Page 117 of Summer Heat
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.
