Noble Intentions: Season Four (18 page)

"Can't I at least see the look on that smug piece of shit's face as he realizes he's at the end of his line?"

The tinted window rose. The car pulled away.

"Bastards," Charles muttered. As he watched them continue down the street, he considered following them back to the house and forcing his way in. If anyone
deserved to take a shot at Noble, it was Charles. But his gut instinct told him not to push his luck with these men. The decision wasn't based on fear.
These men cared about nothing, least of all Charles. Why force a losing proposition?

He eased the nose of the car forward to the stop sign. Pulled out to the right, then changed his mind and reversed course to the north. He hadn't been to
Niagara Falls in years and figured this was a good a day as any. A few minutes later, as he pulled to a stop in front of a throng of people, he discovered
why the streets had been deserted. The city was holding some kind of parade downtown.

"Hell with that," he muttered, adjusting his GPS so it rerouted him.

Ithaca, New York.

JACK PUSHED THE door into the body and kept driving it forward until the gap grew large enough for him to slip through. With the suppressed Glock drawn,
he stuck his arm then head through. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the darkness past the sliver of sunlight extending across the floor and
the dust motes dancing in it. He saw a worn leather couch against one wall. A chair to the side of it. Opposite them, a TV. A square ottoman must've
doubled as a table. The TV Guide sat opened to a page in the middle.

Nothing else. No one waiting for him.

Other than the dead guy face-down on the floor.

Jack continued inside, careful to not disrupt the corpse or step into the pool of semi-solid blood. He shut the door. Knelt next to the body. Cause of
death appeared to be a gunshot wound. 9mm most likely. The bullet hadn't blown the guy's entire face clear off. Blood and bone and brain plastered to the
wall indicated he was probably trying to escape when his assailant fired the fatal shot. Poor bastard had almost made it. Out of the house, at least.
Judging by the terrain, he never would have made it past the pond.

Before tending to the body any further, Jack performed a cursory check of the house. There weren't but five rooms in total, and they were all empty. He
checked each twice, reversing course on the second pass.

On his way back to the body, Jack flipped on the light, then pulled his cell phone out to take pictures of the corpse. In the event Charles refused to come
inside, he could use the photos to identify the body. Would the picture be enough? Sure, Charles might be able to ID the guy based on a partial profile.
But a head shot would make things easier. So he had to move the guy. Jack glanced down at his bare hands. He rose, turned toward the kitchen. He went to
the sink and grabbed a dishtowel and opened the cabinet doors. Plastic bottles full of cleaning supplies cluttered the space. He kicked them out of the
way. A few thumped hollowly on the linoleum then rolled toward the opposite end of the room. Old house, slanted. He bent over again. In the back, tucked
under a box of sponges and spider webs, was a pair of yellow rubber gloves. The thick kind you might use when handling bleach or ammonia or some other kind
of poisonous cleaning chemical. Residue for whatever had been used last lingered on the gloves. The strong odor left behind might be enough to prep someone
for surgery.

Jack returned to the body. Tucked the pistol in his waistband. Donned the gloves. He grabbed a handful of dark hair and peeled the face away from the pool
of blood. He studied the man for a minute. Beyond the dried blood, the skin was pale. Sparse stubble poked out. Close-set blue eyes were half-rolled back,
framing the man's narrow, broken nose. Jack slipped one glove off and snapped a few additional photos with his smart phone. Then he eased the man's head
back to the floor and rose.

Pictures lined the wall on the way to the kitchen. Dark haired people with dark features. Good looking, all of them. Even the woman in her fifties. Latino
or South American. Family photographs. Jack focused on one picture in particular. A man, maybe Jack's age, with a younger woman on one side and a slightly
older woman on the other side. The younger woman appeared in a few other photographs hung nearby. One photo looked like graduation day, only she wore
scrubs instead of a cap and gown. She looked twenty or twenty-one that day. Too young to be a doctor. So a nurse, or some other skilled position. Her
diploma hung a foot below. Esmeralda Almeida. Paolo's sister. He glanced at the other picture, guy and two gals, and studied it for a moment. It was her
with her siblings. No doubt about it.

