Noble Intentions: Season Four (11 page)

Ithaca, however, wasn't. And Charles had a team in Buffalo. A small group, for sure. But that didn't matter. They could be at Esmeralda's in half an hour.
And they were all killers.

He grabbed the portable off the wall and called the hospital.

"How're you feeling?" Esmeralda asked him.

"I've been better."

"Are you going to walk up here, or would you like me to come get you?"

"Surely you've seen this done enough times you can put a few stitches in me."

"I can, but you're going to look like a medical experiment gone wrong with the scarring it'll leave behind."

He glanced at his reflection in the microwave's mirrored surface. Scarring was inevitable. "I don't care about that." And he didn't. The desire to run,
disappear drove his thoughts and actions now. The sooner he could go, the better.

"OK, fine," she said. "I'll do it. But I don't want any shit from you later down the road. Got it?"

"Yeah." He paused a beat. "Can you come home early, Essie?"

"I'm supposed to be here until six."

"I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important."

Paolo had told his sister details about his life. She didn't know everything, such as how high up in the organization he was or the crimes perpetrated by
him or his underlings, but she had enough knowledge that the meaning behind his words should be evident to her.

"The mid-shift is at lunch right now," she said. "I'll leave as soon as they are back."

After Paolo hung up, he walked to the front of the house and split the blinds vertically with his thumb and forefinger. A sleepy street, oppressed by the
heat, stretched out before him. He repeated the process at the windows located on the side and back. Afterward, he walked through his sister's room and
into her closet. The small space overflowed with dresses, blouses, skirts, pants and scrubs. He pulled the clothes off the railing, revealing a blank
section of the back wall. Tapping, he located the upper seam of the cutout he'd had installed while she was on vacation a year earlier. He pushed on the
cover, rocking it back and forth, until the top seam split. With two fingers wedged into the slim opening, he tugged on the drywall cutout. It tore away
from the wall. Paolo reached into the dark space and located the LED light mounted to the top.

The cutout was two feet wide, and a foot high and deep. Inside were four passports, two 9mm pistols, a tactical knife with an ankle sheath, twenty-thousand
in cash, and the bankbooks to three domestic and two foreign banks.

The wise man is over-prepared, Paolo.

His father had said that weekly since Paolo was five or six years old. Didn't matter if they were hunting or fishing or woodworking or packing for
vacation. The words were ingrained. A mantra of sorts.

He pulled out the knife and a pistol, five thousand in cash, three passports, one of which had Esmeralda's photo in it, and one domestic and two foreign
bankbooks, including one for the Bank of Montreal.

On the closet floor was a duffel bag that contained a couple changes of Paolo's clothes. The kind of casual wear that would allow him to blend in anywhere.
He placed the items from the safe inside and carried the bag to the guest room.

Esmeralda arrived home a few minutes later. As she stitched his nose and forehead and attended to a cut on his upper arm, he filled her in on what had
happened, neglecting to mention that one of the men he'd slain in self-defense had been their brother-in-law. She'd find out in time. As she listened to
the retelling, her eyes glassed over. Mouth hung in a perpetual state of openness. Her breathing became erratic as the panic took hold.

But she performed the procedure as though on autopilot.

After she finished, Paolo poured her a drink and told her to stay away from the door while he showered and changed.

"Pack a bag," he said on his way toward the bathroom. "We might be leaving this evening."

Paris, France.

"GO WAIT IN that restaurant."

Bear pointed toward the little Italian place tucked in between a drug store and an apartment building. The door opened. The smell of pasta and pizza
flooded the sidewalk.

Mandy glared up at him, defiant. "I don't wanna. I'm staying with you."

Bear glanced across the street at the four-story building. The address he'd been given at the hospital led them here. Pierre's apartment was 3C. For all
Bear knew, Pierre owned the whole thing, and half of it was used for DSGE purposes.

"Look," he said. "I don't know what I'm gonna find when I walk into that building. I can't risk putting you into a dangerous situation. It's best you wait
inside. Have a drink. A slice of pizza. If I'm not back in fifteen minutes, you call for help."

