Hell for Leather: Black Knights Inc. (15 page)

“No.” Qasim shook his head even though Haroun couldn’t see him. “Forget about her for now. Just get yourself to safety. We will try different torture methods on Theodore. It has only been a day. We may still get him to talk by—”

“Ah,
habibi
,” Haroun chuckled softly. “I always say you worry like a
sitto
.” And, yes, Haroun was known to compare Qasim’s continual fretting to that of an old grandmother. He was the only man in Qasim’s circle who would dare. Years ago, Qasim had killed men for such insubordination, and his reputation still preceded him. But, Haroun…well, Haroun had been by his side since almost the beginning, and as such was allowed certain latitude. “By all means continue to try make that old Marine talk, but in the meantime, allow me to carry on with my mission. I will use the signal on the phone attached to her motorcycle to follow her like her own shadow. And when the time is right, I will grab her.”

“You have already attempted to grab her twice before,” Qasim reminded his second-in-command, wondering if they’d gotten so close to reaching their goal only to be thwarted at the last minute. Allah might be on their side, but unfortunately,
qadar
was now living up to her reputation as a fickle mistress.

“Yes.” There was a note of indulgence in Haroun’s voice. “But what is that American phrase you like to use about the third time someone attempts something?”

Despite himself, despite the left turn their mission had suddenly taken, Qasim felt the corners of his mouth twitch. Haroun was one of the few people who knew of his secret fascination with the English language. “They say the third time is a charm.”

“Yes. It is indeed. Now, go. I will call you again when I once more have the woman in my sights.”

Qasim could only hope it would be that easy. “God be with you, brother,” he said.

“And with you,
habibi
.”

Qasim punched the “end” button on the phone and turned to find his men had already packed up their meager supplies. They were standing at attention, awaiting his next order.

“Put the old Marine in the car,” he told them. “We are retreating to our secondary location.”

“And Haroun?” Jabbar asked, his black eye now swollen almost completely shut.

“Will meet us there with the woman.” At least Qasim
hoped
that would be true. A troubling sense of foreboding had invaded his spirit since disconnecting the call. But he thought perhaps it was just because he worried like a
sitto
…

***

“Be careful, Z,” Chelsea whispered, standing with Mac and Delilah on Sander’s back porch. She didn’t care that the CIA technician listening in on the line could hear the distress in her voice.
Screw
it. Let him hear. This is a distressing situation, after all
. Made more so because it was
Dagan
out there in harm’s way. Dagan, the only field agent who’d ever looked at her as something more than a bespectacled computer lab rat. Dagan, the only man who’d ever made her feel like, maybe, just maybe, there was something…
sexy…
about short, plump, mixed-race
smart
girls. “From what we can tell, he’s sitting in a car. He could run you down if you approach him from the front. I suggest engaging from a side or back entrance, if that’s possible.”

“Chels?”

Chels…
Her heart tripped at the familiar nickname. “Yeah, Z?” She licked her lips.

“Shut up, will you? I know what I’m doing, but having you yakking in my ear isn’t helping me concentrate.”

Okay.
And any warm fuzzies she might have been feeling were instantly doused in gasoline and set ablaze. She fancied she could see them racing around inside her head, arms flailing, flames licking out behind them.

“I’m just trying to help, you ginormous ass,” she hissed, even as she continued to watch like a hawk the three green dots on her iPad screen that were Ozzie, Dagan, and the suspect. From the corner of her eye, she saw that Mac was standing by one porch post, swatting at Delilah’s hands as the woman lifted the hem of his T-shirt to reveal a bandage soaked with blood. She made note of the fact that the big former Fed had a fresh wound that was obviously bleeding anew since his Ty Cobb-worthy slide across the yard, but she gave it only a fleeting thought. With Dagan seconds away from kicking in a door with who knew what behind it—they couldn’t be sure whether or not Delilah’s assailant had been packing more than a hunting knife—the extent to which she didn’t give a shit about Mac and Delilah’s scuffling could not be measured. Because, not to be a broken record or anything, but it was…
Dagan
out there…

“What did I just say about your yakking?” he replied.

She opened her mouth to take issue with him but she got distracted when the technician cut in with, “Excuse me, Agent Duvall. We have the suspect’s identity.”

