Noble Intentions: Season Two (Episodes 6-10) (2 page)

“That’ll be enough,” he said. “Thank you, gents.”

Jack dragged the Russian onto the patio. He dropped him on the ground and then turned and slammed the door shut.

Alik had propped himself up against the wall. Blood poured from a bullet hole in his chest.

“Christ,” Jack said. “Alik, you with me?”

Alik nodded slowly. He tried to speak.

“Save your strength.”

Jack turned to the Russian. Kicked him in the stomach. The man rolled over and opened his eyes.

“Who sent you?” Jack said.

“Screw you,” the Russian said in English.

Jack kicked him again.

“Who? Tell me or so help me I’ll put a bullet in your head.”

The man spit.

Jack knew this was a wasted effort. He needed to attend to Alik before he bled out. He knelt down and placed the barrel of the gun to the man’s forehead.

“Last chance.”

The man said nothing.

Jack cursed at the man. Pulled the trigger twice. The bullets ripped through the Russian’s skull, tearing his brain apart.

Jack got up and went to the door. He opened it and yelled into the cafe.

“I need help out here.”

The three older Greek men responded and came out to the patio. Two went to work on Alik. The third turned to Jack.

“We are all experienced medics,” he said in English. “From the war.”

Jack didn’t ask which war. “Is he going to be OK?”

“We need to take him somewhere.”

“Hospital won’t be safe. There could be more of them.” Jack gestured toward the three slain men on the patio.

“I know a place.” The older man turned to his two friends and waved at Jack. “Come. Help. Get him to the truck.”

* * *

They drove through town and into the country. Fast and steady. Paved roads gave way to packed dirt. The truck slowed down. They turned onto a gravel driveway that jutted out between two lines of trees. A small stone house sat at the end of the driveway.

Jack turned to the man in the back of the truck sitting opposite him. Alik lay between them.

“Where are we?”

“My mother’s house.”

“She a doctor?”

“No.” He paused a moment and looked toward the house. “I am, though.”

The truck stopped near the house. The two Greek men in the cab got out and rushed to the rear of the vehicle. The four of them lifted Alik from the bed of the truck and carried him to the house. An old white haired lady with a slightly hunched back stood by the door, holding it open. They brought Alik inside and into the kitchen. Placed him on a long wooden table that looked to be over a hundred years old. The table was covered in white sheets. Several stainless steel medical tools were laid out neatly at one end.

The man who had declared himself a doctor grabbed a pair of scissors and cut Alik’s shirt down the middle. He pried the blood-soaked garment from Alik’s chest. The doctor wiped away blood from the site of the wound and inspected the damage.

“I think he’s going to be OK. He’s severely injured, but will heal.”

Jack nodded and took a few steps back. He wanted to get out of the way. The doctor knew what he was doing and the men appeared to have worked with him before. Jack, on the other hand, was useless in this situation.

Jack said, “His pocket. The phone.”

The doctor nodded to one of the other men who reached into Alik’s pocket and pulled out a cell phone. The man tossed it to Jack.

Jack snatched the phone mid-air and turned to the front door. He passed the white haired lady and stepped through the open doorway. He worked the phone. Pressed a button and scanned through a list until he found Frank’s number. He highlighted the number and pressed send.

Frank answered midway through the third ring. “Hello?” His voice was soft and deep. He had been sleeping. Jack looked at his watch and calculated it was two in the morning on the east coast of the U.S.

“What did you do?”

“Huh? Who is this?” Frank’s voice trailed off. Jack figured he was looking at his caller ID.

“Alik, huh? Jack, is that you?”

“What did you do, Frank?”

“Jack, what are you talking about?”

“God dammit, don’t screw with me. I’ll end you if you don’t tell me the truth.”

“I’ve been working to get you moved. I have it all set up for—”

“How did they know?”

“—two weeks from now. There’s gonna be a guy…wait. How did who know what?”

Jack said nothing. He held the phone to his ear. He exhaled fast and heavy.

“Jack, what happened?”

“We were ambushed. This morning. At the cafe where we’ve been staying.”

“Who?”

“Russians.”

