Noble Intentions: Season One Page 30
“Where the hell is everyone?” he said.
Mandy gave him a funny look from inside the car.
He smiled and waved. “Don’t mind me.”
She giggled.
He winked at her and turned around. Dialed Clarissa’s phone again and then Jack’s. He tried the Frenchman, Pierre. No answer. Finally he left Jack a message.
“Jack, it’s me. Don’t know what’s going on. Can’t reach anyone. Not you, Clarissa or Pierre. What the hell is going on? Call me.”
He hung up. Scanned through his phone and dialed Brandon, one of their contacts in the agency.
“Hello?” Brandon answered.
“Thank God,” Bear said.
“Who the hell is this?”
“It’s Bear, Jack’s associate.”
“Noble?”
“Yeah, man,” Bear said. “Have you heard anything?”
“About what? Jack?”
“Jesus,” Bear muttered. “Yeah, Jack. The old man, Charles, whoever, I don’t care. Have you heard anything?”
“Yeah,” Brandon said. “You might want to sit down.”
“I’m sitting.” He wasn’t.
“We picked up some chatter, man. Some bad dudes after Jack.”
“Who?”
“Russian agents.”
“Damn,” Bear said. “When’s the last update on that?”
“Few hours at least.”
“You know the French guy, Pierre?”
“Yeah, I know who you’re talking about.”
“Anything on him?”
“Nah.”
“What about, ” Bear paused a beat, ”Can you pull TSA records?”
“Sure can. Who you looking for?”
“Abbot, Clarissa Abbot.”
“Let’s see here.”
Bear heard Brandon’s fingers working the keyboard as his stubble grated against the mouthpiece of his phone.
“Ok, here’s what we got. Departed her ship around ten this morning.”
“That’s it?”
“Yup.”
“She’d be in there if she got on another ship, right?”
“Sure would.”
“Then where is she?”
“Florida would be my guess.”
“Ass,” Bear said. “Give me something I can use.”
Brandon didn’t say anything.
“If I give you cruise info can you tell me if it’s departed?”
“Don’t have to give me anything if she’s leaving from the same pier,” Brandon replied. “I can tell you that all ships that are departing today from that location have already departed. Your friend didn’t get on any of them.”
“Take down my number, Brandon. If you get wind of anything out of the ordinary down there, let me know.”
“OK,” Brandon said. “Who’m I looking for? Spooks?”
“Yeah, them or anyone in the old man’s organization, and any contractors.”
“You got it, man.”
Bear hung up and got back behind the wheel of the rental car. He growled and slammed his hands on the wheel.
Mandy turned to him. “What’s wrong?”
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He didn’t want to scare the girl. “Nothing, sweetie. I lost something out there and couldn’t find it.”
“Did you trace your steps?” she asked. “That’s what I do when I lose something.”
“Yeah,” Bear said. “I traced my steps.”
He checked his map and altered their course. They’d cut across Florida at I-10 and pick up I-95 in Jacksonville, then south to Cape Canaveral.
20
Charles leaned against the railing on the balcony of his new place. He had a clear view of the Eiffel Tower. Not one to call himself a romantic, Charles was surprised to find out how charming he found the view.
“It’s something else, isn’t it?” Alonso asked.
“Sure is,” Charles said.
“Charles, we never talked about —”
“Shut up,” Charles said. “Don’t ever mention it. I know you did what you had to do. Just swear that you are loyal to me now.”
“I am,” Alonso said.
Charles turned and stared him in the eye. “Swear it.”
“I swear it, Charles. I swear I am loyal to you. I’ll die for you, if necessary.”
Charles nodded and turned back around.
“Good,” he said, “That’s exactly what I need to hear. We’re going to take over this entire city starting tomorrow. Anyone that doesn’t get in line is going to end up in the ground.”
Alonso moved next to Charles. “I’ve got meetings set up with those men as you requested.”
“Excellent,” Charles said. “Be ready, OK?”
“For what?”
“If they don’t agree, we’ll have to take action right there.”
“I’m ready.”
Charles scanned the horizon. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“City of Light,” Alonso said.
“And soon it will all be mine.” He looked at Alonso an extended his hand. “Ours.”
Alonso straightened up and grabbed Charles’s hand. “Yes, ours.”
21
The shackles dug into Jack’s wrist. The heavy chains connected to the shackles were anchored to the wall with thick iron plates. The room was damp and dark, with a sliver of light coming in from the end of the narrow hall. The sound of dripping water echoed through the chamber every twenty to thirty seconds.
He wasn’t sure how long he’d been in there. Could have been hours, could have been days. They’d fed him a couple times. Beat him a few times more than they fed him. He drifted in and out of consciousness. Somehow he’d managed to not say a word.
The gate at the other end of the room opened and slammed into the wall. Metal against metal clanked and the sound ripped the air. Jack’s muscles tightened as he prepared himself for what might come. He pushed back against the wall and got to his feet, which was sure to piss them off even more. Why do it? Because screw them, that’s why.
Footsteps echoed through the cell. Jack preferred the water drops.
He heard two voices speaking in Russian, followed by laughter. Then he heard the distinct thud of a fist against flesh.
