Noble Intentions: Season Four (28 page)

"Where are you, Jack?" he asked the phone.

The answer was so obvious that Brett nearly slammed the device on the concrete once he realized it. With two fingers, he zoomed the map out, uncovering
more of the city.

And he found Jack's signal. Roughly seven miles from where he stood. A couple turns was all it would take to reach him. The end was in sight.

Johannesburg, South Africa.

HE HADN'T EXPECTED it to be so cool outside. Throughout his career, most of Jack's ops kept him in the Northern Hemisphere or around the equator. He'd
never traveled this far south except for a trip to Australia, but that had been years ago. As his skin pricked, he wondered why Frank's guys hadn't left
him with a coat or sweatshirt. He looked through the windows of the shops he passed, but it was useless unless he planned on walking out without paying.
And while he wasn't opposed to doing so at the moment, he had no weapon to handle any security guard that might come tailing after him. The only option was
to move faster.

The street buzzed with activity. Cars passed. Kids worked the corners for the dealers inside the buildings. Someone would walk or pull up and hand the kid
something. The kid, in turn, would set off on foot or on a bike, sometimes going to a visible building, other times heading around the corner. They'd
return and hand the waiting person a bag or a box or just shake their hand. Depended on the size of the order. If they got pinched, which Jack figured
didn't happen often because the dealers paid off the police, it'd be the kid taking the rap. And like most places, that wouldn't amount to much. Even if
they did some time in juvie, the dealer would see fit to help them out afterward.

Or not.

Jack continued on, watching the groups of guys hanging out on stoops as he passed. He made direct eye contact with each of them. A way of saying:
I know you're there, don't bother trying anything
. And no one did. On the one hand, he hoped someone would, for the chance they might have a
weapon on them. On the other, he still felt weak. His muscles still burned. And at times, he felt as though he didn't have complete control over his body.

The part he hated most was walking blind. Sure, he could see the street in front of him and all that occurred, but he had no idea where the hell he was
going. He knew where South Africa was on a map. He had a loose outline of Johannesburg stored in his brain. But there was no mental map of the city, and
certainly not of a slum called Hillbrow.

The further he walked, the nicer the area looked. Iron bars over windows gave way to curtains. Pawn shops turned into jewelry stores. With every area,
there's a demarcation point. A spot where things go from bad to good. The more urban the area, the shorter the transition. A million dollar renovated
townhome might be right next to one that houses twenty people living off government subsidies. Of course, it was all observation. Without any real clue
where he was, Jack couldn't be sure the area he walked through now was any better than where he had been ten minutes ago.

And when he saw the white vehicle slowing to a near stop, the window rolling down, the faces of two men who didn't belong in the neighborhood, the dark
barrel of the guy's pistol as he lifted it above the windowsill, Jack realized it didn't matter where he was.

They'd found him.

Trusting muscles that still burned and occasionally misfired, Jack sprinted forward. He heard the high-pitched whine of the small vehicle's engine ramping
up. Tires chirped as the car whipped around in a U-turn in the middle of the road.

Jack set his sights on a narrow alley, no more than twenty feet ahead. Close enough that he could hit it before the vehicle caught up to him. Without
looking back, he went all out, knees pumping, feet hitting the ground, propelling him forward. He cut right when he reached the alley. It was a blind turn.
With no idea what wait at the other end, he could have screwed himself by running into a dead end. The men wouldn't have to work hard to take him out.

He looked back as he made the turn. The car was close. The driver slammed on the brakes. Small spires of smoke rose around the tires as the brakes ground
the vehicle to a halt.

Ahead, Jack's worst fear was realized. The alley was a long corridor that led nowhere. It was walled in. He'd get to the end and scale the wall if he had
to. Let the men shoot him in the back. No way Jack would watch the bullet hit him.

A brick canyon rose around him. Footsteps echoed throughout. Theirs. His own. It didn't matter. The sound and the fear and his survival instinct propelled
him forward, sprinting toward the end of the corridor.

