Noble Intentions: Season One Read online

  Charles straightened up and turned, leaning back against the railing. A breeze blew across the balcony, carrying the scents of the city. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. It wasn't New York, but it'd do. It had its own flavor. "Just us."

  "You sure about that?"

  "Yeah," Charles said. "Anymore and I think it could cause problems. Problems we don't want."

  Alsonso nodded.

  "We want to gain their trust," Charles continued. "If we show up with four or five guys that will put them on the defensive."

  "Agreed," Alonso said.

  A ringing phone interrupted. "Get that." He nodded toward the door and crossed his arms over his chest.

  Alonso slipped inside and reappeared a moment later holding Charles's phone. "It's the old man."

  Charles rolled his eyes. Grabbed the phone. "Yeah, what's going on?"

  "Good morning, Mr. Charles."

  Charles squinted up at the sun. "Guess it's pretty early there?"

  "I have exciting news for you."

  "The Jets are being disbanded?" He held up his hand and twirled his finger around in a circle.

  Alonso shook his head and sat down in a wrought iron bistro chair. He held out a cigarette to Charles, who declined.

  The old man laughed. "You know I could care less for your heathen sports."

  Charles shrugged. "Yeah, chess is so much more exciting."

  "Our friend," the old man said, his tone serious. "Mr. Jack."

  "What about him?"

  "Sentenced to death by the Russians."

  Charles grabbed the railing and leaned forward, as if trying to get closer to the old man. "Say again?"

  The old man laughed. "He's out of your way. Will never see the light of day again, as I hear it."

  "This is," Charles rubbed his chin and upper lip with his hand, "good news."

  Alonso shrugged and held up his hands. He mouthed, "What?" and propped his elbows on top of the bistro table.

  Charles shook his head and held up a finger. "Boss, there's still the matter of his primary associate. And the bitch."

  "Why can't you forget the past?" the old man said with a sigh. "Leave them be, at least for now. You've got more important matters to attend to. Get Paris straight and then we can talk about cleaning up the rest of the mess."

  "You're right," Charles said.

  "He was with a French spy. Jack I mean. The Frenchman was or will be released soon. I want you to reach out to the spy."

  "Who is he?"

  "I'll send you details securely." The old man paused. "That is all, Mr. Charles. Good luck with your meetings."

  The line went dead. "Yeah, meetings." He turned to Alonso and smiled.

  "Well?"

  "Jack's dead."

  "Dead?" Alonso leaned against the wall next to the French doors.

  "Gonna be. Sentenced to death by the Russians." Charles turned and wrapped his large hands around the railing.

  Alonso stood next to him. "Excellent."

  "Let's go."

  Charles kept pace with Alonso through the maze of streets and alleys that make up the heart of the city. He hadn't had much opportunity to venture out since arriving. Too busy setting things up, selecting men for Western European operations and making—or bribing—a few local contacts. That's why he tasked Alonso with learning the city, even bought him a car to do so.

  "Why aren't we using the car?" Charles asked.

  "Too much of a pain. We don't have to go far. Why deal with this mess,"—he held his arms up and motioned toward the throng of people on the sidewalks and streets—"when we can walk for thirty minutes?" He looked back at Charles.

  Charles shrugged. "Whatever."

  "It's good for you," Alonso said. "The exercise."

  "I look like I need more exercise?"

  Alonso shrugged.

  "You saying I'm fat?"

  "Does it really need to be said?" Alonso pointed at Charles's gut.

  True enough, he'd put on a few pounds over the last few years since settling into the sedentary life as the old man's right hand man, but he wasn't fat. He considered himself in decent shape. Better shape than those pencil pushing geeks who spent their lives with their butts in a chair pounding away at some stupid keyboard.

  "Screw you," Charles said.

  Alonso laughed. "Almost there."

  Today's meeting was with two of Foster's top guys. His men were fighting over the leftover scraps of Foster’s business that other crime bosses hadn't already swooped in and taken. Charles had every intention of relieving them of their duties while offering them the opportunity to work for him.

