“You—”
“She’s Roman’s dead sister. My dead… ex. But the girl ain’t dead. So, like I said. Complicated.”
Mark this one down in the record books. Crystal clear phone clarity and Mister Big Bad Balls was radio silent.
Which lasted less time than it took to order a Big Mac, but it was still a record. “Fine. Complicated. I need updates on all complications.” He paused, clearly working something out in his head. “CIA knows about you two?”
He looked at Nicola. “Does your handler know about me and Roman?”
She shook her head. Cash went back to Jared. “Nope.”
“And where’s her extraction team?”
“Near dead at our safe house with Roman and Rocco.”
“Because?”
“We may or may not be dealing with a double agent.”
“Goddamn it, Cash. I’ll hit you back.” And the line went dead.
As conversations with Jared went, that was smooth. Nicola was driving laps around the sprawling upper-middle class neighborhood. Cash needed to make sure he saw the forest, away from the one big tree in the driver’s seat he kept focusing on.
Before he could say anything to her, his phone rang. Jared. Again. That was fast.
“Yeah?” Cash said.
“Private airstrip about an hour from your safe house. A Titan jet will be there in three hours. You boys are headed to Langley with your three friends.”
“Not exactly going to be a friendly ride back with two of my three friends.”
“If you’ve got what you think you’ve got, I don’t care if they ride home in black hoods and hog tied. As long as they make it back alive. The Farm will handle their own. Have no doubt.”
He didn’t either. They water boarded the way some offices doled out demerit write-ups.
“Got ya.” Cash clicked off the phone, and looked at Nicola. “Looks like your favor is granted. Titan style. We’re jetting it back, babe. All six of us.”
“Great. Two guys I can’t take my eyes off of in one plane.”
Garrison’s Creed: Chapter Eight
If Cash hadn’t been seated in the passenger seat of the Range Rover, he’d have fallen on his derrière. His face must have read like a billboard. Either that, or she could see that his stomach jumped into his throat, and he’d lost his breath for the teeniest of seconds.
“Sorry. Just messing with you,” she said.
She’d said sorry, but she didn’t look repentant as she maneuvered around another turn. Nah, not sorry by an inch. Can’t keep her eyes off me? He mumbled something incoherent, trying to mask that she was under his skin.
“Look, I need to get some clothes. Do we have time before we’re wheels up?”
Why was it endearing when she said ‘wheels up’ like one of the guys instead of some boring civilian verbiage like take off? No, her jargon slinging shouldn’t be endearing. It was a warning with bright flashing lights. She’d seen too much, done too much, and didn’t have someone like him or Roman to tell her to keep her butt safe.
He nodded, not ready to jump into that argument. “We got time. Not a lot. But enough.”
“Good. Fire up that GPS, and show me the closest Walmart.”
“Can do.” He paged through the list of shopping centers and saw Midland Galleria. Anything galleria had to be nice, right? “Let’s go here.” He selected their destination, and the direction-wielding lady in the GPS scolded them to make a U-turn at the nearest intersection.
“That’s not Walmart. I need quick, cheap, throwaway clothes.”
“Come on. We have some time. Let’s explore.”
“We should shop and get back to the safe house.”
“You turn in your woman card or something? You don’t want to shop?”
“I don’t want to—”
“Look at it this way: I still need time to cool down. You don’t want me to pop your buddy, do you?”
“You’re calm, Cash. Cool-collected-Cash. It took you about fifteen seconds to power down to lazy cowboy.”
“Lazy?” Nothing about this morning had been lazy.
She laughed and tossed her hair over her shoulder. It looked as soft as he remembered. Her laugh warmed him from the inside, as if they were sitting fireside under the covers.
“You know what I mean. Chilled out, nothing’s ever wrong,” she said. “But seriously, we need to head back soon.”
“Relax, Nic. Dude will be there when we get back, and if we’re running late, well, they can’t leave without us.”
