Noble Intentions: Season Three (9 page)

“So, great, you’re a hero. You
saved the world. You cleaned up your mess. How does that get you to London?
What does it have to do with Walloway?”

Jack stared ahead. He hadn’t been
paying attention to the route they had taken and wasn’t sure where he was. The
cityscape had turned into a quickly diminishing suburban setting. A densely
forested area was ahead. He shifted in his seat, looked between Mason and the
road.

He said, “I had a chance encounter
with him in Monte Carlo.”

“What were you doing in Monte
Carlo?”

“Killing time.” Jack paused for
further questioning. When there was none, he continued. “I ran into Dottie
there. It had been more than a few years since we last worked together. I bought
her a drink. Walloway comes up and makes a scene. Total hothead. I ran into him
again that night, him and his guys.”

“You kill any of them?”

Jack said nothing.

“Right, OK. So what else?”

“Who says there’s more?”

“I get that you and he have a
history. But it doesn’t jive that you’d risk everything to come over here just
based on that. You said yourself, you’re done, retired.”

“He lit into Dottie that night. She
spent a month in the hospital. He bought off the courts down there and got off
scot-free. That is, minus the time he spent in jail.”

“Ah, so she reached out to you and
asked you to take him out.” Mason turned his head and made eye contact with
Jack and added, “Don’t reply to that.”

Jack didn’t. He kept his mouth
shut, his eyes open. The car started to slow. Up ahead he saw a clearing on the
right that led to a gravel road or driveway. The vehicle continued to
decelerate, then turned onto the path. Neither man said anything as the car
dipped and bounced and swayed left to right and back again. Finally, the sedan
rolled to a stop and Mason put it in park.

“Here’s the deal, Jack—”

“I’m armed, Mason. You might shoot
me first, you might not. But before you do anything, take into consideration
the fact that I have two Browning HP pistols on me, both locked and loaded.”

Through his laughter, Mason said,
“You think I brought you out here to kill you?”

Mason’s upturned, squinted eyes and
full-on belly laugh set Jack at ease.

“Just being cautious,” Jack said.

Mason took a moment to compose
himself, exhaled with a high pitched
whew
. “I’m here because I wanted to
find out your intentions toward Walloway and to tell you that we want you to
take him out. We’ll pay you two-hundred thousand euros over whatever Dottie is
paying you.”

Dottie wasn’t paying him anything. Jack
had taken the job for personal reasons. That would not prevent him from taking
money from the British government, though.

“So why’d you stop me back there. I
had him. He was alone in that store with one, maybe two employees.”

“We know when we want it done.
There’s going to be a meeting.”

“MI5,” Jack said. “You’re
counter-terrorism, right?”

Mason nodded, a singular and
decisive movement.

“So that means…?”

Another singular and decisive nod
of Mason’s head confirmed that Thornton Walloway was involved with some bad
men.

“And this meeting, there’ll be
others there you want taken out?”

“Not necessarily,” Mason said. “We
want them scared. We want them to know that we know about them. “

“So that’s why you need me.
Walloway is the only target. The hit won’t be from a distance, though, so the
shooter has to get close. Close enough that he might be spotted. And you can’t
have one of your operators being seen at the hit. But being close is going to
put me in a precarious position. Others might die.”

Again, a single nod. No words
spoken.

Jack understood. They had enough on
Walloway to justify it, but not the others. If Jack had to kill them, so be it.

The heavy odor of wood smoke had
filled the car. Jack’s gaze drifted, darting around the surrounding forest. Odd
shadows spiked his awareness. He still didn’t know if he could trust Mason. Why
did they have to come out here to discuss this? How close was the nearest
person or house? He’d noticed several driveways after they passed the last
neighborhood. Someone was probably close enough that any gunfire would be
heard. Would it be unusual, though? Did people in England hunt? Of course they
did. But did they hunt here, in these woods?

“Open the glove box,” Mason said,
breaking the silence that had lingered the way wood smoke hovered in the leafy
canopy covering them.

Jack slid his hand along the pitted
dash until he found the latch. The glove box door dropped open. Inside was a
Beretta M9, Jack’s preferred handgun. He pulled the weapon out, inspected it.

