Noble Intentions: Season Four (21 page)

"Why don't I want to know?"

Mason glanced down, shrugged, then reached up and pulled a bag down from the overhead.

"Mason," she said.

He walked down the aisle, squeezing past a couple grabbing their carry-ons.

Sasha rose and followed him. She caught up before they reached the door.

"Who is it?" she said, her hand wrapped around his forearm.

He sighed, shook his head, and said, "Gerry."

"Gerry," she repeated. "Gerald Harrington?"

Glancing away, he nodded and said nothing.

"Shit."

"Right," he said, breaking free of her grasp and reaching for her wrist. "Now come on. We've got to get moving."

Tenerife.

BRETT HAD SPENT a total of two hours away from the hotel. Not ideal, considering a second player might be involved. Was the man someone to be concerned
about? Probably not. But Brett hadn't survived as long as he had by assuming the good in people. This was a case where he had to err on the side of
presuming the man to look the part, but nothing more. If it turned out otherwise, so be it. He still had not heard from Ballard regarding the issue.
Whether that was to be construed as a positive or negative development was up for debate.

Since returning, he'd remained in the area of the plaza. Tourists flocked to the spot, gathering near the restaurants and bars, drinks in hand, talking up
friends and strangers alike. The groups afforded Brett some anonymity at a distance. The open area also provided him with an unobstructed view of the
hotel. Dozens of people had entered and exited, but he had yet to see Erin or Mia or the younger woman accompanying them.

He gazed past the center of the plaza. It grew livelier as the sun set and flaming torches and artificial lights took over its duties. The crowds migrated
and thickened in front of a jazz ensemble at the western end. The smoke from the grills of five different restaurants dissipated into the air, leaving the
smell of steak and seafood in its wake. Brett's stomach ached in response. He stifled the sensation as best he could.

Brett decided to return to the hotel's lobby. He stuck to the shadows as he crossed the plaza. The smoky tones of a saxophone rose and fell. All gazes were
directed toward the bronzed woman singing a Jobim tune. She hit each note perfectly. It would have been easy to get lost in a drink and her voice.

During the short trek, Brett thought through his plan one more time. The simplicity was what made it foolproof. He knew Jack Noble. Knew things about the
man's past. He knew the woman's connection to Jack, about their daughter, something that not many others were aware of. Erin might have doubt, but
ultimately, she would trust him. Mostly because she would have no choice.

Jack would be unreachable.

Brett rehearsed the lines to himself:
Jack sent me. You're in danger. There's a team coming to the island, and at least one is here now, watching you. They're either going to abduct you, or
kill you. Come with me. I can get you off the island and we'll rendezvous with Jack in a day's time.

After a few failed attempts at reaching Noble, Erin would agree to go willingly. It turned out the man he spotted in the lobby worked to Brett's benefit.
Brett would be more convincing because of the guy. So long as the man had not acted yet. In fact, it would work to Brett's favor if he could catch the
other guy in the act. Just not too far into it.

That was a jagged road, laced with traps. Get the women, he told himself. Don't wait.

Brett continued toward the hotel, scanning the crowd, going unnoticed.

Mostly.

"There you are." Female. American. Southern drawl. The girl from the elevator. They'd made it easy on him. They'd found him.

Brett prepped himself to give his emergency speech. He would have to tone it down amid the crowd. Perhaps after a few lines they'd seek a quieter spot
around the side of the hotel. That'd be better as they were currently close enough that the guy in the lobby could see them. If he was still there, of
course. Chances were when the women had left, so had he. Brett turned, ready to face two women and little girl and at the same time locate the other man.

But instead of a trio, only the one woman stood there.

"You know," she said, "I thought you were going to wait around in the hallway to see if I'd come back out."

Her eyes glistened, her smile broadened, and in the faint light, her cheeks looked red. The smell of alcohol washed past as she approached. He thought back
to the encounter earlier that day and considered whether he had shown interest in the young woman. Surely the few words he had spoken couldn't be construed
as a come on? She was attractive, so it wasn't entirely out of the question that his gaze had lingered too long. But the purpose of his being on the island
precluded any encounter with her, which should have prevented him from giving any indication that he might be interested in her.