  He followed Alonso without thinking twice. Sure, it could be a set up. Though if that were the case, best to just let it happen. If the old man wanted Charles dead, he wouldn't stop until the job was done. Besides, Charles thought he had a pretty good read on Alonso, and nothing in the man's body language indicated he was doing anything out of the ordinary.

  "There." Alonso pointed at a building that Charles assumed was at least three hundred years old. Chunks of plaster were missing from the facade and the windows had the distinct look of hundred year old glass. They stopped in front of an old door, painted red. Chips of paint hung from the door and were scattered along the small porch. Tiny specks of red littered the concrete stoop, ingrained in the dimples.

  Alonso knocked on the door.

  A few moments later the door cracked open. A man stuck his head through the opening revealing spiky brown hair. His face was unshaven and his eyes darted around wildly.

  Charles shot a look at Alonso. Alonso nodded.

  "Who are you guys?" the man asked.

  "Alonso," Alonso pointed at his own chest, "and Charles. May we?" He gestured toward the door.

  The man opened the door and stepped back. "I'm Adrien."

  Charles stepped through the door and waited for Adrien to guide them down the hall. The man walked by and looked at Charles a half dozen times for no more than a second per glance.

  Damn tweaker.

  "Nice place you have here," Charles said.

  "Yeah," Adrien said. "It's all right."

  Charles heard chatter above them, light and soft, female voices. He reached out and tapped Alonso's shoulder, pointed at the ceiling.

  Alonso shrugged and shook his head. He held a finger to his mouth.

  Charles nodded.

  Adrien opened a door and ushered the men into the kitchen. Another man sat at the table.

  He stood and extended an arm. "Casper." His accent thick and French.

  "Like the friendly freaking ghost?" Charles asked.

  Casper blinked and said nothing.

  "Tough room," Charles said.

  "Please," Adrien said while pulling out two chairs. "Sit."

  "You first," Alonso said.

  Adrien shot him a look, eyes narrow, mouth open.

  "Sorry," Alonso said. "You first, please."

  Casper nodded toward Adrien, who took a seat opposite his partner.

  Alonso took the seat against the wall and Charles sat down with his back to the open kitchen. The big man moved around in his seat and fiddled with his hands.

  "Uncomfortable?" Casper asked.

  "Don't like my back to the room. Know what I mean?" Thumps above caught his attention. He looked up.

  Casper nodded. "Don't worry, we are the only ones here."

  Charles glanced at Alonso, who remained expressionless.

  Casper spoke. "Can we get you anything to—"

  "Let's get right to it," Charles said. "I'm taking over these operations. From now on you report—"

  "Like hell you are." Casper stood and kicked his chair backwards to the floor.

  Charles responded in kind. The two men squared off.

  "What my friend here is saying," Alonso said, "is that we would like to make an arrangement with you."

  Tense silence filled the room. Charles and Casper stood inches apart, each ready to attack.

  Casper took a
deep breath, stepped back and picked up his chair, sat down, further from the table than before. "What kind of arrangement?"

  "You need protection, correct?" said Alonso. "We can provide it."

  Charles studied the faces of the men.

  Casper held his elbow and tapped his right index finger against his chin. His lips puckered. His eyes looked at an imaginary spot on the ceiling. "You don't know this city, the way things work," Casper said. "How can you offer protection?"

  "Through brute friggin’ force," Charles said.

  "That doesn't work," Casper said. "Not here."

  "Yeah, man," Adrien said. "You won't get anywhere with that."

  "Oh?" Charles slammed his fist into the side of Adrien's face. The impact of the blow spun the man around. He fell from his chair and collapsed on the floor.

  "The hell?" Casper stood again and reached for his waistband. His hand tightened around the handle of a pistol that had been hidden under his shirt.

  "Everyone just calm the hell down," Alonso said.

  Charles stood and walked to the other end of the kitchen. He leaned back against the stove.

  Adrien scraped himself up off the floor and pulled himself into his chair. His head wobbled.