Fifteen minutes later, they pulled up at the Galleria. It was everything he wanted, though he didn’t know why he cared. Signing up for a shopping trip would be classified as out of character. Hell, maybe he did know why. Taking care of her wasn’t out of character, even if he was years out of practice. It once topped his list of favorite activities, and what a list that was…
She parked and waltzed in, not noticing anyone noticing her. She rocked his sweatpants and gym shirt, making them the sexiest things he’d ever seen. Even barefoot with a limp, the woman carried her head high, walking straight into the hoity-toity store.
Catching the raised eyebrows of sales clerks as he followed Nicola in, Cash gave them I-see-you-watching-me waves of his hand. No doubt, he was a sight to see. Black eyes. Swollen lip. Gun holstered on his hip. Sure as Kathy Lee and Hoda were about their Wednesday wine selections, he knew they flavored the water cooler gossip with a shot of, “oh my god, did you see that?”
Nicola bee-lined it for the shoe department, and he trailed behind, watching the tsunami effect of her presence. Nicola grabbed a pair of overstuffed, pink bunny slippers, walked over to the clerk and said, “I need these now. I’ll be back for different shoes in a minute.” She looked over her shoulder, pointed, and smiled. “And that beauty of a man over there plans on paying.”
That he did. He smiled his split lip. It stung as the fresh scab ripped open. She could have called him a lot worse than a beauty.
* * *
Decent shoes and a well-fitting outfit did more for Nicola’s mental state than she cared to admit. Cash glancing sideways a couple times to check her out was even more of a boost. Problem was, giggling like a school girl didn’t fit the persona she’d created at the CIA. Nope. Those who knew Nicola thought she was married to the job and needed to get out more. At least she assumed that’s what they thought.
Leaving the mall and heading to the airport was easy. Overthinking what Cash and Roman would say and do—that was a headache.
Not a lot of women did the whole intel operative routine, and fewer did it out in the field. Men assumed she played the game for a rush and that they’d swoop in to save the day just like Cash did, though, true enough, she had needed a hand in the Main Street rumble. Barroom brawls, even in broad daylight, weren’t her forte. She might be tall and strong, but she wasn’t oblivious to her physical limitations. There was a difference between knowing what might bring you down and being strong enough to say, “Fuck it. Let’s try anyway.”
Cash wasn’t keen on her doing field work. She could tell. He hadn’t said it word for word, but she got the gist. Every time his eyebrows hit his hair line, she translated it to, “Nicola, go home and watch Jeopardy!” Roman would be even worse. He didn’t like her to take out the trash at night. Well, ten years ago, he didn’t.
They breezed onto the private airstrip, sidled up to the plane, then Cash gave her a look. She foresaw an intervention in her future.
Nicola made a point to walk up the staircase in front of Cash. Roman and Rocco were already on board with Bonnie and Clyde. She wanted them to see her first, to show her extraction team that she wasn’t hiding behind a man. To show Roman that this was her job too. All good reasons, but she’d be lying to herself if the thought of Cash behind her in these ten-out-of-ten fitting jeans hadn’t crossed her mind.
God, no. She needed to erase him from her thoughts. The giddy school girl routine was going to get her into trouble.
Two steps before she passed through the door, Cash snagged her belt loop. He pulled her to a quick stop, his hard body catching right behind hers. A shiver licked down her back and tingled where he pressed against her. Her body vibrated, needing to push back against him. Mind over body, she only managed to freeze.
“Nic. One sec,” he whispered in her ear. He was way too close, and it felt familiarly amazing. His breath warmed a spot behind her ear and rippled down her neck. The thump, thump of her pulse might have been loud enough for him to hear.
She shifted to look at him, balancing on her good foot, more than aware that her insides were spinning. “What’s up?”
His hand stayed at the base of her back, the heat of his touch warm through her shirt. “Goddamn, you’re gorgeous. Just thought you should know what I’d be looking at on the flight home.” Then he patted her bottom, scooting her up the last two stairs and into the cabin.
Good thing he did because telling her legs to work—right and then left, repeat—would’ve been a chore. Her fuzzy mind spun, trying to let autopilot take over. His touch seared from her ass and spun out of control to the tips of her fingers and toes.
