Noble Intentions: Season Four (24 page)

Tenerife.

HOW HAD THE woman been so careless? To take her child off the beaten path, walking a mile away from the crowds located near the beach access. She led
her daughter deep into the dark. It made Jared Aker's job easy. Relatively. A mother might fight to the death to protect her young. Or she might go along
with him and do whatever he said. He'd find out soon enough.

The roaring waves simplified his approach. He had no concerns over being heard. Likewise, he didn't fear them looking back and seeing him, because what
would they notice? A shadow against the blackness? Hardly.

The girl was his first priority. Take control of her, and the mother would follow as soon as she realized a 9mm was aimed at her daughter's head. At least
as long as she felt the threat was real. If he gave any indication he wouldn't take action, then she might be inclined to do so.

At twenty yards away, Jared closed the gap between himself and the women in a few seconds. He grabbed the girl and pulled her back. Her screams were barely
audible amid the wind and waves. But her mother, she heard. And she whipped around, eyes searching in the darkness, settling on the figures of Jared and
her daughter. She lunged forward, but stopped at the sight of Jared's weapon. But whatever fear had been there vanished. The woman dove toward him,
unleashing a violent scream. He drew back and whipped the pistol forward. The blow caught the lady on the side of her head and she fell to the ground. The
little girl began kicking, screaming, fighting against him. She sunk her teeth into the back of his hand. Jared started to swing the pistol down, but
stopped inches from her head. The blow could kill the child, and if he knew anything about the situation, the girl was worth ten times as much to him as
the woman. He yanked his hand free and scooped the child up by threading his arm under hers.

The woman lay motionless on the ground. Jared pulled a flashlight from his pocket and shone it on her. Her eyes didn't open or flutter. Blood from a large
gash on the side of her head pooled on the ground around her face. The little girl caught sight of her mother and shrieked. The yells faded to sobs.

Jared pulled out his phone and placed a call.

"I've got the girl. Mother is on the ground. Unconscious. What's my next move?"

"Where are you?"

"On the beach, about a mile north from town."

"OK. Continue north about another mile. I've got a resource there. He'll pick you up on the beach and get you off the island."

"Ten four." Jared paused, looked down at the woman bleeding on the black sand. "What about the mother?"

"She's useless to us. Kill her."

"Sir, I've got her daughter right here."

"Now you care? That didn't bother you when you knocked her out, did it?"

"I…"

"You fucked up. Now clean your mess and kill her, then get moving."

The call disconnected. Jared nearly flung his phone into the Atlantic. He stared down at the woman. She hadn't stirred. He could leave her here. Maybe
she'd die. Perhaps someone would come along and take her back to town. The blow she'd received had done plenty of damage. Even if rescued, she might not be
the same.

But if she was, that'd mean Jared's life would be at risk.

"I'm sorry," he said to the girl as he straddled her mother, turning the girl away and aiming down with his pistol. He tucked the weapon under his chin for
a moment while reaching into his pocket for the suppressor. He threaded the device on the weapon, then took a few steps back. Took a couple deep breaths.
Held in the last one. Squeezed the trigger. Twice. He didn't need to shine his light on her to know that the mother of Jack Noble's only child was now
dead.

They didn't linger. Someone might have seen the muzzle blast from a distance and already be on their way to investigate. From far enough away, it might
look like someone flashing a lighter. Or it might look like a gunshot. Either way, Jared wanted nothing to do with more liabilities. More people to kill.
He jogged north with the motionless girl under his arm. He'd carried heavier loads during his career. She weighed less than a rucksack. Less than some of
the weapons he'd used in the past.

Eight or nine minutes later, small dots appeared in the dark. White headlights. Jared stopped, crouched down, and waited for strobes of blue and red to
break through the darkness. But they didn't. The lights grew brighter and larger. He heard the four-wheeler rumble closer. Jared rose and moved forward. He
pocketed his pistol in favor of his flashlight, which he flipped on and off, three times on, then nothing for a few beats. Repeated the process. The
headlights flipped on and off in the same pattern. Jared held the flashlight in his mouth, switched on, and retrieved his pistol. He did not know the
identity of the man sent to meet him. And he didn't care to. All he wanted was to make sure the guy was legit and had a plan to get him and the girl off
the island.