“Who is it?” she asked, holding her breath, hoping beyond hope that, despite the man’s appearance and thick accent, he was nobody, some convict who’d simply been hanging out in this dilapidated old neighborhood to escape the notice of the five-oh. Hoping beyond hope that Charles Sander and Theo Fairchild would turn up with a very good explanation as to their disappearance. Hoping beyond hope that this wasn’t the kind of clusterfuck Morales feared it might be.

“His name is Haroun al-Hallaj,” the technician relayed, and her heart sank even before he continued with, “He’s a noted member of an off-shoot al-Qaeda organization that operates mostly in the Arabian Peninsula.”

“Goddamnit, Chelsea!” Dagan hissed, having listened to the whole thing through his joint connection. “What the hell have you gotten us involved in?”

She didn’t have time to correct him by telling him that
they,
the Black Knights, had been involved long before
she
arrived on the scene, because she was too busy screaming, “Patch in Director Morales! Now!” to the technician.

While the secure connection was being made, she could hear Dagan breathing heavily. “Do we proceed, Agent Duvall?” he whispered.

Agent
Duvall.
So they were back to that, were they? Well, she shouldn’t be too surprised. After all, with these most recent revelations, it was clear that her sudden appearance on their doorstep wasn’t as innocent as she’d tried to make them believe. Which meant that Dagan now knew, without a doubt, that she’d been lying to him.

“Negative, Z,” she said, waiting for her supervisor to pick up the damned phone. “Hold your position until—”

“Agent Duvall,” Morales barked. “I’ve been following your situation and have two teams en route. ETA is approximately thirty seconds. Tell your boys to hang tight.”

“We’re not
her
boys,” Dagan growled through the joint connection. “Or yours, for that matter, Morales. So you can go f—”

Whatever he was about to say—and Chelsea figured she had a pretty good idea—was cut off by the low muttering of two stealth Comanche helicopters as they zoomed overhead. Flying in at a low insertion profile so they wouldn’t trigger the FAA’s radar—couldn’t have the civilians knowing there was a super-secret op going down right under their noses, could they?—and so both teams in the helos could fast-rope in at the drop of a hat, the smell of aviation fuel drifted down to burn Chelsea’s nose. She watched the choppers disappear down the block, then turned to find both Mac and Delilah gaping first in the direction of the helicopters and then at her. She winced and shrugged, hoping her expression accurately conveyed her remorse at having been forced to deceive them.
I
swear
I
didn’t want to. I
swear
I
didn’t.
But then Dagan’s voice shouted through her earpiece. “He’s fleeing! He’s fleeing! The suspect is fleeing!”

Chelsea heard the squealing of tires coming from down the block and saw the tops of the trees swaying before the two helicopters mushed up from their position atop the canopy and raced forward to keep up with the escaping vehicle.

Morales barked instructions in her ear. The technician kept up a running monologue of al-Hallaj’s movements as he watched the activity via satellite feed. And Dagan cursed her six ways from Sunday and beat feet back here, if the sound of his labored breathing was anything to go by. But it was Mac who grabbed her arm, ducking his chin until his tan face was an inch from hers.

It occurred to her then, as he bent to bring them nose-to-nose, that the ex–FBI agent was about a foot taller than any normal human male should be.

“I don’t cotton to being lied to,” he growled, his deep voice rumbling through her chest like fireworks on the Fourth of July. And like those fireworks, she knew Mac, if not handled properly, could blow up in her face quicker than she could say
I’m so sorry it had to be this way.

“And I like it even less,” he continued, still manacling her bicep, “when those lies might’ve gotten a good dog killed,”
God, I hope not
, “and a good woman,” he hooked a thumb toward the redheaded bartender, “
nearly
killed. So, you’re gonna tell me what the hell is goin’ on here, Agent Duvall. And you’re gonna do it right now.”

He motioned toward the pistol he’d moved to the front of his jeans. It was a big gun. What most operators like to call
a
huge
persuader
. She gulped.

“Or else,” he added, “I might be tempted to empty a clip in you and any other government asshole who comes my way based on principle alone.”

