Noble Intentions: Season Four (2 page)

The place had to look legitimate for a crime boss to work out of it. Not that it fooled anyone. Charles took notice of the stares in the lobby. He felt the
judgmental thoughts in the elevator. Women would stop short and allow the doors to close before stepping on if he was the only one inside it.

The top floor looked down on West 3rd Street, and offered an unblocked view of the fountain in the center of Washington Square Park. Charles had grown
accustomed to staring down at the park while mulling over important, and not so important, decisions. Even on a humid mid-July morning, the place teemed
with activity. The high-powered binoculars perched on the ledge allowed him to watch the women as they jogged or roller-skated along the walkways. Stress
relief. Nothing more. So far.

Looking to the northeast, Broadway stretched to 14th Street. With a brief smile, Charles recalled how he longed to perform there when he was a kid. His
mother had taken him to see
Fiddler on the Roof
when he was eight or nine. He even took two weeks of dance lessons, but quit when his friends
found out and turned on him. The secret wish didn't die, though. But when he filled out and his size offered easier and more immediate ways to make a buck,
Charles gave up on his dreams of fame under the lights and embraced the criminal life. A couple bucks here and there grew into a hundred a pop. Before
long, he had more money than he knew what to do with. His favorite theater was a benefactor of that wealth. Anonymously, of course.

Stretching his arms overhead and directing his gaze to a spot just over the city horizon, Charles contemplated why the Old Man never moved to a proper
office. Even when Charles had urged Feng to do it, the old bastard stubbornly refused. The compound served a purpose. No denying that. It made a great base
of operation, and housed several of the underlings at any given time. But as a place to bring in guests and conduct business?

Not anymore. Not a chance.

Another mistake Charles refused to duplicate was Feng's inability to delegate. The Old Man's refusal to do so until the end led to a near-Civil War within
the organization. It also resulted in the Old Man's assassination. The geezer could've retired four or five years back, enjoyed time with this
granddaughter. Instead, the little girl witnessed Feng's brains exiting his cranium at high velocity.

To appease those in the organization on the fence about Charles's overseeing the operation, he promised to avenge the Old Man's death. He didn't care if he
ever did. Killing off two-dozen dissenters would be enough to get everyone in line. The timing had to be right. And finally, it was.

So now he had the office, where he spent most of his time, and the compound, where he only made brief appearances. There were people Charles trusted, and
those were the ones who remained in charge in Queens. He also had snitches on call should his captains turn on him. Loyalty, as far as he was concerned,
did not exist. Charles and the Old Man had turned on each other. And over what? Something to do with a woman and Jack Noble?

No, even the concept of loyalty only got one so far. If a concept could be packaged into something similar, then his group would be considered as loyal as
they came. Which meant a quarter to a third were scamming and skimming off the top. To be expected, though. Charles did it when he was coming up. He
presumed Feng did as well. Didn't mean he had to accept it. He'd already decided that would be the next order of business.

From the compound, Charles's captains oversaw day-to-day activities. From the high-rise, Charles worked on broadening and expanding his empire.
Opportunities existed that Feng never bothered to investigate. The money the Old Man had, which now belonged to Charles, meant a chance to move into
businesses other than drugs and racketeering and selling secrets. And now that things had been handled and he expected operations to run smoothly here on
out, that was precisely what he planned to do.

Charles reached for the binoculars. He followed two women, one brunette, the other blond, as they jogged through the park, honing in until their brightly
colored running shorts disappeared behind the thick leafy cover. His gaze lifted over the tops of the trees, down the shimmering, hazy corridor of 5th
Avenue. His eyes switched focus from the cityscape to the reflection of the three men seated behind him.

"Which of you thought this would be a good idea?" Charles turned, folded his forearms across the top of his expensive high-backed leather chair. It
swiveled to the left until his weight settled.

The first guy that spoke drew Charles's wrath.

"Shut up," he said before the guy managed a second syllable. "All three of you are lucky I brought you down here and didn't have you dismembered and
dissolved in the compound basement."