"Why are you doing this?"

"I have to make sure this man is OK."

"Why, Bear? This isn't like you."

"Why are you questioning me, kid? Dammit. I ought to ship you off to one of those Swiss schools now and get you out of my hair." Pain knifed through his
chest and abdomen as he spit the words out.

Mandy's eyes misted over, she backed away.

"Mandy." He reached out. "I'm sorry."

"Whatever." She turned her back on him and entered the restaurant and took a seat at the counter. Bear stood three feet in front of the door, waiting, but
she never looked back.

After a minute, he turned and cut across the street. A call box hung near the freshly painted door. It looked as though his palm would come away red if he
pressed it against the door. The name next to 3C's button had faded to the point of being illegible. Bear reached for the front door, found it unlocked. He
took the stairs, three at a time, and stopped on the third floor landing. Did he smell the restaurant? Or was someone cooking Italian tonight? The
stairwell led to a short hallway with four doors, two on each side, labeled A, B, C, and D. He positioned himself in front of C and knocked three times.

A woman spoke from inside. The door muted her voice enough that he couldn't understand what she said. Nor could he tell if the voice he heard belonged to
Kat.

Bear knocked again, gently. Less intimidating. The C in the middle shimmied side-to-side with each rap against the solid-core door. Most of the brass
coating had worn off the placard.

A few moments later, the door pulled away, and dark wide eyes peered up at him. The kid stood about the height of the knob.

In French, Bear said, "I'm sorry to bother you at this hour. Is Pierre in?"

The kid said, "Pierre? There is no Pierre here."

His mother, presumably sensing something was not quite right, appeared. She looked to be early 40s, dark hair and features, heavyset. "Can I help you?"

Bear leaned back and verified this was the correct apartment. "I'm looking for an old friend of mine. Man named Pierre Allard. I was told he lived here."

"Perhaps he did," she said. "I only moved in a week ago." He spotted opened and unopened boxes lining the hallway behind her. She lifted her hand and
wagged a finger in front of her face. "But, perhaps I have something that will help. Please, come inside."

Too trusting, he thought, to invite a man his size inside. He followed the woman down the dim, narrow corridor, avoiding the containers in the way. Pasta
and tomato sauce saturated the air. One of his favorite dishes since he was a kid and his mother made the meal from scratch every Sunday using tomatoes
they grew in the side lot.

The woman led him to the kitchen. A tall silver pot boiled over and hissed when the water took on the burner's flames. Red tomato sauce bubbled, the
pockets of air bursting and flinging tiny drops of gravy.

She must've caught him staring at the food. "I can fix you a plate. It's almost ready."

Bear smiled and patted his stomach. "Appreciate the offer, but I really can't stay. I have someone waiting for me."

She shrugged, turned, and reached up for a book perched atop her baker's rack.

"They left this behind," she said, arm outstretched toward Bear.

"They?"

"I assume they were married or a couple." She pointed at the book. "Open. See."

Bear peeled back the front cover and leafed through dozens of pictures of Pierre and Kat. Some went back in time. Others were recent. Pierre in a hospital
bed, Kat at his side. His physical therapy. Kat at his side. Sitting at the dining table that Bear stood in front of. Again, Kat at Pierre's side. Perhaps
Kat had put the book together for Pierre for his homecoming, but they left it in the apartment after he'd decided to let the place go.

"And no idea where they went to?" he asked.

She shrugged, turned her palms upward. "Sorry. A broker found this place for me. Perhaps he knows?"

Bear reached the last page of the small album. A paper slipped out, previously held in place by the last page and the back cover. Bear reached down for it.

"I think I have all I need," he said, turning toward the front of the apartment.

She hurried after him. "Please, take this photo book. If you find them, I'm sure they'll want it back."

Bear accepted the book from her, then made his way down the stairwell, leaving behind the smell of Italy. He considered trashing the photos. For some
reason he didn't. As he pushed past the building's front door, his stomach tightened, refusing to relax until he spotted Mandy across the street.