  "Listen," Alonso said. "We know what's going on. You guys are being pulled at on both ends by some pretty powerful people. We can help you with that. We have some pretty big backers ourselves."

  "And if we say no?" Casper said.

  "For Christ’s sake," Charles said. He pulled a gun from under his shirt and shot Adrien in the chest.

  Casper started to pull his pistol from his waistband. Alonso tackled him from behind and pinned him to the ground, knee in the man's back, elbow against his head.

  Charles heard screams from upstairs.

  "Ok," he said. "What the hell is that?"

  "Thought you knew about our business," Casper said through labored breaths. "Those are the girls we sell."

  "Sick bastard." Charles kicked the man across his face and Casper's body went limp.

  Alonso stood up. "That went well."

  "Screw 'em," Charles said. "Tie him up. He might be useful to us later."

  Alonso dug through kitchen drawers and found some cord. He sat Casper up in a chair, secured the man's legs and torso.

  Screams continued to penetrate through the ceiling.

  Charles stepped over Adrien's lifeless body, being careful to avoid the pool of blood surrounding his torso. "Let's check that out." He walked back through the hallway to the narrow stairs near the door. He motioned Alonso ahead of him, and followed the man to the second floor.

  "Hello?" Alonso called out.

  Silence. Charles stopped at the landing and rested against the wall. Closed his eyes.

  "In here," a voice called back, a mixture of hope and desperation.

  A padlocked door prohibited their entry.

  Alonso shrugged.

  Charles rolled his eyes. "Step back from the door." He waited a beat, then kicked the middle of the door. It cracked and buckled upon the impact of his size 14 shoe.

  Alonso stepped forward, pushed the door out of the way.

  The men froze at the sight before them.

  The room had to be no more than twenty by twenty feet. Fifteen young women, possibly teenagers, huddled in the back of the room.

  "Jesus Christ," Charles said. "What the hell is this place? Who are you?"

  None of the women said anything. They looked at each other, their faces twisted, eyes pleading.

  Alonso stared wide eyed and slack jawed at the throng of girls.

  The room had a rotten stench. The women wore tattered, dirty clothes. Their hair tangled and unkempt. Some wept, others slumped to the floor. It appeared as though they didn't know whether to be happy or afraid.

  Charles pulled out his phone and dialed the old man.

  "Everything OK, Mr. Charles?"

  "Feng, you gotta level with me. What’s going on over here?"

  "I'm sorry?"

  "We're having a meeting with Foster's guys. This place," Charles paused a beat as he scanned the room. "It's like something out of a horror flick."

  The old man said nothing.

  "I mean, there are women, hell, girls here, being held in a room. A single tiny friggin’ room."

  "I heard something about Mr. Foster before," the old man said. "Into some bad stuff."

  "I can confirm it," Charles said.

  "Here is what I want you to do. Help the girls out for now. Don't do anything else until you hear from me."

  "OK."

  "I want you to reach out to the Frenchman. I'll have his contact information to you tomorrow. I'll send a man."

  "OK."

  "He'll be able to help and get those girls home."

  "OK." Charles hung up. Grabbed Alonso's shoulder. "Go get Casper. Bring him up here."

  Alonso slipped out of the room.

  Charles turned his attention to the girls at the other end of the room. His heart cried out for them, their families who had no idea what had happened to their little girls.

  "Ladies," Charles said. "I'm not gonna hurt you. We're gonna get you home."

  None of them said a word. A few cried. A few hugged. A few stared blankly at him.

  Finally, one stepped forward, slipping through from the back of the huddle. She tucked her dark, curly hair behind her ears. Her brown eyes burned. "Why should we trust you?"

  Why should they? Charles couldn't think of a good answer. He opened his mouth, paused a moment, and then said, "I'm not a good man. I admit that. But, if I didn't want to help you, you'd be dead already."

  A few of the girls gasped. The dark haired girl nodded. "It'll be OK, girls. I trust him. Let's trust him." She turned to them, arms out, slightly bent over at the waist. "We've got to trust him."