The looks on the faces of the men were as varied as they were. Each had come up in Feng's organization in a different manner. None of that mattered,
though. They remained loyal to Charles when others hadn't. They carried out his wishes exactly as requested. Until the final slaughter.

"Didn't I say," Charles said, "that Mikey C. was off-limits? He was the only one from the old regime, from back when I was a damn grease monkey working in
the garage, who remained neutral in the face of change. He had ties with groups outside our organization that wouldn't talk to me. Now we lost him, we lost
them, and we lost a lot of damn money."

None of the three men spoke.

"I said don't touch him!" Charles kicked his chair, sending it to the left. It toppled over on its side. Caster wheels spun without resistance. "But now
his body is torn into pieces and floating in the damn river."

Sunlight shone against the sweaty foreheads of the men across from him. One snuck a peek toward the office door, presumably in a failed attempt to locate
Charles's bodyguards.

"We didn't know he was gonna be there," the guy named Paolo Almeida said. "I mean, once we started, he came out from a back room where I guess he was
banging some whore. Charles, man, he saw what we was doing. He reached for his piece. I had no choice." The guy closed his eyes and flinched, having given
up the critical information Charles searched for.

Charles leaned back against the window, massive arms crossed. "You two, out."

Paolo remained seated while the other two captains rose and exited the office.

"What are you thinking right now?" Charles said.

"I'm wishing I'd kissed my wife before I left today."

"You're single."

Paolo shrugged. "Figure of speech."

Charles smirked. "Well in that case, if you had one, probably woulda been a good idea."

"Look, I'm telling the truth. It was me or him. I had no choice."

"Yes, you did." Charles pushed off the window and planted his thick knuckles on the desk and leaned over it. "You could have known who the hell was in the
damn house before going in, guns blazing."

Paolo said nothing. Better that way. Every word he uttered dug another six inches in his eventual grave.

"So what should I do with you?" He didn't wait for the man to answer. "Death is too simple an answer. It lacks the punch I'm looking for. Maybe a demotion.
You know, knock you down a peg or six. You're young enough to hustle on the street. Of course, you won't have any protection if you get picked up."

"And I'll rat your ass out first chance I get."

"Oh, hotheaded Paolo. The moment you arrived from Brazil or Argentina or wherever the fuck you're from, I knew you'd be a problem."

Charles smiled at the guy while an internal switch flipped. Rage rose up within him like angry bile. Still smiling, he reached out, grabbed the back of
Paolo's head and slammed it against the edge of the desk. Cartilage met solid mahogany. The desk won. Paolo choked on the blood that flooded his mouth and
throat. Another round of head-meets-desk split Paolo's forehead and sent him to the floor.

With his heart racing and his breath rapid and uneven, Charles rounded his desk. A pool of blood seeped into the twenty thousand dollar rug. He slammed his
foot into Paolo's midsection, cursing at the spreading tide of crimson, then he proceeded toward the door.

"You two," he said, aiming a finger in the direction of the men who had accompanied Paolo. "Get him off my floor. Clean him up, take him upstate, and get
rid of him. Use the express elevator straight to the garage. Anyone asks, he slipped in the bathroom and hit the urinal."

New York City.

TWO WOMEN. ONE blonde, the other brunette. Skimpy outfits. Did they run for exercise? Or for attention? The blonde glanced over, then back, smiling as
she passed. The diamonds on her wedding ring glinted in the sunlight.

Jack Noble returned a complimentary nod as he stayed far to the right of the Washington Square fountain. In part to stay out of view should someone be
watching from above. Also to seek shelter from the heat. But not even the cover of the trees could provide respite from the mid-July humidity. Even at nine
in the morning. Didn't bother the kids at the playground, although few things did. They raced past, sidestepping adults without taking their eyes off one
another.

The sight brought images of Mia to the forefront of Jack's mind. He hadn't seen his daughter since he left London to deal with a matter in his hometown of
Crystal River, Florida. Things there hadn't gone as planned. Once again, his past had resurfaced, as it always did. And as much as he wanted to be near his
daughter, her safety was paramount.

