Garrison's Creed (Titan)

by Cristin Harber

  Where to fucking begin? And why would he confide in Sugar? “Nothing.”

  He peeked at the weapon. That he could deal with. She placed the Colt Competition rifle and high capacity magazines in front of him. Cash straightened from his woe-is-me position. Making quick work of it, he loaded the lightweight long gun but didn’t move to the wall. Neither of them donned their ear guards. He just stood there, big-assed gun in hand and big-assed problems on his mind.

  Sugar spoke softly. “She seems like a good woman. Certainly has a set.”

  “Seems. Perfect description. She seems like a decent person.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned. Are your feelings hurt over a chick?”

  “Back off, Sugar. Not in the mood to talk about it.”

  “Well, shoot or talk. One or the other, buddy. Otherwise, you’re going to accidently lose it and punch someone just because. I’d like it to not be me.”

  “Too late, and no accident about it.”

  Minutes ticked by in the dark. The illuminated target provided the only light. Taking the line, Cash threw on his ear guards, clicked the safety to rock ‘n’ roll, and let it fly. The kickback felt good. The power and fury released by the trigger press helped. Some. Not a lot, but no other solutions popped into his head. He released the empty magazine and backed out, pulling off his ear guards and placing the rifle on a nearby stand.

  “There’s someone else.” It was all he could say, all he would admit. Sugar laughed. Screw her. Screw them all. “What’s so damn funny? You think this is karma or something?”

  “Hell, no. But I think you’re wrong.”

  “Trust me. I’m not.”

  “She told you that?” Sugar shook her head. “I don’t believe it.”

  “I saw it with my own eyes. Twenty-twenty, perfect freakin’ vision.”

  Sugar laughed again. “You only know what you think you saw. Just like what she saw with me and you.”

  “That’s different.”

  “Why? Because we’ve screwed?”

  He shrugged. “Well, yeah.”

  “Big fucking deal, Cash. So the woman’s had sex. Unless you walked in and—”

  “I can’t believe I’m talking to you about this shit.”

  “Bang out another mag. You’ll feel better.”

  He slammed in the fresh magazine and turned down range. Before the safety flip, he called to Sugar as her heels clacked away.

  She popped her head back into his stall. “Yeah?”

  “Why don’t you ever have someone serious? You and me. You and whoever. It’s never serious and steady.”

  “Cause it’s more fun that way.”

  “Truth. Why not?”

  “Cause it’d take some asshole with big boots and a big cock to tie me down.” She winked at him. “You’re lacking the attitude problem, as is every other man out there. So, I do my thing and don’t lose a wink of sleep at night. It was fun, Cash, and I suspect we won’t happen ever again. At least I’m hoping not, cause I kinda like that Garrison girl.”

  His gut twisted. I kinda liked her too.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The hangar and private jet looked the big money part. Nicola shifted in her Ferragamo heels, ready to get this trip over and into the done column.

  The catering company loaded the last cart broadside, and Nicola figured the trip had another upside. Playing the part of a well-to-do socialite also meant an onboard chef ready to make some five-star dinner as they flew overseas. Lobster. This trip called for some serious lobster and something with truffles in it.

  After the Town Car dropped her off, Nicola had breezed through the private check-in for charter flights out of Dulles International. The TSA woman had been far more intrigued with Nic’s new Tom Ford sunglasses than her almost-the-real-deal credentials. She’d have to thank Beth for airbrushing the headshot. Her skin looked flawless, and there was no way someone would call her passport and license fake. They were as genuine as you could get, considering they were made by the U.S. government.

  Her cover name for the trip was Sarah Beth Pennington. Pretty, with an old money flair. Not too memorable, but specific enough to provide support for another CIA undercover team who needed an additional layer of back story. Plus, she could keep this round of designer duds. That included this very cute, very out of her price range, Jil Sander shirt dress that she now rocked. It fitted and flared in all the right spots. Cash would’ve liked it. Too bad.

  It didn’t go unnoticed that a few items in her Louis Vuitton luggage didn’t fit and weren’t intended to. Beth hadn’t purchased Nicola’s long legs petite-sized pants for nothing. Nope. Beth was the petite one, and that was all right with Nic. She eyed her carry-on. The luggage was a loaner. It’d have to be returned. Eventually.

