Hell for Leather Read online

  “I said, don’t move,” the man—obviously, he was the team leader—yelled again when Delilah started to head for Mac. And then the idiot made his second mistake. His first had been daring to come at the BKI boys with guns hot, of course. But now the dumbass had the unmitigated gall to train his weapon on Delilah.

  “Uh-uh,” Mac tsked, his finger tightening on his trigger, every muscle in his body tensing to absorb the coming recoil should he have to fill Dumbass SWAT Guy full of hot lead. “You best keep pointin’ that iron at me, friend. Because if you don’t, I’ll drop you so fast you’ll be kissin’ St. Peter hello within a second.”

  The guy must’ve known Mac wasn’t whistling Dixie. He hesitated barely a heartbeat before once again aiming the black eye of his quick-firing Colt in Mac’s direction.

  “That’s better.” Mac jerked his chin in a nod, his anger going from a rapid boil to a slow simmer. “Now, we’re all just gonna hold our fire and our breath while Delilah makes her way over to me, capisce?”

  “I’m on orders to take Miss Fairchild into protective custody,” the guy said, one small drop of sweat glistening on the bridge of his nose. Besides his eyes and the tops of his cheeks, that was the only part of his face not covered by the black, tactical balaclava he wore.

  “You’ll take her over my dead body,” Mac growled.

  Delilah quickly flitted across the room. When she ducked behind him and shoved her fingers into the top of his waistband, he heaved a secret sigh of relief.

  “Your dead body can certainly be arranged,” Mr. Asshat SWAT-man retorted, the smug, self-satisfied gleam in his eye all but screaming that he was the winner in the big dick lottery, the hot girlfriend competition, and the sharp-shooting championship. And although Mac was well versed in dealing with the immeasurable arrogance of Company Men—even as a Fed he’d had to suffer their occasional association—he discovered he had an intense desire to wipe that look off of Asshat’s face with a well-placed strike from his handy-dandy Ka-Bar. Or a well-aimed bullet. Either one would do nicely.

  “Oh, for the love of—” Agent Duvall jumped into the fray. “Are you guys kidding me with this? I mean, I’m just spitballing here, but aren’t we all on the same friggin’ team?”

  “Morales informed me the Black Knights might not be willing to hand over the woman,” Mr. Asshat explained. “In which case, I’m instructed to take her by force.”

  Mac’s finger twitched on his trigger as the fire under his anger flamed with new life.

  “Jesus Christ,” the little CIA agent huffed before screaming into her earpiece at whatever now-deaf technician was on the other end. “Get Morales back on the goddamned line!”

  As she waited for the call to go through, she let her gaze ping-pong back and forth between the two opposing groups. “This place could seriously use a Xanax salt lick,” she muttered, shaking her head in exasperation.

  Ozzie chuckled despite the charged atmosphere. “You’re funny, Agent Duvall. Has anyone ever told you that?”

  “Not since I gave up stand-up comedy for a regular ol’ nine-to-five,” she said, tapping her foot impatiently.

  This time Ozzie barked with laughter. “There are two things I know for certain,” he said, and Mac would have rolled his eyes had he not been inclined to keep his blinkers trained on Asshat SWAT-guy. Because he was fully aware of what was coming.

  “Oh, yeah?” Agent Duvall asked, falling hook, line, and sinker. Mac was pretty sure that grumbling noise he heard was coming from Zoelner. “And what two things are those?”

  “Number one,” Ozzie began, “Warrant is one of the most underrated hair bands of the eighties.”

  “Oh-kay. And number two?” the little CIA agent prodded when Ozzie hesitated.

  “You’re going to marry me someday.”

  Mac felt Agent Duvall’s look of disbelief more than he saw it. “Are you serious?” she demanded. “Are you really doing this right now? Flirting with me?”

  “Yeah.” Ozzie shrugged. “I figured I’d just go for it.”

  When Agent Duvall opened her mouth to say, “You know what? You’re not as good-looking as you think,” with a hint of laughter in her voice, Mac peeked over at Zoelner, not surprised to find the guy had settled into that weird state of statue-like stillness.

