Garrison's Creed (Titan) (7 page)

Cash took off the ankle holster, laid the gun under his pillow, and looked at Betty. “Looks like you’re the only one in my life. Glad you can’t hobble away.”

Then again, he wouldn’t have Betty the Shitkicker if things hadn’t gone down with Nicola the way they did. He’d be married, kicking it with a white picket fence somewhere out in Small Town, USA. No idea how he’d earn a living. It sure as shit wouldn’t be traveling all over the world, blowing the brains out of other POS. And his wife wouldn’t be up to her cute nose in the CIA.

“Night, Betty.”

But saying goodnight didn’t accomplish his sleep-focused end game.

I fell in love with him… And again. And again…

Well, that was enough to drown him in memories. They’d been on the same page from day one. How he waited so long to kiss her, he had no idea. She was an adorable brat when they were neighbors, always wanting to play with him and Roman. No tea parties for that girl. She wanted in on cops and robbers. Maybe he should have seen the CIA coming.

He laughed about prom. Every high school dance, he’d taken someone other than the girl he wanted. Except for one time, when Nicola’s date came down with the chicken pox. Homecoming his senior year. Yeah, he’d been Homecoming King too, and dancing with Nicola in front of the school had been the best moment of his high school career. Not the state championship winning touchdown. Not any other single memory.

He didn’t care that he’d ditched the Homecoming Queen two seconds into
their
dance. He had eyes for one girl, and since he was her stand-in-date for the night, Cash had used it to his advantage.

Yeah, he needed Roman to beat his face in tomorrow. Maybe that would knock out all these shitty memories.

CHAPTER SIX

Nicola needed new clothes and a pair of shoes. Cash’s shirt and sweats made her finger-tapping, mind-spinning anxious. They smelled like him. It was as if the ghost of boyfriends past wrapped its emotional arms around her and hugged her all night long. The morning was a long time coming, but now she faced dawn. Time to go.

Glancing in the mirror and deciding her makeup was a lost cause, she scrubbed it off in the bathroom. Still not better. A shower was the better option. Using all the shampoo and body wash in the travel-sized containers she found, she did her best to clean up. With a quick towel dry of her hair, she put her clothes back on, and was off, limping toward the kitchen.

Raucous male voices bled down the hall until she rounded the corner. Their conversation faltered as she entered.

She smiled. “Morning, boys. I’m praying Roman still knows how to make a killer cup of coffee.”

There. She’d addressed the elephant in the room.
Her very presence.
She was still the evil, abandoning sister, but she was also still Nicola. And just that easy, they went back to bitching about something from the sports page. She watched the dynamic: Cash spoke to Rocco. Roman spoke to Rocco. Rocco spoke to everyone.

Maybe it was one hundred and eighty degrees from easy, but at least they fronted well.

Roman eyed her arm. “Where’s your sling?”

Nicola tried to straighten her bandaged elbow but flinched at the tenderness. “Don’t need it.”

“You’re Super Woman?”

She shrugged. “Can I borrow that phone again?”

Cash didn’t look at her. “Yup. But same drill as before.”

“That’s fine.”

“Someone will get it for you after breakfast, unless you need it now.”

Someone
wasn’t lost on her. He certainly wasn’t volunteering. “No, that’s fine.”

Half a dozen types of protein bars, individually wrapped cookies, and crackers served as breakfast, spread across the granite countertop. Tasty and typical as a gas station buffet. She grabbed a bar and a cup of coffee, taking a scalding sip.

Nope. Not made by Roman or Cash. It was military mud, and she assumed Rocco had joined up and been discharged just like the other two. “Delicious.” She smiled.

Rocco smiled.

No one else smiled.

After she’d added about a pound of sugar and powdered creamer, the coffee was bearable. Caffeine was a requirement to function. She did what she had to do and downed the sludge. “Yeah, I’ll be downstairs. Let me know when I can use that phone.”

