Page 87 of Summer Heat
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, k
nowing 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—”
