Noble Intentions: Season Four (19 page)

The corpse positioned in front of the back door served as a stark reminder to Jack to avoid making the same mistake.

He parted the curtains covering the door's window an inch and scanned the backyard. Empty. He cracked the door an inch. Light flooded through on either
side. Something glinted on the floor, near the bottom hinge. Jack glanced down and spotted a pistol. He reached down. Inspected the weapon. It was fully
loaded. He'd gone from three shots to eighteen.

The idling engine was dwarfed by the sound of banging. The loud noise silenced. The engine roared, echoed, then went dead.

Had they really thought Jack would be taken so easily? With a loaded weapon?

He glanced at the pistol Charles had given him and at once realized his stupidity. Never trust any weapon other than your own. He tucked the silenced
pistol into his waistband and pulled the door further open.

The slice of lawn he saw remained empty. Overgrown grass swayed in the steady breeze. A wind gust pushed through. The pond surface rippled. The air carried
the odor of a cookout, but not the sounds.

Jack slipped out the door, cut across the back lawn on a line for the narrow patch of grass he had used to enter from the side street.

He didn't make it that far.

Someone yelled from inside the house, loud enough that the sound reached Jack as a muffled scream. A burst of static arose from the direction he headed. A
voice like a robot barked orders through the mechanical hiss.

Jack drew the silenced pistol with his left hand. In his right, he held the dead man's firearm. He held both out in front of him. Wherever his gaze
traveled, so did the dead man's gun. The other remained at a forty-five-degree angle, ready to go should he have to turn around.

A figure appeared from the grass alley, shielded by thick bushes. A voice spoke from the same general area. The man stepped out from behind the cover, drew
his pistol and fired. Jack flattened against a fence the moment the guy had appeared. The shots slammed into the house he had been in moments ago. The guy
took another step into the open. Jack leveled both weapons in his direction and pulled both triggers. The silenced pistol did nothing. The other unleashed
a bullet that hit the man in the abdomen.

In a split-second, Jack made the decision to keep the worthless sidearm until he had the chance to remove the suppressor. First, he had to deal with the
bent over man, stumbling around on the bank.

From behind, the back door crashed open. Jack glanced over his shoulder; spotted a guy standing there, shielding himself against the sun. Jack figured he
had a couple seconds before the sun blindness diminished and the man spotted him.

He wanted to question the first guy, but there was no time. From ten feet away, Jack aimed and fired a round into the side of the guy's head. The man fell
over sideways, splashing into the lake.

Instead of checking behind again, Jack continued forward, past the bushes, and ducked into the grass alley. He rose, using branches and leaves for cover,
and saw two men standing on the back deck. One pointed at the body. The other scanned left-to-right then back again. Just to Jack's right, the old woman
had emerged from her house, clutching a giant portable phone in her hand. She looked paler than before. Her other hand pounded against her chest. She tried
to speak, but hyperventilated. The men on the deck saw her too. Jack risked exposing himself by shifting to a position where he had a clear shot should one
of the men decide to eliminate the innocent onlooker.

One of the men shifted on his feet. Started to lift his pistol.

Don't do it, you bastard.

Before the man could line up shot, his partner swatted the guy's arm down and jutted his chin toward the door.

The wind carried the man's words. "The cops'll be here soon. We gotta go."

With his cell phone, Jack snapped a picture of the men moments before they turned to leave, then buried himself deeper into the bush. The men would most
likely take the quickest route out of the neighborhood. But there was the chance that they'd drive down the side street. And if so, the alley would provide
them with a clear view.

While waiting, Jack placed a call to Erin. He had to make her aware of the dangers so she could remain vigilant until he managed to get across the
Atlantic. Doing so on his own name seemed unlikely at this point. Perhaps even as he currently appeared. It had been a long time since he last had to alter
his appearance in order to board a plane.