She nodded in acquiescence—screw Morales and his orders to keep her mouth shut—just as Dagan and Ozzie barged through the back gate. Dagan was still holding his cell phone to his ear, listening in on every word being spoken.

“Mac!” he yelled furiously, his voice echoing out over the yard and neighborhood. “If there’s anything left once I’ve finished with her, you can be my guest!”

If Delilah didn’t know the men of Black Knights Inc. as well as she did, she might have feared for the life of the little CIA agent. All three operators surrounded Chelsea Duvall, who was perched on the edge of Sander’s ruined sofa.

At first, Delilah expected them to fire up the engines on their motorcycles and take off to join the chase for Mr. Timberlands. And even though her head was still spinning slightly from being choked out, she’d been ready—more than ready—to accompany them.
No
one
attempts
to
kidnap
me
twice
and
gets
away
with
it. Wonder Twins, unite!

But when she’d said as much to Mac, he’d quickly informed her, “We’re better off lettin’ the spooks risk life and limb tryin’ to catch him. Choppers are better equipped to tail him anyway. Besides, we need to stay here and protect you.”

And to say she’d been peeved by the
need
for protection was an understatement. But what with that whole
two
attempted
abductions
thing she had going for her, she didn’t really see a way to naysay him. Which meant that she now found herself standing in the middle of Sander’s living room, watching three grown men bully one small woman. And they
were
bullying Agent Duvall, insomuch as they were towering over her.

“You all stop looking at me like I killed your canary,” Chelsea said, lifting her chin in defiance.

You
go, girl,
Delilah thought as a proud, card-carrying member of the sisterhood. On the other hand, the CIA agent
was
here under what Delilah was now certain were nefarious circumstances, so her support of the woman didn’t go much further than that.

“Not our canary,” Ozzie said, crossing his arms and shaking his shaggy head. “But you may’ve been instrumental in the death of a dog.”
Fido…
Tears pricked behind Delilah’s eyes. “I mean, did you guys
see
that? It was straight out of
Turner
and
Hooch
!”

“What was?” she asked, running a hand under her nose. She couldn’t help but notice her fingers smelled like dirt and dog, and
gah!
That just made everything so much worse.
God, Fido. Don’t die.
“What was straight out of
Turner
and
Hooch
?”

“Fido chomped onto Mr. Timberlands’ boot like the thing was made of jerky,” Mac said without taking his eyes off the CIA agent, without uncrossing his powerful arms.

“Haroun al-Hallaj,” Agent Duvall corrected, her voice only slightly tremulous. “His name is Haroun al-Hallaj.”

Mac made a face that clearly stated he didn’t give one shit, much less two shits,
what
the guy’s name was. It was cold, that expression of his. Ice cold. Delilah shivered in response. This Mac, this frigid mountain of a man, was hard to equate with the hot, growling lover who’d given her such intense pleasure upstairs just… She glanced at the old Felix the Cat clock ticking away on the kitchen wall and realized in astonishment that it’d been less than thirty minutes since she’d been burning up beneath his ravishing kisses.

It felt more like a week had passed.

“Fido’s bite caused the man to drop you,” Mac continued, “which is the only reason you’re here with us now instead of…wherever the hell he’d been planning to take you.”

The tears behind her eyes pricked more forcefully. Mac must’ve recognized her trouble because, with a back-and-forth grind of his jaw and a twitch of that delectable chin dimple, he held out his hand, beckoning her under his arm.

She went gladly. Sidling up to his warmth, his strength. Hating herself for needing either. Loving the fact that he offered both.

For
Heaven’s sake. You’re one sad sack.

What
did
I
tell
you
about
fucking
off, huh?
she demanded of that infinitely bothersome voice. Though, secretly, she was glad for its presence. It always pissed her off. And she heartily preferred being angry to being on the verge of another humiliating breakdown.

Of course, her flying thoughts crash-landed back into the conversation when Zoelner cocked his head and demanded, “Okay, Agent Duvall. You want to try this again, and tell us why you’re
really
here?”

“I—” Chelsea began, but Zoelner cut her off.

“And before you think to feed us anymore of your bullshit—”

“It wasn’t bullshit,” Ozzie interrupted, his usually jocular expression now as somber as death. Delilah wasn’t sure she’d ever seen the guy look quite so…
threatening
.