The ATV halted in front of them. The driver switched the engine off. The sudden roar of the vehicle faded, and the wind and waves took over.

"Get on," the driver said. "I've got a boat docked two miles north of here at an inlet. She'll get us anywhere you want to go."

Jared adjusted his light toward the ATV. It had plenty of space. Two rows of seating. The rear large enough to accommodate him and the girl. He hefted her
over his shoulder, then stepped over the crossbar, placing her on the seat first. Jared sat next to her, one arm around her shoulders, the other holding
the pistol, aimed at the child. She didn't seem to notice. She made no movements at all. Catatonic described her best. He tried not to care. It was, after
all, his fault. He knew the response he'd get to that line of thinking. Not your fault, son. They put themselves in this situation. It wasn't true. He knew
it. But he had to believe it.

They continued north until they reached the inlet. Orange lights sparsely placed lit the area. First glance indicated the place was deserted. The driver
led them along a concrete walkway, then down a wooden pier. They came to a stop in front of a forty-foot boat. Jared knew little about the crafts and
trusted the man at his word that the vessel could handle the Atlantic.

On board he placed another call. His boss instructed him that they were to head toward the Mediterranean and call back for further instructions in the
morning.

Tenerife.

THE NOISE OF the crowds slowly faded and gave way to the wind and the ocean. Brett remained close to the shoreline. Salt spray enveloped him, a
sensation he enjoyed from as far back as he could remember. Though he had grown up within an hour of the ocean, visits to it were limited. The joys of
being an orphan and foster child.

He produced a small pen light and used the weak beam to scan the area in front of him. Its glow barely lit ten feet up. And that's why Brett nearly
stumbled over the body when he reached it. Kneeling, he focused the light on the woman's head. Or what was left of it. Two bullets had entered from the
rear and taken out chunks of her forehead and face.

There was no doubt who it was.

Brett had arrived too late.

He swept the area with the light in search of Mia. The girl was nowhere to be found. Fear of drawing attention to his position prevented him from calling
out too loudly for her. Still, he tried, to no response. He searched the ground for tracks. What he found was a mishmash of a day's worth of beach-goers'
prints.

Think, he told himself. The man had brought them this far only to kill Erin. He wouldn't double back with the girl. Right? Brett knew the guy wouldn't. He
had somewhere to go. Brett ran north, scanning the ground with his small light. After a mile or so, he found the tracks of an ATV. Someone, he presumed,
had picked the man and Mia up.

He had to contact Ballard and find out if he had uncovered who else was on Tenerife.

Ballard, however, beat him to it.

"Tell me you found something," Brett said.

"I'm going to tell you to abort your position and get to the airport. You have a reservation with a small executive airliner."

"What are you talking about?"

"Get moving and call me when you get there."

"Whoever I spotted has the girl. And he killed her mother. If you know who was here, tell me, Ballard."

There was a long pause before Ballard responded. "I don't know. And it doesn't matter. The woman was a target anyway."

"But not the girl. We're not child killers."

"Keep telling yourself that."

"Dammit. Tell me what you know."

Ballard cleared his throat. "Here's what we know. We know where Noble is going to be tomorrow morning. Now it is up to you to finish him before someone
else does if you want your paycheck." Ballard paused to clear his throat again. "And to live."

"You threatening me now?"

"I'm just telling you the situation. You knew going into this that the job was unlike any other. If you fail, you're done. Plain and simple. So, I'd
recommend you get to the airport, get on that plane, and handle Noble the moment you spot him."

New York.

CHARLES LINGERED NEAR the railing, looking over Niagara Falls. The place had always had an effect on him. He'd learned it was something to do with
positive or negative ions. Couldn't recall which. Same thing they said about those Himalayan salt lamps, though he'd never tried one. A couple days near
the falls, though, left him feeling pretty good. Damn near invincible. More so than usual.

