Noble Intentions: Season Four (47 page)

Clarissa cast a look to the meeting room. Harris stood outside the room, arm propped against the door frame. Coffee in his other hand. Shelton stood next
to him, arms crossed, engaging the detective in conversation.

"And now he knows our plans." Clarissa's pulse quickened at the thought of betrayal.

"Which is why I suggest you guys detain him."

Clarissa caught Beck's gaze and motioned him over.

"What is it?" Beck asked.

"Harris," Howell said. "I don't have enough to get the guy kicked off the NYPD or tossed in jail, but I can tell you that his relationship with Charles
goes way beyond informant. After all, Charles is well past that stage. No point in meeting with the guy if there isn't some kind of exchange going on."

Beck looked up at the ceiling as though it held the answer.

Howell reached into his pocket and produced a device smaller than a cell phone. "It's a sweeper. You run it past him, and if he has a recording device on
him, it'll light up. But, Beck, listen to me. You better be able to detain him until we're done with all parts of this. If he gets out of this building and
relays that information, we might as well pack it up."

"He's not going anywhere." Beck took the device and started toward Shelton and Harris.

The look the FBI agents shared told Clarissa they were more than convinced by what they had discovered.

Time seemed to slow down. The vent above piped out cold, stale air. It chilled the sweat that had broken out on her forehead.

Harris had a lot to lose. And when men were in that position, Clarissa knew they could react unpredictably. Armed, the detective might choose to kill
himself after taking out as many of them as he could.

"Detective," Beck said. "A word before you go?"

Shelton took that as his cue and backed up a few feet. Beck reached out like he wanted to shake hands with Harris. Instead, he waved the device in front of
the guy. It went off near Harris's chest. The detective backed into the wall, arms out to his side. He could go either way from there.

Clarissa reached for her pistol. Howell did the same.

"The hell is going on here?" Harris said.

"What's in your shirt pocket?" Beck said.

Clarissa and Howell moved forward. Shelton had positioned himself on the other side of Harris. The detective was pinned. Nowhere to run unless he managed
to bust through a few walls. And with bulletproof drywall, that wouldn't be too effective.

Harris grabbed his shirt.

Clarissa and Howell both stopped and drew their firearms. The look on Harris's face as his head swiveled toward them was unclear. Panic? Fear? And if fear,
why? Because he knew he'd been busted?

"See," Harris said. "Nothing in there."

Beck grabbed Harris's shirt with both hands and yanked outward. Buttons flew and bounced on the hard floor. And taped to the detective's chest, right over
his heart, was a small black box.

"Has that been transmitting?" Beck said.

Shelton moved in and disarmed the detective.

Harris said nothing. The panic and fear had vanished. His cheeks were red. Lips drawn tight. Nostrils flared. Brows arched down toward his nose.

Beck ripped the device off Harris's chest. He tossed it to Clarissa. "Take this down to Miriam and have her figure out its capabilities."

They placed Harris in cuffs as she passed. She could see in his eyes that he knew she'd been the one to question his motivations. He'd been the one to send
the men to D.C. to attack her. She bit down the anger and continued to the elevators.

AN HOUR LATER, Beck knocked on her office door.

"Miriam just emailed me," she said.

"What's the verdict?"

"Had the entire meeting recorded." She looked away. "We would have walked right into a trap had we not looked into him."

Beck lowered himself into a chair. A whiff of his aftershave blew past her. He leaned forward and draped his arm along the edge of the desk.

"Things go like that," he said. "You've seen firsthand how it can happen. Money and power corrupt. I'm sure Harris is just the tip. Who knows how many are
on DeCosta's payroll? Cops. Judges. Politicians." He looked back at the empty hallway. "Federal agents."

She glanced over his shoulder. It wasn't the first time she'd considered the possibility that someone in the Secret Service could be turned. She'd
undergone a battery of psychological tests, in part to determine if she was susceptible to doing just that. Every five years she'd have to go through it
again. If she stayed with them that long.

"The device had no broadcasting capabilities," Clarissa said.

"Suspected as much. He'd have guessed at the curtain we have around the place. Any data he tried to broadcast out would have flagged. Busted for sure."