A shot rang out.

Jack tensed, but kept moving. He waited for the pain and the burn, the seared skin, the impact that would knock him off his feet. But it didn't come. Were
they toying with him? Sending a signal to stop? Maybe because he was really there to help?

Perhaps the shooter had he simply missed.

A second shot that missed by inches answered that question. They wanted Jack dead.

The corridor closed in on him as he approached the end of the alley. Nowhere else to go. Except up. Sixty feet, at least. Small brick, packed with mortar.
No real hand or foot holds. Absent the sound of gunfire, all he heard was the whooshing of his heart. He couldn't recall it ever beating so fast. The
explosion of energy and adrenaline, and the tranquilizer's lingering effects all competed against one another for the precious oxygen his blood
transported.

How had he not collapsed yet?

A third shot. It slammed into the wall above him, reducing brick and mortar into dust. It coated his hair and skin.

Jack glanced back. One man stood at the end of the alley, silhouetted against the sunlight. He hadn't advanced. The further away Jack was, the harder it
would be to make the shot with a pistol. Of course, the guy only needed for him to reach the end. Then he could make his way down, confident that Jack had
nowhere to go, and no means to defend himself. Except that the man had been firing a weapon in broad daylight. How long would he remain there? How much
time would it take for the police to respond?

Perhaps the area was bad enough the residents paid little attention.

The guy had to be waiting on something, or someone. Maybe his partner to join him. Maybe they planned on apprehending Jack. But why? Who would go to all
this trouble to do so? It wasn't as though he'd come into the country announced. They had to have tracked his progress across the Atlantic. Which meant a
leak somewhere. He thought back to the airstrip. How many men had been there? Had Frank been in on it from the beginning? He must've been. That, or Frank
was dead now, because he certainly hadn't been waiting in that room with Jack.

Jack thought back to the airstrip when he went down. Where was Frank? There was shouting. Frank's voice, rising above the others. Had they taken him down
too? Jack had a glimpse of Frank in front of him. Reaching out to him. What had he said?

If Frank was still alive, he had the answers. But in order to get them, Jack had to get through this situation alive. And the chances of that were looking
pretty damn slim.

The wall halted his progress. It was almost over. He'd stop, and the guy would approach and would fire while out of reach.

Jack's heart continued pounding as though he were still sprinting. It was dark enough down here that the guy wouldn't be able to accurately aim from the
other end. He'd get about halfway down before the next shot.

Jack placed his hands on the cool brick as though he expected the wall to open up in the middle for him. It didn't.

But the darkly painted door to his right did.

Johannesburg, South Africa.

BRETT HAD FOLLOWED Noble's movements for several minutes. Now, he remained focused on the screen, wondering what the guy was doing at the end of a
dead-end alley. He didn't put it past the realm of possibility that Noble had a contact in the city. What if he was now meeting that person, arming
himself, or securing transport out of Johannesburg?

Then the dot on the screen moved, not out of the alley, but to the right, then behind it. Too slow to be in a vehicle. But what was at the location? The
map didn't provide satellite imagery, and Brett didn't have time to try to find the location on another application that did.

"What are you doing, Jack?" Brett said, referring to the target by his first name for the first time in years. He had to ignore their history together. To
do otherwise could cloud his decision-making at a critical juncture. The results of that would be the wrong person dying.

The dot once again stopped, at a place between the alley and the next named street.

"What are you doing, Jack?" Brett said again, well aware that he was humanizing the man.

Near Lake Erie, Ohio.

THE DRIVE TOOK about as long as Charles expected. Which was to say, too long. But as long as the trip paid off the way he expected, he could deal with
the commute. The campground had an unassuming sign posted about six feet off the side of the road. A dirt and gravel path led through the woods. A camper
was the first structure he saw. Christmas lights wrapped around the door and windows, and lined the extended canopy. Coals burned dim in the fire pit.

The contact was Trooper Johanson. An idiot, according to Gilly. But a trained one. Which meant he sat on his position all night.