He shrugged and said, "Sorry. I did wait around for a few seconds at the end of the hall."

She continued smiling and stepped even closer. "Can you show me where?"

Brett glanced behind her, looking for Erin and Mia. "Where are your mates?"

"They went out for ice cream."

"Are they coming back here?"

She nodded, her face inches from his. "But we are in separate rooms."

"Do you normally come onto strangers like this?"

The breeze lifter her hair off her shoulders as she shook her head. He smelled the sand, salt water, perfume and rum that soaked her skin and hair.

"It must be the unadulterated ocean air," she said.

Brett had hoped that the woman wouldn't be around when it came time to escort Erin and Mia off the island. And here she was, practically begging him to
take her out of the picture. He stepped back. Smiled. Turned. Gestured toward the door.

"After you."

Unknown Location.

"MANDY!"

THE VOICE sounded distant. Sort of familiar. Yet unknown. The heavy accent, what was that?

"Please, I can't reach you. Are you OK?"

Why wouldn't I be?

She went to answer, but couldn't. She went to stand, but her feet were above her head. One, in fact, touched her head. She opened her eyes. Fluid, thick
and dark, flooded them, burning. She opened her mouth to cry out, but nothing happened.

"I see your fingers moving," the woman said. "We'll get help, sweetie. Just stay as still as you can."

Still? Why?

The pressure she felt increased after a few attempts at moving. Where was she? What was that weight she felt, and what caused the pressure? She managed to
get one hand to her face, then let her body relax. The blood swept to the side. She opened her eyes. They stung, but not as bad. It was dark, but after a
few moments, the girl realized she was inverted, twisted at the waist, her shoulders pinned to the floor. She wanted to scream out and ask where the hell
she was.

The woman with the accent began breathing so heavily she was panting. Then whimpering. She let out a strange squeal, then spoke to herself, then to the
girl.

"Don't move. Okay? I'm going to cover you with these scarves. Stay still until we're gone. Understand?"

The girl tried to respond. Couldn't.

"Wiggle your fingers if you do," the woman said.

The girl complied. A moment later, she felt something soft and light and silky draped over her hands and legs.

"Don't move," the woman said again. "Not for a few minutes."

Metal crunched. The sounds of crickets and cicadas roared in the girl's ears. The woman screamed, to which a man laughed. He called her a bitch. He told
her to come easy, or die right here and now. The girl's heart pounded against her ribs like a wild horse trying to break down a gate. The woman agreed. She
cried out in agony saying her leg felt broken. The man laughed again and said if he carried her, she was going over the cliff.

The cliff, the girl thought. She remembered the cliff, and the guardrail. The car hitting the metal barrier.

The engine choked. The muffler ticked. The crickets and cicadas grew louder. A vehicle approached, its small engine whining. Everything brightened and the
girl saw the direness of her predicament. Please, she thought, don't let the car be on fire. She sniffed the air, checking for smoke or the odor of
gasoline. She thought she might have smelled it, but wasn't sure. The other car passed and things grew quiet.

Except for the crickets and cicadas.

Their songs were deafening.

Ithaca, New York.

"WHAT THE HELL'S going on, Frank?" Jack looked through the rear window at the other sedan performing a three-point term. "Who the hell was that?"

Frank stared straight ahead. Said nothing. The other sedan drove away in the opposite direction. Turning toward the front, Jack leaned forward and placed
his hand on Frank's shoulder. He clutched the pistol in his other hand and let it point toward the floor.

"Answer me."

Frank glanced at the guy driving. Stared for a moment. Then looked over his shoulder at Jack. "You've been targeted, Jack."

No explanation was needed. For several years, Jack had been the guy they'd call when someone else had been targeted. The why of it, however, escaped Jack.
So had Charles's involvement. And Frank's.