The man in the picture was Paolo.

And that didn't clear up the identity of the guy laying the pool of blood.

Horseheads, New York.

PAOLO PACED THE narrow carpeted alley that separated the two queen beds from the dresser that took up half the opposite wall. He hadn't set down his
pistol since entering the room. The passports, bank documents, and cash were laid out on the bed nearest the window. A finger of light passed over them.
Specks of dust twirled through the light on their way to the ground. Every time Paolo passed, they were kicked up in the air again.

Esmeralda lay on the other bed, stretched out on her side. Her wet hair spread over her pillow like tendrils. The pillowcase soaked up the water, leaving
shadow-like impressions. The remnants of a grilled sub wrapped in tin foil nestled close to her waist. The smell of toasted bread and oil and vinegar and
salami and cheese filled the room. Paolo had only ordered for her. Now he fought off pangs of hunger.

Focus, Paolo.

"How long will we be here?" she asked.

Paolo stopped at the sound of her monotone voice and glanced down at her. She stared at him, but also past him. Death wasn't new to her, not working in the
emergency room. But the kind of death she had witnessed in her house had affected her in the way it did for most who bore witness to a violent act. It had
left her in a state of shock. Numb, perhaps. She'd taken four showers in the hours since they had been in the motel room. An effort to scrub away the
memory of the man's head exploding in front of her.

"We're only here until I collect my thoughts," Paolo said. "Once I figure out where we're going, we'll move."

Her lips parted as if she were going to say something else. Instead, she sighed and let her gaze drift away from him.

He wanted to tell her it'd be all right. That in time, she'd find a way to neutralize the images that seemed so real in her head. The blood and skull and
brain that splattered on her back door would be forgotten, and soon she'd realize that if it hadn't have been him, it would have been her.

And Paolo.

It seemed every time he passed her, he chastised himself for not following his gut instinct and leaving Friday night. They could have made it across the
border at Niagara Falls. Her, the local girl. Him, the out-of-town boyfriend. At least according to their passports. They'd have gotten through without a
problem. There would have been no concerns over whether a neighbor had reported hearing something. Or had smelled something. No worries over whether the
cops had Paolo's picture on their dash.

And Paolo wouldn't have the stress that every move he made from here on out would ultimately determine whether he and his sister lived. Her safety was of
greater concern than his own. He had to get her to safety before they were found. His stomach knotted at the thought. If it were him alone, he'd take more
risks. He had to anyway. Paolo knew his overcautious approach set them up for failure.

He figured that by waiting until Saturday morning, he could check in with a few trusted associates and get a bead on the situation in the city. Maybe
someone could help. That thought didn't last long. Friends were only loyal until their lives were threatened. Charles knew who Paolo was close to, and the
man would go after them.

As Paolo chastised himself once again for staying an extra night, his thoughts drifted to what had happened at Essie's house that morning. How could he
have known some guy would sneak in before sunrise as he and his sister prepared to leave? The man had caught Essie coming out of her room, towel wrapped
around her wet body, as she headed to the back door. She'd fumbled with the lock, dropping the key that hung next to the door. The man had paused and
watched as she bent over to pick it up. Her wet hair flipped forward and grazed the ground. She must've seen him then. Though she couldn't say now. But she
had frozen at that moment, one hand on the key, the other on the doorknob.

The guy had said something. From his position in the kitchen, Paolo had been unable to make out his words. Whatever he'd said, it had sent Essie into
action. She swept upward and drove the key into the lock. The guy rushed forward, grabbed her with both hands. One wrapped around her waist. The other over
her mouth to stop her from screaming. He'd made a critical mistake, though, by shoving his pistol into his waistband.