The line held for several seconds then proceeded to ring a half-dozen times in a double-toned cadence. The call went to Erin's voicemail. Rather than risk
being overheard by leaving a message, Jack hung up with plans to call her back shortly. He'd have taken the chance to speak to her in person given the
possible gravity of the situation in Tenerife.

After a minute had passed, his thoughts turned to who he knew in the surrounding area. He returned a blank. Perhaps a friend could help. Brandon had
contacts everywhere, and on both sides of the law. Surely the guy had someone within fifty miles who could assist Jack.

First, he had to get away from the house, and the neighborhood.

FRANK SKINNER REACHED for his vibrating cell phone. "Yeah?"

"We got his location," the man on the other end said.

"Where?"

"I'm loading it to your GPS now."

Frank stared at the LED display on his dash. The map zoomed out, panned right, then focused in on a spot. He made a mental note of the street names. The
display zoomed back out and a bright red line was drawn from his location to the destination.

"That's less than a mile away." Frank glanced at the man behind the wheel. "Turner, go."

JACK KEPT HIS shoulder pressed against the siding as he crept down the grass alley. The faint sound of approaching sirens grew by the second. They'd
enter the same way he and Charles had. Where would they go? To the house? Around the block? He stopped. Turned. Looked across the pond.

Idiot.

If he continued, he would place himself out in the open in the middle of the neighborhood. The opposite direction offered him a path to the main road.
There he'd look less like a suspect and more like a passerby.

Jack sprinted toward the pond, then turned left, away from the house with the dead body, and rounded the lake. He spotted an old man peeking out through
his sliding glass back door. It didn't matter. By the time the cops got to the guy for a statement and then hauled him in for a composite, Jack would be
deep in hiding.

After he reached the other side of the pond, Jack hopped the first fence he came to. A German Shepherd emerged from a large wooden dog house positioned on
the other end of the yard. The dog released a fierce bark, lowered its hindquarters, and lunged forward.

The dog had fifty feet to cover.

Jack had ten.

The dog was faster, and it wasn't a contest. If Jack had any more distance to cover, he wouldn't have made it. He crossed the last five in a leap, landing
with his right foot midway up the fence, and both hands grasping at the top. In a single motion, he vaulted over, landed square, then resumed his sprint.
From behind, the dog let out a torrent of violent attacks on the fence.

The sirens were closer, perhaps a couple blocks away from the neighborhood now. Jack didn't bother to look right or left down the street. He sprinted
across, heading toward an open back yard that used high hedges to separate the home from the main road.

"WHAT IS IT?" Hannah broke her gaze from the black sands and turquoise water and watched as Erin bit her lip while staring at her phone.

Erin didn't respond.

"Erin?" Hannah said. "What's wrong?"

"Jack called a few minutes ago, but didn't leave a message."

"He said he was coming today, right?"

"He suggested it."

Hannah shrugged. "Then there you go. Probably just letting you know he was boarding or getting ready to take off and didn't have time to leave a message."

"You're right. You're right." Smiling, Erin set the phone on the table. "Want to get some dinner?"

Hannah nodded, rose and walked to the door. A moment later she was met by Mia and Erin, who had left her cell where she had set it down.

JACK STEPPED IN between the hedges. The jagged waxed-over leaves sliced into his skin. He kept one hand in front of his face to part the foliage. Then
he stopped, just shy of exiting. The sirens were loud now, deafening almost. He estimated his position to be no more than 300 feet from the neighborhood
entrance.

The sound stopped approaching, leveled off. They had turned in.

Slowly, Jack pushed through far enough to see the street. No more blue lights, only red, fixed to large box trucks. Jack stepped out and started walking
away from the entrance.

Across the street and another couple hundred feet down, a dark sedan idled at the end of a driveway. The driver's window was down. Jack caught the guy
looking his direction for a moment before looking away.

Jack couldn't turn back, not with an onslaught of emergency services heading toward the neighborhood. So he stuck the pistol in his right pocket and kept
his hand on the grip, ready to draw should the car move.

