Noble Intentions: Season Four (44 page)

Most would have buckled under the statement. Laure straightened up, the look her face more defiant than it had been.

"Mandy," Bear said. "Why'd you tell me where to find her?"

"She had nothing to do with this, and obviously, you were better for her than some foster family. How is she? Has her memory come back?"

Bear glanced toward the window and shook his head. "She knows me, but doesn't know me. It'll get there."

They fell silent for a minute. The refrigerator hummed. The fan, which had drowned out the fridge a few moments earlier, shut off. Laure glanced toward a
closed door, presumably her bedroom.

"You want to get dressed."

She nodded and leaned forward. Her gaze shifted to the door again. She looked like a lioness, preparing to pounce.

Bear took a step back.

The bedroom door burst open, and a man rushed out, armed, shouting at Bear to get down.

Bear spun and fired, the round ripping through the guy's bare chest. He returned fire, but his aim had been altered. As the man fell, he dropped his
pistol. It hit the ground and slid a few feet toward the middle of the room.

Bear turned to Laure to keep her from going after the gun.

No chance of that happening.

She lay back on the couch, blood pouring from the gunshot wound to the side of her head, lifeless eyes staring up at him.

"The hell were you thinking?" he shouted at her as though she could respond. "Why didn't you tell me he was in there?"

He walked over to the man on the floor. The guy tried to scoot back, but didn't get far. The wound was bad, but possibly survivable.

"You were in the room with her, weren't you?" Bear said. "When that sniper killed Pierre. Who did the order come from? Huh? Which of your bosses sanctioned
it?"

The guy worked his mouth like a fish out of water until he managed to speak. "Laure. Laure did."

"And she thought you'd never tell."

"Help… help me."

Bear looked up and spotted a towel on the floor. He stepped over the guy, grabbed it, then wrapped it around the man's neck, squeezing until the guy's face
was blue and he no longer fought back.

He took the towel, wiped down the front door with it. Looking back at the dead bodies, he thought of Pierre. Before exiting the building, he discarded the
towel in a maintenance closet.

A half-hour later, he was at the hotel. Mandy smiled at his return. She'd forced the gesture, but it was a start. In time, she'd remember.

He tossed his clothes in the trash, then washed up. Afterward, he considered dismissing the two-man security team, but decided he had a few hours left,
might as well take advantage of it.

Bear placed a call to Sasha.

After the formalities, she said, "I'm hearing word that a high-ranking agent in the DSGE and one of her subordinates were killed today. Both of them found
half-dressed. He killed her, but they aren't sure who pulled the trigger on him. They suspect an affair, and her ex-husband is the leading suspect at the
moment. I figure that gives any other possible suspects about twelve hours to get out of the country."

"That's why I'm calling," Bear said. "Can you help with that?"

"Depends on where you want to go."

"I was thinking Germany."

Sasha paused before responding. "I'm not sure I can do that, but if you'll come here first, I can help with documentation for the two of you, then you can
go wherever you want."

Bear cracked the door open. Mandy sat at the table, eating a sandwich. She looked up at him and smiled. A little less distant. A little more genuine.

"Actually," Bear said. "It doesn't matter where I go, as long as she's safe."

"Then come to London and I'll bring you to one of the safest places I know. My family has an estate to the north. Fully staffed, but no one is there for at
least the next three months. You can stay there and allow this some time to blow over. Maybe Mandy's condition will improve while you're here."

Thirty minutes later, the security team escorted them out of Paris to a private airport where Sasha had arranged for a Gulfstream to bring Bear and Mandy
to London.

Sasha met them on the runway. By late afternoon, the trio had arrived at the estate, about forty miles to the west of Newcastle.

New York City.

BRETT LET JACK out of the car on 77th Street. Opposite end of the Museum of Natural History. The men donned comms units Brett had brought from his
apartment. He also had a couple changes of clothes. The men were roughly the same size. Jack wore gym shorts and a t-shirt, hat, and sunglasses. It wasn't
the best disguise, but it'd do.

