priest hauled open the passenger’s side door and dumped Alejandra into the seat.
Noble was about to order the priest into the backseat when the driver of the Lexus burst through the front door of the mission.
Alejandra’s right eye opened wide. “Drive!”
Noble shifted the BMW into reverse and stamped the gas. The engine revved and the car shot backwards with the passenger’s side door still open.
The cartel thug stiff-armed Cordero out of his way and leveled a 9mm Glock at the retreating BMW. The gun thundered. Brass shell casings leapt from the breech. Bullets smacked the hood of the BMW and starred the windshield. Noble forced Alejandra’s head down and craned around in his seat so he could see out the back window.
***
Santiago leapt behind the wheel of his Lexus, thumbed the starter and cut the wheel hard. The car swung around and knocked down a motorcyclist. The passenger tires mounted the opposite curb. People scrambled out of his way. A high school girl wasn’t fast enough. She disappeared under the front grill. Santiago pushed the accelerator to the floor. The transmission growled through second, into third. He buzzed the window down, stuck his Glock out and triggered a volley at the BMW.
***
Noble reversed through oncoming traffic. The engine red-lined at forty miles an hour. A delivery truck clipped the open passenger’s side door. It disappeared in a shriek of metal and exploding glass. Alejandra, only half conscious, almost rolled out of the car. Noble reached past her, snagged the safety belt and buckled her in.
The cartel assassin was gaining. Noble spotted an alley and cramped the wheel. The BMW screeched through a backwards turn. The wall sheared off the driver’s side mirror. Noble steadied the wheel and pulled the revolver from his waistband.
The Lexus fishtailed into the alley, kissed the wall and gave off a shower of sparks. The engine roared and the Lexus closed the gap. Noble stamped the gas pedal to the floor. The BMW screamed. The front bumpers met. Plastic crunched. Noble crouched behind the steering wheel and triggered the revolver, aiming for the driver. The cartel assassin ducked beneath the dash and returned fire. Bullets blew out the front windshields on both cars.
The alley ended and Noble held his breath as the BMW hurtled backwards across a busy boulevard. The back bumper got hit. Noble felt the BMW spin like a carnival ride. His heart tried to leap out through his throat. He turned into the spin, like a boxer rolling with a punch. The BMW howled to a stop, rocking on its springs. Thick white smoke billowed up from the tires. The back bumper was hanging off. The hood was buckled and pockmarked with bullet holes, but the engine was still running. Noble shifted into drive and pressed his foot to the floor. The car leapt forward.
A taxicab had slammed the front of the Lexus. The two vehicles came together in a loud crunch. The Los Zetas soldier stumbled out of his ruined car and emptied his weapon at the escaping BMW. Noble wove through traffic, putting as many vehicles between him and the cartel killer as possible. He didn’t ease off the gas until the assassin was lost from sight.
Chapter Twenty-Five
BURKE HAD A PHONE TO HIS EAR. It was almost seven in the evening and every few minutes his belly gave a tortured rattle. He ignored the requests for food and said, “They actually talked about planting evidence? That’s great. Did you get any of it on tape?”
“All of it, but we don’t have jurisdiction inside the United States. None of it is admissible in court.”
“This information will never see the inside of a court,” Burke said.
“How do you want me to proceed?”
“Keep going down the rabbit hole. Let me know what turns up.”
He placed the phone in the cradle and looked up to find Dana standing in his office door. She leaned in the frame with her arms crossed under her breasts and her head tipped to one side. “Quitting time, boss.”
“Have a good night.”
“I’m going for a drink. Care to join me?”
Burke leaned back in his seat and studied her. His pulse raced. He could never go through with it. The remnants of his stalled marriage were still twitching, like a patient on an operating table, clinging to life. And workplace romance was strictly forbidden in the CIA. One or both of them would be fired if anyone even suspected. But the idea was enough to light the fires of his imagination.
Images flooded his mind. His mouth was suddenly dry. He cleared his throat and gestured to the stack of paperwork on his desk. “Duty calls.”
“I’ll be at the Smoke & Barrel if you change your mind.”
He had to stop this before it started. Scratch that. It had already started. They had been flirting for months. He had to stop it before it got out of hand. He said, “Listen, Dana…”
The phone on his desk shrilled. It was Deputy Director Foster’s internal line. Burke held up a finger for her to wait and picked it up. “This is Burke.”
Foster’s vo
ice sounded more pinched than usual. “I need to see you in my office right away.”
