Noble Intentions: Season Four (23 page)

"We're wasting time," Pierre said.

Bear crept through the shadows, pistol drawn, aimed at the Frenchman's silhouette.

"Don't move."

Pierre ignored the request and turned toward the sound of Bear's voice. "What are you doing?"

"Where are they?"

"Fuck if I know. Not here, that's all I can tell you. I thought my call would draw them out. It didn't, so now we have to move."

Bear took a few steps forward. Pierre's eyes widened at the sight of the gun aimed at his head.

"The hell are you doing?"

"Tell me you aren't setting me up."

"I'm not setting you up."

"Liar." Bear kept his distance, aware that Pierre was the kind of man you couldn't touch with a gun. It would take him half a beat to disarm Bear and
another half beat to shoot him.

"Listen to me, I am not sure what the hell you've been drinking since we separated, but I am on your side. In fact, you're about the only person in France
I trust right now."

Bear said nothing. Held steady.

"How could I set you up if I had no idea you were coming until you arrived? How could I have arranged for those men to be there, for you, if I didn't know
myself?"

The gun felt heavy in his hands at that moment. He'd allowed his mind to weigh too heavily on Mandy's predicament. So much so that his own judgment had
become cloudy. Pierre was on his side. They had a common goal. And once it was achieved, things might be different.

"Sorry," he said.

"No worries," Pierre said. "Now let's go. We've got three blocks left to the car. Then a four hour drive following that."

West of Madrid, Spain.

MASON HADN'T ALLOWED Sasha to drive. He thought he was being a gentleman, handling the duty after their ordeal on the plane. In reality, he'd only
pissed her off. Four hours in the passenger seat had done a number on her. She was over it. Tired. Exhausted. Sick of staring out her window at the
blackness.

The smell coming from his bag of chips gnawed at her. She'd given up carbs a couple years ago. Normally, resistance was easy. But tonight, when she hadn't
eaten in half a day, the pangs of hunger were winning. But to grab a handful, she'd have to acknowledge Mason's existence, and she wasn't ready for that.

"Coming up in a few more miles," Mason said.

She continued staring out the window at nothing. "What?"

"The airfield."

The moment she dreaded, seeing Gerald again, was minutes away. Sasha didn't quite understand the apprehension she felt. She'd dumped him, after all. And
then he'd quit the service. Just up and left. During their time together, which hadn't been all that long as far as relationships went, she'd never
realized that Gerald and Mason were friends. For as bad as she was about her MI5 brethren, the male agents were ten times worse. Everything was a pissing
match. Or so it seemed.

Mason turned onto a narrow road. The headlights washed over two strips of dirt and gravel, buffered by tall grass. Sasha rolled down her window. The humid
air coated her, and she didn't care. It beat the dry air conditioning. The soft rumble of a plane engine could be heard. Ahead, the road curved through
some trees. On the other side, she saw the source of the sound. An airstrip with a plane waiting.

Gerald climbed down after they emerged from the trees. He'd aged considerably since the last time she'd seen him some five years ago. At least, that's what
she told herself.

She and Mason exited the car. He led the way to the plane. She'd already decided the less she said, the better. Exes were always awkward to deal with. Let
alone one she abandoned after he proposed. Left him on his knees in her family's restaurant. And that was the last time she'd seen him.

"Sasha," Gerald said. "Good to see you."

She smiled, nodded, and continued toward the plane.

"Don't mind her," Mason said. "Cranky from the day's delays. Just know we both thank you for this."

"Not a problem," Gerald said.

Sasha stopped and looked back. "We should get going. There's a woman and child that might be in danger."

Mason leaned in and whispered to Sasha. "See, he barely remembers you. This won't be bad at all."

On board, Gerald completed his pre-flight checks, then said, "Go ahead and get comfortable. Gonna be a long flight."

Upstate New York.

THE GULFSTREAM HUMMED amid a torrent of activity. Maintenance performed final checks and fueled the aircraft. Members of the crew boarded. Non-essential
staff, obviously. The ones that mattered were already in on board, reviewing flight plans and settling in for the trip. The jet maintained a cruise speed
of over six hundred miles per hour. It would take a commercial airliner eight hours to travel from Buffalo to Tenerife. The Gulfstream could do it in under
six. Quicker if the pilot ignored certain rules that required commercial jets to stray no further than ninety minutes from land.