Paolo rounded the partition separating the kitchen and living room while Essie struggled against the man's grip as her towel fell. The guy spoke in a
grating voice. Paolo tuned out the words. Essie spotted him and calmed. Went limp. She dropped her body enough for Paolo to take his shot. It wasn't dead
center, which he would have preferred. Too much chance of the bullet passing through and hitting his sister. But at ten feet he didn't need the larger
target of the man's back or chest. He took a second and steadied his aim. The other guy must've wised to the reason Essie relaxed, because he started to
turn his head. Too late. Paolo fired. The bullet slammed into the back of the guy's head. Essie was free of his grasp, but covered in his blood and the
remains of his brain. The guy dropped to the floor and fell forward, blood pooling around his head.

After pulling Essie away, Paolo had studied the man. He hadn't seen him before. Ever. Charles had gone outside the organization for the hit.

Fearing there were others close by, Paolo had wasted no time getting his sister out of the house. He brought her a robe and a wet towel to clean the blood
from her body. He left her with the items and carried the bags to the car. When he returned, she had remained frozen in the living room. Paolo had to wipe
her down, then dress her in the robe before escorting her to the car, which idled in the small garage.

Hours later, as they waited in the motel room, she remained in that same state of shock. At least she had eaten. Always a good sign. Still, she hadn't made
enough progress for Paolo to feel comfortable taking her outside. They were a half-hour from Ithaca, in a cheap hotel in Horseheads. Thirty minutes from
Essie's. Ten miles south, they'd be in Pennsylvania. A hundred miles north, Canada. Every option was available. Where would Charles expect Paolo to go?

He put his money on Canada.

"How long will we be here?" Essie asked again, this time adjusting her gaze until it crossed his.

Paolo sidestepped down the narrow lane between the two beds and took a seat opposite her. He reached out, took her hands in his.

"Not long, Essie. Not long."

He couldn't wait much longer to move her. Crossing into Canada, at least through Buffalo, was out. Backtracking east to another crossing was out also. Word
would get back to Charles soon enough that the hit has soured. The man would use every ounce of pull he had to prevent Paolo from making it across the
border.

The city was out, too. He didn't know if he could trust anyone there. Every move he made might lead to a trap. Of course, the city also provided the
quickest way to end things. Whether with his life, or Charles's.

So west to find a crossing into Canada, or east to New York.

Either meant he had to find somewhere to stash Essie.

Ithaca, New York.

THE DEAD MAN had no identification. No cell phone, either. Had he come without the items? Or had whoever killed him removed them? Jack had another
question: Was this man there to kill him?

With no answer immediately available, he switched gears. For the first time all day, he had the opportunity to contact Erin and warn her. Glancing down at
the dead man, he considered how much time he had before someone else arrived. Charles had told him an hour, but Jack discounted almost everything the
overgrown moron had said.

One quick call.

He retrieved his personal cell phone. Hesitated before dialing. Jack reached into his other pocket and retrieved the mobile Charles had given him. Studying
it, he wondered whether it had been bugged. Wouldn't even take an external device to do so. There were top secret applications that could be downloaded and
installed that turned a regular cell phone into a listening device.

And Jack had no way to determine if the phone was configured in such a way.

He went back to the kitchen, opened the freezer, tossed the phone inside. Aside from the probability of it being used to listen to everything that happened
around him, it could also be used to track him. He let the freezer door fall shut with no plans to open it again.

As he started to dial Erin's number, a vehicle pulled up to the front of the house and idled. The sound reverberated off the driveway, through the garage,
bouncing off the floor, ceiling and walls, through the door separating the kitchen and garage. The vibrations filled the air surrounding Jack.

Back already, Charles?

But he realized it wasn't him.

The engine didn't match. The whine was wrong. The rumble too deep. This car was American made. Possibly government issued.

A set of car doors opened and then slammed shut. Where would the men head? Front door? Around the sides to the back? Were they aware? It went back to not
finding identification and a phone on the guy. Had he come that way, his team confident in the man's ability to complete the job with no problems?