“The Browning HP’s nice and all,
but if you need to fire more than one shot, you’re damn dead, mate. That’s a
real pistol there.”

Jack nodded his agreement.

“There’s a silencer and spare
magazine in there too.”

Jack reached in and placed his hand
on the silencer. He threaded it on the end of the barrel. He pulled the spare
magazine out, then closed the glove box.

“OK,” Mason said. “Now get out.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Out. I’ll be in
touch soon.”

“I have no idea where I am. Got no
car.”

“A man is going to be along with
your car shortly. They left just after we did.”

How many had there been following
him? Jack placed his hand on the door handle, hesitated.

“Go on, Jack. Do you really think
I’d leave you here to be ambushed after giving you a weapon?”

The sound of tires crunching and
spitting out gravel roared from behind. Jack craned his neck and saw the Fiat
approaching.

Mason held out his arms. “Happy?”

Jack nodded, opened the door,
stepped out.

Mason’s car roared to life and
pulled away and stopped fifty feet from the road. The Fiat pulled up next to
Jack. A man hopped out, pushed past Jack and ran to Mason’s car. The guy got in
and took the seat Jack had occupied. The sedan started forward, hurling gravel
in its wake.

Jack found himself alone with the
Fiat in the middle of nowhere.

Naseer drummed the fingers of his
left hand in a rhythmic pattern along the edge of his desk. One, two, three,
four, pause. Over and over again, his fingertips repeated the beat.

Thornton was fifteen minutes late
for their meeting. Naseer had little patience for tardiness, but today he did
not allow it to upset him. He did not wait patiently or impatiently. He was
neither calm nor anxious. He just was.

And he continued to be.

His feet rested on the corner of
the antique desk that had cost him several thousand dollars. The desk had a
history, but Naseer didn’t know it. He paid little attention to the man who
rattled off names of people who had some prominence in history. The desk had
the look that Naseer wanted. Visitors often commented on it, too. That was what
really mattered to Naseer. That and the fact that the big, bold piece of
furniture immediately put him in a position of power, something he found
helpful, most of the time.

Not that he needed help in that
area.

In addition to his money, of which
he had plenty, he had forces that would carry out any command he ordered, and
with nothing more than a phone call. Anywhere in the world, anytime he wanted.

Walloway brought something new to
the table. He had the money to match Naseer’s wealth. He also had contacts that
Naseer couldn’t touch. Important people in industry and the government. For
that, he’d put up with the man longer than the guy’s personality and attitude
warranted. Lately, he’d grown tired of Walloway’s demands and incessant
narcissism.

The still image on the security
monitor on his desk came to life. One of his men walked down the hall toward
Naseer’s office. The guy stopped in front of the office door. Naseer waited for
the knock on the door, then he pressed the button that controlled the lock and
said, “Enter.”

Samir walked into the office, cast
aside formalities. “He’s here. Him and one of his guys.”

“Which one? Bodyguard?”

“Maybe.”

“How is he?”

“He’s a prick, as usual. Seems
hopped up a bit.”

“How so?”

“Going on about how he shouldn’t
have to wait.”

Naseer placed his hand over the
computer mouse and guided the pointer to a thumbnail image below the footage of
the hallway. He clicked the small square and the feed switched to the lobby. He
saw Walloway standing, back against the wall, right arm over his left, left leg
crossed over his right. His cheeks looked red. His eyes were narrow. Naseer
thought the man looked like an angry little troll.

“Naseer? Should I bring him back?”

“Yes. Only him though, not his
mate.”

“Very well.” Samir took a step
back, turned, closed the door behind him as he left Naseer’s office.

Naseer switched the main screen
footage back to the hallway outside his office and he unchecked the box that
muted the sound. If Walloway decided to fuss and bitch on the way, he’d know.

Feeling the need to ensure his own
protection, Naseer slid open the top left desk drawer. It squeaked as the bent
slides scraped against one another. He pulled out a titanium case, opened it,
retrieved his Heckler & Koch MARK 23. He secured the suppressor and tested
the laser sights. If he had to use it, it would be both silent and accurate.

