Noble Intentions: Season Four (29 page)

Johanson reached out for the money, then turned and got inside his truck.

"Jesus," Charles muttered, watching the guy back up and then pull away. At least he waited until he was past the cabin before cutting on his headlights.
That would've made a mess of the whole thing.

TROOPER JOHANSON FELT dirty. No other way to put it. He'd worked off duty, outside his jurisdiction - hell, he'd crossed state lines - and taken payment
from a man that he doubted had anything to do with law enforcement. Except for maybe being wanted by it.

And he'd been told to do it by his boss. So if anyone gave
him
crap about it, he'd refer them to
Gilly
, as McGillicuddy's good buddy back
at the campground called his boss.

As far as Johanson was concerned, he'd washed his hands of the whole thing.

PAOLO GOT THE attention of the bartender. "One more, my dear."

She smiled and winked and took his mug and refilled it.

CHARLES APPROACHED THE cabin from behind. He'd gone right of it, past two others, then about one hundred feet to the rear. Plenty of tree cover, which,
he figured, would provide a guy his size with just enough cover. To his disappointment there were no windows in back. He had planned to locate the targets
and shoot them from outside. If he'd known he would end up inside, he would have gone through the front door to begin with.

Seconds away from death, and the guy is still pissing me off
, Charles thought. No bother, though. Soon enough Paolo would be dealt with. Then, anyone within the organization who thought they could pull a stunt like
the man had would have second thoughts about doing so.

He walked to the corner, continued around the side and stopped before he reached the front. Someone approached, crunching gravel with every step. They came
from the other side of the cabin. Charles surveyed the landscape in front of him. Didn't appear anyone was outside. He flattened himself against cabin's
exterior. Whoever it was, they'd pass by and not notice him.

It was in their best interest to do so.

But the person didn't pass by. They stepped from the gravel onto the porch. Hard soles, like boots, clicked against the two-by-fours that spanned the
space. The knob jiggled. The door opened.

"You doing all right?" a guy said in soft tones.

Paolo.

Charles pushed off the wall, stepped softly onto the porch. The door hung open. A gap of six inches. Dark inside. Dark outside. He couldn't see in, and he
doubted they could see out.

But he was armed. Maybe Paolo was, too. Charles had surprise on his side.

He pushed through the door, sighted the man and squeezed off a suppressed round into the back of his head. The guy lurched forward and collapsed to the
floor.

Charles walked up to him, spat. He pulled out his phone and used the screen to illuminate the floor.

"Shit."

It wasn't Paolo.

Charles wasn't averse to taking a life. He'd done it plenty of times, whether deserved or not. But he'd just fired a round in the middle of the night.
Sure, his pistol had a suppressor attached, but that didn't silence the shot, only muffled it a bit. Someone had to have heard.

Against his better judgment, he felt along the wall and flipped on a light switch. He had confirmation then that the man he shot was not Paolo. And the guy
wasn't breathing.

What to do now? He couldn't leave with Paolo alive. At the same time, he couldn't remain in the cabin. Someone heard. Someone would investigate. It
wouldn't be long until the cops swarmed the place.

He glanced up and for the first time noticed the woman in bed.

"Esmeralda?" he said.

She said nothing. Her eyes were open, focused on the ceiling.

"Where's your brother?"

She still said nothing.

"Well, if I can't have him dead, I can take you alive. He'll figure it out. And when he comes for you, bye bye, Paolo."

Esmeralda didn't put up a fight when Charles lifted her off the bed and slung her over his shoulder. He cut the light. Stopped at the front door. Inched it
open. Scanned the area. No one was out. None of the lights were on.

He smiled.

Maybe they figured it was a hunter's shot. Far off in the distance. Taking down a bear, or something.

"THIS ISN'T RIGHT," Trooper Johanson said out loud. He'd taken an oath. And his gut told him he'd broken it outside that cabin. He'd put that man and
woman's lives at risk. They could be dead now.

He glanced at his clock. Not twelve minutes had passed since he left. If he picked up his speed, he could be back there in eight. Would it be enough?

