Garrison's Creed (Titan)

by Cristin Harber

  Despite grabbing a fancy, overstuffed pillow for use as a makeshift silencer, the shot was loud when she blew out the window. Hoisting herself up to the sill, she looked over her shoulder to see her extraction team, courtesy of the butler, blow through the outer door. No time to second-guess her next move, and oh, the landing would hurt. Barefoot, she sucked in a breath and pushed through the shattered frame.

  Glass shards scraped her chest and back as she sidestepped through. Teetering for a hot second on the outside, she realized that the window frame was too narrow. She couldn’t turn her head to look back at her attackers, but she felt hands grabbing at her dress. Before a hand could clamp around her calf, she leaped.

  It felt like slow motion. Weightless, reaching for the sky, she floated in a sea of gold silk as her dressed billowed around her until she hit the manicured terrace lawn. Everything hurt. Her exit strategy wasn’t strategic, and it gave her zero chance to position for a tuck and roll, but it did do one very good thing. It kept dangerous men inside the house.

  Bang. Bang. Pop.

  The men were inside, but their guns shooting out the window had a wide open range. She pulled up as fast as she could manage. Dirt spat around her. Their shots missed but not by much. Nicola hobbled as fast as she could. They were, no doubt, regrouping and busting ass to get her on the terrace.

  As she half-limped, half-ran, she tried to assess her injuries. Nothing broken. Definitely going to have to make a chiropractor appointment. Blood had ruined her gorgeous dress, thanks to the window exit. Definitely a sprained elbow and wrist.

  The thicket of the woods loomed ahead, and she closed in on it, praying she’d reach the dense cover. Only then did she realize that she still gripped the subcompact gun but had lost her purse, and with it her untraceable cell phone. How the shit was she going to call Beth?

  First plan of action: get far away from this mansion. Maybe stumble all the way to another mansion, break in, and use their phone. She jammed her bare foot against the sharp side of a downed branch.

  “Son of a bitch!” It hurt like an ice pick stab, shooting straight from her heel to her hip bone. She lost her balance, tumbling down the hill, head first, sprained arm next. Her throbbing foot screamed in pain.

  Nicola came to rest at the bottom of the hill. Dress thoroughly ruined. Bleeding top to bottom.

  “Get up, girl,” she told herself.

  Nothing moved except for her lips. No, she’d worked too hard, had too much to prove. A little thing like this wasn’t going to take her down. She was too freakin’ smart to stumble like a newbie recruit fresh off the Farm.

  “Nothing that can’t heal. Get up. Now.”

  Her skin prickled. She wasn’t alone. In a heartbeat, she was on her busted feet, gun drawn, pivoting intuitively. She spun twice, focused her hearing, and took one step forward, her foot touching the gravel side of a rural road. A dozen yards up, an SUV idled in the dark. Three men the size of NFL linebackers stood frozen like oversized yard gnomes.

  And they weren’t the men who chased her.

  She readied her Beretta. The slide echoed in the moonless night.

  One man put his hands up. The two others straightened as if they’d been hunched, ready to throw down on a Maine backwoods road.

  She took a step forward. Damn this pitch-black night. She couldn’t see anything more than male outlines. After her run-in with Cash Garrison and then the men who’d shot at her… Lord only knew who else was in on this game.

  “Turn around. Move away from the car. Now!” She needed their set of wheels. Maybe she’d strike spy gold and find a charged cell phone.

  The man with his hands up took two strides back. Without communicating, the two other men took two steps forward. She did not have time for this. The men from the mansion might be driving this same road or trailing her through the woods. She limped forward, trying not to groan when her injured foot hit gravel again.

  “I said move it.” She shuffled toward the driver’s door.

  “Nicola?”

  Not Cash.

  Not Cash by a million years. Far worse. Far more confusing. She couldn’t handle this. Nicola leaped toward the idling car.

  ***

  David leaned against the wall as he heard the pop of gunfire in the bathroom. He loosened the god-awful uniform tie he wore in his role as a butler. Hopefully, Nicola was taken out in one shot, no need for it to get messy.

