Noble Intentions: Season One

by L. T. Ryan

  The younger man nodded. "I understand, sir. We can pursue this at a later time."

  "Let's get ready for court."

  5

  Jack laughed at Pierre. "You look like an asshole in that jumpsuit."

  Pierre looked down and shrugged. "So do you."

  Jack smiled. The dull grey and pinstripe combination made them look like prisoners in some crappy B movie. "We look like schmucks."

  "Schmucks?" Pierre said. "I am not familiar with this phrase."

  Jack stopped laughing. "Assholes," he said with a smile.

  "As you so eloquently said already. Assholes."

  Hearing Pierre say assholes in his heavy French accent was more than Jack could handle. He bent over laughing.

  "How can you laugh at a time like this?" Pierre asked.

  "Shut up in there," the stocky guard said.

  "Screw you," Jack said.

  The guard turned away.

  Jack's smile faded and his eyes hardened as he stared at the guard. "If I could only have five minutes alone with these guys."

  Pierre nodded. "You and me both."

  "Both of us?" Jack said. "Wouldn't be fair to them."

  Pierre laughed. "Listen, Jack. If one of us doesn't—"

  "Don't say it," Jack said.

  "Jack," Pierre said.

  Jack shifted and squared himself to Pierre. "You are getting out of here. I'm not."

  Pierre leaned forward. "Who do you want me to tell if that happens?"

  "Bear," Jack said. "Start with Bear."

  "Anyone else?"

  Jack stood up and moved to the cell bars. He turned his head trying to see where the hall led. One of the guards slammed his nightstick against the bars, close to Jack's face. Jack didn't budge. Finally, he turned, walked to the back of the cell and took a sip of water from the sink faucet. Clarissa deserved to know. But it would be best for Bear to tell her. After that, Jack couldn't care less who knew.

  "No one else," Jack said. "Bear knows who to tell."

  "I've got no one," Pierre said without prompting.

  Jack turned to face him and saw Pierre staring over his head, eyes unfocused, as if he were staring out over the sea, or over the city of Paris from atop the Eiffel Tower. Did he really have no one?

  "Well, there is one person, Jack. A young lady named Kat. Would you tell her?"

  Jack sighed. He opened his mouth to tell Pierre that wouldn't be necessary, but stopped himself. Instead he asked, "Where can I find her?"

  Pierre described Kat and gave Jack the location of the cafe.

  Jack sat on the bench and leaned back against the wall, crossed his arms.

  "Five minutes," the guard said. "Smoke now."

  Both Jack and Pierre lit up. They smoked in silence.

  Minutes later the stocky guard appeared on the other side of the bars. He barked orders in Russian and another guard opened the cell door. The heavy iron grates slid sideways and the clanking reverberated through the cell as the door locked into place.

  "Get out," the stocky guard said, his gun drawn and trained on Jack.

  "You know," Jack said, "he's more dangerous than I am."

  The guard smiled. "That's why there are four of us."

  Jack looked past him. Saw another guard with his gun out, pointed at Pierre.

  "I tried," Jack said.

  Pierre laughed.

  "Shut up, now," the stocky guard said. "One more outburst and you'll need to be dragged out of here by your feet."

  Jack contemplated taking the man up on his offer. Pierre must have read Jack's mind because he shook his head. Jack decided against antagonizing the guards any further. He needed a clear head for what was to come, whatever it was.

  The guards led them through a maze of halls, each one the same as the rest. Jack stopped keeping track after the eighth turn. It didn't matter. He wasn't getting out of here on his own accord with handcuffs and leg shackles weighing him down. The hall narrowed and the floor sloped upwards. Going aboveground, he figured. Jack winced at the sunlight pouring in through the tall uncovered windows. Definitely above ground. He turned his head. Saw Pierre wincing as well.

  "Eyes forward," a guard said.

  The hall widened again. They walked shoulder to shoulder, no furniture or decorations to block them. Dark wood double doors stood at the far end. Two men dressed in fatigues and armed with semi-automatic rifles guarded either side.

  The stocky guard behind Jack yelled something in Russian.

  The other set of guards yelled back and stepped to the side. Jack stared at the one closest as he passed, but the man stood still, head forward, eyes trained on some imaginary spot at the end of the hall.