The driver - whose name Jack still hadn't caught - pulled into an unmarked parking spot and shifted the transmission into park before coming to a complete
stop. The vehicle rocked back and forth, hard at first. Frank sat idle for a moment, staring at the jet. Jack followed his gaze. But his focus was on the
men and women working around the craft. Every face had to look like it belonged. A single person out of place meant he had to take a different course of
action. It wouldn't be hard, either. Frank had been sloppy holstering his weapon, and no time during the drive had he made an effort to correct the issue.
All Jack had to do was secure the pistol. The driver would yield and do exactly as instructed, despite training that taught him not to. Things changed when
the situation and danger was real.

It wouldn't come to that. Not today. Everyone passed the eye test, not that it hadn't failed in the past. But today was different. Despite their
differences over the years, an understanding existed between Jack and Frank. They had each other's back. They stood up for one another. That's the way it
was with men who'd been through the things they'd seen together. And the fact that they could royally screw each other over helped them co-exist.

"We should get going," Frank said in a solemn tone.

"You sound a bit broken up," Jack said.

Frank shook his head. "I just don't know where this is going. After we separate, you're on your own. You understand that, right? I can't help you from here
out. I don't know if anybody will be able to. We're all on high alert now. I've got everyone staying in groups of two to four. Relocated spouses and kids."

All along, there'd been a suspicion that Frank knew more than he'd let on. Now Jack was sure of it. And he knew he'd get nothing else out of the man. As
soon as he stepped foot on the tarmac, they were through. For now, hopefully.

Frank and the driver exchanged a quick glance.

"Let's get going, Jack," Frank said.

The men exited the vehicle. The driver stood beside his open door, one hand out of sight. Jack and Frank crossed the blacktop to the waiting Gulfstream.
One man emerged from the fuselage. A second joined him. They descended the stairs, gazes locked on Jack.

"Who're they?" Jack said.

"Couple of my guys," Frank said.

"They coming with me?"

"Accompanying you, but they won't be getting off the jet with you."

"I don't need babysitters at forty thousand feet."

"Didn't say you did."

"Then why are they going to be on board?"

"Just to make sure you wind up where I want you to."

Jack slowed, allowing Frank to get a few paces ahead. One man stopped at the bottom of the stares. The other approached Frank. Jack glanced back, saw the
driver approaching.

And then he heard the pop.

At first, it didn't seem like much. A stinging sensation in his thigh no worse than a basic bee sting. The warmth radiated outward in a spiraling fashion,
knees and hip, shins and abdomen, chest, arms and feet. Then he began to feel both numb and heavy. He started forward, stumbled because his feet had turned
to lead. Frank and one of the guys from the plane came toward him. Mustering his strength and focus, Jack reached behind his back and wrapped his concrete
fingers around the pistol's grip, managing to free the weapon from his waistband. But he couldn't hang on.

"Hit him again," Frank said.

Another pop. Another sting, this time in the hamstring of the other leg. His heart whooshed in his ears. Hard. Rapid. It drowned out the Gulfstream's
engine. His right knee hit the ground, followed by his right hand. The other leg extended backward and his free hand searched the ground for the pistol,
like he was in some disjointed yoga position.

"Just relax, Jack." Had to be Frank. The other men didn't know his name. Except for the driver. Maybe. "This is for your own good. Just let go and we'll
take care of you."

Cognizant thought faded fast, but Jack had enough of it left to know not to go without a fight. But he didn't have a choice. His supporting arm collapsed,
as did his leg. He lay face down on the tarmac. The scorching asphalt singed his cheek. Probably. He couldn't tell after a couple moments. The pain faded.
Everything faded. The sensation of weightlessness followed. Managing to open his eyes, Jack saw himself floating a few feet off the ground, then up the
stairs, and finally into the fuselage. He was set down on a leather couch and strapped in.

