Noble judgment, p.26
Noble Judgment, page 26
part #9 of Jack Noble Series
Dammit, he thought. The woman alone, he could risk it. But not with a child. Not with the uncertainty of what followed him wherever he went.
The woman glanced at him, eyes narrowed, lips thin, hands in her pocket no doubt clutching her keys and perhaps a can of pepper spray or mace.
Jack nodded in her direction, then turned toward the small store. He jogged toward the entrance. A chain of gold-tinted bells jangled when he pulled it open. An elderly man behind the counter greeted him.
Jack said, "Restroom?"
The old guy jutted his chin to the back of the store, toward the beer cooler. Said, "Through that door. Second door on your right. Mind the mop."
BRETT HEARD THE engine ramp up. A high-pitched whine that settled into soft idling. First car he'd heard since gaining some distance from the freeway. Asphalt and trees remained in front of him. He'd been jogging since he descended the hill and traveled underneath the overpass. Now he picked up his pace to somewhere just below a sprint. He could maintain it for a minute, maybe a few seconds beyond, but not much longer.
He rounded the bend. The trees gave way to a grassy field that butted up to a store and gas station. A small car pulled away from one of the pumps.
Noble?
Brett reached behind his back and grabbed his pistol. He kept it pressed to his thigh. Didn't want to alert the driver should it turn out to not be Jack.
The vehicle turned right, and drove away. No matter how fast Brett ran, he wouldn't catch up. Had he just missed his opportunity to catch Jack?
He slowed to a walk as he neared the store. If Jack had been by, whoever worked inside would remember. Not often Americans show up in this part of the country, Brett figured.
Every step, he slowed his breathing and his heart rate. He re-holstered his pistol. Wiped the sweat from his brow. Brett crossed the lot, pushed open the front door. A set of bells clanged next to his head. He resisted the urge to yank them down.
"Help you?" the old guy perched atop a stool behind the counter said.
"I need to know if you've seen a guy come through here. About six-two, athletic looking, brown hair."
The guy nodded. "You must be a friend of his, huh? I can't recall ever having two Yanks in here in one day."
"Yeah, he's a friend of mine. How long ago was he here, and where'd he go?"
The old man nodded toward the back of the store. "He's here right now, in the washroom."
Brett drew his pistol and aimed it at the old guy's head. "Get up nice and easy. Step around the counter and lead me back there."
JACK CUT THE faucet off after he heard the bells ringing. Water dripped off his face and into the basin. He reached for the paper towel dispenser and tore off the half sheet that hung down.
He'd grabbed the mop on his way back. He stepped on the fabric tendrils and twisted the pole free. Someone knocked on the door as he did so.
Jack said nothing.
"You doing okay in there?" the old guy said.
Jack looked back, at the window. It was a good six feet off the ground, and only about two feet high by about three feet wide. He could get through it if necessary. But it didn't look like it led anywhere. No light came through.
"I said you doing all right?" the old guy said.
"Yeah, fine," Jack replied. He glanced down. Bars of light poured in through the crack at the door. He knelt and peered through. Four feet. "Just need a minute or two. Okay?"
"Sure, mate, sure."
How had they found him? He was as off the grid as one could be, yet they'd managed to corner him in a gas station bathroom. Bit by bit, his mental clarity had returned to the point he almost felt like any plan he came up with would be the right one. So he had to decide, offense or defense. The hallway was dim and narrow, but the door opened inward. That gave the other guy the advantage. In the bathroom, the guy would have to bust in and come around the door to reach Jack. First strike with the pole could disarm the man. The next would be to the neck or the groin, whichever presented itself first. By that point, the guy would be on the floor and Jack would have answers.
As he shifted against the wall, the phone pressed against his leg.
And he realized how the guy had tracked him down. They'd been following him all along with the phone. Something so simple. Something he'd been paranoid about for some fifteen years now. The damn cell phone had led them here. He chastised himself for not realizing it sooner.
Then he started to doubt his plan to wait. Perhaps it would be better to charge the hall. Whip the door open and lunge out with the pole.
A stick versus a pistol in open combat. Something told Jack that wouldn't end well.
BRETT GRABBED THE old guy's collar and pulled him back a foot. The man offered up no resistance. Thirty years, maybe more, the poor sap had run the place. Never had a problem. Then the special day not one, but two Americans show up in his store, he winds up with a gun aimed at the back of his head. The old guy had checked the knob. It was locked.
"I want you to go to the end of the hallway and lay down," Brett whispered.
He didn't worry about having the gun pressed to the guy's head. A younger man, or a trained soldier, sure, he'd never do it. Someone like that could gain control of the situation, and possibly the firearm. But this guy, time was not on his side. Brett had no plans on shooting him, but he'd knock him unconscious if necessary.
And it wasn't. The guy lifted his hands, stepped to the side, then shuffled to the end of the hall. He dropped to his right knee, using the wall to steady himself, then his left. Slowly, he lowered his torso to the floor. His chest hit the ground. His ass stuck up in the air. Then he let his legs slide back and his body flopped down.