So Jack came back to the closest thing he had to a home.

But there wasn't much left for him in New York. The properties he co-owned with his former partner Riley "Bear" Logan were all up for sale or sold. It had
been Jack's idea. Bear followed through with it. The properties were a waste at this point anyway. They sat unused, and would remain that way if the duo
hung onto them. Better Bear have the money to set aside for his and Mandy's futures, than the condos and apartments go to waste.

Bear had kept another promise Jack forced upon the big man. He and Mandy had disappeared. Calls to his main forwarding number were met with a fast busy
signal. The line was gone. All other numbers Jack tried received a message indicating the same.

Better this way. At least, Jack convinced himself of it. Anyone connected with him met an untimely and painful ending. Somehow, Bear had managed to survive
for close to twenty years as Jack's partner, first in the military, then in business. The odds weren't in the big man's favor if he remained in that
capacity.

At the northeast corner of the park, Jack crossed Washington Square North and continued along the busy sidewalks of University Place until he reached 11th.
He'd made the same walk four other times in the past month. Each time, his knocks went unanswered. Had they gone unheard? All he wanted was proof that
Clarissa was OK. The last time he'd seen her, she'd saved his life by stopping a rogue SIS agent from filling him with bullets.

Since then, she'd been a ghost.

Perhaps that meant it was time to accept his duty to her was done. He'd protected her long enough. She obviously could make her own way now.

From 11th, Jack made his way to the Upper East Side. An eccentric millionaire had reached out to him through a private channel and showed interest in
securing Jack's services as head of security for the duration of the man's stay in New York. The call came as little surprise. He'd fielded several over
the past month after gaining a reputation in some circles. The reason? He'd prevented the assassination of a rising political star in London. In
retrospect, it would have been best for all involved had she died. Eventually, she did. Regardless, Jack's status in the wake of the event offered new
prospects. This one, being close to home, intrigued him.

He didn't need the money. Even after turning ninety percent of his assets over to Bear, his bank accounts provided enough to live on for years to come. But
Jack wasn't ready for retirement. Yet. And rather than eat up his accounts, he figured a better plan would be to add to them while he still had the
ability. Short-term security gigs would provide an opportunity to do just that. Plus, they had the added benefit of giving him something to do every day.
He expected his senses to dull over time due to age. Little could be done to prevent that. Maybe slow the decline down. But there was no need to accelerate
the process by sitting around on a barstool all day.

Upon entering the millionaire's condo building, the phone in Jack's pocket buzzed. He'd acted on a whim and purchased a smart phone. It had gigs of memory,
and multiple gigahertz of processing, and cloud capabilities. At first none of that meant anything to him. The phone had nearly ended up in the trashcan on
more than one occasion. But he took the time to figure it out. The devices, he figured, were here to stay. No point fighting them.

A man the color of coal and the size of a box-truck entered the lobby. He had a dark t-shirt on that said, "Yeah, I'm That Guy." Jack figured he got asked
the question a lot. The man gestured with his head for Jack to follow, so he did. They took the hallway to the left and entered a small windowless room.

"I'm sure you know how this works," the guy said.

"I'll save you the trouble." Jack reached behind and retrieved his Beretta. He released the magazine and set it and the pistol on the table, grip facing
the other man.

"Appreciate that, but it ain't gonna keep my hands off of you."

Jack didn't resist the man's attempt. Wasn't like he was going to find anything. Hands ran roughshod up and down Jack's torso, legs, ankles. Finally, the
guy stepped back and opened the door.

"Let's go."

They took the elevator to the top floor and walked the length of the building where they came to a stop in front of the last door. The man made Jack wait
in the hallway. Murmurs escaped through the gap between the door and the floor. They were too low to decipher. After a few minutes, the guy returned and
waved Jack inside the condo. The drawn curtains, perhaps purple in color and made from velvet, blocked out all the light. One dim bulb illuminated the
room. A flash of orange shone from the corner. Jack didn't recognize the face behind the cigarette.