  Good boy. Here's your dog treat.

  The guards repositioned. Two in front, Jack and Pierre side by side in the middle, and the stocky guard and one other behind. They stepped into the room as a group. The two front guards stepped to the side. Jack felt the gun in his back pushing him to the front of the room. Four rows of wooden pews lined either side of the walkway. A few people sat motionless, looking ahead.

  "Courtroom?" he whispered to Pierre.

  Pierre nodded.

  "Sit," the stocky guard said, pointing at two wooden chairs behind a plain table.

  Jack and Pierre sat down. The chair felt hard and cold. Jack placed his hands on the table and winced as splinters invaded his flesh. He looked around the room. An apparent jury box sat empty.

  "No court reporter," Jack said to Pierre.

  "Don't expect one," Pierre said. "There are no more records of you and me."

  "Always liked the idea of being a ghost." Jack smiled.

  Pierre didn't.

  Didn't matter. The smile was forced. Jack's stomach knotted as he braced for what was about to happen.

  No clocks on the wall. No watch on his wrist. No discernible way to tell time. If Jack or Pierre spoke, the guards threatened them. So they sat in complete silence, like everyone else in the courtroom.

  Finally, a door near the judge's bench opened. Out stepped a tall man with short, thinning brown hair. He had a square jaw and a hardened face. He looked directly at Jack without changing expressions. Jack studied the man. He looked familiar, but Jack couldn't place him. Maybe he just matched the stereotypical view Jack held of a Russian military leader.

  The man stepped up onto a platform before taking a seat behind the bench. He placed a nameplate in front of him, but the Cyrillic alphabet was not one Jack understood. He nudged Pierre.

  "What's that say?" Jack asked.

  "General Ivanov," Pierre whispered.

  Jack pushed back from the table and smiled at Pierre, impressed at the Frenchman's command of the Russian language.

  Ivanov stopped adjusting his seat, looked up and glared at the men. His gaze was hard. His lips drew tight and his nostrils flared wide. He spoke in Russian and then pointed at Jack and Pierre. "Do not speak," he said in English.

  Jack stared back but he made no sign of acknowledgment to the General. The name ran through his mind repeatedly. He knew it, Ivanov, but couldn't figure out from where. Not a target and not an employer. Eventually it would come to him.

  A tall man dressed in a dark suit and seated across the aisle from Jack and Pierre stood and approached the bench. He didn't salute, so Jack figured him to be a civilian. He ran his hands through his dark hair and straightened his jacket before reading in Russian from a typed document.

  "What's he saying?" Jack asked Pierre.

  Pierre shook his head.

  Jack sighed. Would the entire trial—if you could even call this a trial—be like this? Would they have anyone to represent them?

  The man finished speaking and lowered the paper. He looked over his shoulder at Jack. His lips curled up in a smile, but his eyes narrowed.

  "Thank you gospodin Zykov," Ivanov said in English.

  Zykov nodded and turned to face Jack and Pierre. He approached their table and stood before them. His gaze shifted from Jack to Pierre then back
to Jack. He lifted his hand and pointed. His lips were parted, as if he was about to speak. Instead he smiled again before returning to his seat, never uttering a word.

  Ivanov addressed the court in Russian.

  Jack nudged Pierre. "What's he saying?"

  The Frenchman wouldn't respond other than to shake his head.

  Ivanov stopped mid-sentence. He looked at Jack. "Perhaps I didn't make myself clear," Ivanov said in English. He nodded toward the guards and said something in Russian.

  Pierre grabbed Jack's elbow and stood.

  Jack shrugged him off, refusing to stand.

  Two guards approached. One took Pierre's chair. The other pulled at Jack's chair. Jack put his hands on the table and took his time standing.

  Ivanov said, "Now you stand for the remainder of this trial."

  Jack exhaled loudly.

  Ivanov narrowed his eyes and pointed at Jack. "Do not try me, Mr. Noble. I can—"

  "What?" Jack said. "What are you gonna do?"

  Ivanov lifted a gavel and slammed it down several times. "Bring him to me." He stood and left through the door behind the bench. The door swung fast and hard, slammed against the frame and bounced back toward the hall.