Brett lifted his pistol in front of his face, closed his eyes, took a deep breath.
You or me, Jack. Guess it was always meant to be this way. We just delayed it a few years.
Ignoring the buzzing phone in his pocket, he lifted his knee, then struck forward with the heel of his foot, aiming for the spot next to the door handle.
JOE BALLARD TAPPED his pen on his desk with one hand, pressed his phone to his head with the other.
"Come on, Taylor," he said.
He had to reach the man. Their line of communication had been compromised, and someone might be tracking Brett now. The fact that the man didn't answer told Ballard that either Brett discovered this, or he was found by whoever was looking for him.
66
South Africa.
"YOU SURE THIS is it?" Mason asked, hand to his brow, shielding the sun as he stared at the old wooden building.
"Affirmative," the guy said through the phone Sasha held between them.
"Place looks deserted," Mason said. "Don't see anyone inside."
She pointed at a puddle near one of the gas pumps. "Looks like someone's been here recently."
"Telling you, the signal leads to about 30 meters from your location."
Sasha pulled the car around the side, parked and cut the engine. The building looked worse from this side. Age and the seasons had warped the wood. A few boards were broken off on one end, resting on the ground. There were no windows, so unless someone saw them enter, or there were cameras, they were out of view here. A cursory glance indicated there wasn't a security system installed here.
Mason opened his door and stepped out. By the time Sasha joined him, he'd unholstered his weapon. She did the same after she slipped her phone into her pocket. The line was connected. She kept the mouthpiece visible so her team could hear and record everything that happened. If everything went well, the file would be deleted.
They walked around the back of the building. A large propane tank blocked a third of the wall. There was one window in the middle. Looked like it had been painted over in black. There wasn't much space between the structure and the woods. Ten meters at most. Still a bit of distance should someone pop around the corner and open fire.
It didn't come to that, though. They reached the other side, which looked like the rest of the building. Old and dingy and decrepit.
Mason stopped in front of her, at the corner. He surveyed the lot, looked back at her, said, "Empty." After a pause, he added, "I'll lead."
She followed him, peering through the dirty front windows as they made their way to the door set on the other side of center. Mason confirmed no one was visible inside. The counter unmanned. He pushed the door. Bells rang out.
And from the back of the store, there was a crashing sound.
67
South Africa.
BRETT TAYLOR DIDN'T hear the bells ringing as the front door opened. At that moment the heel of his foot connected with the door about an inch to the left of the handle. The weakest point. The door buckled inward. It groaned on dirty hinges like an old man jumping out of bed. Brett allowed his momentum to carry him forward in a lunge where he landed on his striking foot. If he could have prevented himself from doing so, he would have. Because outside of the light peeking in from the dim hallway, the bathroom was pitch dark.
JACK WASTED NO time. He stepped left, past the door, with pole drawn up over his shoulder, ready to whip it around. The man stood a few feet inside. He heaved forward, arms out. An attempt to steady himself. His pistol was out of reach. Jack swung the pole, aiming for the man's throat. The guy saw it at the last moment, brought his left arm up and deflected the blow.
The blow hadn't hit Jack's intended target, but at least it slowed the other man down for another second and allowed Jack to get another foot closer. He brought the pole back, lined up another swing.
The man turned toward Jack. He brought his right arm up. Jack swung the pole over his shoulder without scraping the ceiling and brought it down over the guy's right wrist. His arm dropped a foot. The pistol went off with a bright flash. The shot echoed through the room. Jack's ears rung and he felt slightly dazed. But he hadn't been hit.
Jack released his right hand from the pole. Let it slip about halfway down in his left. He drew it up and struck out with it. Followed the blow with a right hook. Both connected with the side of the guy's head. He staggered backward. His pistol hit the floor and slid toward the darkened corner of the bathroom. Jack lost it in the shadows.
The guy collided with the wall, remained upright, his arms limp, head hanging down. Jack lunged toward him to deliver the final blow, but the guy managed to burst forward. He landed a shot on Jack's chin that stopped his momentum and snapped his head back and to the left. He dropped to one knee and tried to engage the man by wrapping his arms around the guy.
It did no good.
The guy struck again, this time sending Jack onto his back. Light glinted dully off a urinal above his head. Then the room brightened as Brett flipped the switch.
"Pretty good idea," he said.
Jack managed to get his left elbow underneath him and propped himself up a few inches. He watched the guy walk to the corner, bend over and pick up his pistol. The man inspected it, then turned it toward Jack.
"Brett?" Jack said. "Brett Taylor?"
The guy nodded once as he wiped the blood off his upper lip with his wrist.
"What the hell is this? What are you doing here?"
"What do you think, Jack?"
Jack knew. He was trying to buy a few minutes. Enough time to recover some strength and make a final move. But he knew against a guy like Brett that would be pointless. He had to resort to a tactic he wasn't fond of, but might save his life.
"Why?" Jack said.
"Not that it matters to me, but you did some bad shit in your time. Because of that, you've been marked for termination."
"Who else?"
Brett shrugged, said nothing.
"At least give me that, man."
