Noble Intentions: Season Four (12 page)

As it turned out, Noble discovered the sham behind the operation, and saved Brett's life.

Word was that Noble also removed the politician from office, though the rest of the world thought the guy had a coronary.

And now, as fate would have it, Brett Taylor stared at the face of the man who had risked everything to save Brett back in 2007.

That was why he hesitated. Brett hadn't known it at the time, but he was not forceful in acquiring the USB drive from Ballard, nor did he open it
immediately, because somehow, someway, he knew Noble was the target.

A professional killer undergoing a crisis of morality leads the assassin on a path that results in no death other than his own.

The words had been spoken by Brett's mentor a hundred times. If faced with a situation where he felt he couldn't complete the job, for whatever reason, he
had to back down. Once the thought was in place, there was no avoiding the negative consequences associated with it. If he continued, Brett would be
looking over his shoulder and questioning whether being involved was the right thing to do.

Not a good scenario in light of the executions the shadowy side of the government had been ordering.

Brett knew if he turned down the job after seeing the details, he could count on some like him paying a visit.

Either way, he was fucked.

"Get it together," he muttered.

He set Jack's photo off to the side and leafed through the documents. They listed Noble's last known location.

New York.

Where he'd been previously.

London.

Who he'd worked with while there.

Both MI5 and MI6.

There was mention of the British Prime Minister. It detailed the previous five years, a life of working for the highest bidder, answering to the dollar,
not any sense of higher purpose. Not until the past year, when Jack reacquainted himself working with, not for, the SIS. Classified documents detailed how
Noble helped orchestrate the take-down of a Russian government-backed terrorist cell, and a corrupt General named Ivanov, who was involved in operations
top to bottom.

A long pull drained the beer bottle. Brett got up, trashed it, opened another, then carried it outside. The terrace faced west, overlooking an expanse of
concrete and asphalt. The modern day jungle. The sun hung low in the sky. Red, orange and purple spread across the horizon and painted the buildings. A
steady exhaust- and smog-laden breeze blew toward him. The bottle seemed to sweat in his hand. He placed it in a cup holder fixed to one of the chairs.

Leaning over the railing, he contemplated his next move. Jack Noble had spared his life. And why? Simply because Brett and his foster sister, Reese, had
given Noble their word. For that reason alone, the job could not be completed. But Brett couldn't turn it down for reasons he'd already considered.

He thought through the supporting documentation on the drive. The Jack Noble he knew and the one portrayed within the digital walls were not the same man.
Neither of them were choir boys, and Brett was aware of that. However, there was a line that was not to be crossed.

Noble had stepped over that line and left any semblance of moral code behind.

For that, his death could occur and it would not weigh on Brett one bit.

Bullshit.

Nothing Noble had done in the previous six or seven years could outweigh the debt Brett owed to the man. Further, there was evidence that the guy had in
some ways redeemed himself. When it came to it, he did right by his country.

The second bottle went down quicker than the first. Three or four more and he might feel the effects of the alcohol coursing through his system. Despite
that possibility, Brett re-entered the apartment and opened a third beer. Somewhere toward the bottom of it, he went back to the kitchen table and scrolled
through additional documents on the drive. The second half contained information on Noble's associates. The ones that had or might have inside knowledge of
the things that he had done with the SIS.

The first name was one Brett recalled. Riley Logan, the way Brett remembered him, was a mountain of a man, aptly nicknamed Bear. He'd been with Brett when
Joe Dunne's guys kidnapped him. At the time he thought they had killed Bear. They probably should have. The big man's current location was unknown. That
was the first problem. The second was that if Brett planned on drawing Noble out, using a six-six former spec ops soldier was a bad idea. Bear could, and
would, take care of himself. And he'd have no qualms removing Brett from the picture if presented with danger.

Moving on, he came across a few pages dedicated to Clarissa Abbot. Noble had served under her father while in the Marines as part of a special assignment
working alongside CIA operatives. After Clarissa's father's death, Jack looked out for her. The timeline turned murky about a year ago. Clarissa had made a
transition in her life, but it wasn't obvious as to what. Something had been in print, but later redacted from the file. Brett made a note to follow up and
find out what she was involved in. If it was tending bar, there'd be no reason to hide her current location. It wasn't like Bear's file, where they didn't
know. Someone knew, but wouldn't reveal the information. As far as Brett was concerned, Noble already had an affinity for looking out for the woman. All
Brett had to do was place her in harm's way, and Jack would come calling.

Next, he read through the file of a woman named Sasha Kirby, a top agent within MI6 on the fast-track to a director's position. Jack worked closely with
her for a few months while in London. She'd attempted to remain in contact with him after he returned to New York. Phone records indicated that the
requests were not reciprocated. Sasha made for a bad potential target at this stage. While being on the list made her susceptible to termination, using her
to draw Noble out would likely land Brett in a UK prison. Not ideal.

When he moved to the next target, a lump rose in Brett's throat and his gut tightened. He'd thought Clarissa was the obvious answer. She wasn't. But could
Brett really engage this target? Could he hold them for the time it would take to involve Noble?

He set the file down, finished the beer and grabbed another. It wasn't until the bottle was empty that he made his decision.

It had to be done.

Brett's life was more valuable than Jack's, and anyone else in the file.

The job was on.

And Jack Noble's child and her mother were the way to draw Jack Noble out.

And off his game.

New York City.

THE ORANGE GLOW rose up from the concrete horizon and expanded to the east and west, passing through the expansive windows, illuminating and tinting
Charles's office.

Between working his contacts in the FBI and New York State Police - and wasting minutes staring out the window looking for Feds watching him - Charles had
accomplished little during the daylight hours. And that was why, at nine-thirty in the evening on a Friday night, he sat behind the overbearing mahogany
desk, in his office, across the street from Washington Square Park.

