CHAPTER ONE
Sighting the target in his crosshairs, Cash Garrison accounted for all of the variables. Wind speed and direction. Distance and range. Now the world would be free of one more bloodthirsty warlord in less time than it would take for the walking dead man to finish his highfalutin champagne toast.
Hours had passed since Cash nestled into place, high-powered rifle held like a baby to his chest. A thousand yards out from the extravagant mansion, he’d burrowed into position, melting into the landscape, and waited for this moment. Antilla Smooth, dressed like the million dollars he made as an arms dealer and unaware of the grim reaper sighting his forehead, made his way past the French doors.
Cash caressed the trigger, knowing exactly how many pounds of pressure it would take to fire the round. He monitored his breaths and heart rate. When his entire body was still, in between beats and respirations, he’d take the bastard out. One less piece of shit strutting on God’s green Earth. The world would be a better place, and Cash’s job for the day would be done. He and the team could find a local bar, find some ladies, celebrate and make a night of it. Good plan.
He adjusted for a breeze, blinked his eyes, counted down his breaths, and—stopped. Stunned. Frozen in place. Heart pounding like a coal-eating locomotive.
A woman in a golden dress and sparkled-out jewelry that’d make royalty jealous wrapped her arm around Antilla. A soldier would sell his last bullet for a kiss from her lips. Cash saw her through his scope as though she stood a mere twenty feet in front of him.
She looked like… but it couldn’t be.
His spotter spoke the direction in his earpiece. “Send it.”
Cash spoke into his mic. “Stand by.”
His spotter whispered again. “Eyes on your target. All conditions accounted for. Go. Send it.”
Nothing. Cash didn’t speak.
Earpiece again. “Go, goddamn it.”
The woman slunk around his bull’s-eye, her beautiful hair piled on top of her head, save for the loose pieces framing her face. Her smile slipped into a laugh. I’ve inhaled gun oil fumes. I’m losing my mind right this second.
“Cash, man. You there?” His spotter grabbed his attention, wrenching him back to reality.
“Here. Yeah, man. Here.”
“Wind from three o’clock. Dropped to five mph. Hold. Target blocked.” The woman draped over the man. This was a nightmare—his nightmare—blasting from the past and slapping him clear off of his prone position and onto his stupefied ass. The spotter spoke again. “Clear. Dial wind right, two mils. Send it… now.”
Heartbeat. Breath. Heartbeat.
Fire.
And breathe.
Now, they had to move. Fast. He knew the spotter team should be slipping through the thick Maine forest. Cash paused and glanced longer than he needed to confirm the kill. Tuxedoed man on the ground. Kill shot. Dead. Panic attacked the room. People ran, most likely screaming. Security scrambled. Dogs loosed. Barks growing closer. But the woman. The golden silk-draped woman stood still, staring at the busted windowpane in the French doors. No expression. No emotion. Not a drop of anything.
Cash shook his head, clearing the ghost of her image, and focused on his job. One shot, one kill. Just the way he liked it. He cleared the shell and casing from his bolt-action rifle, policed his brass, and snapped to a crouch, erasing any evidence that he had spent hours in the spot. A half second later, he beat feet, sliding down the side of the wooded hill, leaving no trail.
His spotter buzzed in his ear, confirming their meet-up point. “Rendezvous at location A, twenty-two ten.” He could do it. He should do it. He powered down a hill, sliding as dirt gave under his feet. Brush slapped him in the face. Vicious barking closed in. The main house illuminated day-glow bright.
Man, he was going to hear about it for this one. He told his spotter, “Location C, twenty-three hundred hours.”
“Cash—”
It took a lot for Roman to break protocol and use his name over the radio frequency, but Cash knew his spotter, his closest friend, was pissed. And an upset Roman was as much fun to deal with as the dogs Cash was about to run back toward.
Not much to do except kill an hour. Cash pulled his earpiece out as Roman cursed again. Nothing good would come at the end of that sentence. Cash laughed. Radio silence wasn’t the best road to take, but it was better than coughing up an explanation of the impossible.