The line went silent and for a moment Jack thought Frank had hung up.

“This is bad, Jack. Very bad.”

“No kidding, Frank. Alik’s been injured. What are you going—”

“Hold on. I’m thinking.”

Jack turned around and looked past the old woman in the doorway. Two men held Alik down while the doctor worked on his chest. It looked like he had forceps inserted into the wound in an effort to retrieve the bullet. Jack lowered his eyes toward the white haired woman. She held up a cigarette. He shook his head, shrugged and then held out his hand. The old woman lit the cigarette and handed it to him. The first drag tasted like the street after Mardi Gras and the smoke burned his lungs. He nearly coughed. But he took a second drag, and then a third. The rush of nicotine excited and then calmed him all within a period of twenty seconds.

“Christ,” Jack muttered under his breath, disappointed in himself for accepting the cigarette.

“What?” Frank asked.

“Nothing,” Jack said.

“Jack, call me back in five minutes. I need to wake someone up.”

Jack looked around, through the trees, toward the dirt road leading in. Five minutes wouldn’t be long enough to get someone else here to finish the job the three Russians failed to complete.

“OK. I’ll call back in five.”

He hung up the phone, took a final drag off the cigarette and dropped it to the ground where he crushed it with his heel. He walked past the woman in the doorway, nodding with a smile as he did so.

“How is he?”

The doctor looked over his shoulder. His hands continued to work, sewing shut the hole in Alik’s chest.

“He’ll live. The bullet lodged in his rib. The rib is broken. Shattered. But had it not stopped the bullet, your friend would be dead.”

Jack stood next to the table. Looked down at Alik. The man’s eyes fluttered as he passed between states of consciousness and unconsciousness. The doctor had given him some type of anesthetic, but Jack questioned its effectiveness.

“He’ll be OK,” the doctor said. “He should be in the hospital, though.”

“Can’t. You saw what happened at the cafe. He checks into a hospital, he won’t check out.”

“Then he can stay here,” the old woman said.

The doctor nodded. “I’ll keep an eye on him over the next few days. Administer pain meds so he isn’t suffering. In a few days he should be in much better shape.”

Jack looked at his watch and pulled the phone back out. He dialed the number as he walked toward the front door.

Frank answered after the first ring.

“Jack, OK. We’re getting you out. I’m sending one of my guys.”

“Just me,” Jack said.

“What do you mean? Is Alik dead?”

“No, but he’s in no condition to travel.”

“Dammit. OK, I’m sending an extra man to stay with him then.”

Jack looked back at the three Greek men and the old woman. “Probably a good idea.”

“Where are you?”

“About ten miles outside of town. Get your men here and call me. I’ll send a car.”

“They’ll be there by nightfall.”

3

A cloud of smoke lingered just below the ceiling of the small apartment. Pierre sat in a stiff wooden chair, a cigarette pressed between two fingers and hovering an inch or so from his lips. He rested his elbows on a small square wooden table. The only furniture in the apartment. His cell phone next to him on his left. His Glock 17 with a fully loaded magazine opposite him, just out of reach. A large round glass ashtray sat in the middle of the table with a few dozen stubbed out cigarette butts strewn about the crushed black and gray ashes. The smell of stale cigarette smoke filled the air.

The apartment was dark. It wasn’t that Pierre didn’t want to turn the lights on. He couldn’t turn them on. The power had been cut off earlier in the week. He had run out of belongings to pawn and that meant he had run out of money to pay his bills. Soon he’d be evicted from the apartment. His eyes glanced at the gun. Pawn it or use it, he thought.

He stubbed out his cigarette and walked to the fridge. He pulled the door open and a wave of foul odor from spoiled milk filled the surrounding air. He quickly slammed the door shut. How stupid, he thought. He’d done the same thing at least half a dozen times the past few days. He sidestepped along the counter and grabbed a tumbler from the cabinet. A nearby bottle of whiskey promised to erase his pain for one more night. The bottle had at least a few pours left, and there was one more unopened bottle in the apartment. He filled the glass three-quarters of the way and stopped himself from opening the freezer for a cube of ice. There was no ice in there, only rank meat.