  Tonight had been unexpected. The assassination caused several problems, but most importantly, it affected his retire-from-the-CIA plan. Smooth had paid David handsomely to keep him in the know about investigations into the gun lord’s illegal activities and terrorist connections.

  Evidently, David missed a memo. With Smooth and Nicola dead, his backup plan formed. He’d check in with his handler at the CIA, get his marching orders, and, until he could find another buyer of CIA secrets, he’d lift enough ammo and arms to pad his retirement account, and go back to his pain in the ass day job as a CIA operative.

  And in the unlikely event that Nicola escaped, he would finish her off later. She hadn’t figured out the central piece of information that could topple Smooth Enterprises, but why chance the risk? That one secret he’d kept from the CIA secured his future.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The woman ran to the open driver’s door, actively ignoring the men, hiding her face. Too damn late. Cash and Roman sprang for the open rear door, pancaking one on top of the other on the backseat as the woman slammed the driver’s door.

  Pulling off of Roman, Cash slapped his hand around the car ceiling, searching for the dome light switch.

  Click. Dull light illuminated the truth.

  The gun pointed toward the backseat, but the woman still didn’t look at them, avoiding their stares. He could easily disarm her. Roman could too. Neither did.

  “Nicola?” Roman rasped again.

  Her arm trembled, vibrating the gun as she flipped the safety into place, but her finger stayed at the ready. “Please get out. Just go,” she whispered.

  That was her voice. It had been her face. Cash looked at Roman. No, he didn’t know. The man was as dumbstruck and hurting as he was. All they could see was the back of a bloody shoulder and arm and leaves sticking in messy hair.

  Rocco approached the open door by Roman, perhaps not seeing the showdown. “What’s doing?”

  They ignored him.

  “Nicola.” Roman’s voice cracked. “Am I going nuts?”

  Cash looked at Roman and saw the confusion tearing his world apart, just like it had his. He wore the evidence on his hardened face.

  Her unsteady arm lowered, placing the gun on the front console. Her ratty-haired head dropped, and then the face Cash used to adore eyed them both. Her bottom lip quaked, and her eyes spilled tears.

  She closed them, and more tears cascaded down her cheeks. “I’m so sorry.”

  Roman busted out his door, knocking Rocco over in the process. He could have torn it off its hinges. The man wouldn’t have cared. The driver’s door flew open, and he wrapped his arms around her, pulling his baby sister tightly to his chest. Cash had no idea what words came out of Roman’s mouth. It wasn’t his place to listen.

  Their tender moment was shut down when she pushed him off. “Are you here to take me out?”

  No one breathed a word. Cash couldn’t understand her involvement with Antilla Smooth and couldn’t bear breaking it to Roman that he’d seen her all over the warmonger. It tore his heart apart all over again, just like the day they’d lost her.

  But they hadn’t lost her. She was alive and sitting in front of him.

  Nicola spoke up again. “Who do you work for?”

  What is she talking about?

  Roman seemed to read his mind. “Nic, what are you talking about?”

  “Why are you here?”

  “You’re alive. Let’s start there.”

  “Go away, Roman. It’s better this way. If you’re not here to—”

  “What are you talk
ing about? You’re alive. You’re coming home. Mom and Dad… they, we buried you. We—”

  “You have to leave. Now. If I can’t have the car—” She tried to get past him, but he locked her against his chest. “Let go. Damn you, Roman. You don’t understand. We can’t be here.”

  “You’re in trouble. We can help. We can fix this.”

  She moved before either Roman or Cash could react. Gun in hand, pressed against her brother’s chest. “I love you,” she sobbed. “Don’t make me.”

  Roman backed up, hands in the air. “Who are you? What’s happened to you?” The tenor of his voice was clear. He’d moved on from shock to fury. At least Roman was catching up with Cash in the what-the-fuck department.

  “Go away,” she hissed, wiping at tears with the back of her hand.

  “I can’t. You’re my—”

  Nicola nudged the Beretta back toward him, groaning when she used her arm. “I need your car. Tell me how to contact you. I’ll explain this. I promise. But I have to go. Now. I—”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Goddamn it, Roman. If you’re here to kill me, do it. Otherwise, get the fuck out of this car. You too, Cash. Move it.”

  Kill her?

