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.
I wonder what Cash and Roman said. I wonder where they are. 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’s always watching.
Beth looked at her. “Got it, girl?”
Pocketing the paper, Nic said, “No problem. Consider it done.” The only thing crystal clear was her confusion. “Am I free to go now?”
“Sure thing.”
Nicola waved to the cameras and left.
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.
It rang once, and David’s client, Mister Mars, answered.
“You’re late.” Mister Mars’s Austrian accent was smooth and slick as the spilled blood that had brought them together.
“And you should hire more qualified couriers. That kid wasn’t qualified for delivery positions.”
Mister Mars ignored his suggestion. “The CIA has no concerns about you?”
“None. They’re so sure I’m a team player that they’ve forced Nicola to work with me on an assignment. We’re to make up.” David laughed. “I’ll show her how good a Farm boy I really am.”
“What is your assignment, and how will it affect our work?”
“It will enhance our business relationship. I’ve been given my choice of operations, as a sort of apology from Langley. She and I will orchestrate an assignment in Turkey, while providing back cover assistance for an asset. I’ll have access to chatter on Smooth Enterprises, solidifying my role as a reputable agent, and you’ll not only get Nicola, but have new details on the Turkish arms market. Consider it a bonus.”
“Excellent. But, Mister Nero, don’t forget. She’s mine. She must pay, and the revenge is mine.”
***
Nicola walked past the gift shops pushing White House memorabilia and monument-adorned post cards. She breezed by the valet manning his wood and brass podium at the front driveway of the JW Marriot.
A bellhop opened the side entrance as she avoided the revolving door. Nic had never been a big fan of glass containers. They just seemed like an ideal place to trap someone and take them out. Clear shot. Nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide.
She clacked heels across the gold-flecked marble floor and studied the people milling through the lobby. Business folks talking on phones. Tourists with fanny packs and maps. Nothing noteworthy, but then again, that was always the point.
As she entered the elevator, Nic saw a man pick up his pace, intent on making the elevator before the door closed. She threw him a smile that said, “come on I’ll hold the doors,” but reached for the close door button and held it. As the doors slid shut, she shrugged faux confusion and mouthed apologetically. There was no way that man was her blind date. He was too obvious.
Not wanting the doors to open again, Nicola hit the RB button. Rooftop balcony. She had no idea where to meet her blind date, but thought she might as well start where the view was the best. Classical music played overhead and—lucky her—the elevator didn’t stop on her ride up. The doors opened into the sunset light, and she stepped out into a warm summer evening, surrounded by impressive buildings. Yes, this is a magnificent view.
A few people looked over the rail at Pennsylvania Avenue, taking in the downtown DC vibe. A man leaned on the railing. He was as large as Roman and Cash, but he looked meaner. His aura growled, and he hadn’t even said a word. Oh, fun.
She walked up to him, offered her hand and waited. They stared each other down. Who would break first? Him or her? Him or her? Well, sure as the sun was setting over this swamp town, she wasn’t dropping her extended hand if he remained standing there. He could be the asshole who moved away.
“Nicola.” He spoke as if perhaps expecting a round of applause. Men and their egos. This man in particular looked impressed with his I-can-kill-you-with-a-paperclip attitude. He shook her hand, and though she expected him to wrench it off, he didn’t. Just a firm shake. A little anti-climactic.
“And you are?” she asked.
“Jared Westin.” Oh, JW. He must’ve seen the connection in her eyes. “Yeah, I like fuckin’ with you CIA types. You play your games, and I poke fun at them.”
All righty then, a jackass with a sense of humor. If he only knew how little she liked the Farm’s games. “Right. I’m exhausted. Rough couple of days. You mind telling me what this all about so I can go?”
“You got somewhere more important to be at than—”
“Your secret game of mess-with-the-CIA? Yeah, I do. It’s called home, where I have a nice bottle of wine waiting for me.”
“You want to order a glass of wine?”
“No, I don’t. You’re missing my point. I’m exhausted and bitchy, and I want to know—”
“I might as
well be talking to Roman right now. Jesus H. Christ.” The man ran his hand over his close-cropped hair, looking none too pleased that his big tough guy attitude hadn’t fazed her. But dropping the likes of her big brother into the conversation would get her attention.
“Roman?”
“Yeah, Roman. The jackass who runs his mouth like he’s an alpha dog on ‘roids. Though you seem to be a classier version.”
“And who are you again?” Her eyes swept the DC cityscape.
“Jared Westin.”
“We’ve established that, Einstein. You work together?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Oh, cut the shit, Jared Westin, Jackass to the Spies.”
His laugh sounded like a grumble bouncing off the walls of a cave. She got the idea he tossed barbells for fun and spent too much time at the gun range. “I like you.”
“Spectacular. At least one of us is feeling the other.” She gave him a smile that moved the dial from sarcastic to snarky.
“Want to do a job with us?”
Then again, if he wanted to talk about a job, she’d listen. “You’re with Titan Group?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes. I’m with Titan.”
“Well, in a manner of speaking, explain a little more, or I’m gone.”
“Roman works for me. As does Cash. As does everyone at Titan.”
For him? Crap. This was the big boss, and she wasn’t on her best behavior. “You could’ve just said that.”
“And miss all this fun? Not on your life, princess.”
What? Princess? “I’m not a princess. Why am I here?”
“I want the butler, and the candlestick too, if you think you’ve got it in you.” For the first time, Nicola was willing to let him play his game. He tilted his head. “Got your attention, didn’t I?”
“The CIA sent me to you because of the butler?”
“The CIA doesn’t trust him either. You’ve been partnered with him, and you and I are going to smoke his ass out.”
“And why aren’t the Farm boys doing that?”
Garrison's Creed (Titan) Page 7