"A shit load of people. That's who." He took a few steps forward, cautious to remain out of Jack's reach, but close enough to not miss. "You wanna see it coming?"
"You don't have to do this."
"Yes, I do."
"No. You have the same choices available as I had six years ago."
Brett said nothing. He steadied his pistol with his left hand.
"Brett…"
"What?"
Jack closed his eyes. There was nothing he could say that could stop the guy. Brett had been trained to detach himself from the event, much as Jack had. In fact, all those years ago, it hadn't been Brett who convinced him to abandon the job. Not initially at least.
"How's Reese?" Jack said.
Brett froze in place. He said nothing. Made no expression. Didn't move. And he didn't shoot.
Reese McSweeney was Brett's sister. The only family he had. She had been a New York City homicide detective. Until she became mixed up with Jack. It was her plea to hear Brett out that led Jack to call off the hit.
"Have you talked to her recently?" Jack said.
Brett shook his head. "They put her in witness protection."
"I gave you a chance because of her. You remember that, right?"
Brett nodded.
"She would want you to do the same for me. At least talk this through with me. If we can't come up with a solution, then pull the trigger."
Brett said nothing. He remained frozen.
And Jack realized that the pounding he heard wasn't inside his head when it resulted in a door crashing in.
SASHA FOLLOWED MASON down the dim hallway. She saw an old man cowering at the end of it. He covered his head and peeked from under his arm, then looked away.
"Gun down," Mason screamed. "Drop the gun! Get on the damn floor!"
Sasha followed him into the bathroom. The man standing in the middle of the room didn't move. He pointed toward the corner. She followed his aim and saw Jack sprawled out, propped on his elbow. He looked at her, smiled, diverted his gaze back to the gunman.
"Drop it," Mason said.
"My name is Brett Taylor. I'm a United States federal agent. I have an executive order to kill this man."
"I don't care," Mason said. "We ain't in the flipping United States."
Jack said, "Brett, you know this doesn't come from the top."
"That's right," Brett said. "Because they don't know about the things you and I and those like us do. But they have people paid to make these kinds of decisions. And they decided you had to die."
Mason said, "You won't make it out of here. I promise you that."
"MASON, SHUT THE hell up," Jack said. Every second that passed was equivalent to a bomb's timer counting down. Brett would reach zero and squeeze the trigger. The part of him that had been programmed to do his job without thinking was at odds with his rational side. Jack saw it. He saw it because he'd been there before. Mason had been MI5 his whole life. An agent, but never a killer.
Sasha said, "He murdered Erin, Jack."
Jack felt the world close in on him. He and Erin went back years. They'd nearly married. He still loved her, and felt the feeling was reciprocated, although both knew it would never work. For the sake of their daughter, they left the relationship at friendship. He tried to ask about Mia, but his throat couldn't form the words.
Brett blinked and took a step back. His pistol wavered. "I didn't, Jack. I was there, scouting them. I planned to use them to bring you out. But innocent women and children, that's not my game."
"We found the American girl," Sasha said. "Hannah said you went to the beach in search of them. We saw footage of you on the island."
"And I found Erin," Brett said. "I found her on the beach. She was already dead. Shot in the head."
"Mia?" Jack asked.
"She wasn't there."
"If not you, then who did this?" Jack asked. "Who are you working with?"
Brett lowered his pistol. Mason glanced at Jack as if to ask permission to take the guy down. Jack shook his head.
"I'm solo," Brett said. "That's the only way I work."
"You have to tell us everything you know," Jack said, rising to his feet. "Everything."
68
Washington, D.C.
BECK ARRIVED EARLY that morning. He chided Clarissa the moment she opened her door.
"You could have returned my call last night," he said.
"You could have returned mine earlier than you did," she said. "Instead, you stayed out late drinking with your buddies when we have a big day today."
He waved her off as he entered. "It's not like that at all."
"Then what's it like?"
"I had a couple drinks, then went back to the office to make sure we've got everything covered."
Her defensive posture eased. "And do we?"
"I thought we did, but now that you've been tailed and attacked, I'm not so sure that I like it." He pulled something from his backpack. "Have a look at this."
"What is it?"
"Security footage of your attack."
She took the disc and inserted it into the DVD player. It started with her approaching. What she hadn't noticed the night before was that the car had driven past around the same time she came into view, albeit as a small shadowy figure at the other end of the road.
She watched the attack play out.
"You could have sustained a concussion," Beck said. "Why didn't you go to the hospital?"
"Because they would have involved the police."
"And?"
"I don't like the police."
Beck shook his head. "What have I gotten myself into with you?"
"I ask myself the same thing almost every night."
They shared a smile, easing the tension.
She watched the video a few more times, slowing it frame-by-frame the first time the car passed.
"There," she said. "New York plates."
"If only we could make out the tag number."
She zoomed the image, but it only distorted the tag further. They both noticed something else, however.
"See that?" Beck said.
She nodded. "Fraternal Order of Police sticker."
"That son of a bitch, Harris."
"My guess too." She turned toward him. "But we don't have any evidence to support that. It could have been someone else there, listening in to our conversation with him, who has contact with Charles."