  Gone were her tears. In the span of a second, the emotion was gone. The steely eyed woman was in business mode.

  Ten years had passed. Ten long-assed years. Who knew what she’d been doing? Clearly, bad things with bad people.

  Cash spoke. “You’re hurt.”

  She rocketed a glare at him. “I’ll be dead if you don’t leave.”

  Cash continued, hoping to make inroads even after Roman tried-and-burned. “We can help you. Whatever kind of trouble you’re in—”

  “I’m not in trouble. Get out!”

  “No,” Cash and Roman said in unison.

  Click-click. The slide of the Glock turned them both to stone. Their third man, Rocco, had Nicola dead center in his close range sights.

  “Get that fucking gun out of my sister’s face,” Roman said, cold as ice.

  Rocco’s face fell. He lowered the gun. “We need to get the fuck out of here. Work your family shit out in therapy. Buy some self-help books. I don’t care. But go now.”

  Nicola dropped her gun again, pressing her head to the steering wheel.

  Roman patted her snarled hair. “Nic, it’ll be okay. Whatever’s happened to you, we’ll work through it. We’ll protect you.” He snaked his arms around his little sister and hugged. With an efficient lift, he had her up and in his arms.

  A game of musical chairs ensued. Cash moved to the front passenger. Roman settled beside Nicola in the backseat. She groaned again when he placed her down. Cash eyeballed the driver’s seat before Roc got in. There was a lot of blood in the front seat.

  “We have to go,” she whispered hoarsely.

  “Roger that, hon.” Rocco glanced at Roman. “Shit. Sorry on the hon. Roger that, um...”

  “Nicola.” Roman glared at Rocco.

  “Right. Roger that, Nicola.” Rocco gunned the engine, and they sped off.

  Roman turned to his sister. “Nic, please start talking. Whoever had you, you’re safe. Whatever the reason for the—”

  “Stop. This isn’t what you think. I left on purpose.”

  And that was all. She stared straight ahead. No amount of brotherly badgering or angry demanding changed her response.

  Cash’s head spun in circles. She was alive. Alive and armed, even though they’d buried her a decade ago.

  His senior year of college, when they got the news, seemed like yesterday. But it was a lie. She was a liar. The only woman to steal his heart was a liar.

  Liar, liar, girl on fire.

  ***

  They eased into the driveway at the suburban safe house. Rocco hadn’t breathed a word since they’d peeled out miles ago. Roman gave up his interrogation, looking distraught and angry and yet… hopeful. If there were seven phases of grief, how many for shock?

  And Cash stayed mum. Hadn’t done anything other than strip off his ghillie suit, wipe the face paint off, and pull his cowboy hat on. But hell, it hadn’t kept him from watching her in the side view mirror.

  Rocco jumped out and popped the trunk. He grabbed a bag and beat feet to the door. “Good night, good luck.” He went inside.

  The three of them sat in the car. Silent. Cash closed his eyes, remembering the last day, their last conversation, the horrible ache that ate him alive when he lost her.

  “Cash?” she whispered into the dark.

  Her voice made his spine tingle.

  “Oh, screw that, Nicola. Talk to me first.” Roman had every right to be pissed. And if he knew the half of it, he’d be pissed at both of them.

  She opened her car door, and they did the same. Three doors slapped shut, one right after the other.

  Suburbia was scary quiet. She took a step and tripped. As swift as he could, Cash stepped in, catching her. Nicola’s body fit just the same in his arms as it always had. His muscles remembered how she felt against him. A shudder shivered up the nape of his neck and down the arms wrapped around her torso.

  She locked eyes with him. Older. Wiser. And somehow more beautiful than ever. He should hate this woman. He did hate her, but until she looked away, he was stuck in a trance.

  Relief and emptiness swirled in his chest. He rubbed his sternum with his free hand, wishing the feeling away.

  Instead of focusing on the old Nicola, he needed to look at this one. “How bad’s your ankle, Nic?”

  She didn’t answer, instead trying to right herself, smoothing the sexy dress that softly clung to her curves. Christ, he didn’t remember a tenacious streak. But then again, he didn’t really know the Nicola who pulled from his grip.

