Noble Intentions- Season Four Page 8

  "I have plans in place for when it arrives."

  "I'm sure you do. Problem is, just like these schmucks we're terminating, you won't know it ahead of time."

  Brett attempted to prevent the man's paranoia from seeping in to his psyche. An on-edge assassin wasn't a bad thing. It kept him or her alert. But one that was on the lookout for the spook sent to kill them? Well, that was another story.

  "Anyway," Brett said. "What's in the file?"

  "Back in late 2001, after the attacks, an agency was formed. The Secret Intelligence Service."

  "SIS, sure, I've heard of them. In fact, they tried to recruit me when I was between jobs. Didn't like the guy I interviewed with. Seemed like an asshole. Plus, from how I understood it, the luster of the group had worn off and they were clinging to a razor thin wire in those days."

  "Consider yourself an insider, then. Most people in our community think Canada or the UK when they hear the acronym. That's why they selected that moniker. See, this group pissed off a lot of powerful people. Like the CIA, they could operate overseas. Like the FBI, they had jurisdiction in the States. The NSA had to comply with their requests. You can imagine how those assholes took that. And SIS could step all over Homeland if they wanted to. Local law enforcement? Please. They stood no chance."

  For a second, Brett wished he had reconsidered the offer instead of declining.

  Ballard continued. "If there's a group we're concerned about, it's this one. That's why it's being segregated between your kind. We've got a list of active members, which isn't all that many these days due to budget cuts. And a list of inactive. Seems several former agents retired involuntarily, mostly due to death. Others were fitted for their toe tags within a year after retirement. It's kind of strange, but there are only a few living former members."

  "Why do you think that is?"

  "Some believe the guy running the show is so paranoid about the truth behind their operations coming to light that he's green lighted the killings. He travels outside his organization to arrange the hits though. Speculation, of course, but the kind that usually ends up true."

  "Intriguing."

  "It is. And that's why we're hitting all living retired agents and their associates. All at once. Then we're going after current agents, and finally the head."

  "Surely, some of the former operators have to be in public positions now, right? I mean, we can't go in, hit them all, and not expect it to get back to SIS, or without concerning some of the higher ups."

  "I can see why you think that, and I really can't go into detail beyond what you're being contracted for. What I can tell you is that this is going to be fast and hard. SIS won't have a chance to breathe before we're all over them, too."

  "What kind of time frame am I looking at here?" Brett asked.

  "Two weeks."

  "For how many former agents?"

  "One."

  "One?"

  Ballard nodded.

  Brett leaned forward, hiked an eyebrow. "I don't need two weeks for that."

  "It's him plus a handful of his associates who have knowledge of his past operations. I think that once you look through these files, you'll be telling me that two weeks isn't enough. And when you do, my response will be that I don't care. Do whatever you have to do to make this happen. You are green lighted for any tactic, and we've got your back. First and foremost, your concern is the former agent. But to get to him, you might have to go through his closest associates first."

  "So, does my target have a name, or should I pick out a children's book and use something from that?"

  "He's got a name, wise ass. It's on this drive. You can check it out after we've parted ways."

  The men stood near the edge of the woods for a few more minutes. Neither spoke. The hot, stale air continued to blow. Brett had adjusted, but it still did little to cool him off.

  "All right, let's go," Ballard said, still clinging to the USB drive.

  They trekked the quarter mile back to Brett's Escalade, which had baked in the sun long enough that he knew the interior temperature would be over a hundred degrees. A push on the remote start button fired up the engine and AC while they were still a couple hundred feet away.

  Once inside, Brett said, "Where to now?"

  "Back to my car."

  Brett navigated down the narrow road and then aimed the vehicle in the direction of the diner. He spent more time watching his rear-view than he did the empty stretch of wavering asphalt in front of him. He recalled their conversation. One thing bothered him. The silent two minutes prior to returning to the SUV. It was as though Ballard had told someone they'd be in the spot for fifteen minutes, but they'd finished in thirteen. If they left too soon, it'd disrupt the timing of a preplanned event.