“Get up,” a Russian accented voice called out.
One of the men entered the cell. “We’ve brought you a friend, Noble.”
Jack said nothing.
The man walked up to Jack.
Jack pressed back against the wall, every muscle in his body flexed, ready for the beating to come.
The man smiled. “Not today, Noble. You’ve had enough. For now.” He turned. “Besides, we’ve had a good time with your friend here.”
The other Russian pushed the new prisoner on the ground. Stood over him and pulled him up by his hair. “Say hello to your friend, Pierre.”
Jack closed his eyes. At least now he knew it wasn’t Pierre that set him up. Or, at least if he did, he got hauled in too.
They chained Pierre to the adjoining wall a few feet away from Jack.
“You two enjoy your stay,” one of the Russian men said.
The guards laughed.
Jack waited until he heard the second door click before saying anything.
“What the hell, Pierre?”
Pierre breathed fast and shallow. “I—Jack I had nothing to do with it.”
Jack shook his head. It didn’t matter. They were both in here now. And from here, who knew where they’d go.
“We’re screwed, Jack.”
“Just figuring that out?”
“I heard them mention—”
“Don’t ever ask me to do another job, Pierre. Got that?” Jack spit at the opposite wall. “Don’t even ask me to help you get out of this shit hole.”
“—Black Dolphin, Jack. I heard them mention Black Dolphin.”
“What the hell is a black dolphin?” Jack said.
“It’s—” Pierre went quiet. His breathing remained fast a
nd shallow. “I can’t talk right now, Jack.”
“Great,” Jack said. “So now it’s just you, me, and a pod of black fucking dolphins.”
He angled his body to the right and reached into a shirt pocket. Pulled out a cigarette and matches. They might not feed him, but they kept him stocked with smokes. He lit the cigarette and sat in silence with his new cellmate.
Episode 5
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1
"Jack?"
Jack said nothing. He had shared the dark, damp cell with Pierre for the past twenty-four hours. Pierre had talked for twenty of those hours.
"Jack? You awake?"
Jack lifted his chin off his chest and glanced over at Pierre. Even in the dark he could see that Pierre's face was long and drawn. "Yeah?"
"Got a smoke?"
"Got a lighter?"
"Don't you?" Pierre held his arms out as far as his restraints allowed.
"I'll throw you a smoke," Jack said. "But not my lighter."
"Why not?"
"You drop a smoke and I'm only out one cigarette. Drop my lighter and I can't smoke." Jack lit a cigarette. Inhaled deep. "Maybe the guards can give you a lighter." He pointed toward the empty corridor outside their cell.
Pierre sighed. "Screw you, Jack."
Jack laughed. Tossed the lit cigarette at Pierre. It hit the French spy in the stomach. Pierre cursed and twisted his body until he lifted the cigarette from the floor.
"Thanks, Jack."
Jack nodded and said nothing. He stared out past the rusted iron bars that kept them from getting out. A rat sniffed around his foot. He kicked at it, sending it scrambling into a hole in the side of the cell. Why couldn't they block the holes with smaller rusted iron bars and keep the frigging rats out?
"What do you think they'll do with us?" Pierre asked.
Jack sighed. He wondered the same thing. A dozen scenarios played out in his head and none of them had a happy ending. "You're the government agent, Pierre. You tell me."
"In France, and I'm sure the U.S. as well, there would be a special military tribunal for this kind of thing."
"What kind of thing is that?" Jack knew what kind of thing.
"I assume they are bringing us in as terrorists." Pierre paused a beat. "Threats to national security. Something of that nature."
"Tribunal," Jack said the word aloud while mulling it over. "How's that work here?"
"Not sure," Pierre said. "Haven't encountered it before."
Jack said nothing. He lowered his head and rested his chin on his chest again. Crossed his legs at the ankles and put his hands on his thighs.
Pierre took one last long draw on the cigarette and stubbed it out on the wall behind him. Flicked it toward the bars that confined them.
"I would expect," Pierre said, "that one man is going to play judge, jury, and executioner."
Jack sighed and said nothing.
"And that," Pierre continued, "you and I are already guilty."
Jack looked up again. "How do they execute people over here?"
"They won't operate under any civilized governmental rule." Pierre looked up at the ceiling. "I can assure you of that."
"Where do you think we are?"
Pierre shrugged and shook his head.
Jack chuckled. How the hell did Pierre drag him into this conversation? Jack would have been happy to just wait it out and be surprised when whatever fraud of a judge ruled against him. Too late now. Pierre pricked his curiosity.
"Best guess?" Jack asked.
Pierre shrugged again. "They blindfolded me when the plane landed. The drive here took quite a while. If I had to guess I'd say at some military base or possibly somewhere that our governments have no information on."
Jack reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out his cigarettes. "Another?"
Pierre nodded.
Jack lit two and tossed one at Pierre. "Wish they'd unchain us. Friggin ridiculous."
Pierre laughed. "Surely they know who we are."
Jack shrugged and said nothing.
"That or the bars," he nodded at the rusted iron bars at the front of the cell, "are garbage and we'd be able to break out." He leaned back and thought for a moment. "Most likely they are afraid of us."