The sedan backed up. It stopped after a few feet, paused, and then continued backward until hidden by the trees.

Jack kept walking. He had no choice.

The sedan reappeared. It pulled out into the road, but came to a stop as a line of cars approached from behind Jack. After the vehicles had passed, the
sedan started inching out.

An engine roared from behind. Before Jack could look over his shoulder, brakes locked and equaled as the tires grated against the asphalt. A dense chemical
cloud washed past.

"Get in!"

Jack pulled the pistol into plain view. Glancing over the top of the vehicle, he spotted the dark sedan, which had crossed the street and headed toward
him.

"Jack! Now!"

He leaned forward and saw Frank Skinner, one hand on the dash, the other clenched around a pistol. The man's face was tight and lined with beads of sweat.

The dark sedan skidded to a stop, maybe fifty feet away. Doors opened. Hard-soled shoes hit the ground.

Jack grabbed the rear driver's side handle and yanked.

A shot was fired. Went high. Whistled through the hedges and slammed into someone's house.

Jack dove into the back seat.

"Turner," Frank yelled. "Go."

Washington, D.C.

THE CITY REMAINED a mystery to Clarissa, though it had been her
home
for several months now. Sinclair had kept her busy, working everywhere but
there. Aspen, Miami, London, the months had flown by. During that time she spent all of three nights in the nation's capital.

Then she was handed a special assignment at the White House. But it only took a couple days for things to turn, and Clarissa was on the run, fighting to
save her life.

It was after the resolution of that when Beck offered her a position in the Service. Only she had to attend training, which required her to live at the
facility for the duration.

She walked from the realtor's office to the Lincoln Memorial. Leaned against a large pillar. Stared up at the imposing figure.

How about lending me some of that fortitude, Abe?

She'd need it. Facing Charles was the same as taking inner demons head on. It made her break out into a cold sweat thinking about the guy.

But there was a difference.

She wasn't just a bartender or a dancer anymore. She didn't serve criminal lowlifes. One thing remained the same. She could still kick their asses. Only
now, it was legal.

Turning toward the stairs, she spotted a man at the base, aiming a camera up at her. Of course, chances were he was taking pictures of the monument. But
there was a second where she caught him looking right at her.

Clarissa veered to the left where a large crowd of students all wearing blue shirts stood. She stood inches taller than even the tallest child. Both
advantageous and not.

Winding her way through the tangle of kids, she glanced back. The man stood in the same spot, camera aimed toward the monument.

Her heart rate dropped a bit. Muscles relaxed. She moved until she was out of sight and continued back toward her apartment.

Seven blocks into the city, Clarissa stopped in a store. She lacked something nice to wear for dinner, figuring if Beck had made reservations, the place
would be nice.

She picked out a blue sleeveless summer dress and paid cash.

As she left the store she glanced right before turning left.

The man was there. He quickly looked away, turned to his right and crossed to the other side of the street.

Clarissa continued as though she hadn't seen anything. She reached for her phone and called Beck. No answer. She stared down at her contact list. After
months of basing herself out of the city, the only one she could reach out to was Beck.

A passing cab halted on her signal. She entered, gave the cabbie her address and asked him to take a long way there. As the vehicle pulled away, she
spotted the man. He watched her pass, his hands covering his chin, mouth and nose. Sunglasses over his eyes.

Who was he, and how long had he been on her tail?

Fifteen minutes later, she entered her building. Her apartment was on the sixth floor. She took the elevator to the eighth floor, descended the eastern
stairwell, walked the length of the building on floor number seven, then down the western stairwell to her floor. Her door was a ten-second walk from
there.

She drew her pistol, then grabbed and turned the knob. It didn't budge. She unlocked it and entered, sweeping the room right to left, then back. She locked
the door behind her, then cleared the place and found it empty.

Through the windows, she scanned the street below. She only had access to one side of the building, but it was the front, and her money was that the guy
would be out there if he knew her address.