Noble Intentions: Season Four (33 page)

The police had already turned into the hospital's parking lot. Fortunately, thinking ahead, Pierre had parked on the side of the building.

"This way," he said pulling Bear toward the leftmost corridor.

They raced down the hallway. Double doors at the end bled sunlight through small rectangular windows. They had to get there. The sirens echoed off the
walls. Surrounded them. Sounded like the cops had driven their cars right into the waiting room.

But they never heard the shouts of the cops. Maybe the lady's conscience weighed on her. Maybe she wanted to tell Bear, but feared for her job. Reasonable,
if he placed himself in her position. Bullshit any other way he looked at it.

They pushed through the exit doors. The car was twenty feet away. The sirens cut off. The cops weren't in sight.

Pierre took the wheel and Bear crammed into the passenger seat.

"Don't go far," Bear said.

"We're getting as far away as we can," Pierre said. "You have no idea the trumped up charges the government could place against me if they want to."

"Why would they want to?"

"I have a good feeling they're behind all this. They were pissed that I refused to return to the agency after recovering from my injuries."

"Why mess with Kat and Mandy? If they want you, they should get you."

"You know why. To draw me out. They could torture one thousand people in my name, and I wouldn't bat an eye. But take the woman I love and I'll hunt you
down and sever your head from your neck."

Bear understood. He'd say it was because of the woman involved, but at this point, Mandy was his only concern.

"Shit," Bear said. "Look out."

Ahead, a police car pulled out into the road. Pierre veered to the left as if to go around it. But another pulled out and made it impossible to pull the
maneuver off. He slammed the brakes. The momentum carried Bear forward. He slammed his forearm awkwardly into the dash to keep from slamming his forehead
into the windshield. A dull ache spread from his elbow to his fingertips.

"Reverse," Bear shouted.

The Frenchman, staring at the rear-view mirror, shook his head. "We're blocked."

"So what? These are hick cops. You and I can take on their entire force."

With his gaze remaining locked on the mirror, Pierre shook his head. "Look."

Ahead, four cops approached. They aimed assault rifles at the front of the car. Bear shifted in his seat and looked back at a mass of police cruisers and
black vehicles. A mix of sedans and SUVs. At least ten men armed with what looked like MP5s approached. Some wore dark suits. Others were dressed in black
fatigues. He made out thigh holsters where their sidearms were secured.

He glanced toward Pierre, caught site of two more men, dressed in fatigues and carrying submachine guns. Bear swung his head around, looked out his window.
Three guys approached him.

"The hell is going on?" he said.

"Put your hands up and do what they say," Pierre said. "I'll do my best to get you out of this."

South Africa.

JACK SPOTTED THE gas station as he reached the far end of a bend in the road. The trees thinned to a field with the pumps and a small store just beyond.
There was a car fueling up, unattended. Looked that way, at least.

He picked up his pace, growing less aware of his surroundings and more focused on reaching the car. Could be his chance. Out here, it'd take half an hour,
maybe more, for a cop to show up and take the guy's report. In that time, Jack could be forty or so miles away.

As he stepped off the curb and onto the store's lot, a woman exited the store. She glanced at him, then the car. She was closer. Presumably he was faster.
A plan B formed. He could attempt to talk her into a ride. Say he had a breakdown, was lost, could she get him to the nearest town.

The woman stopped, looked back, waved toward the door. A child stepped outside, bundled in a checkered flannel coat. Jack slowed his pace. The child raced
past his mother and toward the car.

Dammit, he thought. The woman alone, he could risk it. But not with a child. Not with the uncertainty of what followed him wherever he went.

The woman glanced at him, eyes narrowed, lips thin, hands in her pocket no doubt clutching her keys and perhaps a can of pepper spray or mace.

Jack nodded in her direction, then turned toward the small store. He jogged toward the entrance. A chain of gold-tinted bells jangled when he pulled it
open. An elderly man behind the counter greeted him.

Jack said, "Restroom?"

The old guy jutted his chin to the back of the store, toward the beer cooler. Said, "Through that door. Second door on your right. Mind the mop."