He returned to the table, sat down and lit another cigarette. Two more in the pack. Two more packs until he ran out. Quit smoking or steal more, he thought. He blew a thin line of smoke toward the ceiling and sighed as he watched the smoke billow out into a cloud. He took a sip from his glass. Placed the glass down. Dragged his thumb along his stubble covered jaw line.

It had been over three months since he left his job at the agency. The pain he faced had become unbearable. His lack of focus had caused problems for him and for his team. He knew that it was no longer prudent for him to work there. Not only was his life on the line, but the lives of the men and women who worked on his team, as well as the innocent civilians they protected. It would only take one misread communication to lead to Pierre doing something very stupid. Or nothing at all. Either of which could result in consequences he didn’t want to face. Consequences he could be forced to face in a court of law. Or in a funeral parlor. So he left. Told his boss that he was done. Left his gun and badge on his desk and walked out the door.

In most cases, that would be enough for an order to terminate. But Pierre had given everything he had to the agency. His boss hesitated to let him go, but stepped aside. Even walked him out the door. Told Pierre he could call if he ever needed a hand. Needed help. Pierre thanked his boss, never imagining that he’d need to take him up on the offer. He knew that he could never return to the agency, but his boss could put in a good word for him wherever Pierre decided to go next.

He had figured that he had enough money in the bank to last until he got through his bout of depression. He just never imagined that the depression would last this long. Three months since leaving his job. Now, with the money gone he had nowhere to turn. Well, almost nowhere. His eyes moved about the room and settled on his Glock 17. He leaned over and reached out for the gun. Stopped and grabbed his cell phone instead.

Pierre pushed a button and slid his finger across the screen of his cell phone. He scrolled through a contact list and stopped on the name Alonso, Charles’s right hand man. Six months ago Pierre had told Charles that he would work with him. Charles hadn’t called, though, and Pierre had forgotten all about the offer. But now he’d reached the end of his rope and working for a crime boss didn’t have the same sting it once held.

Surely Charles would have work available. A man as highly trained as Pierre could be in demand among the right crowd.

His finger lingered over the green send button. He nearly pressed it when a single old fashioned chime rang through the apartment. His doorbell. He pushed back in his chair, took a quick drink and stood up. Walked across the apartment to the door and flipped back a small square panel, revealing a peephole. He looked through and saw the back of a head full of dark hair. He reached down and opened the door.

The young woman spun around and greeted him with a smile.

“Kat.”

“Hello, Pierre.” She reached out and took his hand in hers. “Can I come in?”

He stepped back and gestured her through. She coughed as she entered. He caught her face shift to a look of disgust, but she quickly masked it with a forced smile.

“What’s happened here?”

He hiked his shoulders a few inches and frowned.

She turned to him. Reached out and brushed strands of his unkempt hair away from his forehead.

“Pierre, you have to get over this.”

He shook his head and turned away. Walked to the kitchen, past the table. He stopped in front of the large window that overlooked an empty city street. He stared at a collection of trash cans on the curb. He inhaled deeply as the pain of confronting his feelings welled up inside.

“I tried. I can’t. A man died, a friend of mine died. It was my fault.”

He felt slight vibrations in the floor as she walked toward him. Her hand pressed against his shoulder, the touch warm against his clammy skin.

“It’s not your fault. It is what it is. You knew the risks of your job. He knew the risks of his.”

Pierre shrugged his shoulder and her hand fell to the side. They’d had this conversation several times during the three months they dated. He wasn’t sure why she would even bring it up again. The last time they spoke, the night before he quit the agency, this exact conversation had led to him pulling his gun. First he aimed it at her. Then at his own head. He had almost pulled the trigger. Kat left that night but not before shouting several hurtful parting words. Pierre didn’t blame her.

She squeezed against him from the side and wrapped her arm around his waist. She rested her head on his shoulder. Her hair brushed against his ear and the side of his face, getting caught up in the stubble.

“I’m here, Pierre. We’ll get through this together.”

Pierre closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Maybe we can get away. Go somewhere. Italy or Greece. Hell, the U.S., maybe.”