  “Gabriella,” David the Butler said from behind her. Her back shivered and shuddered as if a thousand spiders skittered across her skin. “Oh, pardon. Nicola. Either way, a beautiful name.”

  Nicola rolled her eyes. His way of speaking wasn’t just for his butler gig with the Smooth family. Every time she’d seen him since the Smooth showdown, he’d had the same mannerisms, inflection, and cadence. Slimy bastard. No doubt, the ass was a double agent. “Hello, David.”

  “Oh, you sound so cold. We’re only here because you don’t trust me, and the powers that be want us to play nice. I’m willing if you are.” He looked at a paper in his hand. “Sarah Beth, is it? Lovely.”

  She eyed his plaid sports coat and D & G pleated trousers. Yeah, he looked the part of Mister Pennington. His handler did good work. Together, they’d look the part, even if sleazy and slight of build wasn’t what did it for her.

  Cash did it for her. Her mind flashed back to him. Tan muscles flexed and rippled when he moved. Blond hair, the occasional blond scruff, and soul-piercing, sapphire eyes haunted her memory. Her stomach slung sideways, thinking about his chiseled jaw and full lips. How he trailed kisses down her stomach and—

  “Nicola, eyes are on us. Or Sarah Beth, rather. So many names, you’d think I’d be used to it in this job. I believe the Captain is ready and waiting.”

  Buzz kill. “Dav—”

  “Michael. Michael Pennington.”

  “Whoever you are, the Captain won’t think anything of a married couple bickering. You’ve been put on notice. We’re bickering, and I’m not talking to you right now.”

  David flashed a smile. The bile in her stomach sloshed.

  “You don’t mean that, dear.” He extended his elbow.

  No time like the present. She had work to do. “Fine.”

  Nicola pulled out her powder compact to pat her nose and removed the first, microscopic listening bug she was to plant on David. Slipping it onto her finger, she closed her compact with a tight smile and locked arms with him, dropping the clear plastic listener onto his sleeve.

  They boarded and went through the whole routine. The Captain had the face of an old-school Pan Am pilot with a present day uniform. It wouldn’t surprise her if he was a model hired for the part of charter Captain, and the real captain was in his late fifties with a gut and balding hairline.

  The stewardesses made their appearance next, but the chef was who Nic was really interested in. Finally, he said his hellos, talked about his best friends Mario Batalli and Wolfgang Puck, and made his way back somewhere. Hopefully to find me a lobster.

  Nic’s phone rang. It was Beth. Nicola stepped aside from David, who made use of the leather seats and flat screen television. Closing the door to the lavatory, she activated the small jammer which would allow her phone to work but block out listening devices. “Hello?”

  “Did you call Cash?”

  “Tried, no answer.” Nicola picked at her fresh, light pink manicure. It had to last the weekend and wouldn’t if she kept that up.

  “I could find him on satellite if you want.”

  She couldn’t ask for a better best friend. Or one with more resources. “I don’t want to know where he is. I could guess, but what’s th
e point.”

  “I want to know. Where is he?”

  “Probably with Sugar.”

  “Ass! You want thermal images? You want to know where she is? Consider it done.”

  “Let me re-phrase. Cash is probably fucking Sugar just to prove a point.”

  “Oh.” Beth paused. “That sucks. Nothing we’d want to see on thermals. I could just track down his truck. See where it is—”

  “Not worth it. He’ll have to pick up the phone when I call in a few hours. I left him the details about when I was to meet up with David. He should be able to lock into the transmitting data from the listening devices. Cash, if nothing else, is a professional. The job’s the job. He’ll work it and move on. I’ll give him my details like I should.”

  “Sorry, girl.”

  “At least it was fun.”

  ***

  Twenty-two hundred hours. Right on time. Cash held his phone in front of him and glared at it as he walked out of the Granville Bar and Grill, an extra-large meat lover’s pizza balanced on his palm, burning his skin off. No frozen DiGiorno deep dish tonight. If he didn’t have to wait for Nic’s intel dump, there’d be major bar action going down, shot-glass first, to accompany the omnivore overload he had planned.