“I’m on my way.” He hung up and told Dana, “We’ll talk later. I’ve been summoned.”
“Is it bad?”
“I can’t imagine it’s anything good.”
“Our friend in Mexico?” she guessed.
“A likely bet.”
“Do you need me to stay?” Dana asked.
He shook his head. “Have a drink for both of us.”
“Don’t lose your temper,” she warned.
Burke crossed the floor of the Clandestine Services to Foster’s office, like a man headed for the gallows. Two possibilities stood out. The first was that Foster had evidence Burke had given Company intel to Noble. The second, and worse, was that Foster had gotten wind of operation NAUTILUS. Burke waved to Foster’s secretary and stuck his head in the inner office. “You wanted to see me?”
“Have a seat.” A vein pulsed in Foster’s temple.
Burke closed the door and took a chair. He wasn’t nervous. He had seen combat all over the globe, received two Purple Hearts and the Army’s Distinguished Service Cross. Waiting to get dressed down by a pencil-dick like Foster was laughable. He was more worried Foster would sideline him before operation NAUTILUS could provide actionable intel.
Foster picked up a television remote from his desk and pointed it at a flat screen on the wall. A Spanish news cast was reporting on a gun battle at a Catholic mission in the heart of downtown Mexico City. The subtitles at the bottom of the screen attributed the violence to the drug cartels. A nun had been killed. Eyewitnesses had taken cellphone video. Burke’s lips tightened as he recognized Noble climbing out a second story window with a naked woman clutched to his side. The camera was too far away to make out details, but Burke recognized Noble’s angular silhouette and rebelliously long hair.
Foster paused as the two figures on screen were about to jump down onto the roof of a BMW. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but that looks a lot like Jake Noble.”
Burke puffed out his cheeks. “That kid is unpredictable. You never know where he’ll turn up.”
“A member of his Special Operation Group goes missing in Mexico City and two weeks later Noble is trading bullets with cartel thugs,” Foster said. “You’re telling me that’s coincidence?”
“I’m saying I don’t know anything about it.” Burke spread his hands. “I don’t keep track of Jake Noble.”
Foster jabbed the button on his intercom. His secretary came on the line. Foster said, “Is he here?”
“Yes. He just arrived.”
“Send him in.”
Gregory Hunt breezed through Foster’s door with his boyish grin firmly in place. He took a seat, crossed his legs and nodded to the Deputy Director, ignoring Burke.
“Mr. Hunt was in Saint Petersburg yesterday,” Foster said.
“What a coincidence,” Burke said. “I was in Saint Pete yesterday.”
“So you admit that you met with Noble?” Foster said.
“I paid him a visit.” Burke shrugged. “Despite the way Noble’s career turned out, I still consider him a friend. I was in town, so I went to see him. Nothing illegal about that.”
Foster nodded the whole time Burke was speaking. His mouth worked into a humorless smile. “You have an answer for everything, don’t you?”
“I don’t have anything to hide, if that’s what you mean.”
Foster exploded out of his seat. “You had an op in Mexico. It went sideways. You lost an agent and instead of tying it off, you turned Noble onto it, so he could pick up the pieces.”
“You got it all backwards,” Burke said. “I was in Saint Pete catching up with an old friend.”
“Yeah?” Hunt finally jumped into the conversation. “What did the two of you talk about?”
“The usual,” Burke told him. “Weather, baseball, our favorite Taylor Swift song.”
“Cut the crap, Burke,” Hunt said.
Foster held up a hand. “You sent Noble to Mexico. I can’t prove it yet, but when I do, I’m going to make sure you swing for it.”
Burke crossed his arms and stared down the Deputy Director. He didn’t bother defending himself. Foster would keep digging until he had found something he could use to scuttle Burke’s career.
Foster waited. When it was clear Burke was done talking, he said, “Get the hell out of my office.”
Burke stood and walked out, resisting the urge to slam the door.
***
Foster pulled off his glasses, wiped them on his shirt and hooked them back on his ears. He had a real situation unfolding in Mexico. One agent was missing, presumed dead, and a former field officer was killing cartel thugs on the evening news. All during an election year.
Hunt cleared his throat. “Should we read the Mexican authorities in on Noble?”
“Tell them a former spook is running around Mexico whacking drug dealers?” Foster dismissed that idea with a wave of his hand. “That’s not how we do things at the Company, Mr. Hunt. We deal with our own. Gather your team. You’re going to Mexico.”
