“Got room for one more?” a deep, scratchy voice ripped her attention away from the couple by the jukebox.
Oh, good heavens.
She wasn’t sure if the guy who slid into the booth across from her and Becky was a welcome distraction or not. He had more hair than a mountain man and a belly that looked entirely capable of holding a whole keg of beer.
He winked at her and flashed his gold-toothed smile.
Really, no joke.
Like, all his front teeth were sparkly, solid gold.
Cripes. At least his shirt had no slogan. She supposed that was a saving grace…and would you look at how her standards had dropped since entering Red Delilah’s? The guy had chewing tobacco stains in his beard, and she was ready to give him intelligence points simply because he’d chosen to leave the personal advertisements at home.
Wow, the day had truly reached a new low.
“Buzz off, Buzzard,” Becky made a shooing motion with her hands. “No one’s interested.”
“Now Rebel, darlin’. Let the lady speak for herself.” Again the man…Buzzard? Really? fixed his troublingly licentious gaze on Ali. “Come home with me tonight, darlin’. I’ll give you a ride so good you’ll never hanker for the seat of a Harley again.”
Jesus, Mary, and Jos—
“
Whatever!
” Becky rolled her eyes. “Shirley told me your thing’s as crooked as those insurance scams you tried to get us all to invest in.”
“But crooked in the right direction.” Buzzard winked again, not in the least bit concerned to discover there were women sharing his bedroom secrets, nor was he denying the fact that he was involved in criminal activity. He leaned forward and his breath smelled like cheep beer and strong cigars. “Gotta a little upward tilt to it that hits
just
the right spot.”
Oh God.
What
was she doing here?
***
Scotch.
That’s what he needed. A nice single-malt. Lagavulin if he had his choice. And while he was taking his little trip through fantasyland, he might as well throw in a quick slap and tickle with that brunette in the corner. The one who’d tossed him a couple of shy smiles. The one whose leather skirt and V-neck Motley Crüe T-shirt were doing a fairly fantastic job of enhancing what were already quite a few blessings from God.
Right.
Like either of those were even a slight possibility.
Not that ex-CIA agent Dagan Zoelner didn’t think he had the sexual chops to seduce the brunette. He figured he could have her naked and sweaty in no time at all. A few compliments, some sensual music, a nice glass of wine…
Which just served to remind him of the scotch that was also
so
not gonna happen. Two things he didn’t mix on a job: booze and women. And wasn’t that just a crying shame?
Damn! The day had gone from bad to worse.
Because he was no longer sure he was working for the “good guys.”
Well…to be completely truthful, he’d been having doubts for weeks, ever since Aldus instructed him to snatch Alisa Morgan and bring her in.
Dagan was confident that there wasn’t cause for such drastic measures.
After following the woman around for nearly three months, after monitoring her every move and all her correspondence, he’d come to the conclusion she was just what she appeared to be—a kindergarten teacher who led a normal, if somewhat dull, life. She was less likely to be involved in a scheme to sell government secrets to the highest bidder than he was likely to be involved in an abstinence lecture.
“Can I getcha something else?” the middle-aged cocktail waitress asked as she sidled up to his table, her stick-thin legs protruding from the top of a pair of loose, calf-high boots until it looked like she was standing in buckets. From the weary lines around her eyes and lips and the way she unconsciously wielded a tray full of drinks, Dagan could tell the woman had been slinging beer for a couple of decades.
He glanced down at his tonic water before smiling up at her. That had its usual effect. The woman’s eyes widened and the wrinkles around her mouth softened as she grinned in response. “Thanks,” he told her, “but I’m fine for now.”
“Okay, sugar,” she purred, laying a thin hand, tipped with long, pink, fiberglass nails, on his shoulder. “But when you change your mind, my name’s Shirley. Just holler.”
“I sure will.” Dagan winked at her, and she giggled like a woman half her age before turning to deliver the contents of her tray to a group of rambunctious college kids at the back of the bar.
Dagan took a sip of tonic and glanced at the booth where Alisa Morgan was sitting.
He’d convinced Aldus to let him handle the situation. As opposed to the senator’s plan to kidnap her, he’d contemplated seducing the woman. He’d figured he could oh-so-innocently inquire about the missing files while she was hot and heavy. In his experience, a little pillow talk went a long way. But she was just so damned…
sweet
, and in the last three months she hadn’t had any men in her life, which proved she wasn’t the type to casually hop into bed with a handsome stranger. So even if he could somehow seduce her—okay, he knew he could—the question quickly became: did he want to? Did he want that on his conscience?
No. He most certainly did not.
Changing tactics, he’d been in the process of devising a way to casually bump into her, to befriend her and then…she’d been mugged.
He was pretty sure Aldus was behind the attack on Alisa Morgan despite the senator’s protestations of innocence. And that just didn’t sit well with him…at all.
He was absolutely convinced that, whether or not Ms. Morgan had the files, she was an innocent pawn simply caught in the middle of…whatever the hell this was turning out to be.
He hadn’t been too surprised when she’d taken off after the mugging. Nor had he been surprised when she’d stopped at her dead brother’s former place of employment. After all, what could make a woman feel safer than to surround herself with a bunch of ex-spec ops types?
Oh, he knew all about Grigg Morgan and his friends and their custom motorcycle shop. At least he thought he did…
One look at the blueprints of the compound that was Black Knights Inc. had convinced him he didn’t know dick.