Rocco smiled again. At least he was of the friendly variety. A half hour later, she’d had her Rocco-supervised phone call, and an hour after that, she still needed to kill thirty minutes until a CIA extraction team arrived to bring her in for debriefing.

Finding nothing better to do, she hobbled up the stairs. The guys were kicked back watching the television.

“I’m leaving soon. Just wanted to say bye. Maybe see if I can call you later? We can hook up and do lunch. Catch up. Something.”

Roman stood and turned to face her. “Shit, yeah. Whenever you want to, I’m there.”

“What the hell happened to you, Roman?” Her eyes widened at the sight of her brother.

Roman’s swollen lip was split in the middle. He had a black eye forming, and his knuckles hung at his side, raw. Cash turned from the TV, looking just as messed up. Both of his eyes were swollen.

They’d thrown down because of her. The two most important people in her life—whether they knew it or not—had beaten the crap out of each other. All because her op went bad, and they knew about her. How did she not hear them fight?

“Goddamn you both.”

“What?” All three men played stupid. An urge to smack each one across the head tickled her palm.

“You all are morons.” She hopped to the kitchen, wrote down her contact info, and continued. “Should you care, here’s how you can get a hold of me. Grow the fuck up.”

Rocco interjected. “Nicola, they did what they had to do. They’re fine.”

“They’re assholes.”

“They’re men. And it’s done.”

“I’ll be down the block, at my pick-up location.”

Roman walked toward her. “You’re barefoot.”

“Maybe stupidity runs in the family.”

“Let me give you a ride.” Her brother shrugged.

“No. I’m not compromising the safe house, and I’m not compromising you.”

“You can stop with the ‘I’m-going-to-protect-you’ bullshit. I’m more than capable of watching my ass, kiddo.”

“I’m done with you two today. You can call me later.” She turned for the door, and looked over her shoulder. Roman remained in place. Rocco was back to watching television, but Cash remained silent, watching her, still breaking her heart. “Bye, Roman, Rocco.” She paused, trying to swallow the pain. It hurt to walk away from him again. “Cash… bye.”

***

Ouch. Maybe Nicola should’ve let Roman give her a ride. This sidewalk had way more gravel than her busted foot needed. She hopped over another stone. In the land of manicured lawns and matching Range Rovers, someone should really take care of their gravel issues.

She rounded the corner and waited on the park bench. No cell phone, but at least Rocco had given back her gun. Like a thugged-out gangster, she tucked it into the waistband of the men’s sweatpants. Everything she wore smelled like Cash. Sitting there, ignoring the previous night’s events, it was the only thing she noticed.

Her first stop would be the nearest Target or Walmart for footwear and clothes. There was no way she was going anywhere dressed like the aftermath of a one-night stand with a gym rat.

A blacked out SUV rolled up, a little early, but fitting the right description. The window rolled down. A pleasant looking woman Nicola had never seen before smiled.

“Gabriella? So nice to see you again after our play date with Beth.”

Code words, ding, ding. Play date and Beth. Nicola smiled and responded as directed by her handler. “My car broke down. Could you take me to the service station?”

Ding, ding again. The woman unlocked the door, and she crawled in. Thank God her traveling companion was a woman. Maybe there would be some camaraderie when she asked for a clothing related pit stop.

“Gabriella.” The familiar voice made her skin tighten. The butler. He was in the backseat. Nicola jumped forward, her breath punched from her lungs. The door locks secured.

“Why are you here?” she demanded.
How is this happening?

The butler’s face smiled. “What happened last night?”

Nicola’s hand went to the door. “Pull over. Now!”

The driver stared at her like she’d spouted purple slime from her ears. “What?”

“Pull over.”

“Gabriella? Are you okay?” the butler asked. “My name’s David. We’re the team pulling you out.”

Nicola pulled her gun from her waistband, and pointed it at the soccer mom lookalike. “Stop the car.”