Hunt held back a grin. He had made discreet inquiries and found the name Jake Noble was legend. Crusty old spymasters, who dated back to the Cold War, whispered it in reverence. Noble had come along shortly after 9/11 and quickly risen to superstar status. The Company turned to him for black ops that no one else was crazy enough to take on. Noble had a reputation for pulling off the impossible. Taking him down would cement Hunt’s reputation. “I don’t need the tech nerds,” he said. “I can deal with Noble on my own.”
“I don’t recall asking your opinion, Mr. Hunt.”
“I’m just saying this will be easier without—”
Foster cut him off with a raised hand. “They are going with you. It’s not up for debate.”
“What’s our cover?” Hunt asked.
Foster snatched the phone off the cradle. Hunt heard Ginny pick up in the other room. “Ginny, touch base with the boys at the Alibi Shop. I need Priority One legends for Hunt, Ezra Cook and Gwendolyn Witwicky. Destination Mexico City. It doesn’t have to be pretty, but it had better hold up. And make it snappy.”
The Alibi Shop is the unofficial name for the CIA’s Directorate of Support. The experts who work there create false papers and passports that are indistinguishable from the real thing. They know the paper stock a passport—from any country in the world—should be printed on. They can reproduce theater tickets, with correct dates and times, for the Russian ballet dated six months ago. They know what kind of wool Chinese farmers use in winter coats and the exact farms where Italian shoemakers get their leather. During the Cold War, most of the American spies captured behind the Iron Curtain were blown because of minor inconsistencies, like the number and spacing of holes in a belt that did not match the belt maker’s specifications.
Foster hung up. “Ginny will take care of your flight plans. I want you to peek in on the boys downstairs at the Alibi Shop. Make sure they hurry, but not so fast that they botch the job.”
Hunt went to the door and paused with his hand on the knob. “One question, sir. What means am I authorized to use?”
Foster considered it. “Bring him back alive.”
Hunt’s handsome face twitched. “Yes sir.”
Foster sat, pulled off his glasses, and pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. It was bad enough he had lost an agent. Now he had to deal with a vigilante running around killing drug dealers. He looked at the phone and considered making a call, then thought better of it. No point worrying her.
Chapter Twenty-Six
NOBLE CHECKED INTO a rundown motel in San Rafael, paid cash and used a fake name. The neighborhood is unique for its French colonial architecture and low rent prices that, in recent years, have made it a haven for young artists. Before that, it was known for prostitution. In an effort to localize the sex trade, Mexican law enforcement allowed hookers to ply their trade in San Rafael without fear of being hassled by cop
s. Noble chose it because Mexican authorities generally turn a blind eye to that part of town.
Getting Alejandra into the motel unseen was a chore. He laid her across the backseat, parked in front of the door to the room and waited to make sure he wasn’t going to be seen before carrying her inside. Then he drove the bullet-scarred BMW six blocks away and parked it on the street, keys in the ignition and the windows rolled down, before walking back.
Budget motels all seem to have the same décor: floral bed cover, beige carpet, television stand, and a bland painting of the beach. This one smelled like lemon-scented industrial cleaning agents.
Noble flicked on a light in the bathroom, ran the sink and splashed cold water on his face. His neck was tight from the crash. Tomorrow it would hurt like hell. Rubbing his aching muscles, he went back into the bedroom.
Alejandra was sprawled on the bed.
He went about inspecting her injuries. Every inch was covered in bruises. The cut on her face was the worst of it; the knife had gone right to the bone. Cordero and the nun had stitched it up as best they could. Two dozen jagged sutures ran in a sloppy line from her forehead to her jaw. The wound showed signs of infection, it was angry, swollen, and weeping puss. Noble gently replaced the bandage and laid a hand on her forehead. She was burning up.
He lifted the edge of the blanket, draped it over her naked body and sat down on the corner of the bed to think. He was holding onto the hope that Torres was still alive. Alejandra either knew where he was or what had happened to him. If she died, that information went to the grave with her. Besides, the CIA had a less than stellar reputation for taking care of assets. The espionage game leaves no room for sentimentality. If an asset gets captured or killed, you cut ties and move on. But Noble was a soldier at heart and taught to never leave a fallen comrade behind. Alejandra had put her life on the line for Torres. That made her a fellow soldier in Noble’s book.
He got up, stretched, and rummaged through drawers until he found a paperclip. He wedged the paper clip in the door jamb as he left, and walked until he found a taxi.
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