He hadn't managed to swing by the Queens compound that afternoon. The task had become an afternoon ritual. Check up on the locals. He supposed no one there
missed his overbearing presence. When he called Trevino for an update, all he received were questions from the captain about the three missing men:
Endrizzi, Milano, and Paolo. Charles played coy, telling Trevino that they must've taken a trip to one of the reservation casinos. Best to stick to one
story, and this one placed the trio upstate. Trevino had no further response. Perhaps he knew something, and held back. It'd come out in time if he had.

Similar calls took place through the late afternoon and early evening. Charles cemented the casino story with everyone he spoke to, leaving enough doubt to
keep them from prying into what had really happened that night. Hell, he remained unclear about that.

Rising from his chair after placing a sixth unanswered call to Detective Harris, Charles turned toward the panoramic window looking out over the park and
toward high-rise buildings of Upper Manhattan. Lovers lingered on benches. Shadows darted past the fountain and disappeared under the dark green canopy.
Cars drifted past on the road. Didn't matter what time of day or night, traffic was always present. At least the sounds of horns and engines couldn't
filter in through the windows. Foot traffic flowed along the sidewalks.

He focused on anyone who remained stationary. Of the half-dozen he saw, none stared back at him, or toward the building's entrance. At least, not anyone
visible. Perhaps the need had gone. They'd spotted him leaving the building and later returning to it. There wasn't much else to piece together. Didn't
matter what agency the guy watching him talk to Harris worked for.

For all Charles knew, they could be standing outside his door at that moment. He'd sent his assistants home early, and the hired guns didn't hang around
much longer. Their contract stated nine to five, and they abided by it. When Charles raised a concern, they said something about unions and walked out.
After that, he had considered bringing in someone from the organization, maybe rotating a couple trusted guys. Problem was he couldn't trust anyone enough
at this stage to have them protect him while he sat behind closed doors. There was still dissent remaining since Feng's assassination, though they'd purged
the vocal minority already. But that didn't mean all who were opposed were gone. Bring the wrong guy into the office, and it could be a bullet or iron bars
in Charles's future.

Standing in front of the mirror, he dialed the detective again. The previous calls had been made from the office line. Perhaps Harris had ignored them
because he hadn't recognized the number. Ten rings later, that theory was bunked.

"Where are you, Harris?" Charles walked past his desk, toward the washroom. Halfway there, he noticed a shift in the light under the office door. Movement.
Charles stopped, turned. Shadows now blocked half the light passing underneath. He took a step back, toward his desk, where he knelt down for a clearer
view.

Six shoes. Three men. Outside his office.

One rapped on the door.

Charles rose, took another step back, said nothing. He reached down with his right hand and slid open the upper desk drawer. It housed his Glock 21. .45
caliber. One shot. One man. Stopped dead. Repeat two more times before they got to him and call it a day. He gripped the pistol tight, brought it up and
aimed it at the door.

Another knock, three hard raps, this time followed by a guy calling out, "We know you're in there, DeCosta. Open up. We just want to talk."

Spoken like a true Fed.

One of them had to be the Fed Charles saw outside at the park. Maybe the others had been there, too. Christ, what if there had been four? Had they followed
Harris after the meeting? The detective would roll over on Charles faster than a cheap hooker. Shit, he thought, what if one of them standing there now
was
Harris?

Charles's office had no other way out. Only option was through the door now blocked by the three men. Past that point, there was a second means of egress.
When he leased the place, he figured that the worst-case scenario he'd face would be someone out in the main hallway. The security measures he had put in
place should've prevented the men from reaching his office door. Someone had screwed up and left the main entrance unlocked.

Or the guys had a warrant and building management had let them in.

"Come on, DeCosta," the guy said. "Don't make this any harder than it has to be."

Charles slid the monitor on his desk to the far right, leaving him with a clear view of the door, then he sat down. Reaching underneath the desk, he pushed
wires out of the way and then pressed a button. The door unlocked. The three men could enter, but on Charles's terms. And at a distance.

"It's open."

The door cracked an inch. A thickening bar of light flooded across the floor, washed over his desk. One man moved forward and stepped into the office. The
other two men hung behind. At first glance, Charles recognized none of them as the guy he had spotted in the park.

"Who the fuck're you?" Charles kept the pistol underneath the desktop, aimed at the lead man. A single shot would all but amputate the guy's leg at the
knee.

The man stepped forward until the remaining natural light washed over him. Close cropped gray hair framed a slender, chiseled face. He had the frame to
match. The pockets of his dark cargo pants looked empty. He held nothing in his hands. Nothing bulged from his shirt. Either his pistol was tucked behind
his back, or he trusted the other two men with his life.

Charles shifted his focus from the older man to the two guys flanking him. Carbon copies, only younger. The men didn't look like Feds. No, they were
mercenaries.

Charles repeated his question.

"May I sit down?" the man said.

"Only after you tell me who you are."

"Name's Merrick."

"Means nothing to me."

"That's a good thing, Mr. DeCosta. Believe me, it is." The man exuded confidence in a quiet way. Reminded Charles of the older guys who were staples in
Feng's organization during Charles's early years.

"It's Mister now, is it?" Charles lifted his left hand abruptly, testing the three guys. The men didn't flinch. Charles continued. "And who are you with,
Mr. Merrick?"

"Me? I'm not with who I used to be anymore. I'm sort of a nobody to most. A somebody to many others. Some think I'm retired. Others assume I work for the
highest bidder. It is true that I retired for a while, but sitting around didn't suit me. So, I'm dabbling again."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Charles shifted in his seat.

"Is it all right if I sit down now?"

"Send them outta the office."

Merrick turned, spoke softly to the two younger men. They nodded and then disappeared. A few moments later, the outer door opened and fell shut.