Page 116 of Summer Heat
“What? BS, Beth. Bull—”
“Not my call. Not yours either. And to make matters more complicated, the powers that be need you to partner with him and finish up some loose ends in Antilla’s file.”
“No.”
“Don’t make me change that request into an order. We’ve never gone down that handler-agent road, and I sure don’t want to start now. Work the system, but trust in me.”
“Beth—”
“You’ve got no choice, but I’m not giving you this crap assignment by itself. Here’s a side project to keep you happy.” Beth slid a folder across the table. Eyes Only.
“Eyes only? Why? Nothing’s been eyes only on this assignment.”
“There’s not much on the inside other than a couple of notes. I’m hoping you can change that for me.”
Nicola opened the folder. One slip of paper. Handwritten. Assignment JW. 7:30 PM blind date. JW Marriot. Washington, DC. Creative, naming the op after the location. She stifled a chuckle. She’d have to tease Beth about her lack of titling ingenuity. This one lacked the one-two punch that would interest her in the job. Who would she meet? At least she didn’t have to bring the butler with her. “Back to the butler.”
“David.”
“Fine. David. The guy’s a pr—”
“Honestly, I don’t care if you make up, hook up, or fight it out. Get rid of the hostility and tension between you two. And so you know, it’s not like he’s looking forward to hanging with you either. The man’s pride is more than a little wounded with those shiners.” Beth winked.
“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?”