  What, though?

  Brett considered the options, but none were worth dwelling on. His senses were heightened. They had never failed him before. Wouldn't now. Any situation could be dealt with so long as he remained aware of the danger presented to him.

  He pulled into the diner parking lot. Ballard opened his door before Brett put the Escalade in park. The man dropped to the ground, turned, and tossed the USB drive onto the seat.

  "At least wait until I'm gone to look at it."

  No problem, Brett thought. He didn't plan on opening it until later that night, from the safety of his condo.

  Chapter 15

  Upstate New York.

  ADRENALINE FUELED PAOLO throughout the night. Back roads carried him a hundred miles west. In his haste, he hadn't kept an eye on fuel. Running on fumes, he pulled off the road and ditched the BMW in the woods. Someone would find it. But not for some time. And Paolo didn't need much. The rest of the night would suffice.

  Before exiting the vehicle, he had zoomed out on the GPS and determined he was about twenty miles south of Syracuse, and twenty-five miles east of Ithaca, his destination.

  The roads bore no resemblance to how he remembered them, at least not in the dark. Paolo had considered sleeping in the car, then resuming his journey to Ithaca the following morning. In daylight, he could find his way.

  A glance at his face in the rear-view had been enough to convince Paolo to keep moving through the dark. The morning would allow too many eyes to fall upon him. If he had left at that moment, the three or four hour walk would put him at his sister's house around sunrise. He had closed his eyes and leaned back. The pain from his wounds had been enough for him to remain in the luxury vehicle and sleep. But he had to move.

  And so Paolo did, with nothing more than a map on his cell phone to guide him. Paranoid, he had turned the GPS off and estimated his position throughout the trip. He could've called his sister and asked her to pick him up, but there was too much risk involved. There was a chance Charles already knew Paolo was on the run. What if he traced Paolo's other sister to Ithaca and had already called her? Or worse, dispatched a team? The concerns helped propel Paolo forward. Step by step, retreating to the safety of the thick woods every time the rumble of a car cut through the crisp night air.

  He felt the weak, early morning beams of the sun on the back of his neck around six in the morning. His cell phone had died an hour earlier. Fortunately, the roads were familiar, and the remaining journey was under four miles. He could make that leg of the trip by memory whether light or dark.

  The row of small-brick ranch style homes stretched out in front of him. Paolo wanted to collapse on the asphalt. He had to make it to the end of the street. The majority of the windows were darkened, but not all. He kept his head down and his hands in his pocket as he briskly walked down the right side of the road.

  At the end of the street, he slipped in through the unlocked front door. Coffee and bacon and toast led him to the kitchen where his youngest sister, Esmeralda, stood in front of an open refrigerator. Her screams turned to tears when she realized it was her brother, not a deranged and bloodied killer, standing in her kitchen. A nurse by trade, she bandaged him up, and strongly encouraged him to come to the hospita
l for stitches. Paolo had declined, saying he needed rest first.

  So he had eaten bacon and toast and passed on the coffee. Esmeralda left for work and told him she'd be back after six that evening. He objected to her leaving, but there was no convincing her otherwise. He hadn't the strength. Paolo found the guest bedroom and collapsed onto the plush mattress. It was well worth the money he'd given her to buy it. The whole house, as a matter of fact. It had all been his graduation present to his sister.

  Sunlight crept through the slits in the blinds. Fingers of light inched across the room, moving with the sun, slicing across Paolo's face. He opened his eyes and winced at the brightness. The intense pain when he attempted to roll over roused him from bed. What time was it? He picked up his phone, fully charged now, but still off. With his finger on the power button, he reconsidered powering the device on. He could be tracked through the cell towers. Less of a concern the night before. But a lot could happen during the morning hours. Better to leave it alone, for now.

  But, he wondered, did the provider have the capability to track his movements prior to the phone losing power?

  He made a note to Google the question after waking fully.

