Summer Heat

by Carly Phillips

  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 now held control of 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 despite the emo-turmoil that he’d been through over the last twenty-four hours. Not a bad distraction, but he didn’t want to laugh. He wanted to wallow, hold on to his anger, and drown in the overall confusion that clouded his mind. 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. They were mind clearing, and his groaning and moaning over the past with Nicola ceased.

  Bam!

  Son of a bitch.

  The trio scrambled 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. 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.

  A blacked-out Explorer, missing the front passenger window, idled at the curb. A woman dressed like Miss Suburbia USA held out a Glock, bouncing her aim between a man and woman pummeling each other. Nicola and a man, and that motherfucker threw solid punches. Nic took one and ducked another.

  “What the hell!” Cash was out of the Rover and ready to kill. He ignored the Glock in the hand of Miss Suburbia, and his fists balled as his blood rushed. Cash was ready to end the brawl. No man would ever live after hitting Nicola—

  Whoa.

  The tide turned fast. Nicola rolled her attacker, straddling him on top. Her left hook struck hard, and she didn’t flinch when her knuckles landed on a cheekbone. But the man reached his hands around Nicola’s neck. Her defense maneuvers were on fire, but hell no. Enough of that shit.

  A glance at Roman, and the plan was set without words. Roman slide-tackled the standing woman and disarmed her. The lady hit the ground hard, and the Glock skittered out of reach. One gun down.

  Who knew where Nic’s .22 was during this melee. Who knew what dude-about-to-die packed. All Cash knew was he would kill him for punching Nic’s pretty face.

  The man made a swift move, flipping on top of Nic. Cash threw himself on the man, spearing him away. He heard Nicola breathing hard. Panting. Saw Rocco out of the corner of his eye pulling her to safety. She fought him, trying to jump back into the fight, maybe unsure of who had arrive, who had stolen her fight. But too fucking bad, this asshole was Cash’s to take out.

  He straddled the man, raining punches on his dome. Right fist. Left fist. Over and over, on repeat. Cash was in the zone, wanting blood. This wasn’t a fight anymore, just Cash on a mission of destruction. Sweat poured off of him, biceps and knuckles screaming for a reprieve.

  Reality came back. Arms wrapped around him. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t focus on anything but the broken nose and bloodied mouth in front of him.

  “Cash.”

  The sounds of his name pulled him out of his trance. He shook. Someone was shaking him. He didn’t want to get vertical, but someone pulled him upright. Rocco slammed him against the black Explorer. “Get your ass in gear. We gotta roll.”

  Cash looked around. He’d fucking gone nuts. “Is he dead?”

  “Almost, dude. Almost.”

  Cash lunged forward, but slingshotted back against the Explorer, thanks to Rocco. “Chill.”

  “I’m cool man. I’m good.” Cash nudged out of Rocco’s grip, rolling his shoulders.

  “Walk it off. Get in the car. Nic’s in our Rover. She’ll drive you back to the house. These two fuckers—” He pointed to the KO’d dude and the none-too-fazed woman. “—will go with us in their car. Move. Now.”

  Roman pushed the lady into the backseat and did a once over of Nicola, making sure she was okay. They did some brother-sister nod that made his gut twist in what could be labeled a jealous swell but was really more a pang of nostalgia. A connection had been severed that he missed in a way that tightened his airway and clouded his judgment.

  Rocco could’ve used a spatula to scoop the dude off the street, but used his hands instead, then hopped back to the driver’s seat. He pulled a U-turn, leaving Cash standing alone in the middle of Mayberry-frickin’-Avenue.

  “Cash. Let’s go.” Nicola was in their Range Rover, waving him in, as cool as if it was just another day for her to man the getaway vehicle.

  He snapped to attention and jumped into the SUV. God, he’d lost control in a bad way, and he didn’t need to be near that dude for a while. His white-hot temper was so far past boiling that he was surprised the guy was still breathing.

  Nicola hit the gas. Their tires spun. They’d been on scene for five minutes, tops. Nicola had been gon
e a short while prior to the bam, bam. The whole thing had gone down in less than twenty minutes.

  Stupid suburbia.

  “You okay?” Nicola asked, driving past identical black mailboxes with little red flags.

  “Fine.”

  “Yeah, totally looked like it.”