Naseer owned several expensive
firearms. Behind him, mounted on a shelf, was a Pfeifer-Zeliska .600 Nitro
Express Magnum. He’d fired it once and it had nearly knocked him off his feet.
The gun was made for hunting elephants. It had cost him close to
twenty-thousand dollars. A pittance for a man of his stature. Locked up in a
safe was a silver plated P-38 made by Walther that he’d paid over one million
dollars for at auction. He’d never fired that one.

He didn’t need an expensive weapon
when it came to his personal defense. He required power and carnage. The MARK
23 was more than capable of providing both.

Walloway and Samir appeared on the
monitor. Through hidden desk speakers, Naseer heard Walloway’s hard soled shoes
reverberate off the hardwood floor. He shifted the MARK 23 to his left hand,
grabbed the mouse and clicked the mute box. He figured it would be best to
conceal his weapon, so he slid the middle desk drawer out a half-foot and
placed the handgun inside. Easy enough for him to retrieve, if necessary.

There was a sharp rap at the door.
Large knuckles struck three times in rapid succession.

Naseer reached under his desk,
pressed a button. A click from across the room signaled that the door had been
unlocked. The knob turned, the door swung open. Samir stepped inside. He
extended his arm and ushered Walloway into the office. Walloway walked toward
Naseer’s desk, stopped, extended his hand.

Naseer declined to take the man’s
hand. Instead he pointed at a chair and said, “Sit.”

Walloway fell back into the chair,
crossed his right leg over his left. “What’s this all about?”

“They are ready to meet with you,”
Naseer said.

“Who?”

“My people.”

“If they are your people, why the
hell do
I
have to meet with them?”

Naseer sat back, smiled. He
rhythmically tapped his fingers on the ledge of the open drawer that held his
handgun. The weathered wood there felt like sandpaper. Thornton Walloway had
become more of a pain than he was worth. Naseer had the money to fund this
entire operation. But he needed a patsy. He planned for Walloway to be that
guy. The man had money, a need to fit in, and a lack of common sense. However,
Naseer began to doubt he could deal with the man much longer.

“I say that only in a sense of the
word, Thornton. These are people I have done business with in the past. They
have reached out to me. They are willing to do business with you. You want to
work with me, and therefore, with them. Only thing is, they want to meet you
first.”

“Yeah, whatever. When?”

“Tomorrow morning at eight.”

“You had me come out here to tell
me to meet again tomorrow morning?”

Naseer smiled, said nothing.
Everything was a power play.

Walloway’s cheeks turned red. “I’m
beginning to wonder what you even bring to the damn table, Naseer. It’s my
money being used. My contacts that are going to get the right people to look
the other way. My guys that are going to be doing the heavy lifting.”

“If you want out, the door’s right
there.” Naseer extended his arm, pointed at the door. “We’ll get by with or
without you.”

Walloway’s entire face reddened. He
forced air in and out of his wide nostrils. A wheezing sound emanated from his
throat. He sat still, hands gripping the padded leather chair arms.

“OK, then. I’ll call later with the
location of the meeting.”

“One more thing,” Thornton said.

“What’s that?”

“Jack Noble. You turn anything up
on that?”

Naseer nodded.

“Well?” Thornton said, arms out,
palms planted on the desk, their heat forming a ring of condensation around his
hand.

“He’s here to kill you.”

Jack drove for an hour before he
finally made the decision to turn on the GPS. The navigation system confirmed
that he had been traveling in the right direction. He was only a few miles from
Dottie’s house. He didn’t plan on returning there, but he wanted a hotel close
enough that he could get to her in a few minutes if necessary.

The time Jack had spent lost did
him some good. Things had happened so fast that he hadn’t had time to formulate
his own plan. He had expected he’d have time to perform some reconnaissance and
map out the hit ahead of time. While not one to step out of the way of
opportunity when it presented itself, attempting to take advantage of the
situation outside the tailor’s shop had been out of character. There were too
many things that could have gone wrong. At the time he’d been pissed at Mason
for interfering. Now he knew the man had done him a favor. If Jack had pulled
off the hit, he might now be sitting on a metal bench, shackled and confined in
a nine by nine cell.