by L. T. Ryan
The message had been left over a week ago. Whatever information she had, died with her. Of course, it could have been nothing more than I already knew. That was what I made myself believe as I erased the message and hung up the phone.
Jessie, April, and several others were gone. Would Jessie have died if I had arrived a week earlier? Would the others have lived had I never shown up at all? There was no way to answer the questions that pervaded.
And I never wanted to think about any of it again.
(Epilogue - Noble Intentions Season Four: Chapter 1)
Those who knew well the man sitting at the head of the table called him Butch. He let his subordinates call him by his last name, Monaco. Even at age sixty-three he was tall and straight and lean and lanky. A smooth scar a centimeter in width ran the length of his cheek from the corner of his mouth to the spot where his earlobe met his head. The reminder stood out most when his skin was tanned, like now. When asked, he’d always told different versions of over a dozen stories. A single version of one of those stories contained the truth. Only Butch knew which. Despite the danger that plagued his life for so long, he had aged well. Aside from a few wrinkles around his eyes and his mouth, he looked much the same as he did the last time he held a secret meeting in Aspen, Colorado.
He couldn’t say the same for the five men he knew in the room. They’d gone bald, or had bellies that hung over their guts, or sprouted double chins, or had faces that looked like scuffed leather. Taken as a whole, the description described one of the men to a tee. The rest were some variation. He let three of those men call him Butch. Two addressed him as Monaco.
The other five men at the table were unknown. And chances were that the last time he held a meeting around that same table in that same room, those five guys were in high school or college. Perhaps they’d had some experience since then. Maybe not. At least not the kind Butch accepted. It didn’t matter, because he needed ten men in the room for the meeting and the other five original members of the group were dead. Some from natural causes. The others, not so much.
Butch Monaco looked at every man in turn. The blank stares returned to him said more than words ever could. None of them wanted to be there that day. Hell, even Butch had a knot in his stomach. Up till this point, the purpose of the meeting had been left unstated. Too many words led to too many trails which led to people in Butch’s position being sentenced to life in prison or death by firing squad, if you lived in the right state. The rest got the chair or an lethal dose injected into them. They go to sleep, never to wake. And if he were honest with himself, he’d admit that every man in the room deserved it.
So the meeting had been arranged in a private manner. The only guy Butch trusted, Waldron, went man to man, speaking in a code that only twelve people knew. He found all of them, minus one, Goetz, who had disappeared four years ago and hadn’t been heard from since.
Like the previous meeting in Aspen, there would be no documentation. Nothing would be recorded. And every man in the room would deny ever having been in Colorado that day. What need was there? They all knew that it had to be done, and they were the only ones who could sanction it.
And what was the purpose of the meeting Butch Monaco held that day? The organization they had formed over twenty years ago had to be shut down.
And to do so, secrets had to be eliminated. The men who held those secrets, at least the ones outside of the room, had to die.
Butch drummed the fingers of his right hand on the table, tips to pads to knuckle, growing in intensity. Chatter died down like the tail end of rolling thunder. When all eyes were on him, Butch took a sip from his glass of water, then set it down near the edge of the table. Condensation ringed the bottom. Enough vibration, and it might carry the glass over the side.
Rising, Butch addressed the group. “In 1991, eleven of us met in this same exact room. That meeting, like today’s, was unprecedented, unsanctioned, unrecorded, and never happened.”
The five men who had been there twenty-two years ago smiled.
The others glanced around the room. Two shrugged. One lifted an eyebrow. The other two remained stoic. They all knew the outcome. None of them knew the story of how it started.
Butch continued. “We all know what we did that day. We might describe it in different ways, depending on who we’re speaking with. I’m sure there are those who consider us prognosticators, considering that we were ahead of the rest of Washington and every intelligence agency in so many ways. I know I consider us the original Homeland Security. A decade ahead of our time.”
A man named Davinski chuckled. Butch cut right through him with a cross look. Davinski brought a fist up and coughed into it. His cheeks puffed out and his face turned red.
“What we created, our own police force that could operate anywhere, anytime, and without scrutiny, was a beautiful thing twenty some years ago. Hell, most people, even high ranking, never even heard of our baby. We dodged some bullets, of course, but for the most part, over two long decades, it operated flawlessly. Then, a few months ago some intelligence fell into the wrong hands. Possibly through the aide of someone in this organization. We know of at least one agent who was working for the other side. She’s dead now. But there could be more. On its own, this is not the issue, for we’ve dealt with such things in the past. This group has been great at policing itself, and we’ve used them for it. But this time, it goes too high. It is above all of you. Above me. Someone, and I can’t name who, has ordered this thing shut down, or it will be us who’ll pay the price.”