Charles pulled over in front of a cabin that looked deserted and placed a call to Gilly to let him know he was there. The trooper told him to wait for his
call back.

TROOPER JOHANSON HAD been asleep. According to his clock, it'd been at least an hour. He stared at the ringing cell phone for a moment before composing
himself enough to answer. As he said his hellos, he caught sight of the cabin and studied it for any changes. The light had gone out.

"Your relief is there," McGillicuddy said.

"OK. Who is it?"

"Someone I know. We're doing him a favor. Got it? So you just tell him what you know, what you've seen, and then you get your ass back here without giving
him any trouble."

"What's he look like?"

"Just get out of your car and go stand behind it. He'll find you."

"Yes, sir."

"And remember," McGillicuddy added with a pause.

"Yes?"

"Don't give him any lip. I'm serious. This guy has a temper."

Has a temper,
Trooper Johanson thought with a smile. Almost every person he knew in law enforcement had a temper. At least around him.

PAOLO IGNORED THE guilt he felt over leaving Essie in the cabin. Not like she noticed when he'd left. She'd opened her eyes again, but her focus, if
there was one, remained on the ceiling.

The middle-aged couple that had been sitting on opposite sides of the fire pit near the entrance told him they'd walk by and check on her before turning
in, while he went out for a drink. They also told him that the bar he was now sitting in was closer than the one he recalled passing on the drive in. Saved
him at least forty minutes. And he was only a short walk away. If the couple found anything amiss, the man promised to drive up and let Paolo know.

He stared into his mug, at the last sip of beer remaining.
Down it and go,
he thought. He lifted the glass, tilted it back and swallowed what was
left. Set the mug on the counter. Dropped one foot off the stool to the floor.

"Another?" the woman tending bar asked.

She wasn't all that pretty, but her smile felt inviting. Enough so that Paolo decided to have another drink before heading back to the cabin.

CHARLES SPOTTED THE truck from fifty yards away as he rounded the corner. It looked like the guy had left enough space for Charles to park in front. He
drew closer, spotted a man standing near the tailgate, looking up at the sky.

Charles rolled down the passenger window and pulled to a stop.

"Gilly sent me," he said.

The man approached Charles's vehicle, leaned over. "Trooper McGillicuddy?"

"Who the hell else would I refer to as Gilly?"

"Right, sir. I mean, yes, sir. No problem."

"Would you shut the fuck up, you blabbering idiot?"

Trooper Johanson nodded quickly and looked down at the ground, hands tucked behind his back.

"Which cabin is it?" Charles asked.

Johanson pointed toward the cabin that had a light on before he fell asleep.

"How many people?" Charles asked.

"Two," Johanson said. "Man and a woman. She looked kinda sick or something."

"What kind of 'or something'?"

"I don't know."

"Then why would you say it?"

Johanson glanced away. Charles could hear the guy thinking what a prick Charles was.

"She just kind of shuffled around, if you know what I mean."

"I think I do." Charles stared at the cabin. He'd always shook his head at people who said something was so close they could taste it. But now he knew.
Revenge had a taste, a flavor. And it was sweet.

"Anything else, sir?" Trooper Johanson asked.

"Stop calling me sir, for starters. Second, tell me what you've seen."

"Not a whole lot, I guess."

"You guess?"

"They got here and been inside, mostly. I mean, the whole time. The entire time I've been here, they've been inside."

Charles studied the guy. He truly was an idiot. How he'd made the state troopers, Charles didn't know. He wished the guy worked in the city. A cop like
that, he'd have him on his payroll in no time at all.

"Anything else?" Johanson asked.

Charles shook his head as he reached into his pocket. Pulled out a wad of bills. Peeled off three hundred dollar bills and extended them toward Johanson.
The guy stared at the money, but didn't make a move.

"Take it, you moron," Charles said.

"I don't think… I don't know if I can."

"If you don't take this, so help me God, I'm gonna call Gilly and tell him to fire your ass."