  Paolo found the kitchen and poured cold coffee into an over-sized mug, so large it almost didn't fit into the microwave. While the coffee reheated, he searched the contents of the refrigerator for something simple to eat. Two of his teeth were loose. How? He couldn't recall. Maybe when he'd head butted Milano repeatedly. The resulting pain made the thought of having to chew unbearable. In the end, he took two bananas and a handful of blueberries and dropped them into a blender. The sound of the machine intensified the knifing pain in his skull.

  With coffee and smoothie in hand, Paolo made his way through the living room and out to the back deck. It wasn't as humid in Ithaca. Still hot, though. Esmeralda's backyard sloped down to a small fence. Behind it, a pond. The breeze blew across the pond, carrying the odor of mud and stale water. A mother duck and her fluffy chicks floated by. The trees and bushes hummed with insects.

  For many, tranquility. For Paolo, boredom.

  In between sips, he held the chilled glass containing the smoothie to his cheeks, nose, forehead. The relief didn't last long.

  Watching the ducks swim away, he recalled the chain of events that led to him hiding out at his sister's place. Had the bodies been found? Had the fire scorched the bodies sufficiently to delay identifying Milano and Endrizzi? Again, he wanted to reach for his phone, cut it on, and start making calls. Impossible. He couldn't trust anyone now. No amount of fraternity could outweigh the command and money of Charles. Any contact he had outside the organization also knew Charles, which meant they were useless to Paolo. If word got back that Paolo was alive, there was no telling what lengths Charles would go to in an attempt to lure him out of hiding.

  Be invisible. For now.

  He spent another hour in the sun. Unmoving. His wounds soaking up the heat.

  The ducks circled around the pond twice. Of the few neighbors that had visibility into Esmeralda's backyard, only one had come outside. The old woman walked down to the water and tossed several chunks of bread toward the passing ducks. Momma and chicks circled around the floating loaf and devoured it while the old lady trudged back up her sloping yard and disappeared into her house.

  A short while later, Paolo rose and went inside, too. The heat hadn't gotten to him as much as the obsession over the thought that the bodies had been found. It wouldn't take long for Charles to create a list of the places Paolo might go. He was fortunate that the bite of love had never infected him with strong enough venom to marry. He had no kids, as far as he knew. Aside from his two sisters, the rest of his siblings and his parents were in Brazil. And that was beyond Charles's immense reach.

  Ithaca, however, wasn't. And Charles had a team in Buffalo. A small group, for sure. But that didn't matter. They could be at Esmeralda's in half an hour. And they were all killers.

  He grabbed the portable off the wall and called the hospital.

  "How're you feeling?" Esmeralda asked him.

  "I've been better."

  "Are you going to walk up here, or would you like me to come get you?"

  "Surely you've seen this done enough times you can put a few stitches in me."

  "I can, but you're going to look like a medical experiment gone wrong with the scarring it'll leave behind."

  He glanced at his reflection in the microwave's mirrored surface. Scarring was inevitable. "I don't care about that." And he didn't. The desire to run, disappear drove his thoughts and actions now. The sooner he could go, the better.

  "OK, fine," she said. "I'll do it. But I don't want any shit from you later down the road. Got it?"

  "Yeah." He paused a beat. "Can you come home early, Essie?"

  "I'm supposed to be here until six."

  "I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important."

  Paolo had told his sister details about his life. She didn't know everything, such as how high up in the organization he was or the crimes perpetrated by him or his underlings, but she had enough knowledge that the meaning behind his words should be evident to her.

  "The mid-shift is at lunch right now," she said. "I'll leave as soon as they are back."