The man seated at the opposite end of the table lifted his hand in the air. Butch stared him down for a few seconds. Said, “Name?”
The guy rose. “Ballard, sir. Joe Ballard.”
“You’ve got a comment, or a question?”
Ballard ran his right hand through his short black hair. Flecks of silver caught the sunlight coming in through the panoramic window behind him. “What if one of us were to object to what you’re proposing?”
“Then you won’t leave Aspen alive.”
The guy straightened, held his left hand out in front, fingers splayed. “So you’re saying that—”
“Shut up, Ballard, and listen to me. There is no choice here. We are not taking a vote. And what’s more, you don’t have a say in this thing. The SIS is being shut down, and all members, current and former are to be eliminated. That clear?”
Ballard said, “Crystal, sir.”
Butch waited for the guy to sit back down. Then he picked up a folder on the table to his right. Inside were a dozen copies of the same information. He handed five to his right, six to his left. The men each kept one and passed the rest down.
“First, these are to be handed back to me in a minute.”
“What’s the point then?” Davinski said.
“The point is that I want you all to look over this list and tell me if you object to any of the names on it.”
“There’s gotta be fifty names here.”
Butch hiked his shoulders an inch, and said, “And?”
Davinski had no response. His gaze, like the gazes of all the men in the room, shifted to the paper. Their eyes moved right to left repeatedly as they read the names to themselves. Butch felt his stomach tighten even more. He knew the five men who had been in the original meeting would not speak up. This was part of the weeding out process. Any man who objected could be a man who might leak what they planned to do. And a guy who would do that needed to be dealt with immediately.
At the other end of the table, one man lifted his hand.
“Yeah, Ballard?” Butch said.
“I know a name on here.”
“Who?”
“Jack Noble.”
“And do you object to Mr. Noble being on that list?”
Ballard looked down at the paper. The guy fidgeted, tapping his thumb against the table. He glanced up at Butch.
“Well?” Butch said.
“No. I knew him from the Marines is all. I have no obje
ction to him being on this list.”
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Other Books by L.T. Ryan
Jack Noble Series in Order
Noble Beginnings
A Deadly Distance
Noble Intentions Season One
Noble Intentions Season Two
Noble Intentions Season Three
Never Go Home (this book)
Untitled (Clarissa Abbot) - Coming October, 2013
Noble Intentions Season Four - Coming December, 2013
Mitch Tanner Series
The Depth of Darkness
Untitled (Mitch Tanner 2) – Coming November, 2013
Untitled (Mitch Tanner 3) – Coming January, 2014
Affliction Z Series
Affliction Z: Patient Zero
Affliction Z: Abandoned Hope
Affliction Z: Book Three – Coming March/April, 2013
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Excerpt from L.T. Ryan’s newest thriller featuring Clarissa Abbot
Chapter One
General Edward Lawrence Logan International Airport. Logan International for short. Adjacent to East Boston and the Boston Harbor. Six runways, and over one hundred gates divided among four terminals. All located on twenty-four hundred acres.
Nearly thirty million people passed through those gates each year. Business, pleasure, returning home, going home, and some who fly for the hell of it because they can.
Clarissa Abbot, one of those thirty million passengers, had no choice in the matter. She departed the 777, proceeded through the hot and humid jetway, and walked out into the open gate adorned with blue and white striped seats, and manned by three disinterested airline employees, because Sinclair, her boss, told her to do so.
Or suffer consequences that brought out words such as ‘fatal,’ ‘dismemberment,’ and ‘never to be found again.’
Sinclair hadn’t told her who would carry out the acts. She had no reason to ask. Clarissa knew. They had people in their employ that could do such things without batting an eye, and without leaving a shred of evidence behind. These were the kind of men who didn’t care who it was they were terminating. The lived for their jobs. They got antsy when they went two long without cleaning a scene, or ridding the world of a bad seed.
Had she become one?
In both her heart and her head, she didn’t think so. Clarissa had done everything she’d been asked. Relationships that meant the world to her at one time were now fading memories, like a paper boat placed on the water as the tide headed out. Whether those relationships drifted away, or sunk into the abyss, she had no idea, and it did not matter.
Neither did her last assignment. Forget it now, Clarissa. Those had been Sinclair’s final words to her while she worked frantically to eliminate evidence in her room in London. Clarissa destroyed all her belongings, including her cell phone and laptop, in the compound’s incinerator. She left with the clothes on her back, a few thousand in cash, and a passport with a false identity. She boarded the plane and departed from Heathrow shortly after nine in the morning. Her flight flew back in time and arrived noon Eastern.
