Never Go Home (28 page)

Butch Monaco
looked at every man in turn. The blank stares returned to him said more than
words ever could. None of them wanted to be there that day. Hell, even Butch
had a knot in his stomach. Up till this point, the purpose of the meeting had
been left unstated. Too many words led to too many trails which led to people
in Butch’s position being sentenced to life in prison or death by firing squad,
if you lived in the right state. The rest got the chair or an lethal dose
injected into them. They go to sleep, never to wake. And if he were honest with
himself, he’d admit that every man in the room deserved it.

So the meeting
had been arranged in a private manner. The only guy Butch trusted, Waldron,
went man to man, speaking in a code that only twelve people knew. He found all
of them, minus one, Goetz, who had disappeared four years ago and hadn’t been
heard from since.

Like the
previous meeting in Aspen, there would be no documentation. Nothing would be
recorded. And every man in the room would deny ever having been in Colorado
that day. What need was there? They all knew that it had to be done, and they
were the only ones who could sanction it.

And what was
the purpose of the meeting Butch Monaco held that day? The organization they
had formed over twenty years ago had to be shut down.

And to do so,
secrets had to be eliminated. The men who held those secrets, at least the ones
outside of the room, had to die.

Butch drummed
the fingers of his right hand on the table, tips to pads to knuckle, growing in
intensity. Chatter died down like the tail end of rolling thunder. When all
eyes were on him, Butch took a sip from his glass of water, then set it down near
the edge of the table. Condensation ringed the bottom. Enough vibration, and it
might carry the glass over the side.

Rising, Butch
addressed the group. “In 1991, eleven of us met in this same exact room. That
meeting, like today’s, was unprecedented, unsanctioned, unrecorded, and never
happened.”

The five men
who had been there twenty-two years ago smiled.

The others
glanced around the room. Two shrugged. One lifted an eyebrow. The other two
remained stoic. They all knew the outcome. None of them knew the story of how
it started.

Butch
continued. “We all know what we did that day. We might describe it in different
ways, depending on who we’re speaking with. I’m sure there are those who
consider us prognosticators, considering that we were ahead of the rest of
Washington and every intelligence agency in so many ways. I know I consider us
the original Homeland Security. A decade ahead of our time.”

A man named
Davinski chuckled. Butch cut right through him with a cross look. Davinski
brought a fist up and coughed into it. His cheeks puffed out and his face
turned red.

“What we
created, our own police force that could operate anywhere, anytime, and without
scrutiny, was a beautiful thing twenty some years ago. Hell, most people, even
high ranking, never even heard of our baby. We dodged some bullets, of course,
but for the most part, over two long decades, it operated flawlessly. Then, a
few months ago some intelligence fell into the wrong hands. Possibly through
the aide of someone in this organization. We know of at least one agent who was
working for the other side. She’s dead now.  But there could be more. On
its own, this is not the issue, for we’ve dealt with such things in the past.
This group has been great at policing itself, and we’ve used them for it. But
this time, it goes too high. It is above all of you. Above me. Someone, and I
can’t name who, has ordered this thing shut down, or it will be us who’ll pay
the price.”

The man seated
at the opposite end of the table lifted his hand in the air. Butch stared him
down for a few seconds. Said, “Name?”

The guy rose.
“Ballard, sir. Joe Ballard.”

“You’ve got a
comment, or a question?”

Ballard ran his
right hand through his short black hair. Flecks of silver caught the sunlight
coming in through the panoramic window behind him. “What if one of us were to
object to what you’re proposing?”

“Then you won’t
leave Aspen alive.”

The guy
straightened, held his left hand out in front, fingers splayed. “So you’re
saying that—”

“Shut up,
Ballard, and listen to me. There is no choice here. We are not taking a vote.
And what’s more, you don’t have a say in this thing. The SIS is being shut
down, and all members, current and former are to be eliminated. That clear?”

Ballard said,
“Crystal, sir.”

Butch waited
for the guy to sit back down. Then he picked up a folder on the table to his
right. Inside were a dozen copies of the same information. He handed five to
his right, six to his left. The men each kept one and passed the rest
down.

“First, these
are to be handed back to me in a minute.”

“What’s the
point then?” Davinski said.

“The point is
that I want you all to look over this list and tell me if you object to
any of the names on it.”

“There’s gotta
be fifty names here.”

Butch hiked his
shoulders an inch, and said, “And?”

Davinski had no
response. His gaze, like the gazes of all the men in the room, shifted to the
paper. Their eyes moved right to left repeatedly as they read the names to
themselves. Butch felt his stomach tighten even more. He knew the five men who
had been in the original meeting would not speak up. This was part of the
weeding out process. Any man who objected could be a man who might leak what
they planned to do. And a guy who would do that needed to be dealt with
immediately.

At the other
end of the table, one man lifted his hand.

“Yeah,
Ballard?” Butch said.

“I know a name
on here.”

“Who?”

“Jack Noble.”

“And do you object
to Mr. Noble being on that list?”

Ballard looked
down at the paper. The guy fidgeted, tapping his thumb against the table. He
glanced up at Butch.

“Well?” Butch
said.

“No. I knew him
from the Marines is all. I have no objection to him being on this list.”