  The phone continued to ring. This was the first time he’d ever hesitated to jump into the action, even if the action was only to receive and document intelligence. Nic had called before she left stateside, and he knew that had nothing to do with hopping on a plane with that dickhead. Nope, it was all about towel boy, but this call was scheduled. It was work. It had to be answered.

  He answered her like he would Jared. “Yeah.”

  “Hi.” The sweet quietness of her voice made his heart hurt. Damn it. And damn her.

  “Do you have an update?” Cash knew his voice was harsh, worse than when he spoke to the guys in the field. There was a definite hint of fuck you.

  He balanced the phone against his shoulder, pressed to his ear, and put the pizza on the roof as he unlocked his rig. Click, click. The doors unlocked, and he grabbed the pizza and got in. Two mosquitoes floated in and out of his cab. Maybe he should’ve rolled the windows up before he went inside. Maybe he’d think about anything and everything but how he felt when it came to the angelic voice on the phone.

  “Anything to report?” he asked.

  “Cash, I—”

  “Anything on the job to report?” He put the key in the ignition and turned. Ping. It cha-cha-cha-ed, but didn’t turn over. God, he didn’t have time for this—

  Oh, damn.

  Nic blabbered something. He didn’t hear it. He wasn’t listening. Cash closed out all the outside noises and replayed the last thirty seconds of his conversation. Blah, blah, blah. Ping.

  He put his hands on the steering wheel and ratcheted down his breaths the way only a good sniper could. Very slowly, very calmly, he began to say her name.

  “What? Are you even listening to me?”

  “Nicola. I’m at the Granville bar in Fauquier County.” He spoke as evenly as possible, trying not to move his mouth, his lungs. “I just activated a detonation trigger tied to my ignition. Most likely there’s a failsafe under my seat. I need you to call Jared. Now. The Granville in—”

  “What?”

  “His number is—”

  “I have his number. Don’t move.”

  He didn’t respond. Slow breath in. Slow breath out. Slow my pulse. Slow my heart rate.

  “I only have one phone. I could ask Dav—”

  “No. Hang up. Call Jared.”

  This place was deserted enough. He’d parked away from other cars and the building. He would wait with his thoughts, until Jared and God knows what army showed up to get him out of this hot seat.

  “Wait. Nic?” What the fuck? Don’t stop the savior brigade. What did he even want to say anyway? Maybe he needed more oxygen to his brain. The line was dead anyway. She’d disconnected. “I’ll miss you, sweet girl.” Except she wasn’t there to hear it.

  ***

  Jared’s blacked-out, chromed-up Expedition screamed into the parking lot a long-assed thirty-five minute wait later followed by two similar looking vehicles. No lights and sirens. Thank God Nic’d listened and let Titan take care of this situation in-house. No police, no freakin’ FBI profilers nosing into the who and why in search of a motive.

  For a Saturday night, the Granville was empty. Maybe that’s why’d he stopped in for a brewski and pizza. As company went, Cash was of the worst variety. He was pissed off, angry at the world, and more than he wanted to admit it, hurt. Here in the Podunk bar, he’d had no worries about the ladies. They’d all shown up on the back of their men’s Fat Boys and certainly weren’t looking for a piece of action like him.

  The Expedition door opened, and out stepped a grizzly of a man. After surveying the parking lot, Jared marched toward Cash’s truck, seemingly unfazed that Cash likely had C-4 strapped to his ass.

  “Don’t move,” Jared said through the half-open window.

  He didn’t move his head. “No shit. Thanks for the survival tip.”

  “Ass. I was neck deep in two broads until this shit popped up. We’ll put this in the you-owe-me-huge column.”

  Cash would’ve laughed if he could. If his life weren’t on the line and all, it’d be funny shit to pull his boss out of a three way. Knowing Jared, he probably took Nic’s call mid-fuck, then pulled up dick and walked out. No way he had the ladies at his place. No way he said, “thanks, see ya later.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Cash saw Jared duck down out of view. Time ticked by. There was definitely something attached to the undercarriage if it took that long to inspect. Finally, Jared stood, turned around, and waved toward the two unfamiliar vehicles.