Somehow, she rounded the corner and slammed into Roman. Great. Autopilot disengaged. He eyed her, doing a quick assessment, then stared at Cash. “You okay, Nicola? You’re looking… sick.”
Sick? Try flush with flippin’ pheromones. So much for her grand plan to act big, bad, and in charge. “I’m good, Roman. You need to chill out.”
Roman’s eyes bounced to Cash. “Everything kosher?”
“Everything’s as you like it.” Cash pushed past both of them, pulled the brim of his hat over his eyes, and sat down next to Rocco.
Nicola saw Bonnie and Clyde cuffed and secured in place. Roman gave her another overprotective glance, then gave a thumbs up to the pilot. They were airborne by the time she got comfortable in her seat. Bonnie’s angry face said she was going to raise all kinds of hell once they got to Langley and figured out this headache. Clyde—AKA David, AKA the butler—was a blank canvas. Anything she tried to read on his bruised expression was a figment of her intel-seeking imagination. The guy gave her nothing. Damn CIA training.
Whatever. If they were both in on it, she was coming up aces. If it was just the butler, then she owed Miss Bonnie a sorry-I-almost-shot-you card and a fruit basket carved up like a flower bouquet. Or maybe just a gift certificate to Guns R Us, because Nicola was sure Rocco wasn’t handing Bonnie her piece back.
The flight to Virginia was fast. They deplaned, jumped into waiting government vehicles and were sped away to Langley. Arriving at CIA headquarters, their group was separated and, she assumed, all waiting to be debriefed. Nicola had to explain the little problem of why she’d gone all berserker on her extraction team. Beth would believe her.
Maybe…
Well, of course she would. Beth was her best friend, the only person she trusted inside Langley and maybe outside as well.
It’s not that Nicola had proof, per se. It was more of a gut feeling, but there were facts that couldn’t be denied. Blank extraction instructions. Gunfire after she jumped the window. The butler saying he didn’t want to kill her. Little things like that.
As interrogation rooms went, this one was standard. Nicola shifted in the uncomfortable chair, wondering how many sets of eyes watched as she sipped a Sprite.
Patience.
She needed a barrel of fortitude. The analysts and behaviorists were always looking for signs of… everything. She needed to send off a vibe of complete professionalism.
The door cracked, and Beth walked in. “Hey, girl.”
“Hey.” Nic smiled, not feeling it, but knowing the watchers in the wall expected it.
“Let’s debrief and go get a drink, though I have a feeling a few beers isn’t going to do it tonight.”
“I’d be okay if we sat in your office with a couple bottles of wine and straws.”
“Nice. Classy plan to match those nice threads you’re wearing.” Beth nodded approvingly at her new BCBG getup.
“Yeah, little shopping trip was required. So it goes. Designer label souvenir, I guess.”
“All right, start from the top. Antilla was shot. Go.”
Nicola recounted everything from that moment until she’d landed ass first in front of Titan’s Range Rover. Beth nodded encouragement, smiled like a supportive handler should, repeated a few things, but didn’t clue Nicola in on her thoughts. Nicola chatted her way right through the adventure until they were wheels down in Virginia, arriving at Langley.
Beth sat back for a minute, then pushed a pad of paper and a pen to her. “Smooth Enterprises. I know it’s earlier than we’d planned to break down the network, but map out the players you know.”
“I don’t know everyone. Antilla was everywhere at once, so it was hard to track who he was with and what they discussed. But I’ll give you what I know.” It took an hour and page after page of notes. Her hand cramped. She knew analysts would study her handwriting, looking for clues, deceptions, and unvoiced revelations. When she was done, Beth took the papers and left. At least she’d been supportive enough to sit there while Nic wrote.
Her Sprite was empty. She spun the aluminum can on its side. The hum of florescent lighting started in on her nerves. How much time had passed since Beth stepped out? An hour? Three? It could’ve been all damn day, for all the sense of passing time that she had.