“No?” Zoelner asked.

“No.” Ozzie shook his head. “Her coming here and
stovepiping
,” he emphasized the word, “us while insisting oh-so-innocently that she wasn’t, was some serious, fucked-up shit, which is an entirely different bouquet.”

“Indeed,” Zoelner agreed, still frowning down at Chelsea. “I believe you’re right, Ozzie. So, Agent Duvall, before you think to try to feed us anymore of your serious, fucked-up, I’m-just-here-as-your-liaison,
stovepiping
shit, please understand that although we’re used to backdoor dealings, double crossings, and backstabbings from the likes of your kind, we—”

“You used to
be
one of my kind, Z,” Chelsea interrupted.

“Exactly.” Zoelner nodded. “Which is why I, along with my colleagues here, won’t hesitate to take everything we know and the huge amount we obviously
don’t
know straight to POTUS. See what
he
thinks about The Company’s shenanigans here.”

Delilah had to think about that one for a bit. The Knights were always using weird acronyms. But then it hit her…POTUS. President of the United States.

“I was following the orders of my s-supervisor,” Agent Duvall said, shifting uncomfortably.

“And throwin’ us under the bus in the meantime,” Mac added. Delilah could feel the tension radiating through him as if she was holding on to a live wire.

“I wasn’t throwing you under the bus,” Chelsea insisted with a huff, crossing her arms to mirror the men’s stances. “I was following
orders
. Surely you guys remember what those are. Surely you haven’t been calling your own shots for so long that you’ve forgotten—”

“Agent Duvall,” Mac rumbled, “Zoelner’s already explained this to you, but let me put it another way. We’re not farmers, so stop tryin’ to sell us a load of fertilizer and just tell us what the hell is goin’ on here.”

Okay. And, yeah. Despite being a card-carrying member of the sisterhood, Delilah had to agree with Mac’s insistence. After all, she herself was more than a bit curious as to what the hell was going on here.

Chelsea frowned up at them, hesitated a second more, then finally shrugged. “Have you guys been keeping up with the headlines chronicling the misadventures of an ex–CIA agent named Luke Winterfield?”

“Of course,” Ozzie said. “He just fled to Nicaragua, right?”

“I thought it was Honduras,” Zoelner said. Delilah had been under the impression it was Guatemala.

“It doesn’t matter
where
he is.” Chelsea waved an impatient hand through the air. “What matters is that along with copies of the files pertaining to the locations of our government’s black sites, we also suspect he took copies of…other files.”

A curious sense of dread bloomed in the pit of Delilah’s stomach.

“What other files?” Mac demanded.

“A
lot
of other files,” Chelsea admitted. “But the one we’re most concerned about right now, in this situation, is labeled BA Repatriate.”

“BA…” Zoelner’s chin dropped down as if someone had unhinged his jaw. For a moment, Delilah thought he resembled a handsome Pez dispenser. “You don’t mean broken arrows.”

Chelsea nodded. “That’s exactly what I mean.”

The room grew so still, so quiet, Delilah could hear the hum of electricity in the lamps beside the sofa. Mac was literally vibrating beside her. And that bloom of dread in her stomach? Well, it grew to the size of redwood. “I don’t think I really want to know, but…” she licked her lips, “what are broken arrows?”

“I take it you’re not a big John Travolta fan,” Ozzie said.

Huh?
“What in the world are you talking about?”

“You know that ’90s movie with the train and the—”

“Broken arrows are missin’ nuclear warheads,” Mac cut in succinctly.

Delilah shook her head, digging a finger in her ear. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I thought you said missing
nuclear
warheads
.”

In answer, Mac gave her a squeeze. It was meant to be comforting, she was sure, but the gesture missed the mark.
Holy
hell, did it ever!
Because that simple little squeeze was an affirmative that,
yes,
in fact she
had
heard him correctly.

“We have missing nuclear warheads?” she screeched, jerking out from under his arm so quickly she thought perhaps her head spun in a circle. She had to lower herself to the arm of the sofa lest she wilt to the dirty shag carpeting.

“If by
we
you mean the U.S. of A. then, yes,” Ozzie concurred. “Eight at last count.”

