Noble Intentions: Season Four (27 page)

The drip sounded closer now. Right behind him. He brought his hands in close, placed them palm down on the floor, pushed up. His torso rose an inch or two,
then collapsed, cheek colliding with the concrete, sending a shockwave of pain through his orbital bone. A different pain than he'd been experiencing. It
was superficial, not deep and muscular. It meant he was coming around.

From what, though?

He had no recollection of ending up on the floor. He thought back, trying to recall anything. Nothing surfaced immediately. Frustration building, he
returned to the physical challenge of getting off the floor. The ever-intensifying water drip now pelted the back of his head. He managed to turn his body
and pulled his face off the floor. Glanced up. Saw a long metal pipe running from one side of the room to the other, directly above him. Large drops of
water clung to the rail. Another fell and hit the side of his head with a smack.

How the hell did a drop of water hurt so much?

Jack rocked back then forward, sliding his hands along the floor so they were directly under his shoulder. His legs were still numb, but that was only a
sensation. He directed his feet to straighten and dragged his knees up. Felt nothing. Heard them scraping against the floor. He pushed his chest off the
concrete. It required as much effort as a hundredth push up might. When was the last time he'd attempted that many? Had to be Recruit Training, or one of
the Spec Ops schools he'd attended during his early years in the Marines. He kept pushing, locked his arms when they were straight, drew his knees up
closer. He pulled his hands off the floor and rocked back so he sat on his heels, knees out in front. Now, to stand.

The water dripped next to him, splashing and spraying over his bare arms. The wall stood a few feet away. Too far to simply reach out and touch it. He
shuffled on his knees until he was close enough to fall forward and remain upright. He pressed his hands against the damp plaster or drywall like it was
the floor. He pushed out with his arms. Up with his legs. Inched his way up, face pressed against the wall. Sweat dripped down his face, chest, back. Or
was that water from the pipe? He didn't have enough feeling to know if he was hot or cold. He burned, but not from heat.

The pain in his head intensified with every inch of progress he made. He had flashes of events. A meeting in a dark apartment. A phone call with Erin.
Tenerife. Something about the island off the North African coast. Charles DeCosta in his apartment. What the hell? None of it made sense. Not the body he
recalled seeing in a strange house, or standing with Frank on a lakeside beach.

Finally, Jack was upright. He forced himself around and leaned back against the wall. His lungs cried out for oxygen. His chest heaved in an attempt to
satisfy the requirement. Feeling returned to his legs, starting at his toes and working up. The burning sensation followed. It now spread throughout his
entire body. Skin and bone and muscles on fire.

He realized he was naked except for a pair of boxer shorts. He stared at his bare legs and chest and at his clenched fist. And then he laughed. It was the
only thing he could do at that moment. Had he lost his mind? What the hell had happened? Was he a prisoner?

Memories flooded him. Flashes of images appeared and faded just as fast. A time line formed, starting with the meeting. He couldn't put it all together,
though. He reached down and pulled up the legs of his boxer's and saw the two dark bruises. All that remained of the tranquilizers someone had shot at him.

Who? Why?

Jack took his first timid steps toward the door at the other end of the room. Light, brighter than that in the room, filled the cracks on the top, sides
and bottom. It'd be locked. He was sure of that. No one would hold him captive and leave the door unlocked. But he had to check for himself. What kind of
idiot would he be if it turned out otherwise? Not that it would. But he had to check. If only to prove to himself that he could cross the room. He looked
down again in search of additional bruises. Saw none. Couldn't figure out how not, considering how badly his body ached. No, burned. An ache was different.
The feeling after a car crash or getting your ass kicked was different. This was like every nerve in his body had been frozen and then thawed with acid.

Foot by foot, step by step, he crossed the room. He shuffled when his feet wouldn't lift off the floor. He had to keep going. Only other option was to
collapse. And as bad as it had been where he had been lying, this side of the room looked like the other had taken a shit on it.