He could only hope so.

"YOU SURE YOU have to leave?" the bartender asked Paolo. "We don't close for a while. And since I'm the one closing the place down, you can stay as long
as I'm here."

Paolo smiled at her. "As much as I am enjoying your company, I must get back."

"You sure you're all right to drive? Might not look it, but this area is crawling with cops."

"No, I don't think I am." He downed the remaining beer in his mug. "Fortunately, I only need to walk to the campground."

"I can give you a lift when I'm done, you know. Go right past there. Maybe I could even bring a bottle for us to share."

"Ah, only one problem." He held up a finger.

"A woman," she said.

He nodded. "But not like you think. She's my sister, and she's not well, I'm afraid."

"You sure she needs you?"

The words had a sobering effect on him. He glanced down at the bar top. A condensation ring have formed and remained where his mug had been. The liquid
wept toward him.

"She does," he said. "And I must go now."

He rose and dropped a hundred dollar bill on the counter for the bartender with the sweet smile.

THE WOMAN HAD lain down in the trunk like she'd done it a hundred times. With a brother like Paolo, perhaps she had. Charles chuckled.

He glanced at his GPS. Seven hours, give or take, until he reached the city. If he pushed a little, he might even beat the morning traffic.

TROOPER JOHANSON CUT his lights after he passed the first cabin. The solar LEDs that lined the dirt and gravel road were enough to navigate by. He
slowed to a crawl as he neared the cabin he'd watched over earlier. The man who'd paid him off had left. Only tracks where his car had been parked
remained.

Johanson pulled into the same spot and studied the cabin. The inside light was on again. Porch light still off. Looked like the door sat ajar.

He checked his pistol. Exited the truck. Stuck to the edge of the road as much as possible to avoid letting the crunching gravel announce his presence.

The shades were drawn over the window. There was no way to see inside without going to the door. Johanson didn't expect to see much. An empty room. Maybe
some clothes strewn about for extra effect. He guessed it possible that the two men tussled. If so, they could have broken a chair, or the bed, or the
lamp.

Except that the light was on.

Don't start assuming,
he thought.
That's how troopers die.
The biggest mistake he could make was to assume that it was safe inside. He'd walk in without a plan, his
guard down. He didn't want to go home to his parents in a body bag.

So he crept across the porch, careful to keep his heels from tapping on the wood. Johanson pressed his left index finger against the door. It glided a
couple more inches, then stopped. He leaned forward, gun at chest level, pointed inside.

It looked empty, at first. Then he realized there was someone on the floor.

"Oh, sweet Jesus," he said.

Then Johanson did something out of character. He ignored his instinct to call it in, and he went inside the room to check on the man.

PAOLO THOUGHT ABOUT going back. Telling the bartender he'd go home with her. Why the hell not? Essie wasn't going to wake up anytime soon. And if she
did, she'd stay put until he got back.

Wisps of smoke rose out of the fire pit. The middle-aged couple's lights were out. He thought about stopping, asking if everything checked out. But the guy
hadn't come to find him. And he didn't sit out on his porch now, waiting to update Paolo with Essie's condition.

So he walked on. Past cabin after cabin. He followed the road until he came to the stretch that led to his home for the night. He saw the pickup, parked
where it had been. The muffler ticked, like its owner had taken it out recently. People did that, he reminded himself. They go out. Just like he had.

He looked up, toward the cabin. The light was on. Had Essie risen? Maybe the guy had gone in to check on her and left the light on? Why would he, though?
Perhaps Essie had heard him, figured the guy for Paolo, and called out for help. The man should have come and picked him up from the bar if that was the
case. Before leaving, Paolo decided he needed to have a talk with that guy.

He hurried toward the door, which he noticed was open a foot. Paolo refrained from calling out for his sister. He stopped on the porch, reached down,
pulled a knife from the ankle holster.

From inside, it sounded like someone was panting. Slowly, Paolo stepped through the door. He saw the man on the floor. A pool of blood surrounding him.
Even though he hadn't said anything, the guy looked back, hands up, in view. They were covered in blood.