BRETT HEARD THE engine ramp up. A high-pitched whine that settled into soft idling. First car he'd heard since gaining some distance from the freeway.
Asphalt and trees remained in front of him. He'd been jogging since he descended the hill and traveled underneath the overpass. Now he picked up his pace
to somewhere just below a sprint. He could maintain it for a minute, maybe a few seconds beyond, but not much longer.

He rounded the bend. The trees gave way to a grassy field that butted up to a store and gas station. A small car pulled away from one of the pumps.

Noble?

Brett reached behind his back and grabbed his pistol. He kept it pressed to his thigh. Didn't want to alert the driver should it turn out to not be Jack.

The vehicle turned right, and drove away. No matter how fast Brett ran, he wouldn't catch up. Had he just missed his opportunity to catch Jack?

He slowed to a walk as he neared the store. If Jack had been by, whoever worked inside would remember. Not often Americans show up in this part of the
country, Brett figured.

Every step, he slowed his breathing and his heart rate. He re-holstered his pistol. Wiped the sweat from his brow. Brett crossed the lot, pushed open the
front door. A set of bells clanged next to his head. He resisted the urge to yank them down.

"Help you?" the old guy perched atop a stool behind the counter said.

"I need to know if you've seen a guy come through here. About six-two, athletic looking, brown hair."

The guy nodded. "You must be a friend of his, huh? I can't recall ever having two Yanks in here in one day."

"Yeah, he's a friend of mine. How long ago was he here, and where'd he go?"

The old man nodded toward the back of the store. "He's here right now, in the washroom."

Brett drew his pistol and aimed it at the old guy's head. "Get up nice and easy. Step around the counter and lead me back there."

JACK CUT THE faucet off after he heard the bells ringing. Water dripped off his face and into the basin. He reached for the paper towel dispenser and
tore off the half sheet that hung down.

He'd grabbed the mop on his way back. He stepped on the fabric tendrils and twisted the pole free. Someone knocked on the door as he did so.

Jack said nothing.

"You doing okay in there?" the old guy said.

Jack looked back, at the window. It was a good six feet off the ground, and only about two feet high by about three feet wide. He could get through it if
necessary. But it didn't look like it led anywhere. No light came through.

"I said you doing all right?" the old guy said.

"Yeah, fine," Jack replied. He glanced down. Bars of light poured in through the crack at the door. He knelt and peered through. Four feet. "Just need a
minute or two. Okay?"

"Sure, mate, sure."

How had they found him? He was as off the grid as one could be, yet they'd managed to corner him in a gas station bathroom. Bit by bit, his mental clarity
had returned to the point he almost felt like any plan he came up with would be the right one. So he had to decide, offense or defense. The hallway was dim
and narrow, but the door opened inward. That gave the other guy the advantage. In the bathroom, the guy would have to bust in and come around the door to
reach Jack. First strike with the pole could disarm the man. The next would be to the neck or the groin, whichever presented itself first. By that point,
the guy would be on the floor and Jack would have answers.

As he shifted against the wall, the phone pressed against his leg.

And he realized how the guy had tracked him down. They'd been following him all along with the phone. Something so simple. Something he'd been paranoid
about for some fifteen years now. The damn cell phone had led them here. He chastised himself for not realizing it sooner.

Then he started to doubt his plan to wait. Perhaps it would be better to charge the hall. Whip the door open and lunge out with the pole.

A stick versus a pistol in open combat. Something told Jack that wouldn't end well.

BRETT GRABBED THE old guy's collar and pulled him back a foot. The man offered up no resistance. Thirty years, maybe more, the poor sap had run the
place. Never had a problem. Then the special day not one, but two Americans show up in his store, he winds up with a gun aimed at the back of his head. The
old guy had checked the knob. It was locked.

"I want you to go to the end of the hallway and lay down," Brett whispered.