Her gate was located at the end of the terminal. Glancing back, a wide window offered a panoramic view of a runway. A plane, she couldn’t tell what style, lifted off. Dust and dirt and exhaust swirled in two sideways mini-tornadoes. She turned her attention forward. A sparse crowd walked away from her, down the hall that split the terminal in two. She joined the other travelers, attempting to blend in. Not an easy task for a woman like her. She was tall. Her dark red hair, pale skin, and looks drew the eyes and attention of most men and some women. Hatred, scorn, lust, curiosity. She saw it all.
She didn’t fear them, though. Her concern laid in the fact that Sinclair had provided no further instructions to her to follow after departing the plane. Unfamiliar faces turned into potential enemies. Throughout her time in Sinclair’s group, she had been exposed to few of the members. It had been in her best interest, he’d said. The fewer people that knew her, the better off she would be.
You never know, he had told her, who might turn on you.
Would Sinclair? Better yet, had he?
A pair of dark eyes fixed their gaze on her. Eyebrows flexed down. The man’s face was cut from steel, handsome, and covered with four days’ growth. His black hair was adorned with flecks of silver. He wore a dark suit and no tie. He left the top two buttons of his white pinstripe shirt unbuttoned.
She had no recollection of ever seeing or meeting the man. He stared at her like they’d been lovers the night before.
Clarissa kept her stride at an even pace. She didn’t deviate to the left or the right. She couldn’t. There was no room to either side. She stayed true on a path that led her right past the man.
He glanced over her head. She resisted the urge to look back. His focus shifted from above, to the left, to the right, then back on her. She watched as his right hand slipped into his pocket. He couldn’t have traveled this far through the airport with a weapon. Even something as discreet as a ceramic knife would have been spotted in the new imaging machines they had installed at the security checkpoint.
He pulled a black cylinder from his pocket. Maybe two or three inches in length. Before she could identify the object, he’d tucked it in his palm and passed it off to his other hand. His fingers wrapped around it.
The guy took a step forward. A couple walking along the outer edges of the corridor took two steps in. The man nodded, flashed a smile, and merged into the line. He was three paces in front of her. She glanced down at his shoes. They looked expensive. The soles were hard and thick. The uppers made from leather. A lot of the guys paid for custom shoes, she’d heard. They wanted comfort, the ability to kick ass, and to look good.
The man slowed his pace. He took a step and a half for every two Clarissa made. She saw the object in his left hand. They were almost side by side. He glanced over his shoulder, made eye contact, smiled. They became even with each other. She matched his pace. They stayed close to the outer edges of the walkway. His left hand permeated her peripheral vision. She reached for it with her right. They continued on as if they were a couple reunited after time spent away. Between their hands, the cylinder pressed against both their palms.
“Central Parking Garage,” he said. “Level three. Backed into a spot in the middle of the last row. Now close your hand.”
The man unthreaded his fingers from hers. She made a fist around the object, pulled her hand tight to her side, and slipped it into her jean’s pocket beside her cell phone. She left her hand on top of the object. Her index finger traced it. Six buttons, and a hole at the top. Something metal, pointed, inside the hole.
“I’ll go back and get it for you, honey,” the guy said, stopping and stepping out of the flow of traffic. He le
aned in and kissed her cheek. The stubble around his mouth scratched at her. “I’ll catch up at baggage claim.”
Clarissa looked around, smiled, continued on. In the end, no one there would care. Unless they did. And if there were someone there who took anything from the interaction other than a husband or boyfriend going back to claim his significant other’s laptop or carry-on, then the rest of the act wouldn’t have fooled them either.
She pulled the object out. It was a car key. Everything was built into the device, the key, alarm, remote start, and lock and unlock button.
She continued on, navigating through the airport. At one point she reached into her purse and pulled out a pair of knock-off designer sunglasses. She wasn’t sure if they were supposed to be Gucci or Armani or Prada or some other brand. Clarissa didn’t care about such things anymore.
Baggage claim was packed with hundreds of people. The result of dozens of flights arriving at one time. Midday madness. She stopped and stood on the tips of her toes and looked for the man who handed her the key. Had he meant it when he said he’d catch up at baggage claim, or had he said that to make the act more believable? She wandered the snaking area, full of travelers, conveyor belts and yet to be claimed bags. A tall man in an airport uniform pulled a red suitcase off a belt that had stopped moving. The bag looked overstuffed. He tugged the extendable handle all the way out and wheeled it to an office.