  She hobbled toward the front door, the dress dragging behind her in a grand, out-of-place fashion, and turned to the stupefied men in the driveway. “I need a secure phone. Can either of you help me with that?”

  A secure phone? On top of asking if they were going to kill her? Make that stupefied squared. Cash looked at Roman, who looked just as confused with a little “what-the-fuck?’ painted across his forehead.

  “Yeah, we’ll help you.” He looked at Roman, mouthing, “what’s happening?”

  The door shut. Cash and Roman stood unmoving in the driveway.

  “That’s my baby sister, and hell if I know.” His voice trailed off. “We buried her body. There was a body. My mother cried for months.” Roman’s voice bottomed out.

  They leaned against the Range Rover. Two men and too many emotions. Roman dropped his head into his palms, and Cash stared into the night sky.

  No big brother should go through what Roman did, holding his mother’s hand, consoling her alongside his upset father through a closed-casket funeral. There had been little choice when her body had burnt to smithereens. Check that. When they’d thought her body went up in smoke. Turns out her tall, lean body had just left them in the dark driveway.

  Cash wanted no part in remembering that awful day. How he’d said he loved her, how they were going to tell Roman that his best friend was nailing his little sister. That’s not what it was, not at all. Not even close. But that’s how a dude would see it. Roman was gonna flip, and Cash was going to explain that she conjured up images of dum-dum-da-da and a poufy white dress.

  Pushing away from the Rover, he wanted to knock off the mirror or kick the hell out of the side panel. Anything to burn off the acid churning in his gut. Shit, too much time had passed. Young love. What bullshit.

  Cash eyed Roman. “You okay, man?”

  Roman cleared his throat. “No. I’m not okay. My dead sister’s alive and… working for Antilla Smooth?” He paused, as if looking into Cash’s soul. “That’s what happened earlier? You saw her? You thought I knew?”

  That logic seemed so flawed now, but at the time… at the time, it was the only thing he could comprehend. And working for Antilla Smooth? That’s not all she was to Smooth, but Cash would keep that tid
bit to himself. It’d destroy his boy. Nicola in the arms of a decrepit arms dealer. It went against everything he and Roman lived for.

  The Nicola he knew wouldn’t touch a bastard like Smooth. But then again, he didn’t know Nicola. He knew a liar.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Nicola bunked down in the bedroom the farthest away from the guys. Who am I kidding? They were just the guys, like this was just another day. Roman and Cash. The two most important men in her life, even if it’d been an eternity since she’d felt their touch or heard their words.

  The day she’d walked away from her loved ones had been the worst day of her life—until today. She pinched her eyes closed, remembering their stunned faces. The pain and anguish. And the anger. Who could blame them? She certainly couldn’t. She blamed herself, though. She had no choice.

  Yes. Today was officially the worst day, and the former was a helluva bad day to knock out of contention.

  Her bedroom had a bathroom—well stocked with first aid supplies—like any good safe house. What the hell were Roman and Cash doing running around with guns and slipping into safe houses? Her mind raced. A million maybes skittered through her thoughts. Did they wonder the same about her?

  Both men had Popeyed out since she’d last seen them. They were massive. Different builds, but no question, given her run-in with Cash’s arms, they’d taken their passion for working out to a whole new level. Roman was stocky and square, broad top to bottom. Cash had some lank to him. Long legs, powerful chest. His chest had been sinful before, but now it was downright deadly.

  She shook away the thought of Cash. No need to hopscotch down memory lane. Her cuts needed tending, and daydreaming wouldn’t stave off infection. She cleaned them, dousing each raw mark in hydrogen peroxide. A smear of antibacterial ointment and she’d be okay.

  Her elbow was another story. She’d have to wrap and sling it. Immobilization was key to recovery, but showing a blatant sign of weakness to three men who saw her as theirs to protect wouldn’t work.

  Another beautiful dress ruined. The wardrobe was a serious perk of her job, but the dresses never made it home. She’d known this one was headed for the dumpster when she’d wedged herself out the window. But damned if she hadn’t hoped she was wrong, somehow. Nope. It was just a stupid dress anyway. But it felt like the only thing she could focus on without curling up into a crying ball.