  Two guards grabbed Jack's arms, pulling him by his elbows. They led him to the doorway and pushed him through the opening. The shackles drew taught, and he collapsed to the floor. He lifted his head. The dark hallway was narrower than the one that led from the cells to the courtroom. He found himself back on his feet and the guards pulled at his arms again. They continued down the passage, every so often a passing a closed off room. They came to an open doorway. The guards shoved Jack inside.

  "Leave us," Ivanov said with a wave of his hand.

  The guards pushed Jack to the ground and left as ordered, closing the door behind them. It clicked shut. Jack guessed they stayed right outside the door, ready to step in and shoot him if he tried anything.

  "Mr. Noble," Ivanov said. "Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

  Jack said nothing.

  "Noble, speak."

  Jack smirked. He was getting under Ivanov's skin. He still didn't answer.

  Ivanov stepped forward and placed a hand on Jack's shoulder. His face softened. He smiled.

  Jack stood still. Stared over Ivanov's shoulder, out the window at the dull grey sky.

  Ivanov leaned in closer to Jack, his breath heavy and hot against Jack's cheek. He drove his free hand into the middle of Jack's stomach.

  Jack had tightened his abdominal muscles, expecting the attack. He thought the General would go for the groin, but hoped for the abs. Still, the blow was delivered with enough force to cause Jack to buckle slightly, although the after effects were minimal.

  "Now," Ivanov said. "Answer me."

  Jack sighed and turned his head away, his eyes loosely focusing on the wall. He took a deep breath.

  Ivanov pressed his body against Jack's. "You are nothing but a stupid American," he whispered into Jack's ear.

  Jack fought the urge to flinch at the man's breath in his ear. Fought the urge to reach up and wrap the chain between his wrists around the man's thick neck. He clenched his jaw, teeth pressed tight together.

  Ivanov delivered the shot Jack had been waiting for. Directly to his groin.

  Jack buckled and fell to his knees. He refused to go all the way to the floor, though, and kept his hands above his waist. He looked up at Ivanov, keeping his face tight and hard.

  The Russian stared down at him with a smirk, then turned and walked toward his desk.

  Jack placed his hands on the floor and rocked back then forward, building momentum.

  "Don't think about it." Ivanov turned and sat on the corner of his desk. "Besides, if you were going to do something, you should have done it when I stood next to you." He pulled two cigarettes from his pocket and lit them, held one out for Jack.

  Jack shook his head.

  "Take it." Ivanov leaned over and held the cigarette in front of Jack, the filtered butt toward Jack's lips.

  Jack reached up and grabbed it. "Well, a big friggin’ thanks is in order. I was trying to quit. Thanks for nothing."

  Ivanov inhaled deeply and motioned to an empty chair, ignoring Jack's commentary.

  Jack fought back the pain in his midsection, rose to his feet and sat in the chair. He kept his eyes on Ivanov, who was acting quite casual considering he was in the presence of a man on trial for single handedly killing five Russians.

  "Jack, look at me," Ivanov said.

  Jack blew smoke in Ivanov's direction. Didn't say anything.

  "This might not go the way you expect, Jack." Ivanov turned toward the windows lining the back wall of his office. He walked slowly, his back to Jack. "If I wanted you dead, you'd be dead. You know that, right?" He didn't wait for Jack to respond. "You see, Jack, I think you can be a valuable member of my team." He looked over his shoulder and made eye contact. "Understand?"

  Jack shook his head.

  Ivanov turned and placed his hand on his oversized leather chair. His fingers traced the golden rivets along the top. "You'll need to prove yourself first, of course."

  "How's that?" Jack asked.

  Ivanov smiled. "Your loyalty to me, Jack, must be proven."

  Jack tapped his cigarette against the glass ashtray on the antique wooden desk. "And if I don't? You'll kill me?"

  Ivanov pulled the leather chair out a few feet and sat down. He placed his arms on the desk and leaned over them, motioning for Jack to come closer. "It's not that easy, my friend."

  Jack cringed at the words.