Jack said, "You're gonna have to tell me a bit more than that."

Frank said, "I will. Let's get out of here first."

"Approaching the highway," the driver said.

Jack couldn't recall ever seeing the driver before today. Jack's visits to SIS had grown fewer as the years passed, so it was possible the man was one of
Frank's agents, and that Jack hadn't run into him yet. Presumably, the guy didn't know all the details. Frank and Jack went back far enough that Frank
shouldn't care where they were. He held back because of the driver.

They drove north for forty minutes, then east, eventually reaching a road that ran alongside Lake Ontario. After a short silent stretch, they turned onto a
narrow lane, guarded by two looming relics of the War of 1812. Finally, they parked in a lot overlooking the lake. The wind swept toward them, sending
whitecaps toward the shore.

Frank opened his door, stepped out, and then opened Jack's.

"Walk with me," he said.

Jack joined him. The two men headed toward the lake. The breeze coming off the water neutralized the brunt of the heat, though it remained considerably
warmer than inside the car. In the distance, boats streamed by, their wakes blending in with the churning surface.

At the shore, they turned left, away from a family gathered and playing at the water's edge. Fifty yards later, Frank stopped. Jack continued on a few more
steps, stopped, turned.

"Let me see your phone," Frank said.

"Are you kidding me?" Jack said.

Frank shook his head while extending his hand. "I tracked you through it. Need to make sure no one else can."

Jack balked. Frank didn't fall for it.

"I'm not saying anything until you pony up with the phone."

The pistol resting against his back nearly provoked Jack enough to draw it. He could have it out and aimed before Frank could move. But where was the
driver? The man could be positioned just out of sight, a rifle aimed at Jack's head. One wrong move, or a signal from Frank, and the driver would fire a
shot that'd pierce Jack through the heart, and they'd leave him on the shore.

Frank offered both hands. Jack reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone and tossed it to Frank. The man studied it for a moment, turning it over,
pressing a button, waking it. He looked over the screen. Then he powered it off and flung it over the lake. It skipped twice along the surface before
plowing into a foot high wave and sinking from sight.

"Son of a bitch," Jack said.

"Sorry," Frank said. "But like I said, I tracked you with it. No doubt someone else might do the same thing next time you make a call."

They hadn't tracked his signal. They were watching numbers he might call. And when he did, they found him. He nodded, knowing how it worked. If Frank could
do it, someone else could. But none of that explained why Frank was so close and able to show up minutes after Jack exited the house Charles had sent him
into.

"All right," Jack said. "Talk."

Frank wiped a layer of sweat off his forehead, using the slickness to mat his hair back. There were a few more flecks of silver there than the last time
Jack had seen him.

"Where to start?" Frank said.

"How about the beginning?" Jack said.

"Thanks." Frank spit into the water, then jutted his chin toward a spot in the distance. He began walking, and started talking without checking to see if
Jack was following along. "I've lost three guys in two weeks. Two were in the same vehicle, involved in a single-car accident. Tried to take on a two
hundred-year oak. Left a nasty dent on the tree. And a couple teeth in the bark."

Jack said nothing as the man paused and drew in a sharp breath of lake air.

Frank continued. "The other one was shot, execution style, after being tortured for at least two days. Missing eight fingers. We found them in pieces. They
weren't cut only at the knuckles. The digits that remained were missing nails. Same thing with his toes. And, you know, other obvious signs."

They were approaching a thicket of trees. Jack looked back to make sure they weren't being followed by the driver. "I had nothing to do with any of this."

Frank stopped, held out his arm as a barrier. "You were moments away from being Ithaca's first drive-by shooting in, like, forever, Jack. You really think
I would have saved you if you had something to do with my guys' torture and deaths?"

"So those guys were involved then."

Frank held out both arms, palms up, shrugged. "All I know is they're dead, and I got a hit on you. Your file, to be exact. So I started digging around.
What I found helped me make a little sense of it."