“No.” Chelsea shook her head. “It’s five now. The two lost in the Mediterranean in ’56 were recovered nearly forty years ago. And the one that rolled off the deck of the USS
Ticonderoga
and fell into the Pacific Ocean was finally recovered in ’76.”

“Huh.” Ozzie raised his brows. “Well, what do you know? That’s good news.”

Good news?
Good
news?
The U.S. was still missing
five
freakin’
nuclear
warheads
, and Ozzie considered this
good
news
?

That’s it. She’d suspected it before, but now she knew for sure. The Black Knights were crazy. Without a doubt, do not pass go, do not collect $200, batshit crazy. But right now the more pressing question was, “What in the world do five missing nuclear warheads have to do with my uncle?”

Chelsea turned to her, reaching up to adjust her glasses.
Again
Delilah couldn’t help but think the woman would be better suited to a kindergarten classroom. “You know your uncle did a stint in the Marines during Vietnam, right?”

“Yes.” She nodded emphatically.
Yes, yes,
yes. She was well aware of that fact. It’d been brought up enough in the last twenty-four hours.

“Do you know
what
he did?” Agent Duvall eyed her curiously.

“He was an engineer or a technician or something.”

Chelsea laughed. “Yeah. Or something.” Blowing out a breath that barely ruffled the short, dark bangs hanging over her forehead, she said, “Now, it goes without saying that what I’m about to tell you guys is highly classified.”

Highly
classified.
People really used that phrase?

“We have clearance,” Zoelner growled. “We’ve had clearance from the get-go. Probably higher clearance than you have, come to think of it.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Chelsea waved him off. “You’ve already bent me over. There’s no reason to break it off up in there, too.”

“I just don’t enjoy getting pissed on from a great height.”

Chelsea rolled her eyes. “And cue sad, slide whistle sound.”

Delilah saw Zoelner’s hands clench and heard him whisper something under his breath. She couldn’t quite make it out, but Ozzie obviously could. “Whoa,” Ozzie said, stepping back, his gaze darting between the CIA agent and the
ex–
CIA agent. “Shots fired. Shots fired.”

“Uh-huh.” Chelsea nodded, so much heat in her eyes Delilah was surprised Zoelner’s eyebrows didn’t burst into flames. Obviously,
she’d
heard what Zoelner said, too. “Well, you might want to pack a coat for your stay at the Moral Highground, Z. I’ve heard it’s quite chilly up there.”

“Cut the shit, Chelsea.” Zoelner leaned in until his nose was barely an inch from hers.

“You better back the hell off,” Chelsea growled, “or I’m liable to do something to you that’ll make walking impossible.”

“Come sip from the cup of destruction. I dare you.”

Delilah watched as Chelsea changed tactics. Instead of making good on her threat, she batted her lashes, smiling like a debutante. “Oh, Z,” she said breathlessly, “you had me at destruction.”

Ozzie choked. Mac groaned. And Delilah couldn’t tear her eyes away from Chelsea and Zoelner. She figured she was about ten seconds away from witnessing the two throwing punches or ripping each other’s clothes off.

But just when the strained atmosphere reached a pressure point—Delilah actually scooted back on the arm of the couch in preparation for the explosion—Mac cut through the tension with, “Sweet Lord, I need an aspirin. It’s either that, or I’m gonna to have to pull my weapon and start shootin’ some of you. Or
all
of you.”

He ran a big hand through his hair and instantly Delilah was reminded of how soft and warm those thick locks had been between her fingers. How wonderfully rough the calluses on his palm felt when he gently molded her breast. How—

Okay. Enough of that.
She had to cross her legs in an attempt to squeeze away the sudden sensation throbbing between them. And, lamentably, it was true. She really was a sad sack.

“Zoelner,” Mac continued, “why don’t you stop antagonizin’ Agent Duvall, huh?” Zoelner grumbled but straightened away from Chelsea all the same.

“And Agent Duvall,” Mac scowled down at her, “I hate to be the one to tell you this, but when it comes to a showdown between you and Zoelner, you don’t have any more chance than a Junebug in a chicken coop. So quit rufflin’ his feathers, will you? And get on with the damn explanation. I’m growin’ old here waitin’.”