Page 22 of Garrison's Creed

Nicola pulled her gun from her waistband, and pointed it at the soccer mom lookalike. “Stop the car.”

The woman eased off the gas pedal and pulled toward the sidewalk.

“Now unlock the door.”

“Gabriella, you’ve got this all wrong,” he said.

“My name’s not Gabriella.”

“And I’m not really a butler. Your handler sent us.”

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 held 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 ofshould’veburdened him.

One of the talking TV heads said something funny, and he caught himself laughing.Damn you, Roman. I don’t need to enjoy this show.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—

---