  After Paolo hung up, he walked to the front of the house and split the blinds vertically with his thumb and forefinger. A sleepy street, oppressed by the heat, stretched out before him. He repeated the process at the windows located on the side and back. Afterward, he walked through his sister's room and into her closet. The small space overflowed with dresses, blouses, skirts, pants and scrubs. He pulled the clothes off the railing, revealing a blank section of the back wall. Tapping, he located the upper seam of the cutout he'd had installed while she was on vacation a year earlier. He pushed on the cover, rocking it back and forth, until the top seam split. With two fingers wedged into the slim opening, he tugged on the drywall cutout. It tore away from the wall. Paolo reached into the dark space and located the LED light mounted to the top.

  The cutout was two feet wide, and a foot high and deep. Inside were four passports, two 9mm pistols, a tactical knife with an ankle sheath, twenty-thousand in cash, and the bankbooks to three domestic and two foreign banks.

  The wise man is over-prepared, Paolo.

  His father had said that weekly since Paolo was five or six years old. Didn't matter if they were hunting or fishing or woodworking or packing for vacation. The words were ingrained. A mantra of sorts.

  He pulled out the knife and a pistol, five thousand in cash, three passports, one of which had Esmeralda's photo in it, and one domestic and two foreign bankbooks, including one for the Bank of Montreal.

  On the closet floor was a duffel bag that contained a couple changes of Paolo's clothes. The kind of casual wear that would allow him to blend in anywhere. He placed the items from the safe inside and carried the bag to the guest room.

  Esmeralda arrived home a few minutes later. As she stitched his nose and forehead and attended to a cut on his upper arm, he filled her in on what had happened, neglecting to mention that one of the men he'd slain in self-defense had been their brother-in-law. She'd find out in time. As she listened to the retelling, her eyes glassed over. Mouth hung in a perpetual state of openness. Her breathing became erratic as the panic took hold.

  But she performed the procedure as though on autopilot.

  After she finished, Paolo poured her a drink and told her to stay away from the door while he showered and changed.

  "Pack a bag," he said on his way toward the bathroom. "We might be leaving this evening."

  Chapter 16

  Paris, France.

  "GO WAIT IN that restaurant."

  Bear pointed toward the little Italian place tucked in between a drug store and an apartment building. The door opened. The smell of pasta and pizza flooded the sidewalk.

  Mandy glared up at him, defiant. "I don't wanna. I'm staying with you."

  Bear glanced across the stree
t at the four-story building. The address he'd been given at the hospital led them here. Pierre's apartment was 3C. For all Bear knew, Pierre owned the whole thing, and half of it was used for DSGE purposes.

  "Look," he said. "I don't know what I'm gonna find when I walk into that building. I can't risk putting you into a dangerous situation. It's best you wait inside. Have a drink. A slice of pizza. If I'm not back in fifteen minutes, you call for help."

  "Why are you doing this?"

  "I have to make sure this man is OK."

  "Why, Bear? This isn't like you."

  "Why are you questioning me, kid? Dammit. I ought to ship you off to one of those Swiss schools now and get you out of my hair." Pain knifed through his chest and abdomen as he spit the words out.

  Mandy's eyes misted over, she backed away.

  "Mandy." He reached out. "I'm sorry."

  "Whatever." She turned her back on him and entered the restaurant and took a seat at the counter. Bear stood three feet in front of the door, waiting, but she never looked back.

  After a minute, he turned and cut across the street. A call box hung near the freshly painted door. It looked as though his palm would come away red if he pressed it against the door. The name next to 3C's button had faded to the point of being illegible. Bear reached for the front door, found it unlocked. He took the stairs, three at a time, and stopped on the third floor landing. Did he smell the restaurant? Or was someone cooking Italian tonight? The stairwell led to a short hallway with four doors, two on each side, labeled A, B, C, and D. He positioned himself in front of C and knocked three times.

  A woman spoke from inside. The door muted her voice enough that he couldn't understand what she said. Nor could he tell if the voice he heard belonged to Kat.

  Bear knocked again, gently. Less intimidating. The C in the middle shimmied side-to-side with each rap against the solid-core door. Most of the brass coating had worn off the placard.

  A few moments later, the door pulled away, and dark wide eyes peered up at him. The kid stood about the height of the knob.