The early morning rays of the sun cast the city in red and orange hues. It looked clean. Fresh. He knew the day would be anything but.

He headed north on Columbus, gaze traveling side to side looking for Monaco's men. As he approached 81st, he still hadn't spotted anybody. Monaco felt
secure in his location. Who would come looking for a bunch of killers at the hotel?

By now the agency knew of Ballard's death and was looking for his laptop. If Brandon did his job, they'd be searching for days before finding it.

He questioned whether Monaco remained in contact with anyone at the agency. With his experience, he could have been kept on the payroll, even if he took a
backseat to most operations these days. He was a legend in Clandestine Ops, according to Brett. It wasn't a stretch to assume today's leaders consulted
with a hero from the past. It benefited both sides. When shit hit the fan for Monaco, all he had to do was call in a few favors.

Don
't let this be one of those times.

He traveled the block around the hotel, scouted the alleys, and walked along the park, all while keeping in constant contact with Brett. There was no
obvious security in place. Didn't mean it wasn't there. Only that he couldn't see it.

"It's clear," he said.

"OK," Brett said. "I'll meet you behind the hotel near the maintenance room."

Jack entered the hotel through the front. The staff looked tired after a long overnight shift. No one bothered to greet him. He walked through the lobby
and continued past the elevators. He made a right at the first hall he came to, then stopped in front of the maintenance room and knocked on the door.

A few seconds later it opened up. Grease Stain stared at him.

"What are you doing here?"

"I need your help."

"Not a chance in hell. Get out of here before I call the cops."

"For what reason?"

The big maintenance man said nothing.

"I'm going to give you the chance to help me get my daughter back. She's being held here."

"Why should I care?"

"Do you need for me to give you a reason?" Jack gripped his pistol behind his back with his right hand. "Let's not make it get to that point. OK?"

Grease Stain stood there like a mountain blocking the doorway. He looked at Jack, then over his shoulder, then back. Both hands were out of sight. It was
easy to envision the guy wielding pipe cutters or a baseball bat.

"Your daughter?" the guy said.

"She's just a kid," Jack said. "If you have even the slightest inclination of what kind of guy I am, then you can probably assume what kind of men they
are."

Grease stain nodded and stepped back. "Use whatever you need."

The room hummed. The warm air was charged with static and smelled of oil.

Jack made his way to the opposite side and opened the exit door. Brett stood on the landing, gun in his hand, pressed to his thigh. He stepped inside. His
stare went to the large man at the other end of the room.

"Friend of yours?" Brett said.

Jack ignored the question. "Did you get the call?"

Brett nodded and told Jack the room number Brandon had given him.

Jack led him over to Grease Stain and said, "You got a master key?"

"Why?" the man asked.

"Because I need one."

"I could get fired."

"I won't let them do that," Jack said. "Trust me."

The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a key. He used it to unlock a drawer on his desk. From the drawer, he pulled out a plastic card and handed
it to Jack.

"Bring it back," said Grease Stain.

Jack gathered a few items from the maintenance room, then exited into the hallway. He and Brett took the elevator to the sixth floor, walked to the end of
the hallway, taking note of the room numbers, and then took the stairwell down one flight.

"It's going to be five rooms from here," Jack said. "On the left. I'll unlock. You open and cover me. I'll lock down the first guy I see and call out the
location of any others to you. Got it?"

Brett nodded and reached for the hallway door. Jack went through first, pistol drawn and kept out of sight just behind his hip. The thing they weren't sure
of was whether there were multiple rooms in use. Both men had to remain highly vigilant. There could be a guy positioned behind one of the doors, a
lookout, staring into the hallway in case of a moment like this.

"We should have made your friend pull the records for each room," Brett whispered.

Jack shrugged. That didn't matter. These men were more than capable of using false identities. By the time they reviewed that and any camera footage, the
opportunity could've been blown.

They stopped in front of the door. Jack to the right, Brett on the left. Both out of view of the peephole. Jack slid the master key through the electronic
reader. On the click of the lock, Brett reached over and turned the handle. He drove his shoulder into the door. Jack burst through the opening.