But the Paolo situation weighed down on him. He'd held up his end of the bargain by delivering Noble to Merrick. And what had he heard since then? Not a
damn thing. Complete silence. His calls wouldn't even go through to the guy. Son of a bitch, he thought. But, the upside was that right about now, Noble
was being fitted for a toe tag. Somewhat of a consolation, he figured.

Returning his thoughts to Paolo, Charles decided that he'd take care of the guy himself. He had the kind of contacts that could tell him the moment the man
surfaced. And then Charles would be there, ready to pounce.

After a few more minutes of gazing at the rushing water, Charles found a quiet area inside a touristy spot loaded with t-shirts and hats, a coffee shop, a
diner, and tables spread throughout. He waited while a young family finished their meal. Then, when the general area surrounding him was empty, he called
in a favor.

PAOLO KEPT THE speedometer pegged at fifty-five. No point in drawing attention to his catatonic sister and himself. His hopes that she'd break free from
the condition hadn't materialized. If anything, she was worse. A few hours earlier, she had responded to his questions. Vocally, at first. Then with
gestures. Now she stared blankly. Through him. Past him.

"Just hang tight, Essie," he said. "A glass of wine and a good night's sleep will make it better."

She said nothing. He hadn't expected her to.

Essie's condition left him in a predicament. He obviously couldn't cross the border with her. Taking out the danger factor of border patrol being on alert,
her presence would be an issue. They'd want to ask her questions, and she wouldn't be able to respond. Leaving her with an associate was out of the
question. Anyone he trusted was within reach of Charles. The right threat - or offer - would seal Essie's fate. The people he knew in western Pennsylvania
and New York weren't the kind of men he'd leave a semi-conscious woman with.

So the new plan called for Paolo to drive. Past New York, into Ohio. Perhaps travel along the edge of the lake, looking for the right kind of place to stop
for the night. A place with cabins in the woods. Hidden from view. If he didn't find it, then they'd continue on into Indiana or Michigan. Hell, he'd go as
far west as necessary. Traveling fifty-five miles per hour. Staying under the radar.

A while later, on I-86, they skirted the city limits of Jamestown, the last city he recalled on the map before they reached the northwestern tip of
Pennsylvania, then passed into Ohio. Maybe twenty more miles to go. The border symbolized a barrier between Paolo and Charles. He had to reach it. Drive
past it. Then, he'd be one step further from his boss's reach.

TROOPER BARRET JOHANSON seldom paid attention to the scanner on his day off. It had irked him when they required him to install it in his Tundra. His
personal vehicle, for Pete's sake. Always the good trooper, in more ways than one, Johanson relented. Didn't mean he had to keep it on. Only when on-call.
Which was today. It was a pain in the ass, but a necessary one. With over twenty thousand square miles to cover, and only a handful of troopers on duty at
any given time, someone had to be ready to pick up a call.

And so it happened that he had the scanner on instead of his CD player blaring through the speakers. And it happened that he heard the call to be on the
lookout for a car suspected in a homicide. And it happened that he approached a matching car about five miles east of Jamestown. Johanson lowered his
speed, made a slow approach. The plate matched. He eased off the gas until he matched the vehicle's pace, a tranquil fifty-five miles per hour.

The instructions had been specific. Stay with them. Don't make any attempt to pull them over. The man is believed to be armed and dangerous. The woman his
captive.

Johanson called it in. Dispatch rerouted him to his boss, a grizzly old bastard by the name of McGillicuddy. The man's words were clear:
Stick with them, even past the border, don't bother to attempt to detain, and let me know when and where they stop.

Trooper Johanson agreed, partly because he was a good cop, but mostly because he had no choice.

Washington, D.C.

BECK ARRIVED ON time. Early, in fact. Clarissa expected no less of the man. He knocked on her door at two minutes to seven. She had a hunch he had been
in the hall longer than that.