  “You’re not going to like this. I’d guess the secondary’s set on a pressure switch, so you can move your head. But don’t move from your torso down. I mean it.”

  “Yeah—”

  “I suggest you at least turn your head and compartmentalize your shit before you accidently blow up. And it’s not like I have another sniper on standby, so do me that favor. I’ve got you booked for a while.”

  Cash turned his head a fraction and caught a glimpse of a man. Are you fuckin’ kidding me? “No—”

  “Shut up, Garrison.”

  Towel boy? There was no mistaking that pretty boy face and shiner beating feet toward his truck. From the neck down, the man was in bomb tech gear, helmet in hand. Cash wanted to rage, but he forced his muscles to obey. “What the—”

  “You had Nic call. She said she knew a guy, then gave me a rundown of your day. I’m concerned that you’re stupid enough to move. Don’t. Rocco and Brock are out on a job tonight, so I didn’t have a choice. Plus, from the sound of it, he’s one of the best in the world. Your lucky night.” Jared shrugged, not looking concerned enough to back away from the truck. “I’ll hold both your hats if you want to go to blows after this shit is over.”

  Towel boy arrived next to his door and stood three feet away. The urge to kill was a live wire. Live through this and it’s game on. Kill or be killed, although towel boy might be slightly harder to take down if he expected an attack.

  Jared gestured to the man. “Jackson, here you go. Don’t kill my boy, or I’ll kill you. Slowly.” With that, his boss stepped aside, and Jackson, AKA towel boy, stepped up to the window.

  “Don’t worry. I don’t want to be here either, asshole,” Jackson said. “Don’t move.”

  Christ, would people stop telling him that? The bulky, bombproof hat went on, and Jackson disappeared down the side of the truck. This guy might kill me on purpose. I’d think about it if I was him.

  Dude popped back up and spoke through the plastic vent near his mouth. “Not an amateur.”

  “Nice update,” Cash snarled. It could be good or bad. Good, meaning no fucked up wiring mistakes would blow after it was disengaged. Bad, meaning that disengaging wasn’t going to be easy-peasy. His pizza would def be cold w
hen he got home. One disappointment after another today, all of varying importance. Large to small.

  “You’re an ass,” Jackson replied, studying his wheelbase.

  “What are you going to do about it, Jackson?” Maybe he should tone down the I-might-punch-you-again voice. It’d probably increase his chance of living to the next fist fight.

  “An ‘I’m sorry, I’m a dick’ would go a long way.”

  Cash moved his glance another slight turn. “I may kill you when this is over, so maybe you want to walk away.”

  “And disappoint Nic? Not after she asked so sweetly that I save your sorry ass.”

  Anger swelled in his fists. It took a significant amount of energy to compartmentalize. Cash took a short breath in through his nose and let it slide out his lips.

  Jackson continued. “I’m going to open your door and see what we’re dealing with in here. Stay as still as possible.”

  Cash rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. Got it. Jesus Christ. I won’t move. The last thing he wanted was towel boy between his legs. Worst day ever. He had to will his knee to stay in place and away from Jackson’s pie hole. Nothing good would happen from knocking him out again.

  Maybe later.

  The door opened, and Jackson poked around under his legs. Wasn’t this a little uncomfortable? Dude’s fucking bubble hat kept touching his calf. Half a minute later, the guy stood next to him.

  “Don’t—”

  Cash smirked. “Move. Got it.”

  “The pressure detonator is the problem. The ignition detonator malfunctioned and isn’t an issue,” Jackson grumbled. “I’d rather get you out than try to diffuse it.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Your truck’s gonna blow.”

  “Prick.” Cash swore a line of curses. “You’re doing this on purpose. Aren’t you?” If Jared wasn’t actively ignoring him, he’d offer his willingness to wait for Brock or Rocco.

  “It’s a truck.”

  “Are you even a man?” Cash asked, annoyed on so many levels.

  Jackson looked ready to walk away. He turned, caught sight of Jared, and turned back to Cash. “Look. We do this, and we both go home with less of a headache than we already have.”