He didn't worry about having the gun pressed to the guy's head. A younger man, or a trained soldier, sure, he'd never do it. Someone like that could gain
control of the situation, and possibly the firearm. But this guy, time was not on his side. Brett had no plans on shooting him, but he'd knock him
unconscious if necessary.

And it wasn't. The guy lifted his hands, stepped to the side, then shuffled to the end of the hall. He dropped to his right knee, using the wall to steady
himself, then his left. Slowly, he lowered his torso to the floor. His chest hit the ground. His ass stuck up in the air. Then he let his legs slide back
and his body flopped down.

Brett lifted his pistol in front of his face, closed his eyes, took a deep breath.

You or me, Jack. Guess it was always meant to be this way. We just delayed it a few years.

Ignoring the buzzing phone in his pocket, he lifted his knee, then struck forward with the heel of his foot, aiming for the spot next to the door handle.

JOE BALLARD TAPPED his pen on his desk with one hand, pressed his phone to his head with the other.

"Come on, Taylor," he said.

He had to reach the man. Their line of communication had been compromised, and someone might be tracking Brett now. The fact that the man didn't answer
told Ballard that either Brett discovered this, or he was found by whoever was looking for him.

South Africa.

"YOU SURE THIS is it?" Mason asked, hand to his brow, shielding the sun as he stared at the old wooden building.

"Affirmative," the guy said through the phone Sasha held between them.

"Place looks deserted," Mason said. "Don't see anyone inside."

She pointed at a puddle near one of the gas pumps. "Looks like someone's been here recently."

"Telling you, the signal leads to about 30 meters from your location."

Sasha pulled the car around the side, parked and cut the engine. The building looked worse from this side. Age and the seasons had warped the wood. A few
boards were broken off on one end, resting on the ground. There were no windows, so unless someone saw them enter, or there were cameras, they were out of
view here. A cursory glance indicated there wasn't a security system installed here.

Mason opened his door and stepped out. By the time Sasha joined him, he'd unholstered his weapon. She did the same after she slipped her phone into her
pocket. The line was connected. She kept the mouthpiece visible so her team could hear and record everything that happened. If everything went well, the
file would be deleted.

They walked around the back of the building. A large propane tank blocked a third of the wall. There was one window in the middle. Looked like it had been
painted over in black. There wasn't much space between the structure and the woods. Ten meters at most. Still a bit of distance should someone pop around
the corner and open fire.

It didn't come to that, though. They reached the other side, which looked like the rest of the building. Old and dingy and decrepit.

Mason stopped in front of her, at the corner. He surveyed the lot, looked back at her, said, "Empty." After a pause, he added, "I'll lead."

She followed him, peering through the dirty front windows as they made their way to the door set on the other side of center. Mason confirmed no one was
visible inside. The counter unmanned. He pushed the door. Bells rang out.

And from the back of the store, there was a crashing sound.

South Africa.

BRETT TAYLOR DIDN'T hear the bells ringing as the front door opened. At that moment the heel of his foot connected with the door about an inch to the
left of the handle. The weakest point. The door buckled inward. It groaned on dirty hinges like an old man jumping out of bed. Brett allowed his momentum
to carry him forward in a lunge where he landed on his striking foot. If he could have prevented himself from doing so, he would have. Because outside of
the light peeking in from the dim hallway, the bathroom was pitch dark.

JACK WASTED NO time. He stepped left, past the door, with pole drawn up over his shoulder, ready to whip it around. The man stood a few feet inside. He
heaved forward, arms out. An attempt to steady himself. His pistol was out of reach. Jack swung the pole, aiming for the man's throat. The guy saw it at
the last moment, brought his left arm up and deflected the blow.

The blow hadn't hit Jack's intended target, but at least it slowed the other man down for another second and allowed Jack to get another foot closer. He
brought the pole back, lined up another swing.

The man turned toward Jack. He brought his right arm up. Jack swung the pole over his shoulder without scraping the ceiling and brought it down over the
guy's right wrist. His arm dropped a foot. The pistol went off with a bright flash. The shot echoed through the room. Jack's ears rung and he felt slightly
dazed. But he hadn't been hit.