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Jack Noble Series
in Order
Noble
Beginnings
A
Deadly Distance
Noble
Intentions Season One
Noble
Intentions Season Two
Noble
Intentions Season Three
Never Go Home (this book)
Untitled (Clarissa Abbot) - Coming October, 2013
Noble Intentions Season Four - Coming December, 2013

Mitch Tanner
Series
The
Depth of Darkness
Untitled (Mitch Tanner 2) – Coming November, 2013
Untitled (Mitch Tanner 3) – Coming January, 2014

Affliction Z
Series
Affliction
Z: Patient Zero
Affliction
Z: Abandoned Hope
Affliction Z: Book Three – Coming March/April, 2013

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General Edward Lawrence Logan
International Airport. Logan International for short. Adjacent to East Boston
and the Boston Harbor. Six runways, and over one hundred gates divided among
four terminals. All located on twenty-four hundred acres.

Nearly thirty million people passed
through those gates each year. Business, pleasure, returning home, going home,
and some who fly for the hell of it because they can.

Clarissa Abbot, one of those thirty
million passengers, had no choice in the matter. She departed the 777,
proceeded through the hot and humid jetway, and walked out into the open gate
adorned with blue and white striped seats, and manned by three disinterested
airline employees, because Sinclair, her boss, told her to do so.

Or suffer consequences that brought
out words such as ‘fatal,’ ‘dismemberment,’ and ‘never to be found again.’

Sinclair hadn’t told her who would
carry out the acts. She had no reason to ask. Clarissa knew. They had people in
their employ that could do such things without batting an eye, and without
leaving a shred of evidence behind. These were the kind of men who didn’t care
who it was they were terminating. The lived for their jobs. They got antsy when
they went two long without cleaning a scene, or ridding the world of a bad
seed.

Had she become one?

In both her heart and her head, she
didn’t think so. Clarissa had done everything she’d been asked. Relationships
that meant the world to her at one time were now fading memories, like a paper
boat placed on the water as the tide headed out. Whether those relationships
drifted away, or sunk into the abyss, she had no idea, and it did not matter.

Neither did her last assignment.
Forget
it now, Clarissa
. Those had been Sinclair’s final words to her while she
worked frantically to eliminate evidence in her room in London. Clarissa
destroyed all her belongings, including her cell phone and laptop, in the
compound’s incinerator. She left with the clothes on her back, a few thousand
in cash, and a passport with a false identity. She boarded the plane and
departed from Heathrow shortly after nine in the morning. Her flight flew back
in time and arrived noon Eastern.

Her gate was located at the end of
the terminal. Glancing back, a wide window offered a panoramic view of a
runway. A plane, she couldn’t tell what style, lifted off. Dust and dirt and
exhaust swirled in two sideways mini-tornadoes. She turned her attention
forward. A sparse crowd walked away from her, down the hall that split the terminal
in two. She joined the other travelers, attempting to blend in. Not an easy
task for a woman like her. She was tall. Her dark red hair, pale skin, and
looks drew the eyes and attention of most men and some women. Hatred, scorn,
lust, curiosity. She saw it all.

She didn’t fear them, though. Her
concern laid in the fact that Sinclair had provided no further instructions to
her to follow after departing the plane. Unfamiliar faces turned into potential
enemies. Throughout her time in Sinclair’s group, she had been exposed to few
of the members. It had been in her best interest, he’d said. The fewer people
that knew her, the better off she would be.

You never know
, he had told
her,
who might turn on you
.

Would Sinclair? Better yet, had he?

A pair of dark eyes fixed their
gaze on her. Eyebrows flexed down. The man’s face was cut from steel, handsome,
and covered with four days’ growth. His black hair was adorned with flecks of
silver. He wore a dark suit and no tie. He left the top two buttons of his
white pinstripe shirt unbuttoned.

She had no recollection of ever
seeing or meeting the man. He stared at her like they’d been lovers the night
before.

Clarissa kept her stride at an even
pace. She didn’t deviate to the left or the right. She couldn’t. There was no
room to either side. She stayed true on a path that led her right past the man.

He glanced over her head. She
resisted the urge to look back. His focus shifted from above, to the left, to
the right, then back on her. She watched as his right hand slipped into his
pocket. He couldn’t have traveled this far through the airport with a weapon.
Even something as discreet as a ceramic knife would have been spotted in the
new imaging machines they had installed at the security checkpoint.

He pulled a black cylinder from his
pocket. Maybe two or three inches in length. Before she could identify the
object, he’d tucked it in his palm and passed it off to his other hand. His
fingers wrapped around it.

The guy took a step forward. A
couple walking along the outer edges of the corridor took two steps in. The man
nodded, flashed a smile, and merged into the line. He was three paces in front
of her. She glanced down at his shoes. They looked expensive. The soles were
hard and thick. The uppers made from leather. A lot of the guys paid for custom
shoes, she’d heard. They wanted comfort, the ability to kick ass, and to look
good.

The man slowed his pace. He took a
step and a half for every two Clarissa made. She saw the object in his left
hand. They were almost side by side. He glanced over his shoulder, made eye
contact, smiled. They became even with each other. She matched his pace. They
stayed close to the outer edges of the walkway. His left hand permeated her
peripheral vision. She reached for it with her right. They continued on as if
they were a couple reunited after time spent away. Between their hands, the
cylinder pressed against both their palms.