A man sat in a pair of boxers at the other end of the room, eating cereal. He spilled the bowl on himself as he attempted to get up. Milk dripped down his
chest and stomach and soaked his underwear.

Jack rushed forward to the end of the small hallway, his pistol aimed at the milk-soaked man.

"One guy, directly ahead. He's mine. Room's empty otherwise. Check the bathroom."

Brett kicked in the bathroom door and began shouting at someone to turn around and get their hands up.

"Don't move," Jack said to the guy, now standing with his arms up. The guy kept glancing toward the bed. "You got something over there?"

The man said nothing.

"What did you find?" he called out to Brett.

"One guy."

"Bring him out here and get him against the wall." Jack turned his attention back to the man. "Where is she?"

"Who?"

"I'm gonna give you a pass there since I didn't tell you the rules. You do anything but answer my questions with the truth and I'm gonna cause you
immeasurable pain."

Brett appeared at Jack's side. He leaned in and whispered, "That's him. From the hotel in Tenerife."

Jack nodded. He looked at the guy who'd been in the bathroom. "I recognize him from Johannesburg. Son of a bitch shot at me. Check the bed. They're hiding
something there."

Brett tossed the pillows and stripped the sheets. He returned with a Glock, a wallet and a cell phone.

"Where is she?" Jack said.

"I don't know who you're talking about," the guy said, smiling.

Jack set his pistol down on the bed, then walked up to the man. "You know who I am?"

He nodded. "I got an idea."

"Then you know why I'm here. Right at this moment, you're in a damn awful position. It'd be in your best interests to tell me what I want to know."

The guy said nothing. Which is about what Jack expected. The man looked like he could still be in the CIA. His relationship with Monaco indicated that he
had been trained to keep his mouth shut under all circumstances.

Jack delivered a shot to his solar plexus. He hadn't put a lot behind the blow. Didn't have to. The man bowed forward as he tried to suck in a mouthful of
air. Jack shoved him backward. The guy bounced off the table and fell into the chair he had been sitting in. The guy against the wall looked back. Brett
lunged forward and threw an elbow into the guy's spine.

"Where is she?" Jack shouted.

The man's face was dark red. Despite that, he raised his middle finger.

Jack reached out and grabbed the extended digit. Then he pulled a pair of heavy gauge wire cutters from his pocket.

"Where?" Jack said.

The man said nothing.

Jack flicked the tool open. The sharp inch-and-a-half long blades were separated wide.

"Tell me what you did with her," Jack said.

The guy made ragged attempts at deep breaths, but still said nothing. He could've grunted or forced a word out.

Jack delivered an elbow strike to the guy's nose, then wrenched around until he had the man's arm barred between his torso and upper arm. He held the
cutters up to the man's second knuckle of his middle finger.

"Last chance."

"Fuck you."

Jack squeezed the rubber padded handles together. It took a couple additional pumps to complete the job since he wasn't going for a clean cut between the
knuckle and bone. The majority of the guy's finger fell to the table. Blood poured from the stump. Brett had muffled the man with a pillow. His screams
were barely audible.

"You want any more?" Jack said.

"Ah, Jesus." The guy moaned as he stared at his lifeless finger on the table.

Jack grabbed the guy's wrist and extended his arm out again. He put the blades of the cutter close to the base of the guy's index finger. Pressed in hard
enough to break the skin and stopped at the bone.

"Ready to tell me?"

"Stop," the guy said. "Stop, and I'll tell you."

"Then do it," Jack said.

"They took her, man. Told me to stay here another day or two."

"Who took her?"

The man shook his head and said nothing. Brett backhanded him.

Jack dug in with the cutters. The bone cracked. The man screamed.

"Butch," he said. "Butch took her."

"Where?"

"I don't know."

Jack squeezed again, jerking up and down as he did so. The finger snapped. Jack gave it another tug, then released. The digit dangled from the guy's hand
by a strand of skin.