Noble Intentions: Season Four (26 page)

"My partner asked you a question," Mason said. "You rudely ignored her. Now, first I want you to apologize to her. Then you are going to give her the
information she asked for."

The guy flailed about in an attempt to find balance atop the counter. Mason pulled his head up so he faced Sasha.

"Tell her," Mason said.

Sasha felt the stares of everyone in the lobby fall upon her. The guy stammered out his apology then insisted he'd give her any information she wanted.

"Erin Carlisle," she said. "I want her room number, and a key."

"I can't give you a key," the guy said.

Mason yanked the guy's head toward him, then fished around in his pocket and produced his badge. "You see this? This means you do whatever the bloody hell
we tell you to. You have any idea what we can do to you? Borders mean nothing to us. For all I know, you're hell bent on setting off an attack on England.
All I have to do is think that, and I can haul you in and keep you detained for two weeks."

"OK, OK," the guy said. "Whatever you want. I'll do whatever you say."

"Good," Mason said. "Now tell us Erin Carlisle's room number and produce a key."

Several hotel employees had gathered near, including a security officer. They shuffled left to right. Shook their hands. Glanced at one another. No one had
any idea what to do in this situation. And Sasha worried what Mason might try to do should one of them act. The sooner the desk guy produced a room key,
the better. Fortunately, it didn't take long. He handed the plastic card over to Mason along with directions. He also insisted the security guard escort
them and provide whatever support they needed. When the guard tried to protest, the desk guy insisted everything was OK. It was all a misunderstanding, and
entirely his fault.

Mason smiled and agreed. Sasha rolled her eyes. There were other ways to handle situations such as these. Better ways. Nonviolent ways. That didn't matter,
though. Getting to the room did.

They rode the lift up with the security guard. He asked questions. Sasha and Mason ignored him. She stared ahead at her reflection in the mirrored door.
Mason stared at her, too, but she ignored that as well.

The lift came to a halt. The floor indicator dinged. The doors parted. The trio stepped into the lobby. The security guard looked right, then left, perhaps
acclimating himself to the floor. Might have been one of those that no matter how many times they'd walked it, the enclosed casing of the lift left his
sense of direction misaligned after a ride up.

"This way," he said, pointing down the hallway.

They followed his lead. It was impossible to tell whether the rooms they passed were occupied. She wondered if anyone had seen Erin and Mia. Would they
recognize a picture of them? Had anyone been asking about them? She wondered if anyone watched the hallway through the peephole in their door. Her gaze
traveled from the room numbers to the gap at the door. She watched for obstructed light. Shadows moving. Shifting. Someone ready to move should their prey
be tampered with.

"Here it is," the guy announced.

Sasha wanted to hit him. Mason nearly did. She reached out and grabbed his wrist.

"Keep it down," Mason said.

Sasha stepped in front and slid the key into the magnetic reader. The light flashed red, then green, blinked a couple times then remained solid. The lock
disengaged. She pulled her pistol. The guard made a noise, but otherwise didn't interfere. Mason stepped forward.

"I'll lead," he whispered, reaching for the handle.

She dropped to a knee, extended her pistol. The approach wasn't ideal. There was already a rift between Erin and her. This would widen it. And probably
scare Mia. But if something had already happened - if whoever had pinged Erin's records had already found her - then the way they were handling it was
ideal. Minus the security guard, obviously. But he was there, and might even prove useful.

"Going," Mason said, exploding through the door, sidearm drawn and aimed in front of him. He shouted once inside. "Everyone down. Hands up. Let me see your
hands."

Sasha followed him in. Covering the room. Staying low. Watching the shadows. Finding nothing.

"It's empty," Mason said.

"I know." She rose and walked past him, toward the window. Splitting the blinds, she glanced out over the plaza. "Check the hot water in the shower."

"Why?"

"If they were here recently, it might run warm right away."

"Water heats up pretty fast here," the guard said.

"Shut up," Mason said as he passed the man on the way to the bathroom.

Sasha continued to stare out the window. "What kind of security camera system do they have in place?"

"You asking me?" the guard said.

She glanced back, nodded.

"Halls, elevator lobbies, main lobby, front and rear and sides of the building."