"Think he knows someone on the inside?"

Beck waved her off. "Doubtful. He's likely aware of the precautions taken now. That's all."

She licked her lips and swallowed hard. "Did you ask about -"

"The men who attacked you?" He paused and waited for her to nod. "He wouldn't talk, period. You and I both know he had something to do with that. At some
point, he'll trade information, and we'll get that out of him. Even if only to drop a few charges against him and get the attackers' names in exchange."

Beck rose to leave. He stopped in the doorway. "You and I will be leading the raid on DeCosta's office in Manhattan. We're going to leave early, so make
sure you get some rest tonight."

She forced a smile. Rest hadn't come easy the past few nights. Perhaps it never would again. Not as long as she teamed up with Beck.

Washington, D.C.

THE HARDEST PART had been trying to find somewhere for Mia. Even harder than that, was that he had failed to. So Jack brought her back to town.

The best decision?

No.

But the situation couldn't linger any longer. He had everything in place. Sasha had flown out that morning and was set to meet them soon. She'd take Mia.

Brandon had wormed his way into the phone Jack took off Monaco and now made it look like he was somewhere other than outside the unmarked agency building
on the west side of D.C.

He'd switched the phone on a few hours ago. Placed a couple calls to dummy numbers. It worked, because after the second call, Frank called.

Jack ignored it.

Too soon.

But not for Brandon. He locked on Frank's signal tight enough that he could tell when the guy dropped his pants to his ankles to take a crap.

The other cell phone Jack had in the car rang. He reached for it. Answered while looking back at Mia. She sat in the back seat, coloring, headphones on
listening to a kid's CD mix he'd picked up when he purchased the camping gear.

Brandon said, "Jack, he's on the move. Gone from his floor down to the parking garage."

"OK. Let me know when he's approaching the street. I'll standby."

There was a long pause. Brandon's wheezing breath overtook the line. The guy had problems with humidity. Wherever he'd moved to, Jack figured it was on the
east coast somewhere. Maybe a bit further south than Pennsylvania, where he'd lived when his house burned down.

"All right, he's on the move. Closing in on the street."

A Cadillac appeared from the side alley. Frank sat behind the wheel. He checked for oncoming traffic, then pulled out, crossed the road, and headed away
from Jack.

"I got him," Jack said. "I'm gonna trail, but hang back. You be my eyes, OK?"

"Yessir."

For ten minutes, Brandon relayed Frank's turns as he continued west, out of the city and into Virginia. Sasha beeped through on the line. Jack ignored it.
He had to, at least until they had determined Frank's destination.

The man continued on, deeper into the country. Did he know Jack was on his tail? When Frank turned onto a dirt road, Jack could only presume so.

This was his only chance, and it was about to be blown.

Jack checked his mirror and confirmed Mia was buckled in. Then he hit the gas, made the turn, raced toward Frank's Cadillac.

Red brake lights lit up. Jack slammed into the right side and turned the other car parallel. He hopped out, pistol aimed at Frank's door. But the guy
wasn't upright.

Jack pulled the door open. The maneuver had caused enough of a jolt that Frank whipped forward and slammed the bridge of his nose into his steering wheel.
Blood poured from the cut and his nostrils. His face had already begun swelling.

"Get out and on your knees," Jack said. "Hands where I can see them."

"Jack, what the hell?"

"Don't even try, Frank. I know what you did."

"I saved your damn life. More times than you know."

"Shut up. Get out of the car. On your knees, ankles crossed, hands behind your head."

Frank stumbled out of the car. His face hit the dirt. Blood mixed with it and formed dark clumps.

Jack kept his distance. Never let up on his aim. The road behind was rural, but that didn't mean deserted. He had to remain vigilant. If Frank had expected
this, there'd be a team close by.

"Listen to me," Frank said as he righted himself, arms out wide.

"No, listen to me. I saw you on the footage at the Excelsior. I saw you with Monaco and Mia. How long have you been involved in this?"

"I was trying to make sure she wasn't harmed, Jack."