Finally, he stood a foot in front of the door. He placed his left hand on the wall for support. Then he reached out for the knob with the other. The metal
handle felt cold and wet. He gave it a turn to the left. It didn't budge. He inhaled and sighed. Let his forehead come to rest against the door. Then
turned the knob the opposite direction.

And found it unlocked.

Unknown Location.

THE DOOR STUCK after moving about an inch. Locked on the other side, Jack figured. He gave it a shove, but the door didn't budge. Jack took a step back,
looked up toward the top, past it, to the ceiling. Water didn't just coat the pipe. The entire ceiling was covered in slick condensation. For the first
time, he noticed the putrid smell. What the hell had this room been used for? He checked the floor for grates, concerned that bodies were dismembered and
dissolved in acid in there. If so, he wouldn't find any trace there.

He reminded himself that the door moved. It wasn't a latch binding it. Worst case, it was barred on the other side. But it might just be a security chain.
And there was no way a simple chain was going to hold back Jack's solid 220 pounds, especially with a running start.

A direct path was best, but it had to be clear of puddles. He still had little trust in his balance and the ability of his muscles to hold up to a sprint.
A line through the middle of the room worked best. Jack walked to the other wall backward, focus on the door. He stopped when his shoulder blades made
contact with the cool, wet wall. Then he took a deep breath, crouched with his left leg forward, then powered off the wall toward the door, twisting and
dipping so his left shoulder would take the brunt.

Bone and muscle smashed into the heavy barrier with a smack. There was no resistance. Whatever secured the door gave way like it was nothing more than
dental floss. Jack lost his balance and stumbled. He forced himself to twist so he wouldn't end up slamming face first into a wall, knocking himself
unconscious.

But there was nothing to stop him. Not immediately, at least.

He continued forward, bent at the waist, arms flailing in an attempt to regain his balance. Didn't find it, though, and collapsed to the floor, his left
shoulder once again taking the impact of the fall. Pain radiated down his arm, to the tips of his fingers. He balled his fist just to make sure he still
could.

After a moment of silence, the space filled with noise. New noise. Not necessarily better than the dripping water. Different, though.

Jack rolled over, opened his eyes. The hallway was wide and painted beige. The ceiling above was white and absent of water. Someone nearby coughed. A baby
cried for a moment. He arched his back and looked down the corridor, getting an upside-down view. A woman cradling a baby to her breast took a hit off a
small glass pipe. Her eyes were glazed over. Looked like a damn zombie. Crack zombie. And feeding her child at the same time. Disgust turned Jack's
stomach. He rolled over, got to his knees, reached out of the wall, stood.

"These are for you," a man said from behind him.

Jack stopped and turned. The guy was older. Probably in his sixties. Frail with a head full of short white hair. He spoke English, but the accent was not
one Jack was familiar with.

"Pardon?" Jack said.

The guy lifted something off his lap. "These are for you."

Jack still couldn't place the accent. It was heavy, like people in New Zealand. Jack understood the words, but it was as though they spoke in another
language.

"What is it?" Jack said, although it was clear the man held pants and a shirt. He wanted to hear the guy talk again.

"What's it look like, man? It's clothes. Take 'em or I'll give em to someone here."

Jack held out both hands in surrender. "Fine, give them here." He shook out the shirt and slipped it on, then the pants.

The guy stood and reached into his pocket. Jack eased back, tensed his core. The man produced a cell phone. "Almost forgot this. They said to give you
this."

Taking the cell, Jack said, "Who? And where am I?"

The guy looked at him funny. "You had that good a time last night, eh?"

"What are you talking about? Who told you to give me this stuff?"

"Man, you need to quit fucking around." The guy smiled. "Gonna be late for your wedding if you don't get going. Bus comes by every ten minutes."

Jack lunged forward, grabbed the guy by his shirt and lifted him out of his chair. He noticed for the first time the man had no legs. The crack addict
gasped. Her baby cried. She shushed the child, perhaps redirecting it to her breasts.