  “Not as good-looking as I think?” Ozzie retorted. “I find that hard to believe. I do own a mirror.”

  This time Agent Duvall laughed outright, and Zoelner hissed, “Why don’t you stop being such a goddamned hemorrhoid, Ozzie.”

  With that, Mac’s suspicions about Zoelner’s feelings toward Chelsea Duvall were confirmed. Because, unless he was mistaken—and he very much doubted he was—the ex-spook was absolutely green with jealousy.

  And, okay, given the fact they were in the middle of a good ol’-fashioned standoff, Mac fully recognized how ridiculous the entire last three minutes—aka the circus that was Ozzie, Zoelner, SWAT Guys, and Agent Duvall—had been. In fact, he reckoned the only thing they were missing here was a clown car. But it was the sheer absurdity of the entire thing that made his anger dissipate enough for him to realize Delilah had pressed herself against him, turkey peeking around his shoulder at the scene being played out like some sort of poorly written slapstick comedy.

  And even though he had one very large machine gun pointed at his chest, the only thought to run through his mind in that instant was…boobs…

  Great, glorious, good-God-almighty boobs…

  Then he was distracted—thank you, sweet Jesus—when Agent Duvall lifted a hand to the Bluetooth device in her ear and said, “Sir! Excuse my French, but what the hell is going on here? I’ve got three guys in full tactical pointing weapons at me and saying they’re working on your orders to take Delilah Fairchild into custody.”

  ***

  “What do you mean I’m not safe with the Black Knights?” Delilah demanded in response to the declaration Chelsea made after finally signing off with her supervisor. The call had lasted five eternal, god-awful, soul-sucking minutes. And Delilah figured if she heard one more, “Yes, sir. I understand, sir,” she was going to grab Mac’s gun and shoot the CIA agent in the ass. After all, it was her they were talking about here. The fact that they wanted to take her into custody.

  “I mean just that,” Chelsea said. “You’re not safe with the Black Knights.”

  Delilah was no longer hiding behind Mac’s back because the mysterious Morales had apparently issued an order for the three Men in Black to stand down, and the tension in the room had leveled out in response. Oh, it was still a pretty hairy environment, what with six heavily armed, testosterone-laden males scowling and posturing toward each other, but at least now Delilah felt safe enough to stand in the middle of them, hands on hips, scowl pasted firmly in place.

  Not safe with the Black Knights? Preposterous! If she wasn’t safe with them, then she wasn’t safe with anyone. She flicked a quick glance toward Mac. Unfortunately, she could read nothing behind the Mask of Inscrutability. Her heart skipped a beat. Give me a sign, Mac. Let me know Chelsea is chock-a-block full of crap…

  And maybe he was a mind reader, or maybe his Spidey sense worked for more than just piecing together clues, because his electric blue eyes alighted on her face for a brief second, one heartbeat…then two. But it was enough. Because the flicker of dead-eye certainty she saw in his gaze took the tiniest edge off her screaming nerves.

  “We lost al-Hallaj,” Chelsea said. “And since the Black Knights have not been unable to assure your safety from him on two separate occasions, my supervisor would feel more comfortable keeping you under the CIA’s protection until such a time as we have al-Hallaj in custody.” She gestured toward the Men in Black. “And these men are here to—”

  “We might have,” Zoelner interrupted, his voice so low and raspy Delilah wondered who’d been shoving tacks down his throat, “been able to keep Delilah safe had someone,” he lifted a meaningful brow at Chelsea, “told us there was a fucking terrorist on the loose!”r />
  “As I already explained to you,” Chelsea shouted, two red flags painting her cheeks, “we weren’t certain of that fact at the time!”

  “Oh, so you’re saying it’s perfectly fine for you guys to fuck up. But when we do it, you think you have the authority to—”

  “Can we get back to the real issue?” Ozzie interrupted. “Which is that your idiotic CIA compatriots went and lost al-Hallaj? I mean, honestly, how the hell did you manage that? He was driving a wimpy little hybrid and you had choppers and…uh…” he snapped his fingers, “oh, yeah, satellites!”

