Page 98 of Garrison's Creed

Pure white hot hatred spilled off Roman when he reared back. The pistol-whipping crack knocked Gianori out cold, landing him face-first on the concrete.

“That’ll work,” Cash said. The whirring noise of a plane coming in for a landing pricked his ears. “Let’s roll.”

Roman nabbed Gianori, throwing him over his shoulder, and hustled back to Hangar A. Blood marred the light gray floor. Cash pulled the army green bandana from his neck, mopped up the mess with his boot, and kicked the ruined rag behind a mechanic’s station.One more thing ruined by these guys. Screw them.

Catching up with Roman, Cash watched the Learjet complete its landing on the far airstrip. They pushed into Hangar A, eyeballed Jared, and shoved Gianori into a closet after gagging and immobilizing him just in case the fucker decided to rouse. Roman and Cash spread to their corners to watch outside at the airstrip and maintain a tactical advantage if the jet moved into the hangar.

The Learjet turned from the end of the airstrip and made its way toward them. Flight plans had them parking in Hangar A, but who knew where the hell they might deplane their passengers? A black Town Car pulled into a waiting area, apparently also unsure where the passengers were disembarking.

They stopped, and Cash waited, drumming his fingers. The door hatch popped. Stairs unfolded from the opening. No Nic. No David. No one got the hell off the plane. He grabbed his binoculars, needing to see inside the oval windows.

The sun glared high overhead. The Town Car moved into place as Cash heard the pilot cut the engines. A creepy quiet returned. Too quiet. Too much was in play that he didn’t understand, and Nicola was in the thick of it.

A bomb targeting her parents floated out there, unaccounted for. Nicola had no idea and was stuck with Benedict Arnold. The Town Car waited for its passengers. Finally, the good CIA agent and the bad one made their way down the stairs. Nic flashed Cash a subtle sign, a quick flick of her wrist, knowing that he had eyes on her. It wasn’t much reassurance for him, considering he was only back-up, but a mobster in the closet was a good consolation prize.

Jared whispered into his mic, “Roman, circle up, grab help, and find that bomb.”

Roman was in the Hummer without throwing back a visual confirmation. Shit, if it were Cash’s parents, he’d be rolling out the second he could. Surely, one of the guys would go with him. Rocco or Brock or Winters could defuse a bomb. Brock would do it the quickest. Winters might opt to let it blow somewhere with the least damage. Who knew how Roc would handle it?

Blinking into the glare, Cash refocused his binoculars. This was the second time he’d seen Nicola through a high-def, military spec optical piece. The Antilla Smooth snipefest felt like years ago, but it was so vivid and intense, seared into his frontal lobe.

The driver opened the door of the Town Car and loaded their baggage into the trunk. Nic and David took to the backseat. Damn, how Cash wanted to kill that man.

Moments later, the driver had them moving down the airstrip.Wait, no.They stopped. A second later, the Town Car zoomed toward Hangar B.Guess what, you fucking turncoat? Your mobster isn’t there.

At the front of Hangar B, David exited the car alone. Cash’s earpiece provided audio, but gave him nothing more than footsteps. What he would do to see David standing there, stood up like a blind date. Ten minutes later, clear and crisp in Cash’s binoculars, a pissed off, red faced David the Butler exited the hangar door with a slam and made a phone call, out of the range of any listening devices inside the hangar.

Cash’s cell phone buzzed.

“Better be important,” Jared growled over his shoulder.

The screen showed Sugar’s GUNS bison emblem. He hit ignore. Sugar redialed. Twice.

“What?” Cash answered.

“Nic told me to call you, dick, if I couldn’t get a hold of her. About this Smooth ammo.”

“Now’s not the best time.”

“I’m supposed to meet my point of contact at some dinky airport in some one-horse town. He just made contact. Pissed off about something. I’m five minutes out, but not headed in. Doesn’t feel right.”

Wait, what? “What’s the guy’s name?”

“David—”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Man, their problems were getting a little incestuous, in an arms-dealing, illegal network kinda way.

Jared looked over. “What’s going on?”

“Who’s that?” Sugar asked.

“Jared.”

She mumbled something that he could’ve sworn translated to, “tell him I say hi.”

He rubbed his temples. “We’re at that dinky airport and need a set of wheels. Can you get over here?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll be your taxi.”

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