Free Sweet One (Titan Book 8) by Cristin Harber Page A

trash. Sure enough, in the distance, thermal imaging picked up two men burrowing into a sandy position on the bank of a dune. “Get comfy, assholes. Make it a nice place to die.”
    “Do you want to call the cops?” She sipped her tea.
    Cash scoffed. “Do you?”
    She put her lips to the mug. “Nope. Just checking on that injured brain of yours.”
    He leaned over to kiss her. “Glad my interest in avoiding law enforcement means I’m doing better.”
    “Avoid reinjury. Okay?”
    “I don’t have to convince you to stay put?”
    “Not a chance in the world unless you need backup, in which case, I’m calling Jared rather than the cops.”
    “Good girl.” He kissed her again. “Time to go find out who these fuckers are and what they want.”
    Nicola smacked his butt as he walked by, and it was equally unnerving and calming that they were back to who they were. She might be pregnant, and he might be on the upside of TBI, but they were still trained operatives, lethal and dangerous and more able to protect house and hearth than most standard operators.
    Cash cracked his knuckles and suited up with what he’d already scoured the house for: two handguns, extra ammo, a throwing knife, serrated blade, and a fist full of flexi-cuffs. They could never be too careful or overprepared.
    He slunk out of the house and relocked it then re-engaged the security system. With the binoculars spotting the men, Cash backed around, letting the wind mask the sound of his footsteps, and he melted into the brush and weeds. Sniper training often served him well, and this was no exception. His target never saw him coming.
    Cash centered, visualized his targets, saw them as dead. One was a light-haired man who had a military haircut with a week or two of overgrowth. The other was a dark-haired man in a poor prone field position. His build was athletic, but he clearly had no tactical training. They both might be killers, and neither one was what Cash would call comfortable in the sand dune—they made rookie mistakes all over the place—but Light Hair looked more experienced than Dark Hair.
    Assessment done, he lunged.
    Landed.
    Attacked.
    With a choke hold on the dark-haired man, who was definitely athletic, Cash had the upper hand. His mark had been trained at one time, but in the sand and the brush, the man couldn’t get his footing. The other man stuttered in his decision to help before going for Cash’s back. A single punch over his shoulder knocked the light-haired man to the dune.
    Dark Hair and Cash rolled down a hill; the other man, capable but untrained, couldn’t handle the elements, inhaling the sand and letting it scrape into his eyes. Cash gained the momentum, ducking a blind punch. He straddled the attacker and drilled two fists, one and two. Lights out.
    God. Damn. Cash blinked.
    The morning sun shone overhead, and there was no question of what Cash looked down on. He reached into his back pocket, grabbing the flexi-ties and keeping an eye on the other unconscious man on top of the hill, then patted down the asshole in front of him, removing weapons before he pulled out his cell phone.
    Cash wanted to puke. Parker answered on the first ring. “What the fuck is going on? We’re watching—”
    Cash ran his hand over his face, forgetting that Titan had likely seen everything, and if he took any punches, they were going to know about it. That didn’t matter at the moment. He yanked the guy by his shirt, shaking him for the satellite field. “This guy?” He shook him harder, angrier than he’d been in years. In decades . “He’s a fucking Gianori mobster.”
    He knew them all. Knew their faces. Knew their children, their houses, their names, their wives and cousins and lawyers and moles and snitches. He’d been studying them for a decade. Cash knew everything about the Gianori mob because they would forever want to kill his wife.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
     
    Nesting shouldn’t occur in the second trimester of pregnancy in