Earlier this afternoon, when Dagan tried his contact within the CIA—he still had one even after that horrible little incident in Iraq, saints be praised—in order to get more information, he’d run into the proverbial brick wall. Which fell directly into the downright spooky category, because the CIA was supposed to know
everything
.
Well, it appeared
they
didn’t know dick about the guys at Black Knights Inc. According to his source, the Knights were just what they seemed. A group of ex-military men who’d traded in their knives and guns for wrenches and grinders.
Um. No.
The whole motorcycle thing was only their cover. Anyone with any sort of military training could tell you those bad boys absolutely reeked of government affiliation.
Which meant that Grigg Morgan had been affiliated with the government. And that didn’t lend much credence to Senator Aldus’s claim that Morgan had become tired of living on a grease monkey’s salary, had taken the skills he’d learned from Uncle, and employed them in order to steal highly classified and potentially threatening government documents. According to Aldus, Morgan had planned to sell those documents on the black market.
Sure. And Dagan was the bloomin’ tooth fairy.
He was beginning to suspect the good senator was completely full of shit. Which meant the intelligent thing to do would be to quit this sketchier-by-the-minute job, haul ass back to DC, and forget he ever heard the name Senator Alan Aldus.
But something held him in his seat in the corner table, deep in the dusky shadows of Red Delilah’s. And it wasn’t the brunette who’d become disheartened with his lack of follow-through and decided to take her gin and tonic and her very nice ass—
Sweet
Lord! It’s heart-shaped!—
into the next room.
He almost groaned at the lost opportunity, but he didn’t give chase as his always-intrepid cock begged him to do.
Because like it or not—which he most certainly did
not—
he’d allowed himself to be dropped center-stage in the middle of what was promising to turn into a shit-storm of near epic proportions.
So he’d do what he did best.
Watch. And wait.
And then former sergeant Nathan Weller turned dead black eyes on him and Dagan’s entire plan for the evening did a one-eighty.
His CIA contacts
had
been able to give him the military files on the employees of Black Knights Inc., and despite all the black ink hiding about fifty percent of what the documents held, the damned things
still
read like a catalog of Great American Heroes.
Shit! It was a rare thing when an ex-spook was genuinely rattled.
But there you had it. He’d spent the entirety of his adult life weighing the risks, playing the odds, and right now, looking into Ghost’s eyes, he suspected both were stacked up against him.
Like any smart man, Dagan Zoelner knew when to cut his losses and get the hell out of Dodge.
Chapter Seven
“I could be wrong, but I’m thinkin’ Ali and Ghost are sittin’ in a tree,” Ozzie whispered in Nate’s ear as Delilah returned to her position behind the bar. Nate snatched a surreptitious glance back at the table where the ladies sat.
“D’you have a death wish?” he asked the kid in all earnestness, even though he was only giving Ozzie about half of his attention because Buzzard—that dick—was reaching across the table to grab Ali’s hand.
“K-I-S-S-I-N-G.” Ozzie singsonged. “I’m right, aren’t I? You
like
her.” He didn’t wait for Nate’s reply before he announced gleefully to the others, “Nate ‘Ghost’ Weller, aka Mr. Emotionless, has
feelings
.”
Sweet. Christ.
What
was
it with everyone today? First Delilah and now Ozzie. Did he have some sort of flashing neon sign on his forehead?
“Y’better get away from me,” he advised Ozzie, skating another quick glance toward the booth. Now Buzzard—that dick—was levered halfway across the tabletop, whispering in Ali’s ear, and the woman was just crazy enough to laugh at whatever the licentious old fart was saying.
“But dude, that’s so sweet, so roman—”
Nate grabbed the kid’s arm none-too-gently and jerked him into the corner behind the jukebox. Boss lifted a brow at the two of them but continued his conversation with Dan.
“—tic,” Ozzie finished, rubbing his upper arm where Nate’d manacled him. “Easy on the goods, man. The ladies love these guns.” The kid flexed his biceps and bent his head to give each of his “guns” a kiss.
“I don’t know what you think,” Nate growled, “but there’s nothin’ doing between me and Ali. She’s just the little sister of my best friend. End of story.”
He really, really wished that was the end of the story.
“But her voice is so happy, so sunny,” Ozzie reminded Nate of the one rather humiliating moment of his day. Was he…? Yep, the kid actually had the audacity to flutter his eyelashes and make exaggerated googly-eyes.
Death wish. There was just no other answer.
He stared at the kid, hoping Ozzie would realize how close he was to getting plugged.
He didn’t.
“I think you should ask her out,” Ozzie declared, wiggling his brows.
“I don’t give a rat’s ass what you think I should—”
He stopped right there because the hairs at the back of his neck suddenly twitched with life. Carefully setting his beer atop the jukebox, he scanned the bar.
There. In the far corner. He allowed his vision to adjust to the shadows, and his eyes clashed with a cold, gray stare.
Uh-huh. He experienced a moment of…well, not recognition, because he’d never seen the man before. But it was certainly an instance of like-meeting-like.
Ol’ Mystery Man in the Corner was an operator, for what or for whom he couldn’t begin to guess. But the guy was an operator. He had a certain deadness about the eyes that said he’d been stripped of all his idealism and left with only one thing: the mission.
Lifting his chin in a gesture that succinctly conveyed
come
on
over
and
introduce
yourself,
pendejo
,
Nate was momentarily stunned when Mystery Man simply slipped a hand into his jacket pocket and shook his head. Once. One quick jerk of the chin from left to right.
Just Nate’s luck. A man with balls bigger than brains. Did the guy really think he could get out of the bar?