"By leaving her in a box inside a building with no air conditioning? Sending Monaco back there alone? You sold me out, you son of a bitch. Did it start
after you shipped me off to South Africa to die, or was it before?"

"Dammit, no, Jack. I sent you to South Africa to protect you."

"Then how come I woke up practically naked in the ghetto. Five minutes after I stepped outside, a gunman was on my ass."

"That wasn't me. Yes, I ordered you to be sedated, because I knew you wouldn't go along with it otherwise." Frank leaned his head back, coughed, spat blood
to the side. "I had a guy there. He met the team. But he'd been turned. I don't know how, but he had."

"He didn't kill me, so who turned him?"

"Merrick, best I can tell."

"You mean Monaco."

"No." Frank wiped blood from his upper lip with his sleeve. "I mean Merrick."

"They're the same, aren't they?"

"What?"

Jack resisted the urge to kick Frank. "What are you saying?"

"They were cousins. Damn near looked like one another too."

"You know what? It doesn't matter. Monaco's dead, and if this Merrick guy shows up, he'll suffer the same fate."

"He's not showing up. He's dead too. We buried him in South Carolina."

Jack recalled the shovels. The dried dirt. Had been there at least a week. Frank had been involved longer than a few days. Could have been since the
beginning.

"This makes no sense. Why, Frank? Who the hell have you been working for?"

"They had me by the balls. They'd killed my entire team. All active agents. The SIS was no more. They figured I might have some dirt, something they could
use. So instead of killing me, Monaco held me. I knew about Mia, so I told them. I thought… I thought you were dead. We'd just found out they'd
caught up with you in South Africa. I swear, I thought you'd be safe there. It was Merrick. They'd managed to turn one of my last remaining guys." Shaking
his head, Frank closed his eyes. "And they already had Mia. Didn't take long to come up with the rest."

"I met with the guy in Manhattan. Why didn't he kill me then?"

The blank look on Frank's face told Jack he had no answer.

"And Mia," Jack said. "You were gonna let her die."

"No, I promise, I wasn't."

"How'd you end up with this new job?"

"Part of the deal. I'd get a small cut of the money, with the rest held in an account to be released five years from now. In the meantime, I'd run the SOG,
and do whatever Monaco wanted."

"So he controlled you."

Frank lowered his head, and sounded defeated when he said, "Yeah."

"For how long?"

Frank looked up. "Years, Jack. Years. Monaco was involved in starting up the SIS."

"Tell me again how you were going to keep Mia alive?"

Frank said nothing.

"You want to see it coming?"

Frank looked up. He spat again, this time at Jack's feet. Blood pattered his shoes. "You're gonna have to look me in the eyes, Jack."

"That's not a problem."

He stepped forward, leveled the gun at Frank's head. Jack didn't have a problem staring into a dead man's eyes. But Frank couldn't take it. He closed his,
apparently resolved to the fact this was the end.

Jack threaded his finger through the trigger guard. Silently he counted down from five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

"Jack?"

He couldn't pull the trigger. Not in front of Mia. She'd already seen her mother murdered. Jack had avenged that death. But that had nothing to do with
Frank. Even if it had, he couldn't expose the child to another murder.

"Get back in the car," Jack called out.

"Please don't shoot him," she said.

Frank opened his eyes. Jack wasn't sure if the tears that stained the guy's cheeks were from his injuries or a belief that he might live.

"Mia, I said get back in the car."

The little girl cried.

Jack took a step back, lowered the pistol. "This isn't over, Frank."

But it was. He knew it. So did Frank. Getting close enough to the man to pull off a hit would be next to impossible.

"I won't forget this," Frank called out.

Whether that was a good or bad thing, only time would tell.

TWO HOURS LATER they waited in a mall parking lot in Hagerstown, Maryland. Jack figured it put them far enough away from D.C. for the moment. Sasha
arrived in a rental car. She ran up to Jack and wrapped her arms around him. Her tears felt cold against his cheeks.

She stepped back, wiping the tears from her eyes, careful not to smear her eyeliner.

"So this is over?" she asked. "You'll come back to London and let me protect you two for a while?"