She wondered what Cash and Roman said and where they were. The opening door pulled her from that thought tornado. Beth sat down, a tight smile marring her normally expressionless face. Shit, Nic didn’t need to be a facial expression expert to recognize that tension.
“Nicola, there’s nothing to suspect David—”
“What? BS, Beth. Bull—”
“Not my call. Not yours either. And to make matters more complicated, the powers that be need you to partner with him and finish up some loose ends in Antilla’s file.”
“No.”
“Don’t make me change that request into an order. We’ve never gone down that handler-agent road, and I sure don’t want to start now. Work the system, but trust in me.”
“Beth—”
“You’ve got no choice, but I’m not giving you this crap assignment by itself. Here’s a side project to keep you happy.” Beth slid a folder across the table. Eyes Only.
“Eyes only? Why? Nothing’s been eyes only on this assignment.”
“There’s not much on the inside other than a couple of notes. I’m hoping you can change that for me.”
Nicola opened the folder. One slip of paper. Handwritten. Assignment JW. 7:30 PM blind date. JW Marriot. Washington, DC. Creative, naming the op after the location. She stifled a chuckle. She’d have to tease Beth about her lack of titling ingenuity. This one lacked the one-two punch that would interest her in the job. Who would she meet? At least she didn’t have to bring the butler with her. “Back to the butler.”
“David.”
“Fine. David. The guy’s a pr—”
“Honestly, I don’t care if you make up, hook up, or fight it out. Get rid of the hostility and tension between you two. And so you know, it’s not like he’s looking forward to hanging with you either. The man’s pride is more than a little wounded with those shiners.” Beth winked.
“I couldn’t care less about the butl—about David.”
“Here are your instructions to meet David.” Beth handed her another piece of paper, but she didn’t look at it. “Seriously, Nic. Soon as you come to terms with this, then you can get the hell out of here and go home. I’m trying to be a friend.”
Trying to be my friend? You’re supposed to be my best friend.
Nicola cracked her knuckles and rubbed her neck. She picked up the slip of paper and turned it over. Blank. She took a moment to look at it, as if reading. Someone was always watching.
Beth looked at her. “Got it, girl?”
Pocketing the paper, Nic said, “No problem. Consider it done.” Th
e only thing crystal clear was her confusion. “Am I free to go now?”
“Sure thing.”
Nicola waved to the cameras and left.
Garrison’s Creed: Chapter Nine
Each passing minute in this godforsaken coffee shop irritated David further, both because the couriered package from his contact—code name: Mister Mars—was late, and because he’d smell like coffee grounds for the rest of the day. He tapped his manicured fingernails in annoyance.
A teenager with unkempt hair and neon yellow shoes clomped through the door, sweeping from table to table with a searching gaze. What passed as fashionable for today’s youth was atrocious. When the kid’s eyes landed on him, the yellow-footed courier scurried to his side.
“You’re late,” David scolded, his bruised face hurting from the scowl.
“I’m sorry. I got—”
He shook his head. The kid hadn’t confirmed who he was, and his hands were already opening the delivery satchel.
“Do you have something to ask me?” David harrumphed. Amateur hour.
“Uh, yeah. Yes. I’m supposed to ask you for a special word.”
“So ask. Don’t suggest. Ask.” He hated teaching in the field. It was another reason he couldn’t wait to leave the CIA. This teenager acted as though the delivery was as benign as a flowers and balloons delivery. Did he look like he’d just had a baby? Just graduated from college? No. David didn’t. He looked like a man who wheeled and dealed with high paying arms dealers.
“Er, um. Yes. Sorry. Can you please provide me the security word?”
David shook his head again in disgust. He cleared his throat. “The word is valor.”
The kid frowned and followed up as he’d been directed. “And you are?”
“My name is Mister Nero.” David thought the Mars-Nero code names were unnecessary, but Smooth Enterprises had always obsessed over ancient Roman history. They were the client. The paranoid client, even if they had reason to be after the assassination.
The kid deposited the small box on the table and skedaddled before David could tell him to get out. He opened it and took out the charged cell phone. Turning the screen on, he found the directory and selected the only entry.
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