Noble Intentions: Season Four (6 page)

Endrizzi's pistol emitted a clicking sound when he tried to fire it. He threw it at Paolo. "I'm gonna rip your nuts off."

Paolo rolled to his right several times. He felt Milano's pistol under his midsection at one point. As he hopped from his knees to his feet, Endrizzi
charged. Paolo held his position until the last possible second, then sidestepped left while bringing his right knee up. It connected with Endrizzi's soft
mid-section and the guy stumbled to the ground, doubled over on his knees. Paolo glanced around, then ran up to Endrizzi and used the only weapon available
to him. His feet. He kicked and stomped on Endrizzi's head, neck and chest.

Milano rolled over and got to his hands and knees. His right hand swept the ground, presumably in an attempt to locate his missing firearm. Perhaps giving
up, he reached into his pants pocket. A moment later, a knife blade glinted in what little light penetrated the thick cover. Before Paolo could cover the
distance, Milano was on his feet. Unsteady, but upright nonetheless.

The pistol remained on the ground between them.

Milano moved toward it, slowly, cautiously, each step deliberate, knife extended.

Behind Paolo, Endrizzi choked on his own blood. Maybe a couple teeth.

If Milano got to the pistol, it was over. Paolo would rather deal with a stab wound up close, than a shot fired from ten feet away. He sprinted forward,
and, like a striker kicking the winning goal, angled his body low and to the side and kicked with his right foot. He connected with the pistol and sent it
skidding into high grass.

Milano dove forward, slicing right to left with the knife. The blade caught Paolo's left calf. He lurched to his right, out of reach from a second strike.
The missed opportunity left Milano unbalanced and sent him to his torso, like a base runner sliding into home while trying to avoid a collision with the
catcher. Paolo struck with a right foot to Milano's side. The pain of using his left leg to support him was too much, and the leg buckled. As he was going
down, Paolo shifted his weight and dropped his knee into the middle of the other man's back. Milano grunted as the air left his lungs, and a rib or two
cracked.

The dislodged knife fell and bounced inches past Milano's outstretched arm.

Paolo rose up and dropped his knee into Milano's back again. Then a third and fourth time. The man stopped reaching for the knife. Paolo rolled off Milano
and fell to his side, the knife behind him. He scooted until it was within reach. His hands, numb from being bound for several hours, gripped the weapon
and secured it. He then rolled into a sitting position. He brought his hand down to his calf and felt the wound. It wasn't as bad as he thought.
Superficial. No real damage.

Milano managed to put his hands under his shoulders and pushed off the ground.

Paolo drove the heel of his boot into the guy's face, further dislodging his broken nose. With Milano face down in the dirt and gravel again, Paolo focused
on cutting the cord that bound him.

Idiots.

He'd have used thick rubber handcuffs to secure one of them. No way out of those. But rope. Simple. Using hands that felt nothing, the blade sawed through
the cord like a spoon through a frozen stick of butter. It took a bit of work, but every movement meant progress. Finally, he sliced through and brought
his hands around. He cut the remaining rope off, then massaged his aching wrists to restore blood flow to his fingers.

Endrizzi had managed to move a few feet, collapsed and rolled to his back again. The outer edges of the light cone created by the BMW's headlights
enveloped his head. Blood flowed from the guy's mouth, down his chin and cheeks. He looked like a deranged killer clown.

Paolo stepped over Milano's still, lifeless body, driving the toe of his boot into the side of the guy's head for good measure as he did so. The guy didn't
respond. Paolo continued toward Endrizzi. Stopped a couple feet away. The man was in bad shape. He'd probably die if Paolo left him there. No point in
letting nature take its course, though. He bent over, grabbed a handful of Endrizzi's hair, and pulled backward, exposing the flesh of his neck.

Then he began stabbing. Five. Ten. Fifteen times. Finally, he plunged the blade into the side and yanked across, severing the carotid.

Paolo didn't stand around to watch the man bleed out.

Milano laid with his chin perched on the ground. He had witnessed the slaughter. When Paolo spotted him, the guy attempted to roll to the side and crawl
away.