"What about in the plaza? Does the city have a system in place?"

The guard nodded. "Don't know much about it, but yeah. If you look up at the light poles, you see them cameras aimed down."

"And do you know anyone with access to those?"

"I'm private security, ma'am. Work for the hotel. I suppose you'd have to reach out to the local authorities." He looked to his left, toward the wall, then
back at her. "What do you think happened here?"

She shrugged, feigning uncertainty.

He glanced to his left again, head titled, like a dog who's heard a squirrel padding across the back patio. "You hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"Come here."

She crossed to him, called out, "Mason, cut that water and come here."

The guard pressed his ear against the wall. Sasha did the same. Mason stepped out of the bathroom, started to speak, but said nothing. Sasha held up a
finger in response to the questioning look on his face.

"Shit," she said.

"What?" he said.

"That's someone calling for help." She pushed past the guard, toward the door. "Get someone up here with a key right now."

They waited in the hall for three long minutes, unsure of what waited for them on the other side of the door. The guy from the desk handed her the room
key. She and Mason followed the same entry procedure, only with her taking the lead.

The woman sobbed when the light from the hallway hit her. It took Sasha about three seconds to recognize her as Hannah. Perhaps she feared she would now
die. Maybe she realized she was saved. Sasha didn't make her wait long.

"It's OK, Hannah," she said as she removed the gag from the woman's mouth. "You're OK now."

"Where're Erin and Mia?" Hannah asked between sobs.

Sasha glanced back at the Mason and the other two men. "We're going to find that out now."

The group traveled to the lobby where they met with the local police. First up was reviewing the security footage. Hannah immediately identified Brett in
the footage of her and the man entering the hotel. It took Sasha's team in London less than five minutes to return everything MI6 had on Brett Taylor. They
were working on his current location when one of the policemen received a call. He informed the group of the woman found murdered on the beach.

"Where is the body?" Sasha asked.

"They are transporting it to the morgue," the officer said.

"Take us there," she said.

"Don't you think you are being a bit hasty?" Mason asked.

"No," she said. "I've got a bad feeling. The same kind of bad feeling I had when I noticed someone had accessed Jack's files."

"You've been monitoring Noble?"

She ignored his question. "It's her. We need to go now."

"There could be more on this tape, Sasha," Mason said. "Let the police do their job and we do ours."

"This is our job," she said. Then she turned to the cop. "Take us there."

One officer remained behind so that Hannah could ride along with Sasha and Mason to the morgue. It took less than five minutes. It was obvious the place
was nothing more than a holding room. They'd keep the body here for identification, then move it to another facility for the autopsy and any forensics
work. She figured the process corrupted ninety percent of any possible evidence left behind on a body.

The cop led them inside. Despite Hannah's protests, Sasha made her wait outside the chilled room. Together, Sasha and Mason waited while the tech pulled
the chilled locker out and removed the sheet draped over the body.

Though the wounds affected the face, there was no doubt that the body was that of Erin Carlisle.

"Shit," Sasha said.

"That her?" Mason asked.

"Yes, that's her. Jack's ex. His daughter's mother." She turned toward Mason. "Shit."

Her phone cut off his reply. She saw the number and answered immediately.

"South Africa," Brooks - one of her guys - said. "He was transported on a private flight to Johannesburg a few hours ago."

"How soon can you get us off this island?" she asked.

Brooks tapped on his keyboard. "Commercial flights will take way too long. They all connect at least once in Europe. Start making your way to the airport,
and I'll work on finding a private jet that can take you ASAP."

She lowered her phone and turned to Mason. "We have to go now."

"Where?" he said.

"Airport."

"To go where?"

"Johannesburg."

"South Africa?"

"Yes."

"You're crazy."

"I know."

"What about the girl?"

"I'll have Brooks coordinate with the locals to get her home and placed under our care."

"You're crazy," Mason said again as Sasha exited the room with no intention of stopping until she was on a plane bound for Johannesburg, South Africa.

New York.

CHARLES LAY ON an overstuffed bed in a cheap hotel room. The kind of place he never stayed. But tonight he didn't care. He hoped that the condition
would keep him from getting too relaxed. Perhaps give his brain a chance to figure things out. He stared at a patch of yellow ceiling, near the outer wall.
A leak, he supposed, from the window in the room above his. As long as it didn't cave in tonight.

