Noble Intentions: Season Four (37 page)

Know the weakest points on a man's body. Strike fast and hard. Strike two or three times. Do what you have to until he is neutralized.

She swung her right arm in an ark, formed a fist, connected with the boy's neck.

He continued to slide off her.

She wriggled to her side and swung again, unsure where her blow connected. Her knuckles cried out in pain, and it didn't seem to affect the boy as much.

He rolled off her and the bed and got to his feet.

"Come on," he said. "Fight me."

She swung her legs over and stood, leaving the bed between them, and nowhere for her to go. He had the door behind him. She was trapped. A smile crossed
his face. He realized it too.

Use any and all assets available to you.

He hopped on the bed, effectively cutting off any escape route. She backed up to the corner of the room and brought her hands to her face and started to
cry.

His laughter told her that he'd bought the act. His feet thumped on the floor as he hopped down in front of her.

"Got any more fight in you?" he said.

She sobbed some more.

He reached out and grabbed her shoulder. "Why don't you get back in that bed and let me do what I want with you."

She removed her hands and lowered her head. With eyes out of sight, she nodded. He was close. Maybe a foot away. She could smell his body odor.

Another step, you little bastard.

The overhead fan ticked and whooshed. She felt the cool air on her sweat-soaked skin. She became aware of the heat from the boy's body as he stood inches
from her. His hand fell upon her shoulder. It wasn't soft or gentle. He squeezed. Dug in with his nails. He chuckled softly. A sinister sound.

Weakness! Attack the weakness!

He had both hands on her now. One clutching her shoulder still. The other wrapped around the back of her head, tightening around her hair. He wrapped it
around his wrist. He pulled her closer.

Her forehead touched his chest. He drew in a sharp breath.

So did she.

And she brought her right knee up with all the force she could muster. Her kneecap connected with his groin and the boy let out a hollow howl. Sounded like
steam escaping, without the whistle.

But he didn't go down. And he didn't let go. His right hand dug deeper into her shoulder. The left yanked her head left and right.

So the girl struck again. Her knee carved through the few feet of air, building power and momentum. It struck between his legs, crushing his testicles.

This time, he released her and bowed over. His hands disappeared between his legs.

The girl didn't hesitate. She grabbed him by the back of his head, yanking his hair upward then forcing his head down as she delivered another strike with
her knee. She heard the crunch of cartilage. The sickening muffled scream and then the boy choking on his blood.

She could have left it at that. She almost did. But he had intended to do her far worse harm.

Plus, he was still standing.

So she pulled his head up, then yanked it down in time to meet her knee a second time. The thud wasn't quite as satisfying as the crunch. He didn't scream
this time. Instead his body went limp. He dropped to the floor. She held him up by his hair.

The girl let go and backed up a foot. Perched on his knees, he swayed side to side.

"Fall down," she whispered.

He didn't.

"Do it," she said.

He still didn't.

She backed up another foot, then lunged forward and struck with her heel to his throat.

The boy collapsed backward. Landed with his feet pinned next to his hips.

She stepped over him, changed into shorts and a shirt, grabbed a few additional articles of clothing and stuffed them into the small bag the hospital had
given her. She glanced back at the boy. He still hadn't moved. Was he even breathing? She didn't care. She stepped over him again, slid the window open,
and disappeared into the darkness.

New York City.

AKERS WISHED HE'D killed the girl along with her mother. He'd spent the past two weeks acting as a babysitter to the whiny little bitch.

And he had no choice.

Under no uncertain circumstances, his boss had said, was he to let her out of his sight. That meant no leaving the suite.

He kept her locked in the bedroom and took to sleeping on the couch. She had a bathroom. He provided her with three meals a day. When she cried, he turned
up the radio or the television volume. When she banged on the door, he banged back.

The worst was when she shouted for her mother. Not because Akers felt bad for providing her with an exit from this world. But because he couldn't send the
little girl to meet her.

Not yet.

He didn't understand why. Noble, by all accounts, was dead. Taken care of by the other team. The one that had the actual authority to terminate him. So the
girl had no purpose. At least as far as he knew.

Akers had to trust his boss. Really, he had no choice. Disobedience would be met with death, and likely not as swift as the one he had given the girl's
mother.

Little River, South Carolina.

THE TOWN WAS quiet. And quaint. Hardly the kind of place where a spook would live. Not that looks mattered. Jack knew better than that.

Brandon had given him the lead two and a half weeks ago. Might as well have been two lifetimes ago. So much had happened in the time since. What started
off as a meeting to discuss heading a supposed millionaire's security detail turned into a race for his life.

The millionaire turned out to be something different altogether. He hadn't given a name, but Jack had a hunch it would turn out to be John C. Merrick, or
an alias thereof. Then again, Merrick could've been the fake name. Maybe Brandon had figured it out by now. Jack couldn't call him to find out, though. The
guy's lines were certainly being monitored for activity.

Once the unfamiliar line rang through, the NSA would be all over it. They'd trace the number to Sasha, then line up the pieces to connect it to Jack. He
could use a throwaway line, but that would result in four teams swarming the town within a matter of hours. All they had to do was nail the point of
origin. Jack could be gone by then. But what if he wasn't ready? There was something here, he knew it. And he didn't want to be rushed in finding it if it
could be the one piece of information or evidence that put all this to an end.

A face-to-face meeting with Brandon was Jack's only option. And given that he had no idea where the guy lived anymore, that had to be ruled out. So he'd
have to use someone else. Problem was, who could he trust? There were only two people he could depend on, and both were out of his life.

In the few hours he'd been in Little River, he'd managed to solve one piece of the puzzle. Merrick's address had been listed in the phone book under J C
Merick. The misspelling accounted for Brandon being unable to find the listing. Although, with his experience, he should have considered the option. Jack
didn't fault the guy, though. He could have just as easily asked the guy to check.

