Noble Intentions: Season Four (17 page)

Just wouldn't happen today.

The two older men smiled and offered to hold the elevator for her.

Hannah shook her head and turned toward her room.

BRETT SCANNED THE pacified faces spread throughout the hotel lobby. Bored employees. Sunburned tourists, worn out from a day at the beach, followed by
shopping. Drunks stumbling from the bar to their rooms.

What one might expect at a resort.

All except for one man. He stood out among the others. Mid-thirties. Short hair. Narrowed eyes sunken into a slender face. Dressed like he tried too hard
to fit in. Seated in the same chair Brett had occupied. The one that provided a complete view of the lobby and hallway.

Brett lowered his head and brought his phone to the side of his face as he slipped past the man. A safe distance from the hotel, he called Ballard.

"You find them yet?" Ballard asked.

"Never mind that," Brett said. He had no intentions of filling Ballard in on the status of his operations while they were in progress. Only a fool would.
"Who the hell else is on this island?"

"What?"

"I just passed a very out-of-place spook in the lobby of a hotel. Tell me you didn't double book this job, Ballard."

The man stammered. "I didn't. I swear." He paused, then added, "I'll look into it."

"If you've screwed me…" Brett turned in a complete circle, his gaze lingering a little longer than usual on every face.

"I haven't. Look, I found a contact to supply you. I've also got a boat for you. It's docked there at the marina."

"It's suitable to cross to Africa?"

"More than suitable."

Ballard relayed the contact's name and number, as well as the reservation information for the boat. The contact was to provide identification that matched
the name on the boat's reservation.

Brett called the guy after hanging up with Ballard. He was hesitant to allow the hotel to slip from view, but he had little choice. The other man wouldn't
make a move in broad daylight. Bret met his contact twenty minutes later. Ten minutes after that, he left the man's house, armed with a Glock, carrying a
duffel bag with two MP7s and the false papers he needed to complete his boat reservation. The contact had offered to drive him to the marina. The place was
less than a half-mile away. No point in risking being seen with the man.

The only question the old man at the marina asked Brett was what he'd be doing with the vessel. A one-word answer sufficed. Fishing. Presumably, they heard
it a lot.

He followed directions to the slip. The thirty-nine foot Carver waited at the end of the dock. Brett boarded and investigated below deck. Plenty of space
to store a woman and a girl.

Now to get them there.

Lisbon Portela Airport, Portugal.

"EXCUSE ME," SASHA said to the passing flight attendant. "How much longer will we be stranded?"

The woman stopped, blew a puff of air that lifted the right side of her bangs, and said, "I am sure we will be departing shortly."

"That's what you said an hour ago."

The flight attendant didn't hear her, though. She'd already turned toward the cabin.

"Want me to make a call?" Mason said.

"For what?" Sasha said.

"We're not that far from Tenerife now. Maybe seven hundred miles or so away. Maybe we can arrange private transport."

She glanced out the window at the flurry of activity on the ground. "That could take a few hours. We might be up in the air in thirty minutes. Plus, what
are the chances of getting a fast enough craft to get us there in ninety minutes?"

"Just a thought."

"Keep it in your back pocket for a bit. If we're still here in an hour, see what you can do."

Ithaca, New York.

"THAT'S THE PLACE," Charles said, aiming a thick finger toward the small house. He slowed the vehicle to a crawl as they passed the residence. Drawn
curtains and closed blinds blocked any view of the inside. "I'm gonna let you out on the side street. I trust you can figure it out from there?"

Jack scanned the unkempt yard. Grass sprouted between cracks in the sidewalk and driveway. Weeds littered the barren flowerbed. The hedges hadn't been
trimmed since last summer, at least. He didn't know much, only his target's name, and that the target's sister resided at the house. Charles hadn't even
spotted Jack a photo.

Sport assassination,
Jack thought.
Nation's next past time.

If people only knew.

"Place looks deserted," Jack said.

Charles shrugged as he tapped the gas pedal, sending the vehicle lurching forward. "Sister's young. Works a lot, I guess. Don't have time or the know-how
to keep the place up."

