Page 23 of Garrison's Creed

Bam!

All three men jumped to their feet. Gunshots ringing out in Kathy Lee and Hoda country wasn’t a good thing.

Bam!

Son of a bitch.

They were out the door and into the Range Rover. Rocco squealed tires, reversing out of the driveway. Roman and Cash shut their doors as the tires spun from reverse to forward.

Nicola hadn’t been gone long. There was no telling what the woman was up to, but her plans hadn’t worked well in the last twenty-four hours. Those gunshots couldn’t have been planned.

They screeched around a corner. Rocco murdered the brakes. The smell of burnt rubber filtered into the vehicle before they came to a full stop.

A blacked out Explorer, missing the front passenger window, idled at the curb. A woman dressed like Miss Suburbia USA held out a Glock, bouncing her aim between a man and woman pummeling each other. Nicola and a man, and that motherfucker threw solid punches. She took one and ducked another. Cash was out of the Rover and ready to kill. He ignored the Glock. His fists balled, his blood rushed, and he was ready to end the brawl. No man would ever live after—

Whoa.

The tide turned fast. Nic was on top. Her left hook struck hard, not flinching when her knuckles landed on a cheekbone. The man reached his hands around Nicola’s neck. Enough of that shit.

A glance to Roman, and the plan was set without words. Roman slide-tackled the standing woman and disarmed her. The lady hit the ground hard, and the Glock skittered out of reach.

One gun down.

Who knew where Nic’s .22 was during this melee. Who knew what dude-about-to-die packed. All Cash knew was he would kill him for punching Nic’s pretty face.

The man made a swift move, flipping on top of Nic. Cash threw himself on the man, spearing him away. He heard Nicola breathing hard. Panting. Saw Rocco out of the corner of his eye pulling her to safety. She fought him, trying to jump back into the fight. Too fucking bad, this asshole was Cash’s to take out.

He straddled the man, raining punches on his dome. Right fist. Left fist. Over and over, on repeat. Cash was in the zone, wanting blood. This wasn’t a fight anymore, just Cash on a mission of destruction. Sweat poured off of him, biceps and knuckles screaming for a reprieve.

Reality came back. Arms wrapped around him. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t focus on anything but the broken nose and bloodied mouth in front of him.

“Cash.”

The sounds of his name pulled him out of his trance. He shook. Someone was shaking him. He didn’t want to get vertical, but someone pulled him upright. Rocco slammed him against the black Explorer. “Get your ass in gear. We gotta roll.”

Cash looked around. He’d fucking gone nuts. “Is he dead?”

“Almost, dude. Almost.”

Cash lunged forward, but slingshotted back against the Explorer, thanks to Rocco. “Chill.”

“I’m cool man. I’m good.” Cash nudged out of Rocco’s grip, rolling his shoulders.

“Walk it off. Get in the car. Nic’s in our Rover. She’ll drive you back to the house. These two fuckers—” He pointed to the KO’d dude and the none-too-fazed woman. “—will go with us in their car. Move. Now.”

Roman pushed the lady into the backseat and did a once over of Nicola, making sure she was okay. They did some brother-sister nod that made his gut twist in what could be labeled a jealous swell, but was really more a pang of nostalgia. A connection had been severed that he missed in a way that tightened his airway and clouded his judgment.

Rocco could’ve used a spatula to scoop the dude off the street, but used his hands instead, then hopped back to the driver’s seat. He pulled a U-turn, leaving Cash standing alone in the middle of Mayberry-frickin’-Avenue.

“Cash. Let’s go.” Nicola was in their Range Rover, waving him in, as cool as if it was just another day for her to man the getaway vehicle.

He snapped to attention and jumped into the SUV. God, he’d lost control in a bad way, and he didn’t need to be near that dude for a while. His white-hot temper was so far past boiling that he was surprised the guy was still breathing.

Nicola hit the gas. Their tires spun. They’d been on scene for five minutes, tops. Nicola had been gone a short while prior to the bam, bam. The whole thing had gone down in less than twenty minutes.

Stupid suburbia.

“You okay?” Nicola asked, driving past identical black mailboxes with little red flags.

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