***
Nicola glided around Antilla Smooth. His lifeless face stared at the ceiling, and his perfect hair hid the sniper round’s entry wound. Given the crimson puddle painting the white carpet round the backside of his brain, the bullet was a through and through, and her night was ruined. Her operation ruined, completely FUBAR.
Chaos filled the room, and she was the calm eye of the storm. Everyone and everything swirled around her. Loud noises. Screaming people. Security moved fast, but what was the point? They’d failed.
She hadn’t failed, but the last few months were now crap, and it was time to call the powers that be. They’d be interested in this turn of events. Nicola put down her champagne flute and pulled out her cell. She walked away, feeling her smooth silk gown train trailing behind her.
The phone rang once, and a surprised voice answered. “It’s a little early for our chat.”
“We should get together for ice cream.” Nicola gave the phrase that told Beth, her handler, that this mission was dunzo.
Beth didn’t miss a beat. “I have to run errands first. I’ll meet you after you head to the dry cleaners.”
Dry cleaners. Yup, time to turn into a shadow and slink away. It was the right move, pulling her home. Too bad she had nothing to show for the months spent playing to the dead megalomaniac’s ego. She’d been so close, only one or two days away from locking down the international players in Antilla’s arms network.
“You’ve got it. I’ll be in and out first thing in the morning.” She walked down the hallway, and a guard looked. Apparently, her saunter was too calm, given the way other women shrieked their horror. “Ciao,” she said goodbye, keeping up her Italian persona and putting a hand against her throat.
She looked at her designer gown. No blood. At least there was an upside to this evening’s party. That and she wouldn’t have to feign interest in Antilla, the sick prick, then backpedal when he wanted to take her to bed.
Personal preference. Some ladies in the Agency did what they had to do without a second thought. She’d had second thoughts. And thirds and fourths. She’d wanted to screw Antilla Smooth like she wanted a root canal done by Kermit the freakin’ Frog: choppy marionette hands flopping up and down.
“Gabriella?” Someone used her alias. “Gabriella, are you okay?”
Nicola saw a butler who had been friendly to her since they’d arrived at Antilla’s Maine estate. Her name poured off his lips, imitating the Italian flare she used when introducing herself.
“Yes, fine. Bene, grazie.” He looked unassuming. Who knew why the man worked for Smooth Enterprises, but looks were deceiving. Trust no one. “I need to step outside. Fresh air.”
Really, she needed to get out of Maine, but why elaborate? She slipped outside. The night was daybreak bright with the estate’s security system fully engaged. Her hand caught her eye. The fluorescents made her olive skin look green, not complementing the dress she’d fallen in love with. Nicola weighed her lack of options, knowing she’d need transportation and, for the moment, not knowing how she’d secure it.
A chill spiked over her skin as a gust blew through the forest. Someone was still out there. The same someone who took out her mark.
Pop. Flash. Pop. The exterior lights died, and she was left to her thoughts in the moonless night. Another chill rolled over her shoulders. No wind this time. She pivoted, reluctantly ready and willing to ruin her dress and take it out of the ass of whoever was to blame. Her muscles tensed. Her eyes adjusted in a flash. A man. Large. Broad. Armed. Twenty feet away at the side of the patio.
He spoke, the baritone timbre coating her in a hurt she’d hidden years ago. “Nicola.”
She didn’t need to see his face. His voice shattered any semblance of strength she’d mustered. Nicola braced one leg back, prepared to attack. Ready to defend herself. But who was she kidding? If he laid one finger on her, it might be her undoing. All her suffering, pointless.
“Nicola,” he said again. Still as firm, but this time knowing. “What the fuck?”
This was bad news of the worst variety. She pivoted back toward the doors, ready to go back inside and hash out an emergency extraction strategy with Beth. No time to wait for tomorrow’s withdrawal plan.
Reaching for the doorknob, she willed herself not to run.
“It’s you, isn’t it?” he said.
Sweet Lord, why was Cash here? Why was the one memory she could never forget standing in the middle of her job? And why was he talking to her, armed and looking far more dangerous than the last time she saw him?
“Stop your sweet ass one second, and turn around, Nicola.”