Paolo thought about locating the pistol lost in the grass, or perhaps finding Endrizzi's .22. He didn't want to get too close to Milano. The .22 was out of
ammunition, though. And the pistol could take minutes to find.

As he cautiously moved forward, he stumbled on a large rock. It was about a foot wide and twice as long. He slipped the knife into his pocket and picked up
the little boulder.

"Christ," Milano said, now on his back, looking up at Paolo, who held the rock over his head. "No, man, come on."

"Should have let me out and driven off," Paolo said. "Or killed me instead of dicking around."

"Come on, Paolo. I'm married to your sister, for Christ's sake."

"And you were willing to kill me."

"It was an order. What'd you want me to do?"

Paolo answered by slamming the rock into Milano's forehead. In case that wasn't enough, he hoisted it up in the air again and whipped it back down, nearly
splitting Milano's head in two.

He left the rock and the men where they lay and walked over to the idling BMW. Light flooded the ground when he pulled the door open. He noticed his pants
and boots were covered in blood.

"Shit," he muttered, reaching inside and pushing the trunk release. He went to the rear of the vehicle and studied the contents of the trunk. While there
wasn't much, what he saw gave him an idea.

He fished through Endrizzi's pockets and came up with a wallet with three hundred in cash, and a pack of cigarettes and the lighter he'd used earlier. He
pocketed the items, then dragged the man close to Milano. After dropping Endrizzi, he searched Milano's pockets. All he found was a billfold with six
hundred dollars and an ID.

Paolo kept the cash, smokes and lighter. He tossed the first two into the car and kept the latter in hand. He went back to the trunk and pulled out the
full, red plastic gas can, which he then carried over to the bodies. After the contents were emptied onto them and the surrounding ground, he dropped the
can, and then stripped down to his boxers, tossing the rest of his clothing on top of the dead captains.

He went to the trunk again. Pulled out a pair of gym shorts and a t-shirt and put them on.

Seated inside the BMW, bare feet touching the ground, he inhaled deeply from a lit cigarette. When the smoke had burned down about halfway, Paolo tossed
the smoldering remains onto the pile of clothing and bodies. As he drove away, he watched the flames rising into the night sky in the rear-view, consuming
his friends.

London, England.

SASHA KIRBY FLATTENED the lapel of her jacket as she entered the building affectionately known within the intelligence community as
Legoland
.
Despite the playful moniker, the dealings that went on inside of Vauxhall Cross were anything but pleasant. The building acted as the headquarters of the
British Special Intelligence Service, better known as MI6. The agency was responsible for keeping tabs on the world.

And a great deal of that responsibility fell upon Sasha's shoulders, whether directly or otherwise.

She passed through security with a nod and a smile, and continued on to the elevator bank. There were no buttons jutting out of a plate mounted to the
wall. She swiped a card in front of the reader and waited for the doors to part. When they did, she entered the lift alone. She pressed the button for the
fourth floor and waited while the lift dropped a few feet while the cable tightened, then propelled the car upward some forty feet.

The lift halted. The doors remained sealed. Sasha used the same card and swiped it through a reader positioned above the floor and call buttons. A red
light turned green. The doors parted.

In the hallway, a security guard pushed off the wall and stood at attention with his hand precariously close to his sidearm. He gave a slight nod to Sasha
as she passed, then reached behind his back and pressed a button. The lock to the double doors clicked.

Sasha entered the gray floor.

Every inch, drab and devoid of color. The floors, cubicles, walls, office doors. Even the blinds that covered the windows were dull. She often thought that
the look of the space contributed to ineffectiveness, although some above her pay grade cited bullshit studies that said otherwise. She could counter in
one of a hundred ways, but when someone who reached a rank too high gets an idea, they hang on for dear life. They wouldn't change. It had been that way
for years, and it'd stay that way.

As she approached her office, her assistant leaned forward in her chair and gestured for Sasha to stop.

"Mason Sutton phoned and said he'd be ten minutes late for your meeting. Is that all right, or should I reschedule with him?"