He considered the possibility that Brandon had. See, paper couldn't be changed quite so easily. There had to be fifty thousand phone books, at least, that
had that listing. Databases and online records didn't pose that problem. A couple keystrokes did the trick.

Didn't matter. He had the address. Now he had to wait for the most unlikely of partners. A man he'd been sent to kill years ago. The same man who was
moments away from taking his life a few weeks ago.

Jack waited on a bench in the middle of the park. He was surrounded by thick oak trees. The sun had set hours ago. The leafy canopy hid him in a ring of
darkness. The shops and restaurants had all closed. The bars had let out. The occasional police car drove past. They didn't bother to check the park.
Nothing ever happened there. The cops were riding out their shift.

Another two hours passed before the dark Ford pulled into one of the many empty parking spots. A car like that at two in the morning left one of two
possibilities. A spook sent to kill him, or one who was there to help.

Jack pulled his pistol. He positioned himself behind a thick oak and watched the car. His phone buzzed once then went still. The car door opened. No one
got out. His phone buzzed again. A hand grabbed the top of the door. A foot hit the ground. The man rose and glanced around. Jack surveyed the area. He
didn't care about a drunk stumbling around, or a cop bored out of his mind while on patrol. He had to make sure Brett hadn't been followed. That meant he
had to believe that Brett was competent enough to know when someone was following him.

Brett closed his car door and walked around the perimeter of the park. Presumably, he had the same question as Jack. No matter how vigilant they were, a
skilled trail team could beat them. Enough cars working together could make the job seamless and impossible to detect. At least until you arrived at your
destination. Then ten agents would appear out of nowhere and your night officially went to shit.

Jack's phone buzzed again. This time the caller didn't hang up. He didn't have to look at the screen to know it was Brett. He saw the guy with the phone to
his head.

"I'm in the park," Jack said. "I can see you now."

Brett clicked off and turned and walked into the shadows. Jack met him halfway.

"Quiet place," Brett said.

"Too quiet for my tastes."

"I don't know. Kind of like it, myself."

"Great, you can retire here then. But let's get this mess cleaned up first."

"You know where we need to go?" Brett asked.

Jack nodded. "Got the address. Figure this is as good a time as any to investigate."

"Not concerned about waking up the inhabitants?"

"I'd rather wake them than approach while they are awake and allow them time to prepare."

Brett agreed. They returned to his vehicle and made the ten minute drive past the outskirts of town. The streetlights thinned then disappeared altogether.
The narrow road had deep ditches on either side. A sleepy driver's nightmare. Jack glanced over at Brett. The man seemed alert and awake enough, despite
the journey from New York. They had both been trained to operate in any condition, and to function without sleep.

"That's the place," Jack said.

Brett drove by and they confirmed the address on the mailbox. Use of a GPS had been out of the question. Someone could be monitoring the address. As soon
as they plugged it in, it would alert the agency to their location.

A few hundred feet past the house, Brett cut the headlights and did a three-point turn that left the front and rear of the vehicle hanging over the
ditches. The tires remained firmly entrenched on the asphalt the whole time. They drove past the house again, parked after a hundred feet, then got out.

Both men drew their pistols as they crossed the street. Pine groves lined either side of the driveway. They cut through the woods, using them to conceal
their presence in the event that the house had security cameras. Considering the possible identity of the owner, cameras were the least of Jack's concern.

They continued under the pine canopy until they were a few feet past the house, next to the garage. There was no side door as Jack had hoped.

"Let's continue around back," he said.

Brett took the lead. They crossed at the rear corner then located a sliding door at the halfway point. It was locked. Brett shined a light inside. The
track was not secured. Brett began rocking the glass door until the latch snapped.

They stepped into the narrow rectangular room.

"Empty," Brett said as he shone his light from corner to corner.

A hallway led them to the kitchen. The appliances were missing. There was no table. Jack opened the cabinets. No plates. No spices or food or utensils.

"Place is deserted," Brett said. "You're sure this is the right address?"

Jack nodded and left the kitchen. "Let's check the whole place."

Room by room, they investigated and found nothing. The dust and cobwebs indicated that the place had been empty for some time.

"Garage," Jack said.

They headed back toward the kitchen. A door in the hallway led to the single car garage. As they entered, Jack noted it smelled like the outdoors. If a car
had ever been kept inside, it had been a long time since.

Brett panned the light around the room. In the corner were three dirt-caked shovels. Jack picked one up. He scratched at the dirt. It was dry and flaked
off in chunks.

"Been a while since these were used," he said.

"Perhaps we should search the backyard for buried treasure." Brett flashed a smile.

"Or a body."

Brett shrugged. "Guess that's possible, too."

Jack glanced down and saw what had once been muddy boot prints tracked from the shovels to the hallway door. Brett might not have been that far off about
something being buried after all. If someone had been gardening or doing lawn work, why not enter and exit through the garage door?

"We'll check back there. First, I want to go into the attic."

They returned to the hallway. Halfway down was the attic opening, covered with a piece of wood. Jack jumped up and pushed it out of the way. Then he jumped
again, grabbing either side, and pulled himself up into the opening. Brett handed up the flashlight. Jack panned around the attic, which was more spacious
than he would have guessed. And in the corner, he saw a rack lined with folders.

"And there it is."

Queens, New York.

THE SEWER SMELLED exactly as Paolo had expected. To associate filth with freedom was quite a stretch, but he'd take it. And he was sure Essie would,
too. He'd taken a chance and made contact with one of the guards at the compound. The guy was a secret loyalist. He did what Charles said because he needed
a paycheck. But if and when the time came, he'd be the first to switch sides.