  "You see," Ivanov continued, "I don't give up on my goals that easily. If you refuse my offer, this offer I am making only this one time in here, for you to come to work for me, to be part of this great team, then we will return to the courtroom. I am the judge. I am the jury. I am the executioner. If I recall correctly, there were two men in that courtroom. I could choose to execute one of you on the spot."

  "Pierre had nothing to do with this," Jack said.

  "I don't care, Jack." Ivanov sucked on his cigarette. The end lit up, bright red, before dulling to ash as he lowered it. Smoke trickled out the corner of his mouth and his nose.

  Jack rose and leaned over the desk.

  Ivanov sat back and motioned with his hands for Jack to sit down.

  Jack ignored him. "Listen to me. If I wanted to kill you, you'd be dead right now. You are—"

  "By all means, do it." Ivanov stood, placed his hands on the desk and leaned forward, now face to face with Jack. "Take your best shot."

  Jack froze. If he took a shot at the General, the door would burst open and he'd be shot.

  Ivanov laughed as he straightened himself. He waved Jack off. "Just as I suspected. Can't take a man down while facing him. Typical assassin. Pussy."

  Jack bit down hard and clenched his jaw. Forced himself back into his seat.

  "As I was saying," Ivanov continued, "you have a choice to make, Jack. You can make it now, or you can delay the decision. There may or may not be consequences to you delaying the decision, though."

  Jack's eyes met Ivanov. He said nothing.

  Ivanov lit another cigarette and handed it to Jack. "Take five minutes, Mr. Noble, to make up your mind."

  Jack's had already made his decision, but he chose to sit in silence for five minutes enjoying the stale cigarette.

  Ivanov sat back in his chair and kicked his heavy, black boots on top of the desk. He stared up at the ceiling, humming a tune. Not a care in the world.

  Jack imagined the various ways he could kill the General. Some amused him more than others.

  "What are you smiling about?" Ivanov asked.

  Jack shook his head. "Nothing."

  Ivanov looked at his watch. "Have you made a decision?"

  "Yeah," Jack said. "Go to hell."

  Ivanov laughed as he rose. "Very well, Mr. Noble. Let us return to court." He started toward the door, stopped halfway and looked back at Jack. "Just rem
ember this. When you are lying in bed wondering how the hell you got yourself into this mess, remember that you had a choice."

  "I'll keep that in mind."

  6

  Clarissa lost track of time while sitting in the white windowless room. She felt disoriented. And bored. She ran out of ways to amuse herself about an hour ago. She turned to singing show tunes to pass the time, something her and her mother did when she was young.

  A rap at the door jarred her back to reality. The door opened and Sinclair stepped in. He had a folder in his hand instead of his black bag. His thin lips turned upward in a smile. His silver and black mustache now wrapped all the way around his pointed chin.

  Clarissa felt the rhythm of her heart quicken. The pace of her breath increased. She countered by breathing slow and deep.

  Sinclair placed the folder on the table and held his hands in the air. "Relax, child. I am not here to hurt you."

  Clarissa took a deep breath and clenched her fists. "Whatever it is, I'm not talking." She dipped her head slightly and followed him with her eyes.

  He smiled and moved behind her, placed his hands on her shoulders, squeezing gently. She felt his breath on the back of her neck. "I'm not here to question you."

  Clarissa cringed at his touch. Her eyes welled up and a tear streamed down her cheek. She bit her lip and took another deep breath.

  Sinclair let go of her shoulders. Walked around the table toward the door. He opened it and leaned out. "It's OK gentlemen. You can leave." He stepped back in the room, the door slammed shut behind him. He leaned back against it, reached into his pocket and pulled out a cell phone. The phone lit up as Sinclair tapped on the screen. He looked up, smiled, and then pocketed it. "Now, where was I?" He pulled a chair out from under the table and sat down. "Again, I'm not here to question you, only to ask you a question."

  Clarissa leaned back, lifted an eyebrow, said nothing.

  "Are you not intrigued?"

  "Intrigued?" Clarissa said. "Last time you asked me a question you held a scalding hot ice pick to my damn face."

  "Tsk, tsk. Language, child." Sinclair grimaced and looked down at the table. He held out his hands. "Please forgive me for my previous actions. I was only doing the job my employer asked of me that night."