Hurrying, he dodged traffic and entered the restaurant. Italy re-found, but only momentarily.

"Come on, we gotta go," he said.

"I'm not going anywhere," she said.

"What?"

"Not until you say you're sorry."

"Kid, I don't have time for this. We need to get to the train station."

Mandy spun back toward the counter, lowered her head and scooped another spoonful of vanilla ice cream into her mouth.

Bear took a deep breath, stepped forward, placed his large hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry, Mandy. Sometimes I get worked up when the situation is
intense. I'm working on it."

She turned her head to the left, angled upward at him. "Are you really going to ship me off to a boarding school?"

"Is that what you want?"

She shook her head.

"Then I won't."

She scooped one last bite of her ice cream, then hopped off the stool. "Where're we going?"

"Nice."

"What's there?"

"Pierre."

And Kat.

Washington, D.C.

BRETT LEFT THE USB drive on the kitchen table next to his laptop. He had walked in to his apartment, set it down, then rinsed off. For four hours the
drive and the computer remained on the table as though he had forgotten about them. Of course, he hadn't. And the files couldn't remain unopened for long.
Depending on the logistics of the job, two weeks might be plenty of time. Or it might not be enough.

Without looking at the target's information, he had already begun forming a plan. Ballard had mentioned it'd be wise to go after one of the target's
associates in an effort to draw the man out. A female, presumably, would be the best choice. Most men could not rebut their irrational side when a woman he
cared for was placed in a dangerous situation, whether real or perceived.

He turned to the evening news as a means of procrastination. They had nothing of note. Their versions of some events were off a hair. Most wouldn't know.
Nor would they accept the truth if it were presented to them.

Brett fixed a dinner of chicken and green beans, ate, then after clearing his plate, settled at the table again with a beer in hand. It was the first he'd
had in two weeks. The carbonation burned as the alcohol slid down his throat. He exhaled, took another pull.

Then he set the bottle down and powered on his computer. He checked the USB drive, first scanning it with a device aimed at detecting a bug or tracking
device. The drive was clean. He inserted it into the computer and began browsing the files, starting with the pictures.

It took a moment for his reaction.

"Son of a bitch."

The face staring back at him was one he knew. Not well, but the men had bled together, at one time, under the oddest of circumstances.

In 2007, Brett had been targeted for execution. The order had originated with a young Syrian terrorist cell leader living in France. Four years prior, the
man had been a college student studying in the U.S. He was also part of a sleeper cell at that time. Willing to give his life to kill innocent Americans in
a coordinated attack that never went down. Mostly thanks to the SIS. And as fate would have it, the guy responsible for expelling the terrorist would later
receive the order to terminate Brett.

But life, as it often does, had different plans for all three men.

The terrorist, Bashir al-Sharaa, rose to prominence in France in a short time. In twelve months he accomplished more than some do in five years. Not only
did he have a strong cell in place in Paris, but he had satellites and sleepers spread throughout Europe, and American expansion was well underway.

Brett at that time devoted ninety percent of his resources to tracking al-Sharaa down. The drive to bring him to justice consumed his life. He had
infiltrated al-Sharaa's group in Paris with an asset. Not only did she provide information about the Paris cell, she had mapped out a framework of the
operation, and had started to nail down the identity of the people al-Sharaa reported to. Nothing could be done until Brett had the information that led
him to the next level. Unfortunately the woman was murdered in broad daylight when she was on the verge of making the connection. Her sins had been
discovered. And Brett's involvement was known.

Al-Sharaa arranged with not one, but two separate contacts who had the reach and capability of assassinating a man like Brett. Both were almost successful.
One was an FBI agent who, oddly enough, had close ties with al-Sharaa and Brett. Joe Dunne had been married to Brett's foster sister, Reese McSweeney.
Dunne had also used al-Sharaa as an asset when the man was in the States as a student. The other to issue a hit was a politician who contracted the SIS,
and ultimately a man named Jack Noble, to handle the job.