  Alonso's voice echoed through the hall as he and Casper approached the room.

  Charles waited for them to reach the doorway. He reached out, grabbed Casper by the back of the head and threw him across the room.

  Casper slammed into the wall and fell to his knees. He spun around and leaned back against the wall. Blood covered his chin, neck and shirt.

  Charles lifted an eyebrow and glanced at Alonso.

  Alonso shrugged.

  "This man ever hurt any of you?"

  The teenage women said nothing.

  "There'll be no retribution," he said. "Did he?"

  The dark haired girl spoke first. "He raped me my first night here."

  Charles moved toward Casper, picked him up by his throat and slammed him against the wall. He reached down and undid Casper's thick black leather belt then shoved him into the corner of the room. He aimed his gun at Casper's head. The leather belt dangled from his outstretched arm, toward the group of women.

  "Want to hit him?" Charles asked.

  The dark haired girl paused. "Yes," she said. She stepped forward and took the belt from Charles.

  He looked at her face. Her nostrils flared, mouth drawn wide, brows furrowed and her eyes narrowed. She lifted her arm high, letting the belt dangle behind her back. It twisted and turned like a snake. She whipped her arm over her head, brought the belt down across Casper's face. The heavy leather hit with a loud smack. It left a dark red mark and a cut across his cheek. Blood trickled from the wound.

  "He raped me too," another girl said from the huddle which now spread out.

  Charles didn't look back. He kept his gun and his eyes on Casper and smiled when the condemned man's eyes met his.

  One by one, the girls took turns whipping Casper with the belt. Midway through Charles stripped him of his clothes. When the women were done, Casper's body looked as though he had been hit by a truck. Battered and bruised. His body convulsed. He wept on the floor.

  Charles looked back at Alonso, who stood in the doorway, his face tight and drawn. Did he agree? Was he upset? It didn't matter.

  Charles raised his gun in the air. "Should I?"

  The dark haired girl
stepped forward. "Let me."

  "What's your name?" Charles asked.

  "Missy."

  "Ever killed a man?"

  "No."

  "How old are you?"

  "Eighteen."

  Charles studied her. Her eyes were focused, her breathing normal. She held her head high and her shoulders back. Defiant. Unafraid. He clicked the safety off, chambered a bullet and handed the gun to Missy.

  She smiled as she looked at the heavy weapon in her hand. She admired the weight of it while balancing the pistol in her hand. Traced the barrel with her fingers. She seemed to enjoy the power. She looked powerful holding it. Like a natural fit.

  "Any last words, Casper?" he asked.

  "Screw you," Casper said, his voice broken and choked from the blood in his mouth.

  "Never again," Missy said.

  She knelt beside him, whispered in his ear.

  Casper dropped his head to the floor.

  Missy placed the gun to the side of his head. Pulled the trigger. The sound of the gunshot ripped through the air and echoed through the room.

  Some of the girls screamed. Others sobbed. A few smiled.

  Charles looked out the window. The street was empty, for the most part. He looked over his shoulder at fourteen relieved faces, looked at Missy on her knees, resting on her heels. She looked up. Their eyes locked. She smiled. Charles offered her his hand and she took it. He pulled her to her feet, leaned in and whispered in her ear. "I'm gonna take good care of you, if you want to stay."

  "Yes," she said. "I've got nowhere else to go."

  "How many showers does this place have?" Alonso asked.

  "Three," one of the girls said.

  "Wash up," Alonso said. "Quickly."

  "Call for some cars," Charles said.

  Alonso nodded and retrieved his cell phone from his pocket. He disappeared through the doorway, down the hall.

  "We're getting you ladies out of here," Charles said. "And then getting you home."

  9

  The hours melted into one another. Bear had been driving non-stop since leaving Florida. The New York state line approached. They wouldn't be going into the city. Not yet, at least. First stop would be an hour north. A small place he and Jack kept. A vacation home when one of them wanted to get away and do some fishing. Or just disappear. He looked over at Mandy. The little girl stretched her arms, yawned and opened her eyes.