Heroes In Uniform (36 page)

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 the 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?” Wait? What the fuck was his problem? What did he 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 was 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 him on purpose. He’d think about it if he were 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 when 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.”

“It’s just under my seat?”

“Huh?”

“The pressure plate. It’s only triggered by a shift in my weight?”

“Yes. Look, man. You’re tempting fate for both of us as long as we both sit here and dick around.”

“Grab my rifle and pizza.”

“Excuse me?”

“Get the goddamn rifle and the pizza, and I will do whatever you want.”

Jackson stood silent, eyes narrowing. “Nic owes me. Man, does she owe me.” He walked around, carefully opened the door, grabbed the rifle case, then the pizza. He put the case down, and chucked the pizza into a nearby parking space.
Asshole
.

At least the gun survived. That gun signified his whole world.

After speaking into a mic, Jackson came back to Cash’s door. Two men got out of the third vehicle, both in their bombproof moon suits.

“Now what?”

Jackson pointed at the men. “Now, they pull your ass out while I hold down the sensor and try to disengage it without hurting your precious vehicle.”

All right. At least the asshole had a plan. Jared took one large step back. Okay, then. The plan must not be one hundred percent foolproof.

One man held what looked like a lead blanket, the other grasped his arm. Jackson knelt by his knee. They gave signals, someone gave a countdown. “Three, two—” and a noise. A beep. A roar. Blast!

Garrison’s Creed
: Chapter Twenty-Three

David drummed his fingers inside the pocket of his Armani tuxedo pants. The impeccable tailoring was only one of the many reasons he looked ready to waltz Nicola into this gala, if she’d ever show up. She was late by at least twenty-five minutes. He waited in his chauffeured Rolls for her to grace him with her unrefined presence.

But he was refined. Refined manners. Refined looks. His high cheek bones and sculpted nose were perfect, all healed from his scuffle with the exception of fading bruises covered by makeup. He had aristocratic bone structure, bless his mother for that, and his father’s conniving skills allowed him to float in and out of this world, dripping in diamonds and silk, without so much as a hiccup.

He’d absolutely been born into the wrong class of people, and as luck would have it, he was corruptible. Moral flexibility was a wonderful characteristic to have, once he’d learned how profitable it could be. David hadn’t even known that about himself when he’d started at the CIA. They didn’t see it in his profile. Surprise, surprise.

Maybe Nicola was late because everything on the home front was going according to plan. Mister Nero would be thrilled, and David would love to see the look on her face once she learned her parents had been blown sky high.