Hell for Leather Read online

  “Okay,” Steady said, dropping down beside them. He reached into his camo duffel bag and came out with a pack of QuikClot. “Now when I say go, I want you guys to remove my shirt and hold the dog down. When I shake this shit into his wound, it’s gonna burn like hell.”

  Mac saw Delilah nod hastily, tears standing a quarter-inch thick on her lower lids. But she was holding steady, by God. Again, the thought she sure is something whispered through his head. But he didn’t have time to dwell on it, because Steady ripped the foil case of biological sealant open with his teeth, spit out the fragment of packaging, and said, “Go!”

  They tossed the T-shirt aside—Holy crow, there’s a lot of blood—and threw themselves over the dog. Delilah held Fido’s rear end in place; Mac kept the pooch’s front legs and head under control.

  Steady was quick on the draw, pouring the powder into Fido’s wound. But besides a low whimper, the dog did nothing to fight them. In fact, he went so far as to lick Mac’s hand. And damned if that tear in Mac’s eye didn’t up and decide to spill over.

  Thankfully, more were stopped from joining the fun when he heard Agent Duvall bark, “Patch me over to Agent Zoelner’s number! Now!”

  “What’s up?” he asked, looking away from Fido’s wound only after he noted with gratification that the QuikClot was working. The bleeding had instantly slowed. Fido certainly wasn’t out of the woods. But now, at least, they’d given the fearless animal a fighting chance.

  “We’ve got thermal imagery of the guy,” the CIA agent relayed, keeping one hand on her earpiece, listening intently to whatever was happening on the other end. “And I need to let Z know which house he’s hiding in.”

  Mac nodded, turning his attention back to the dog.

  “Help me lift him,” Steady said, bending to get both hands under the animal. “Careful, now. Mierda! We don’t want to jostle that wound.”

  Mac and Delilah helped Steady stand, the canine cradled gently in his arms. Fido whined weakly but still managed to bathe Steady’s face with his long, pink tongue. And unless Mac was mistaken, the medic’s eyes were unusually bright.

  Yep, the Knights may deal with and deal out death on a daily basis, a bunch of hard-nosed, hard-hearted operators, but hand them one dumb-as-dirt, critically injured dog, and they all turned into big bags of mush…

  “Okay,” Steady grunted once he’d taken all of Fido’s weight, clearing his throat. “I’ve got him. I’ll get him to the nearest vet.” He turned to Mac. “You keep me informed of what’s going on here, hermano.”

  “I’m going with Steady,” Delilah declared, rubbing the back of her hand over her cheek, smudging her tears and the dust on her face in a long line as she bent down to grab Steady’s medical bag.

  “No.” Mac snagged her wrist when she turned to follow Steady’s careful steps, noting the soothing warmth of her skin against his callused fingers. Crack cocaine. Pure and simple…

  “What?” She turned to him, brow puckered. “Why?”

  “Because until we have Mr. Timberlands in custody, and until I know what the hell is goin’ on around here, I’m not lettin’ you outta my sight.”

  When she jerked out of his grip to catch up with the medic, Mac thought he might have a fight on his hands. But then she swung back to him, shouting, “I’m just going to help him to the car!” She lifted the camo duffel bag. God love her. Another wave of relief crashed over Mac, and he figured it was a wonder he wasn’t drowning in the stuff.

  Of course, when Agent Duvall whispered into her earpiece, “Z, he’s in the garage of the house directly across from you,” any respite he’d enjoyed lit out of him quick as a hiccup. The fact that Mr. Timberlands was holed up inside a house meant Ozzie and Zoelner were going to have to kick in a door. And that was a tricky business, especially seeing as how a guy never knew what he was going to find behind that door. It could be Christmas morning or World War III…

  ***

  “You must get out of there,” Haroun hissed the moment Qasim answered the phone.

  “Why?” Qasim asked, jerking forward, the plastic chair squeaking in objection.

  “I was not able to secure Miss Fairchild, and now I am forced to evade,” Haroun relayed, and Qasim glanced around the darkened, dust-heavy room. Forced to evade… Never a situation one wanted to find oneself in but a situation Qasim and all the others were used to since joining The Cause. They’d effectively been forced to evade nearly every Western government for years.

  “Forced to evade the motorcycle fanatics?” he asked, motioning and barking at Sami and Jabbar to begin gathering their belongings. He didn’t question Haroun’s orders when it came to something like this. If his second-in-command said it was time to go, then it was time to go.

  “The heavily armed motorcycle fanatics,” Haroun clarified, and Qasim’s blood ran cold. He’d figured as much, but to hear it confirmed was another thing entirely. “They saw me attempting to drag the woman from Sander’s backyard and opened fire. I am wounded.”

  Qasim sucked in a ragged breath.

  “It is nothing,” Haroun assured him. “A flesh wound only. But plans have changed. This place is no longer safe. If they have not called the police to report my assault already, then they will soon. This town will be swarming with men in badges. You must retreat to our second location.” Their second location… Praise Allah, we have one. “I will come to you once I have secured Miss Fairchild.”

  “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 C
IA 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!”

  Chapter Fourteen

  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 r
oom, 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.