Frank appeared in Jack's field of view. The man narrowed his eyes and reached out for Jack's shoulder. "It's for your own good. Trust me. Just let go."

And Jack did. He didn't have a choice but to let go and faded into the darkness.

Tenerife.

THE WOMAN'S NAME was Hannah. Brett had learned that on the way to her room. He didn't want to know. It was always easiest when he didn't. Of course, he
had no choice when it came to his actual target. But collateral damage, the necessary lives taken and pain inflicted, ceased to exist when nameless. The
faces faded faster.

Hannah looked up at him. Eyes large and dark. She'd finally stopped trying to speak through her gag. It only took him telling her ten times that doing so
was making things worse. He tried to answer all the questions she might have. Who was he? He didn't give more than a simple explanation: a government
operative. Why her? She was in the way. What was he doing here? Sorry, but I can't answer that. Will I die? Not if you do what I say, when I say.

None of his answers to her presumed questions appeared to help the woman. Tears welled in her eyes and streaked down her cheeks, coming to rest in the
makeshift gag created from her dark red tank top. He actually preferred the color, should blood be involved.

Glancing at his watch, Brett performed a calculation in his head. The time didn't really matter as much as how long they'd been in the room: seventy
minutes. Where were Erin and Mia? Hannah had said they were going for ice cream. She must've expected them to remain out for a while. Why else invite a
stranger up? Wouldn't the risk of embarrassment if her employer spotted him in Hannah's room preclude the young woman from taking the risk? He looked over
at her. She glared back. Perhaps not, he thought. Not with the alcohol, and the wind, and the ocean air. Caught up in the moment, she'd made a mistake.

Brett rose and approached her, mindful of her unbound legs. "If I remove the gag, do you promise not to scream?"

She gave no response. Continued staring at him.

"I'm only going to ask one more time. Do you promise not to scream?"

She nodded, once, then leaned her head back and to the side.

Brett took a wide berth, clear of her legs, and reached for the exposed knot. With a tug, he freed it and let the tank top slide off the young woman's
face, onto her chest.

"You asshole," she said, subdued.

"What were you thinking inviting a stranger up? You had to have known something like this could happen."

She said nothing.

"Regardless, if you keep quiet and do everything I say, you're going to be all right. My purpose in being here has nothing to do with you."

"It's Erin, isn't it," she said. "Because of her aunt. Right?"

Brett said nothing. He held her gaze and showed no signs of emotion.

Hannah shook her head. "No. Not Mia."

Brett still said nothing.

"Look, do whatever you have to do to me. Not them. Not Mia. She's just a child." Hannah's voice rose. "Say something, you dick."

"Keep your voice down."

"Screw you."

He only had a few moments before he had to reapply the gag. "Where else were they going?"

"I don't know. She said ice cream, then a walk, then back here."

"A walk? You didn't mention that before. Where to?"

"The beach, I guess."

Brett shifted toward the window and split the drapes in the middle. The lights of the plaza faded on the paths that led to the ocean. By the time one
reached the black sands, there'd be little to illuminate. He hadn't been concerned over the other man on the island simply because he wouldn't do anything
in public. If anything, he'd follow Erin to her room and break in later. In which case, Brett would have already escorted them off Tenerife.

But on the beach, they were vulnerable. How far would they walk? Would they continue past the crowds that likely gathered around the beach access. He let
go of the drapes. The room darkened a touch as they fell shut.

"Sorry to do this again," he said, reaching down for the tank top and looping it around Hannah's head. The girl kicked and bucked in the chair. Brett
didn't blame her. He'd do the same, and a few other things that he was grateful she wasn't aware of. He cinched the shirt tight enough to prevent her from
manipulating it and letting out a yell.

After a few minutes, Hannah stopped fighting and settled in. Did she really have a choice? At this point, if she toppled the chair over, he would leave her
that way.

Brett stopped in front of the door and looked back at her. "I'm sorry to do this to you, but I've got to go look for your friends on the beach. I'm afraid
they're in danger." He bled irony, but it didn't stop him from being convincing. "If I'm not back by morning, housekeeping will find you. Feel free to tell
them anything you wish. I'll be long gone."