The woman eased off the gas pedal and pulled toward the sidewalk.

“Now unlock the door.”

“Gabriella, you’ve got this all wrong,” he said.

“My name’s not Gabriella.”

“And I’m not really a butler. Your handler sent us.”

She moved the gun at him, point-blank range. “You walked me into an ambush last night, jackass.”

“Wrong.” He looked smug despite her finger on the trigger.

“No directions on the cocktail napkin.”

“Yes, the—”

“Open the car door now.” No move from the soccer mom. Nicola swung her aim back to the driver’s seat. “After last night, I’ll have no problem saving my ass and explaining why your skull’s in pieces. Open. The. Door.”

The woman blanched like Casper but unlocked the door. Nicola jumped out, landing on her good foot. The back door cracked open. “Drive away, soccer mom. David, don’t try it.”

He got out of the SUV, hands up. “Gabriella. You need to come in.”

“Like I said, I’ve got no problem with paperwork. And there’s going to be a ream’s worth if you don’t get back in that car. I’ll leave you bleeding out in the streets of suburbia.”

Soccer mom moved fast in the corner of her eye. Worst case scenario was the woman moving for her piece.

Bam! Nicola fired, shattered the window, warning shot style, and pivoted straight into the barrel of the butler’s Smith and Wesson.
Fuck.

Nicola heard the slide on soccer mom’s gun. Two against her one. Her odds sucked right now.

“Get in the car, Gabriella. I don’t want to kill you,” David growled.

“Just like you gave me extraction directions.”

“Whatever you think you know, you’re wrong.”

“I know if you’re on CIA payroll, you’re a fucking double-dipping dick.”

“You want a showdown on fucking Main Street? Some minivan’s going to drive by and call local cops. Then we’re all screwed.”

They were in suburbia, but suburbia in New England. Large McMansions, tons of trees, and land between each house. She stepped forward an inch. If she could ping a round off, then drop, she’d take out the butler, and soccer mom wouldn’t have a shot.

Nicola smirked. “The last thing I want to do is—”

Bam!

CHAPTER SEVEN

Roman held the remote, but after their fucked up morning, he could keep the clicker. If the dude wanted to watch The Today Show, that was on his conscience. The constant drone of Hoda and Kathy Lee made Cash’s head spin. Wine-Day Wednesday. There was probably a lot of morning drinking happening in Happyville, Maine, where everyone had matching houses and cars and their requisite, matching children enrolled in travel lacrosse teams.

I’d have to have a bottle of wine by 10 AM if that was my paint by numbers life.
Then again, neither Kathy or Hoda looked like they’d actually survive the boredom of identical houses and PTA competitions. They looked good for downing a bottle of vino.

He should’ve followed Nic. He should’ve tried to apologize. Or jumped up, asking to see her again. Whatever the cause for the sick twist in his gut, a heavy feeling of
should’ve
burdened him.

One of the talking TV heads said something funny, and he caught himself laughing.
Damn you, Roman. I don’t need to enjoy this show.
Cash pinched his eyes closed, though the bruises were doing a good job of keeping his lids drawn for him. He pulled his cowboy hat down low, blocking the flat screen from his swollen, narrowed line of sight. Roman and Rocco commented about something ridiculous one of the babbling heads said about butt-lifting jeans, and—

Bam!

All three men jumped to their feet. Gunshots ringing out in Kathy Lee and Hoda country wasn’t a good thing.

Bam!

Son of a bitch.

They were out the door and into the Range Rover. Rocco squealed tires, reversing out of the driveway. Roman and Cash shut their doors as the tires spun from reverse to forward.

Nicola hadn’t been gone long. There was no telling what the woman was up to, but her plans hadn’t worked well in the last twenty-four hours. Those gunshots couldn’t have been planned.

They screeched around a corner. Rocco murdered the brakes. The smell of burnt rubber filtered into the vehicle before they came to a full stop.