She spun on her stiletto heel, knowing she’d never be able to get to the subcompact gun tucked on the inside of her thigh. Even if she could, she’d never hurt Cash.
“No, sir. You’re mistaken.” She put on her best Italian accent, knowing it wouldn’t fix this problem.
“Bull—”
The butler opened the door. “Gabriella, please come in. Everyone’s gathering in the main hall. It’s dangerous to be out here.”
Cash stood in the shadows. She knew the butler couldn’t see him. Yet, her pulse stuttered, and her throat tightened. She wanted to protect one man from the other. Nicola looked over her shoulder, and Cash was gone.
CHAPTER TWO
Cash ran through this mind-scrambling scenario as he pushed toward the semi-agreed upon location. He had two more minutes to scoot his caboose there before his spotter had one more thing to bitch at him about. Cash and Roman were tight. One hell of a sniper-spotter team, and best of bros. From boot camp to Titan Group, they’d been by each other’s sides, watching backs, chasing chicks, and fighting in the trenches.
With fifteen seconds to spare, Cash rounded a moss-covered boulder and ran smack into Roman.
“How goes it, dickhead?” Roman scowled. “Your mic not working? Your earpiece burn out?”
A rumble of tires put the pause on their conversation. The armored Range Rover barreled around a tight curve, and they jumped in before it came to a stop. Two doors shut. The driver tore down the road as Cash and Roman righted themselves in the backseat. Cash ignored Roman and waited for the shitstorm he knew was coming.
As if on cue, Roman turned his camo-painted face and stared hard. Cash started to peel off his ghillie suit, unzipping the outfit of fake leaves.
“Hold your roll, Cash.”
“Back off.”
Roman lowered his voice. “The hell I will.”
All the questions, all the confusions morphed into fury. Distrust. “Did you know?”
“Know? Know what?”
Cash lunged forward, wrapping his hand around Roman’s throat. “So help me God. Did you know about her?”
Pressed against the window, Roman jabbed his knee into Cash’s gut. Like two battling rams, they pounded and cursed.
The man at the wheel, Rocco, shifted in his seat. “What the fuck? Sit down.”
Cash felt the Range Rover skid to a stop, knew he and his best friend were trading blows, but none of it clicked in his frontal lobe. He was all emotion and instinct. The back door opened, and Roman ducked out, pulling Cash with him.
Roman caught him in the jaw with a fist full of knuckles. Wet asphalt scratched his face. He righted himself, pulling an arm back. He’d kill Roman if it was the last thing he did. All that bullshit about loyalty and honor. What a crock.
Losing his balance, he fell back. Rocco clasped his punch-ready fist and pulled him off Roman, who pounced up into a fighter’s stance, fists raised, knees bent. Rocco had killed the car’s lights. No moonlight. Just the three men, two with sweat steaming off them in the cool night air and one level-headed, probably wondering what the fuck. Hell, maybe Roman wondered that too.
***
Shaking, Nicola walked into the main hall. Her fingers vibrated and her heart banged like she was one of Antilla’s eight-ball snorting girls. It was a good look for her now that she’d been lassoed into the main hall with distraught women who were genuinely upset that the bastard was dead.
Sweet, funny Cash Garrison. She had no doubt it was him, though he must have a hundred pounds of pure muscle hanging off those long limbs. Could men in their twenties have growth spurts? She didn’t remember him as tall. Certainly not as broad. And his voice was deeper than the bottom of the cliff she supposedly drove off of a decade ago.
Nicola looked from one woman to the next. She could identify all of them. Then she eyed the men. They too were catalogued in her memory, but she didn’t know what each did for Smooth or how the money funneled in and out of his Swiss banks.
The CIA was right to be disappointed in her. Beth should put her on desk duty at the Farm until she was an old biddy talking about her days in the spy game. Shit. She really needed to talk to Beth.
In the corner, Antilla’s head of security barked orders. There was no telling what that crackpot might do. Nicola needed to get the hell out of here. Patio escape plan, round two. The butler touched her shoulder.
“Gabriella, would you like a glass of water?”
Him again? He was always around, always watching. “No, grazie.”