"You son of a bitch," Paolo shouted as he lunged toward the guy.

The man's eyes widened. He looked scared. Not like a killer. But it was too late. Paolo whipped his arm around and plunged the knife into the guy's neck,
slicking the carotid. A stream of blood sprayed across the wall, curtains, ceiling and floor. It slowed to a heartbeat-driven trickle as the man bled out.
He collapsed to the floor, and fell backward on the body of his-

"That's not Essie," Paolo muttered.

He rushed toward the bathroom and flung the door open. She wasn't there. Ran back into the room; ripped the sheets of the bed. Checked underneath. There
was no closet, or any other rooms.

"Essie?"

No answer.

He said it again, louder.

Still no answer.

He went to the doorway, yelled it.

She still didn't answer.

He turned back to the carnage in the room. Two men dead; one by his hand. The other man was the guy from the first cabin. The guy who promised to check on
his sister. Someone had killed him. And that someone had Essie now.

Who?

The answer was obvious to Paolo.

Charles.

He grabbed their bags, securing his pistol, left the cabin, and rushed to the vehicle.

And without hesitation, he turned toward New York when he reached the road.

France.

IT TOOK LONGER than it should have for one of Pierre's associates to locate the Audi. After driving west for three hours, the trio of Bear, Pierre and
Kat's mother had to double-back ninety minutes to reach the crash site.

Shattered glass littered the site. All that remained of the vehicle. Bear stood at the edge of the road, looking out over the valley, his knees pushing
against the guardrail. He didn't feel the hollowness in the pit of his stomach, not because of the heights at least. His concern over Mandy outweighed
that.

Pierre joined him at his side.

"Any news?" Bear asked.

"Even the report of the Audi is gone now."

"What's that mean?"

Pierre offered his phone. Bear took it, glanced down at the pictures of the vehicle. To call it totaled was an insult.

"They managed to get these for us," Pierre said. "But now everything is gone. The police report. Witness information. All of it."

"How does that just disappear?" Bear said, pointing at the images on the phone's screen.

Pierre said nothing.

"Where's the closest hospital?" Bear asked.

"They aren't there."

"What?"

"I… My people checked already."

"They could be a part of this, man. Don't you see that? How else would they know your every move?"

Pierre shrugged as he looked down and kicked rubble aside with his foot. "Lots of agencies are capable of that. My people, they would come for me if that
was their intention. Not a young woman and child."

"I want to go to the hospital."

"We'll just be wasting time."

"As opposed to what? What do we have to go on?" Bear turned and took a few steps forward. "Not a damn thing, that's what. Your people could be lying. I'm
not satisfied until we check it out ourselves."

A moment later, Pierre caught up to him. "We have to take Kat's mother someplace secure. Foul play cannot be ruled out here. And I can't put it past these
people going after extended family."

"Fortunately I don't have any of that."

"Neither do I." Pierre moved forward. "But Kat does, and we have to protect her mother."

Bear studied the woman in the back of the car. Distraught didn't begin to describe her. She had been unwilling to exit when they'd arrived at the crash
site. Didn't want to accept it, he figured. Neither did he. And he hadn't.

Mandy was somewhere. And he'd reach her. Somehow.

Johannesburg, South Africa.

IF ANY DOUBT remained about whether Jack was still in the ghetto, it was answered now. The building's hallways were littered with beer cans, liquor
bottles, cigarette butts, and broken glass. Half the lights were out. The ones working cast a depression-inducing yellow haze across the dull walls and
puke-green carpet. It was quiet, though. An observation that might lead some to conclude that the residents held down day jobs. Jack figured most of them
were still passed out from the previous night's activities.

He positioned himself at the other end of the hallway he entered from the alley. He gave the guy four minutes, at most, to step inside. After that, Jack
had no plan other than to wait for the man to traverse the length of the hall. Then he'd strike with hopes of neutralizing the guy and getting him to
speak.

A baby cried from within one of the nearby apartments. Jack tuned it out. Did the same with the mother yelling at the infant to shut up.