"So, you're saying you don't pay your guys enough that they can hire a lawn service? And you wonder why you've got a mini-revolt going on at the Queens
compound?"

Charles sucked in air then expelled it along with a fake laugh. "Same smartass Jack. Ain't the last two years taught you nothing?"

Jack had a reply, but it'd only prove Charles right. So he said nothing. Rolled down his window as they took the next right. Warm air rushed in. It smelled
of fresh-cut grass. An old push mower sat by the curb of the second house they passed.

Charles continued past two more houses, then slowed to a stop. The engine idled low. The luxury vehicle looked out of place in the blue-collar
neighborhood. The two guys in it, too. Anyone that passed would probably remember the BMW when the police came around to question residents after
discovering the crime scene. They would surely recall Jack getting out and breaking into a house in broad daylight. Perhaps that's what Charles wanted. For
years, he'd had a hard-on to take Jack down. He'd even come close to making it happen a time or two.

Would Charles risk being implicated though? What if his reach didn't extend this far into New York? He had a lot to lose. A charge against Jack carried the
possibility of resulting in the conviction of Charles. The Old Man had maintained contacts everywhere. Built up over years. How many of them had remained
loyal to the organization now that Charles ran it?

Charles opened his mouth to speak. He slammed his eyes shut. His nose and cheeks scrunched upward, while his lips snarled back. He sneezed four times, like
a roaring lion, into his open hand.

"Allergic to the damn cut grass," he said. "Part of the reason I always hated being out in Queens. Anyway, you should get a move on."

Jack remained seated.

Charles reached for the console. Grabbed his phone and placed a call. As the phone connected through the vehicle's Bluetooth system, the radio cut off.
Ringing blared through the BMW's speakers.

"Yeah?" the man on the other end answered.

"You seen them yet?" Charles asked.

"In their hotel lobby now. They went up a little while ago."

"And you've got their room assignments?"

"Ten-four."

"OK." Charles lifted his gaze from the phone's screen. With his head tilted forward, eyes peering over the top of his gold-rimmed sunglasses, he looked
like a deranged bull about to charge. "If they leave, you tail them. Otherwise, stay put and wait for my next call for the go or no-go. Got it?"

Jack's chest, abdomen, upper arms all locked as the muscles tightened. The edges of his vision darkened as dizziness took hold. He forced air in, held it,
forced it back out.

Charles ended the call, looked at Jack. Shrugged. "What?"

"I already said I'd do this," Jack said, teeth and jaw clenched. "If anything happens to them, you're the first one I'll go after, Chuck."

Using his extended middle finger, Charles slid his glasses up and over the bridge of his nose. "It's time for you to go."

Jack opened his door, placed a foot on the ground.

"Wait."

"What?"

"Take this." Charles handed Jack a cell phone. "I'll be checking in with you in an hour. Should give you plenty of time to do the job and clean up. In the
trunk is a case. In the case is a Glock 17 and a Trident suppressor. You got three shots in the magazine. Make 'em count."

Jack stepped out to the sound of the trunk lock disengaging and the lid popping open. He stepped behind the car, hoisted the trunk lid, and grabbed the
case. The weight felt right. He unsnapped the locks and opened it an inch. A bar of sunlight passed over the pistol, suppressor and magazine. After having
been forced to leave his Beretta behind at his apartment, this was the first time in five hours he felt safe. He slammed the trunk shut. The BMW pulled
away from the curb, then turned right at the next street, and disappeared from sight.

He wondered how he looked to anyone staring out their windows at that moment. This man who moments ago had exited a hundred thousand dollar BMW now stood
in the middle of the road with a black case dangling from his hand.

The heat rising off the blacktop felt like it might melt the soles of his boots, trapping him in place. It served as a strong reminder to get out of view.
He cast a quick glance around. Spotted no one outside. Odd for a Saturday afternoon.

Heat wave or not.