Sasha had forgotten about the meeting. It was the first of a planned series of weekly meetings between Mason and her. He occupied a similar role in MI5.
After the terrorist bombings a few months ago, they realized their collective intelligence might have helped prevent the carnage.

"No, that will be OK," she told her assistant. "Send him in when he arrives please."

She continued to her office, the one place where she could personalize and colorize. The wide window behind her desk overlooked the Thames. Stormy
conditions kept the scullers off the river. Pictures of nothing but color splattered on canvas hung on each wall. She'd filled the space with flowers and
plants, real and fake. Her desk was bare except for a single vase with three roses. She replaced the flowers every week on Monday morning. A habit started
two months prior.

The current batch made it the week without wilting or losing a petal. Unusual.

Sasha unlocked her computer, logged into the system and pulled up her email, quickly prioritizing the messages. She knew that nothing important had come in
overnight, having checked her phone both before leaving home and during her commute while in the tubes. Likewise, nothing had arrived for her in the time
it took to reach her office.

A quiet Friday. For once.

She immediately wished she hadn't allowed the thought to manifest.

Sasha performed a quick check of the major news sites, then MI6's internal bulletin board for any updated threat assessment information. Nothing new today.
Moments later, there was a rap on her door.

"Come in," she said.

Mason Sutton opened the door, took a step, stopped a foot inside. His gaze traveled over her head, toward the sky or the water or whatever else might have
caught his fancy across the river. His attire was casual for MI5 standards. MI6, for that matter. And though his short hair was presentable, he'd left his
face unshaven.

"Day off?" she asked.

"Late start," he replied, tracing his thumb along his jaw line. "Keep an electric shaver at my desk for days like this."

"And your clothing?"

"Why do you care, Sasha?"

She swiveled side to side in her chair. "I don't, really. Just like getting a rise out of you lads."

He glanced away and shook his head, then stepped forward. She hadn't reached the point of trusting the man yet. Jack did, for whatever reason, even when
the guy had threatened him hours after Noble had entered the UK. There was something Jack liked about Mason Sutton. Sasha couldn't quite put her finger on
it, though. Maybe in time, after a few of these meetings, she'd feel the same way.

"Anyway," he said. "What are we going to start with? Foreign or domestic?"

She reached down for her bag and pulled out a Moleskin notebook. The damned things were expensive, but they seemed a good fit for her.

"Why don't you start?" she said.

He pursed his lips together and exhaled through them. They vibrated and his cheeks puffed out. After, he said, "Samir Parsa. Let's start with him."

"Parsa," she repeated. "He took over for Naseer Shehata, that millionaire, or was it billionaire, terrorist wannabee?"

Mason nodded and scratched something into his notebook. Upon closer inspection, it was a cartoon head. His shabby clothing and stubbled face had not
betrayed him, after all. But as the image came together, she recognized the face from the papers, the news, and their files.

"So what is Samir up to these days?" She aimed her pen toward the drawing.

"Seems he's been importing talent from all over the Middle East. Most are coming in on mangled passports, entering through France."

"Are we thinking they are planning an attack? If I recall correctly, Naseer wasn't much into that. He seemed to like to attend parties while dabbling in
organized crime, and consorting with billionaires with loose morals, like that Thornton Walloway character that turned up dead a few months ago."

They both remained silent, avoiding the other's stare. Walloway had been assassinated. A hit planned by his ex-wife, and carried out by Naseer's men. Maybe
even Naseer himself. The only witness they knew never divulged the details.

"Right," Mason said. "Ancient history now, though, isn't it?"

She agreed.

Mason continued. "Samir has been rather quiet since Naseer died. If not for two of these
travelers
getting picked up for petty crimes, we might
not have found out he was importing a whole host of soldiers."

"So are you going to move?"

"Over this?" He leaned back in his chair and wrapped his hands around the back of his head. "It'd be pointless. The only thing that would happen is Samir
would start shifting money and assets around. He wouldn't do any time. And no judge would allow us to keep him penned up for too long. Right now we are
working on the two guys the police picked up. Hopefully we can convert one or both to work for us. Each believes the other has already flipped, and if he
doesn't join up, he'll be hanged."