Garrison's Creed (Titan) (10 page)

“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?”

Jared smirked, maybe as impressed with some of her co-workers as she was. “It was better to outsource this one. They already had us working on Antilla Smooth anyway.”

“Yeah, found that out.”

His smile was half-cocked and fully-loaded with a snarly comment. “You’re just like Roman. Bet you’re a pain in the ass too. Aren’t you, princess?”

She rolled her eyes. “I’ll partner with you if you don’t call me princess.”

“Why are you negotiating when we both know you can’t wait to gut the fucker?”

He wasn’t at all stupid, was he? “Fine.”

“Fine. I’ll be in touch.” He turned toward the elevator. “Have a good evening.”

Of all the people this blind date could have been, Titan’s head honcho wasn’t someone who’d crossed her mind. Nicola’s phone buzzed in her purse. Unknown caller ID.

“Hello.”

“Hey, Nic.”
Cash.
A deluge of questions flooded her mind. The only one that bore noting was why the deep timbre of his voice caused a shiver to cascade down her shoulders. “What ya up to?”

Where to begin?

“Not much. You?”

“About the same.” This had the makings of a boring conversation if neither of them were going to tell the truth. Cash cleared his throat. “Actually, not true. But nothing I can burn up a phone line about.”

Maybe they were on the same page. “Cash, I, um—”

“I want to see you.”

Her breath caught, and her heart picked that moment to have a palpitation. Oh, behavioral analysts would have a field day with that reaction. She nodded instead of speaking, but it didn’t do any good. Why couldn’t she string two syllables together?
Okay. No prob. Me too.

“Nic? You there?”

“Yeah. Sorry. I’m… tired.”

“Tomorrow night, bunch of us are getting together for a cookout. You down to go? You know, catch up with us for old time’s sake?”

She nodded again, and this time managed two syllables, one word. “Okay.”

“Good. Pick you up tomorrow night. See ya.” He hung up before she said she’d drive herself. Damn it, being stuck in a confined area with Cash spelled trouble.

***

Nicola swirled the plastic soda cup, not stifling a giggle. She’d been tired and toeing the edge of a swan dive into a drama abyss, but Beth had called, promising a girls’ night. Nic needed one, badly, because the last thing she wanted to do was go to her apartment and have a conversation with her roommate about things she couldn’t discuss.

Nicola met Beth at an apartment she kept in the city above a convenience store, which was, indeed, convenient in that it sold all kinds of mixers and had a supply of plastic cups at the self-serve drink station.

“Tell me again why you have this place.” Nicola hiccupped and giggled, putting her hand over her mouth. Another one escaped.

“Came in handy tonight, didn’t it, Nic?”

Hiccup. “I need a refill.”

“Me too.” Beth snorted and poured way more Ketel One than she needed into her plastic cup. “Pink or red?” she asked, topping off her own.

Nicola studied the cranberry and pink lemonade mixer options. Tough decision. “Um, red this time.”

Whoopsie. Splish, splash. They were making a mess.

“Alrighty.” Nicola may have slurred that word. “Tell me again how this happened. How were there two teams on the same project?”

“Okay, the hot one—”

“What?” Nic recoiled, laughing. “Hot? Who?”

Beth grinned. “Well, they were all kinda hot.”

Nic shook her head, whipping her hair back and forth. “Um, no. No how, no way. One of them was my brother.”

“Nic, you’re a show-stopper. You don’t think your brother can be hot? Cause, girl, he is. But anyway.”

“Well, Jared’s
not
hot.”

“He is until he opens his mouth.”

“Maybe.” Yup, words definitely slurring. Hiccup and a laugh. Did Jared look hot on the rooftop? Eh, maybe… “But Cash’s hot-hot.”