Jack stepped over the curb, onto the sidewalk and walked back the way they had come. He wanted to find a route that would lead him to the target's
backyard. A couple houses later, he sidestepped the ticking push mower parked on the curb and spotted a strip of grass between two six-foot privacy fences.
The green path led to a brown pond. A shift of his eyes was all it took to survey his surroundings. Certain that no one was watching, Jack turned left, cut
across the lawn, squeezed between the wooden fences, and made his way to the water's edge.

Fenced yards provided cover from houses behind him. But not from those across the water. Using thick bushes for cover, he once again surveyed his
surroundings. And as it was on the street, no one was outside. He turned his attention to the houses. Sunlight reflected off the windows in bright bursts,
making it impossible to tell if anyone stood behind the panes of glass staring back at him. Even so, perhaps it was normal for the residents to spot a guy
in tan carpenter's pants, a faded t-shirt, worn hiking boots, carrying a black case. Electrician, maybe. Possibly an environmental geek out to test the
pond, making sure the water was fine for the ducks who were wading past.

Not a bad idea.

He stopped, turned, knelt down, placed the case in front of him. A good opportunity to prep the weapon and build a bit of cover from prying eyes. Assuming
there were any. He assembled the weapon and threaded the suppressor onto the barrel. After tucking the pistol behind his back, he grabbed an empty magazine
out of the case and stuck it in the water. Held it there for a few moments, then placed it back in the case.

A hot breeze blew past, rustling leaves on trees and sending a torrent of tiny waves across the top of the pond in Jack's direction. The accompanying smell
reeked of death. A fish, perhaps, on the opposite bank.

Jack continued along the edge - one foot on grass, the other packed dirt - gaze focusing on the back of the target's house in search of signs of life from
within. A hundred feet to go. A wide open expanse of overgrown green lawn and brown dead spots. Waiting at the end, a deck with rotted supports and rusted
brackets. Jack trudged up the lawn, careful of anything hidden in the high grass that could trip him. He cast a glance back. Momma duck and her ducklings
rounded the top of the pond. Leaves and branches swayed and dipped and bounced in the continuous breeze. He no longer smelled the dead fish. And still no
one was outside.

The deck sagged then rebounded with every step he took. Old wood. Weathered. Splintered. Maybe stained when constructed, but never again. Years of
expanding and contracting and hot and cold and snow and rain. The back door didn't look any better. Long cracks ran up the surface. A small, two-paned
window sat in the middle, about six feet off the ground. Jack leaned close, peered through the split in the sheer curtains. A still room was laid out in
front of him.

He reached for the knob.

A door opened from somewhere behind.

He glanced over his shoulder. An older woman stepped out of her house. She took a few steps. Something dangled from her hands. A bag. She peeled it open
and reached inside. Her hand emerged, wrapped around bread or scraps of some sort. She looked and walked toward the lake, her face scrunched up. The fish,
he figured. She'd caught a whiff of the decomposing body. As she started her trek toward the water's edge, her free hand waved away the smell like it was a
cloud of vapor.

Then she stopped, turned, looked at Jack. The old woman froze for a moment, head cocked to the left, eyes narrowed to slits. He waved at her, then smiled.
Her posture relaxed. She smiled, waved back.

Jack took a deep breath as he turned the knob and leaned into the door with his shoulder. The door gave about a foot. It stopped when it hit something
solid. Jack glanced down at the floor. Sunlight flooded through the opening, stretching out in a long, narrowing bar. Near the threshold, it reflected off
a coagulated crimson pool.

"Shit," Jack muttered.

Ithaca, New York.

CHARLES CIRCLED THE block a few times. He stopped near the neighborhood's exit. He pulled up to the curb and waited five minutes with his window down.
Silence beyond the BMW's purring engine. Not a car passed on the four-lane road that ran past. No sirens filled the air. If all had gone according to plan,
the man waiting inside the house would have Jack restrained by now.

Or dead.

A car approached from the north. It slowed, turned, stopped in the middle of the road. The driver's window rolled down and cigarette smoke emptied through
the growing divide. The older guy leaned forward from his position in the passenger seat so he could be seen.

Charles nodded.

"We'll take it from here," the older guy said. "Thanks for your help. The money will be wired. If you ever find yourself in need of a get out of jail card,
give me a holler."