  “Back off,” he snarled and immediately hated himself. “Sorry. I flipped. I just… lost it.” No reason to go into why, though his motives were clear.

  “Yeah, you did.”

  They were three driveways from the safe house. “I need a minute. Keep going. I’ll kill that dude if I see him right now.” He saw the red welted handprints around her neck. “Fuck that. Turn around. I’m going to kill him.”

  “Cash.”

  “Turn around. No, I’ll get out.”

  “Cash.

  “Pull—”

  “Cash, look at me!”

  The welts on her neck hurt him. Damn, he couldn’t breathe. He needed to catch his breath.

  She pulled her shirt up, unsuccessful in her attempt to cover the red marks. “I’m fine. Promise.”

  Bullshit. She was hurt. Dude left marks on her. “You’re not—”

  She slapped the center console. “Yes, I am. I’ve got a problem, and you killing him isn’t going to help.”

  “He attacked you.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  He turned in his seat to glare at her. “What?”

  “I’ve got a problem, and I don’t know who I can trust other than Roman, who’s seeing me as his kid sister. I want to trust you, Cash.”

  “You can trust me.”

  “Can I?”

  Good question. He’d about murdered a man in the middle of the street for the operative equivalent of picking on an ex-girlfriend. He was a flippin’ loose bazooka. “I’m sorry about saying all that to Roman last night.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m in it, earrings deep. I need to talk this out.”

  He took a breath and ran a hand around the nape of his neck. “’Kay. You keep driving, and I’ll shut my trap.” At least I’ll try.

  “The man you just beat within a hair of his life was the butler at Smooth’s estate. After you bagged and tagged Antilla, he found me, said he had extraction instructions that superseded my handler’s. But he turned me over to the men I avoided with my flying window trick. My handler made arrangements for me this morning. Voila! Hello, butler.”

  “So you’re thinking…”

  “He’s doing double duty.”

  “He’s CIA, and he’s… on the clock for Smooth?”

  “Maybe.” She shrugged.

  It seemed possible. “Why not take you out long rifle style?”

  “They want to know what I got first. My job was intel. Map out Antilla Smooth’s network, his high rollers and big players.”

  “You debriefed yet?”

  “Nope.”

  “What’s your handler know?”

  “Little to nothing.”

  “You seriously think this dude is stupid enough to fuck with you CIA folks?”

  “It’s been done before. He must’ve thought I was weak.”

  “Well, you schooled him, didn’t you? I saw that left hook. Killer, woman. Killer job. For real.”

  Nicola looked at him with a half-cocked smile. The most honest look he’d seen on her since she stumbled in front of their car. “I’ve got a few tricks. But truth is my right arm is too sore to use.”

  How different their lives could have been? She could’ve been at home, or at least at a job that didn’t require knowing any tricks, though the woman could take a punch. Nicola, all schooled in hand to hand. Never saw that coming. Too bad it had almost killed him. This CIA bullshit was damn hard for him to understand. He needed a subject change and quick.

  “You got a boyfriend or something at the Farm?” Though that wasn’t exactly a subject change that would lessen his urge to kill. Damn—she could be married. She could have kids. His stomach dropped. He shouldn’t care. Ten years. What did it matter? Not a damn thing. But still, if she had a man, Cash wanted him dead. And any other operative who said otherwise would be a liar.

  She laughed. “Um, that’s a big no. You?”

  Thank fuck.

  He cracked a grin, which hurt his busted face. “Got a boyfriend? No.”

  “I missed your smile.”

  And I miss your laugh. Shit. Nothing warm and fuzzy should be tingling anywhere in his body, but he was all loosey-goosey at the moment.

  “Nah. No girl for me.”

  “Why not?”

  “Really, Nic? This is the convo you wanted to have after I just went all WWE on your colleague back there?”

  “You started the let’s-talk-about-our-love-life chat, and he wasn’t my partner. He— Never mind. Can I use your phone? I’ve got to call my handler.”

  Cash shrugged, not wanting to admit that she was one-hundred-percent correct. They needed to stay away from relationship conversations. He handed her his phone and thought about the guys back at the house who probably wondered where he was, but he knew it was better for him to cool down.

  Nicola finished dialing numbers, then entered more numbers. She waited with the phone next to her ear.

  “Hey. Yeah, didn’t make my pick-up. We’ve got dirty laundry to deal with.”