"What the hell you doing?" the man said. His mouth hung open. Alcohol laden breath washed over Jack.

"Who told you to give this stuff to me?"

"Three guys, man. All Americans, like you. They said you was passed out from too much drinking. You know, bachelor party. Wedding today. They paid me a
couple hundred to stay here and wait for you. They said you'd do just like you did and bust out of that room after about four hours."

Jack searched his memory, hoping the guy's description of events would help, but he had no recollection of being brought to the room. He eased the guy back
into his seat.

"Where the hell am I?" Jack asked.

"Hillbrow."

He thought of every city he knew in Australia, New Zealand, Belgium, and Amsterdam. Couldn't place Hillbrow in any of them.

"Where?" Jack said.

"Hillbrow, in Johannesburg."

Jack stared blankly at the guy.

"You in South Africa, man. How do you not know this? You're here to get married. Man, you gonna have a pissed off bride."

"South Africa," Jack repeated. "What?"

"You need me to call someone for you?"

Jack shook his head and backed away from the old guy. "How do I get out of here?"

"Stairs at the other end of the hall. Emergency exit at the bottom. But don't worry, no alarm sounds."

Jack turned away from the guy, passed the crack-addict mother, staring at the child that had no chance at a decent future. He reached the end of the
hallway and kicked the metal door open. He wasn't sure what he'd find on the other side. There was a part of him that wanted to believe this was all some
kind of joke. But then he thought of the bruises on his thigh, and he remembered the shots fired. Tranquilizers.

And things began to make sense.

Johannesburg, South Africa.

BRETT DROVE TO the center of the city, figuring there he'd be able to get to any other part in equal time. Ballard had only told him Johannesburg.
Beyond that, the guy had no details. But he would in time. The man insisted on it. At some point, someone would tell someone else where Noble was, and then
Ballard would relay the information. And Brett had to trust the guy would. After all, Ballard had found a way to transport him to South Africa without
Brett needing to give up his weapon. Sure, they could find a safe house through whatever agency Ballard was associated with, but that would take time. And
when tracking a guy like Noble, time was not a commodity. It worked against you. Every second that guy had to figure out his next step was another second
Brett would be closer to failing.

And failure was not an option in this operation.

He located a parking spot near a bank of stores and stepped out into the cool morning air. Quite a difference, going from ninety all day long in the States
to fifty degrees even as the sun stood directly above, bright and glaring.

His cell phone vibrated in his hand. The display read unknown. He answered anyway, certain of the caller's identity.

"Got a location for you," Ballard said.

"OK."

"Hillbrow."

"Where is that?"

"I'm going to send you an email with a secure link for a program you'll download to your phone. The login credentials will be listed in the message. Use
those for access after you have the application installed. Then you'll need to enter 6-X-Z-N-Y-R-# into the form box. Repeat it."

Brett repeated the code.

"Good," Ballard said. "Now, once you do that, you are going to have a link to Noble's cellular signal. It'll overlay onto a map. Follow the signal and
you'll find him."

"How'd you get his phone information?"

"These people who brought him there, they're idiots."

"Why'd they bring him here instead of finishing the job?"

"'Cause they're trying to protect him, not kill him."

"SIS."

"Right." Ballard's heavy breathing indicated he was excited over the prospect of closing in on Noble.

"What happens after this?"

"I guess you'll need to get back to the States."

"How?"

"You're a smart guy. You'll figure it out."

With that, the call disconnected.

"Bastard," Brett muttered, opening his mail application. As Ballard had stated, there was a message waiting with a secure link. He tapped on the link and
was redirected to a page with an icon and nothing else. Another tap initiated the download. He navigated back to his inbox, reopened the message, and
memorized the login credentials. After the application finished installing, he logged in, then entered the code Ballard had verbally delivered into the
dialog box.

A map took over his phone's screen. The terrain layered in first. Then the streets. But it stopped there. Brett walked to the corner and took note of the
street signs. Then he looked at the map. It was synced perfectly to his position.