He couldn't stay away from the city for too long. Things would go to hell quick if his captains started thinking Charles had abandoned them. Everyone
looked out for themselves. No one had his best interests at heart. He was sure some still thought there was a way for them to take over. He had to prevent
a group of them from banding together and trying. Of course, chances of that occurring were slim. Because they all looked out for themselves. No one else.
Not him. Not each other.

Still, this trip had to come to an end. And soon. He considered the possibility of letting Paolo go. It'd only be a matter of time before the guy surfaced
somewhere. A standing order on the guy's life would put a swift end to him as soon as he did. But that would require a certain amount of airing dirty
laundry, so to speak. And Charles was against that. For the most part.

A glimmer of hope surfaced when his cell phone rang and the number calling was that of Trooper McGillicuddy, Charles's contact out in these parts.

"What do you got for me, Gilly?" Charles said.

"We've found your guy."

"You don't say." Charles sat up, smiled at his reflection in the mirror. "Where at?"

"In Ohio, near the lake, about twenty minutes past the Pennsylvania border."

"You didn't call in anyone over there, right?"

"Nope. Got one of my guys on him. Staking it out. If your guy moves, so will he. Won't make any attempt to detain, even if things get out of hand. He can't
out there."

"Good. Tell him to stay put. He doesn't want to mess with that guy anyway."

"You owe me, DeCosta."

"Do I? I thought it was you that owed me?" Charles rose and walked to the bathroom. "Ah, forget about it. I owe you. Or, more accurately, I will owe you if
this works out the way I hope it does. Now give me that address."

Charles copied down the address and directions, then washed up and left the hotel.

"JUST CLOSE YOUR eyes now, Essie," Paolo whispered as he stroked his sister's hair back. She still hadn't spoken. Seemed worse than she had a few hours
ago. He was worried that when she finally came out of it - if she came out of it - that she wouldn't be the same for a while. Maybe not ever.
Post-traumatic stress was awful. He'd seen it in some of the guys that worked in the organization. The ones who'd served in Iraq and Afghanistan.

He rose and walked to the sink, poured two cups of water. Set one next to Essie, then sat on the bed.

"We're safe here," he said. "These cabins are deep in the woods. Ours is the furthest back. We can come and go and no one will see us. I figure we'll stay
here for a week, maybe two, then move on. Perhaps cross the border at the Upper Peninsula, or continue west to Montana. Go far enough into the mountains
there and you're practically in another country without having to go through customs."

He glanced down and smiled at Essie. She stared blankly at the ceiling. He wondered if she even heard anything he said.

"Good night, little sis." He leaned over, kissed her cheek, then cut the light.

Essie's breathing remained steady. The way Paolo saw it, she was already asleep. Had been that way most of the day now. So what if her eyes had been open.
He glanced down at her. The soft light that filtered through the window glinted off her still-open eyes. He place his hand on her forehead, gently massaged
her temples, then drug his palm toward her nose, letting his thumb and index finger drag on her eyelids and shut them.

TROOPER JOHANSON NOTED the time the lights went out in the cabin. He wasn't sure how long he'd be here. McGillicuddy had told him as long as it took.
Might as well make himself useful and keep track of habits and patterns. It'd come in handy when the next guy arrived.

Unknown Location.

EVERY MUSCLE WAS on fire, but Jack could barely move. His head felt worse than it had after he'd been waterboarded some years ago. It was like someone
had combined the ten worse hangovers in history and slammed them over Jack's head. He couldn't tell if his eyes were closed, or the room was dark, or if
he'd gone blind. A steady drip splashed on the floor near him. It intensified in sound with every passing second. He clenched his right fist, squeezing,
digging his nails into his palm until some sensation returned. How could he hurt so badly, yet have no sense of touch or feel? Pins and needles spread
through his fingers, hand, wrist, arm. He began working his other hand in the same manner. Then he clenched his eyelids tight. The left opened easily. The
right was tougher to part. Slowly he adjusted to the dull light. He lay face down on a dirty concrete floor, the right side of his face pressed against the
damp surface.