Jack smiled. He stared down the corridor. A faint light flickered at the far end of the dark hall and then disappeared. A moment later the sound of metal grating against metal echoed through the corridor and into their cell. The door opened and four men stepped through.
They were about to get a visit from the guards.
Jack stiffened.
"Pierre," Jack said. "In case we get separated—"
"That won't happen, Jack. Not yet."
"Hear me out," Jack said. "You had nothing to do with it. OK? This was all my idea. I freelanced and took the Russians out on my own."
"They've got Oscar. I'm almost one hundred percent certain of that."
"I set that up, then. I stole your contacts last time we worked together and got Oscar's information."
"Jack—"
"Shut up, Pierre. Don't try to talk me out of this. I'm a dead man no matter what." Jack pressed back against the wall and worked his feet under him. "There's no reason for both of us to die."
"Jack?"
"Yeah," Jack replied.
"Got any family?"
Jack thought about Bear and Clarissa. About the little girl. They were his family. But no one could know that.
"No," Jack said.
Laughter erupted from the other end of the corridor. Jack made out the shapes of four men walking toward them, one considerably stockier than the others.
"Four of them," he whispered.
"Christ," Pierre said with a nod.
A high beam flashlight blinded them. Both men tried to shield their eyes.
"Hello, cupcakes," the stocky Russian said. He took off his hat and tucked it behind him. He pulled a gun from his belt and pointed it at Jack.
Another man stepped in the cell and pulled a gun from his belt. Pointed it at Pierre. The two remaining guards stepped into the cell and approached the prisoners slowly.
"Hands out," the stocky Russian said.
Pierre stuck his hands out. Jack didn't.
The stocky Russian lifted his gun. "Hands out," he said again, this time much louder. His words echoed through the cell.
Jack took a deep drag on his cigarette and brought a hand to his mouth. He pulled the cigarette out and flicked it at the stocky Russian. Dropped his hands to his side.
"Jack," Pierre said.
The stocky Russian kept his eyes on Jack and nodded at the young guard. The guard stepped up and punched Jack in the stomach.
Jack knew it was coming. He had tightened his stomach as tight as possible. His muscles absorbed some of the impact, but not all of it. He coughed and struggled to fill his lungs with air, but managed to keep his body tall and upright. He forced a smile.
The young Russian moved closer to Jack. He grabbed Jack's wrists. "Sir," he said. "Please put your hands up."
Jack stood still for a moment, defiant. He thought of everything he could do to the young man in the space of ten seconds. The man knew it, too. Jack could see it in his eyes. They wavered back and forth. The Russian's nostrils flared and the pace of his breathing increased. He felt the man's heart racing through the fingertips that gripped Jack's wrists. Yes, Jack could kill him. Right here and now. But what would that gain? The stocky Russian would shoot him on the spot.
"Sir," the man said again with a thick accent. "Please."
Jack lifted his arms.
The guard placed the handcuffs around Jack'
s wrists. He unlocked the chains. They fell to the floor with a crash.
"Out," the stocky Russian said with a nod of his head. "You need to get ready."
"Ready for what?" Jack asked.
The Russians said nothing.
Pierre shot him a glance.
Jack understood the silence. He said nothing else. Followed the guards into the corridor and walked toward the light.
2
Silence. Clarissa had forgotten how deafening silence could be. She laid still, eyes closed, struggling to remember where she was. The events leading up to this moment played out in her head. The cruise ship. The man who tried to attack her, Mike. Her heart raced. She opened her eyes. The glare of the lights on the stainless steel walls and ceiling blinded her.
Where the hell am I?
She jumped from her bed and backed into a corner. She slid to the floor and clutched her knees to her chest. For a moment, the fear that she was being held in the mental ward of a prison swept through her head. No, that couldn't be right. She got off the boat. Found her ride. The memory was still fresh. Then it hit her. Sinclair.
Clarissa dropped her head and buried her face in her hands. After everything she'd gone through, to come back full circle to this was nothing short of life draining. She shook her head and fought back the urge to cry.
She stood and felt along the wall. The cold steel bit at her fingers and palms. She knocked around the fabricated seams. Solid. No hollow spots. She returned to her bed and looked around the room. Aside from the bed, the room included a stainless steel toilet and sink combo. Nothing else. No chairs, no table, no books. Nothing. The door appeared to be made from the same material as the rest of the room. She moved to the door and stared at her reflection in the small nine-by-nine inch mirrored glass window. She pressed her face to it, her hands blocking out the light. She thought she saw the outline of a person just on the other side of the door.
Clarissa backed up and slammed her fists on the door. She screamed for them to let her out.
No one responded.
She kicked at the door.
Still, there was no response.
She backed up and fell on her bed. Stared up at her distorted reflection on the stainless steel ceiling. Why the ceiling? To keep people from escaping? A dark glass pane covered a single square foot section in the corner of the room. She stood on the end of her bed and peered at the corner. The vague outline of a camera hid behind the smoky glass. She turned her head toward the toilet-sink combo. No privacy. She steadied herself against the wall and extended her right hand toward the camera. She greeted whoever watched her with an extended middle finger.