“May I get you a lemonade? The taste reminds me of sunset walks on the beach at night.”
She went from ignoring him to pinning him against the wall with a stare. “Scuzi?”
He spoke slower. More deliberate. “I said. Sunset walks on the beach. At night.”
Nicola processed his words. His look. It couldn’t be. Could it? “Non capisco. I do not understand.”
“Yes, you do.”
Yes, she did. The CIA had someone else in here. The butler. She should have known.
“Yes, I do.” She nodded, mapping out her next move. Did Beth know? The games. She hated all the games, and if this guy was here to make sure she did her job, she was going to lose her trademark cool. She hated being checked up on. Hated the doubt that she couldn’t pull the gig off. Then again, she hadn’t.
“I’ll get you a lemonade, or would you like to come with me?”
Hell, why not? “Yes. Of course.”
They made their way down an elaborate hall. Oil paintings of New England landscapes and native animals were framed in gilded boxes and lit by brass fixtures.
“They’re bringing you in,” he said as casually as if they talked about the change in the seasons.
“You?”
“No.”
“Why me?”
“Not my call.”
“Who else is here?” Or in other words, why was Cash here?
“Just the two of us.”
“I didn’t know about you. Maybe you don’t know about someone else.”
“Maybe.”
Not the answer she wanted, though she wouldn’t believe any answer he gave if it were a definite yes or no.
He handed her a drink and napkin from a side table. “Extraction directions are in your cocktail napkin. You leave tonight. Take this to the bathroom, and move as directed.”
“This is because of the patio?”
“What?”
“I was supposed to go to the dry cleaners tomorrow.”
“Change of plan.”
“Why?”
“Not sure, other than Antilla was eliminated.”
“What do we have on that?”
“Wasn’t us.”
“What—”
“You need to move. Go. Follow the directions. The extraction team is ready to pull you out in five minutes.”
The butler turned and walked away, leaving her, drink in hand. Nicola sipped her lemonade
and headed for the specified bathroom. She took in the empty lounging area and vanity counters and entered a quiet bathroom stall, closing the door behind her. She unfolded the edges of the napkin. It was blank. What the hell?
She held it to the light. Nothing. No ink. No code. No marks.
She’d been made. Confirmed it herself. Fucking safe phrase wasn’t worth shit if someone unsafe knew it existed. Her pulse thumped in her neck. Her ears strained to hear the incoming attack. She was trapped, save the narrow window that opened two stories above a terrace. The window was tall but skinny. She might not fit. No time to overthink it, and thank God, she’d skipped dinner. Nicola chucked off her heels, lifted her skirt, and palmed her Beretta.
Despite grabbing a fancy, overstuffed pillow for use as a makeshift silencer, the shot was loud when she blew out the window. Hoisting herself up to the sill, she looked over her shoulder to see her extraction team, courtesy of the butler, blow through the outer door. No time to second-guess her next move, and oh, the landing would hurt. Barefoot, she sucked in a breath and pushed through the shattered frame.
Glass shards scraped her chest and back as she sidestepped through. Teetering for a hot second on the outside, she realized that the window frame was too narrow. She couldn’t turn her head to look back at her attackers, but she felt hands grabbing at her dress. Before a hand could clamp around her calf, she leaped.
It felt like slow motion. Weightless, reaching for the sky, she floated in a sea of gold silk as her dressed billowed around her until she hit the manicured terrace lawn. Everything hurt. Her exit strategy wasn’t strategic, and it gave her zero chance to position for a tuck and roll, but it did do one very good thing. It kept dangerous men inside the house.
Bang. Bang. Pop.
The men were inside, but their guns shooting out the window had a wide open range. She pulled up as fast as she could manage. Dirt spat around her. Their shots missed but not by much. Nicola hobbled as fast as she could. They were, no doubt, regrouping and busting ass to get her on the terrace.
As she half-limped, half-ran, she tried to assess her injuries. Nothing broken. Definitely going to have to make a chiropractor appointment. Blood had ruined her gorgeous dress, thanks to the window exit. Definitely a sprained elbow and wrist.
The Titan Series 1-3 Boxed Set Page 27