  She nodded her head. Gave a few uh-huhs and nodded some more as if her handler could see her.

  “No. I’m coming in on my own. I’ll have my Bonnie and Clyde extraction team brought—”

  More uh-huhs. Then one nu-uh.

  She rolled through a stop sign. “If he’s still breathing when we get there, he’s all yours. I’ve got a theory or two.”

  More nodding. Hello, Nicola. Only I can see the head nods. Something hadn’t changed from college.

  “Yes, when we debrief. See ya. Oh, wait—”

  She looked at Cash, paused, then looked back to the road, making turn. “What do you know about Titan Group involved with Antilla?”

  Son of a bitch.

  More uh-huhs.

  She clicked off the phone and looked at him with those warm, chocolate eyes. “I need a favor.”

  Oh boy. Here it comes. “Depends.”

  “I’m headed back to Langley on my terms. Bringing the other two with me. You know who hired Titan on this project?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The CIA?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Not my place. You know their section chiefs don’t talk. All that one-upmanship bull crap.”

  “I know their games well, but I try not to play.”

  “So what’s the favor?”

  “Bring Bonnie and Clyde in with me?” she asked with a face she certainly knew he couldn’t say no to. He needed reinforcements around her, ASAP.

  “That’s not a decision I can make on my own. Despite my protocol-ignoring ass last night, I can’t just fly by night to Virginia.”

  “Where are you based out of?”

  He laughed. “Virginia.”

  “Well—”

  His phone rang, cutting her off, and she handed it back to him. How long would that drive take? Hours in a car with her. He might not live through it without doing some serious, pansy, emo outtakes. Whatever. He looked at the caller ID. Jared. His boss. Not necessarily what he needed right now.

  “Yeah-ello,” Cash answered, slowly and intentionally, just to screw with Jared.

  “What in God’s name did you three do up there?”

  Well, hello to you too, dick. “The job.”

  “Why’s the CIA burning up the wires, trying to nail a commitment out of me? For something I know nothing about?”

  “Last night… we had an unexpected complication.”

  “Last night, you three stumbled upon a compromised female operative and wanted to play hero? That’s not a complication. That’s you boys getting ready to fucking
sword fight over some pussy.”

  “Watch yourself, boss man.”

  “You—”

  “She’s Roman’s dead sister. My dead… ex. But the girl ain’t dead. So, like I said. Complicated.”

  Mark this one down in the record books. Crystal clear phone clarity and Mister Big Bad Balls was radio silent.

  Which lasted less time than it took to order a Big Mac, but it was still a record. “Fine. Complicated. I need updates on all complications.” He paused, clearly working something out in his head. “CIA knows about you two?”

  He looked at Nicola. “Does your handler know about me and Roman?”

  She shook her head. Cash went back to Jared. “Nope.”

  “And where’s her extraction team?”

  “Near dead at our safe house with Roman and Rocco.”

  “Because?”

  “We may or may not be dealing with a double agent.”

  “Goddamn it, Cash. I’ll hit you back.” And the line went dead.

  As convos with Jared go, that was smooth and productive. Nicola was driving laps around the sprawling upper-middle class neighborhood. Cash needed to make sure he saw the forest, away from the one big tree in the driver’s seat he kept focusing on.

  Before he could say anything to her, his phone rang. Jared. Again. That was fast.

  “Yeah?” Cash said.

  “Private airstrip about an hour from your safe house. A Titan jet will be there in three hours. You boys are headed to Langley with your three friends.”

  “Not exactly going to be a friendly ride back with two of my three friends.”

  “If you’ve got what you think you’ve got, I don’t care if they ride home in black hoods and hog tied. As long as they make it back alive. The Farm will handle their own. Have no doubt.”

  He didn’t either. They water boarded the way some offices doled out demerit write-ups.

  “Got ya.” Cash clicked off the phone and looked at Nicola. “Looks like your favor is granted. Titan style. We’re jetting it back, babe. All six of us.”

  “Great. Two guys I can’t take my eyes off of in one plane.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  If Cash hadn’t been seated in the passenger seat of the Range Rover, he’d have fallen on his derrière. His face must have read like a billboard. Either that, or she could see that his stomach jumped into his throat, and he’d lost his breath for the teeniest of seconds.