  Chelsea turned to Ozzie, frowning and pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose with a brusque finger. “He drove under an overpass in a heavily wooded area and the helos lost sight of him,” she explained. “Then he abandoned the car on the other side of the overpass and ducked into a large drainage pipe that ran for more than a mile. In the couple of minutes it took the pursuing team to fast-rope into a nearby clearing, hump it back to the overpass and realize that’s how he’d made his escape, he was already gone. They gave chase and we trained the satellites on the truncating location of the drainage pipe, but it was too late. We’ve got men scouring—”

  Ozzie rolled his eyes and held up a hand in the classic traffic cop “stop” signal. “Whoa, there, Long Windy. Is it possible to get the tweeted version of this saga?”

  The look Chelsea sent him very clearly stated that whatever headway his earlier flirtations had made with her had instantly been lost.

  “In short,” Zoelner grumbled beneath his breath, “you lost the guy, and now we’ve got a big, steaming pile of jack shit.”

  “Which really sucks out loud,” Ozzie added.

  And Delilah had to agree. The whole situation sucked. Silently. Out loud. Every which way. She turned when she saw the lead SWAT guy lift a hand to his ear, pressing his earpiece closer to his head. He nodded tersely before informing the group, “My supervisor just told me we’ve got five minutes to secure Miss Fairchild. Then we’re moving out.”

  Mac took a threatening step forward and Ozzie muttered something about the SWAT guy’s cornhole and what should be stuffed in it.

  In response, SWAT Guy made a move toward his weapon. Ozzie’s handgun was up and aimed before Delilah could blink. And suddenly World War III was about to break out all over again as every man in the room armed himself anew.

  “Agent Duvall,” Zoelner hissed. “Now would be an excellent time to call and tell Morales that the only way Delilah Fairchild is walking out of this house is over our corpses.”

  “I’ve already said that can be arranged,” SWAT Guy growled.

  Delilah barely resisted rolling her eyes. God, save me from this sea of testosterone. She fancied if she squinted just right, she’d be able to see the stuff sloshing around the room in great, heaving waves.

  “And make that call fast,” Ozzie added. “Because, according to shit-for-brains here, we’ve only got five minutes before the bullets start flying.”

  “Are you all kidding me right now?” Chelsea demanded.

  “About the flying bullets,” Ozzie said, “or about the fact that this guy does, indeed, have shit for brains?”

  “Go fuck yourself,” SWAT Guy growled at Ozzie.

  “Better than fucking you, Middle-Aged Mutant Ninja Turtle,” Ozzie retorted.

  And that one got her. Despite everything, despite the fact that she was horrified about the terrorist, scared shitless for her uncle, and damn near dead on her feet from thirty-some-odd hours of no sleep, Delilah felt her lips twitch. Because, what with the all-black suit, the balaclava, and the pack attached to his back, SWAT Guy did kind of look like he could pass for the fifth member of the TMNT gang.

  “Oh, shut up, all of you!” Chelsea barked, holding her Bluetooth device in place with one finger. She turned her back on the group and proceeded to throw out accusations like buckets of hydrochloric acid to whoever was talking in her ear. Then Chelsea was quiet for a long moment, during which time every eye in the room was focused on her back. Well, except for Zoelner’s. When Delilah glanced at the guy, she couldn’t help but note his eyes were focused like laser pointers on Chelsea’s butt.

  Men. She shook her head. Such wonderfully simple creatures.

  Chelsea suddenly ended the conversation with, “I’ll convince them this is the right move, sir.” Delilah’s heart sank. “Yes. Yes, you can depend on me.”

  Holding her breath, she watched as Chelsea turned to face the room. “Morales says you guys can play the part of Delilah’s PSD,” Chelsea said, “as long as you agree to remain in the area in case the CIA needs to question her and as long as you allow Agents Fitzsimmons and Wallace here,” she nodded toward two of the guys in SWAT gear, “to remain with you.”

  Remain in the area? Okay, check. Delilah wanted to do that anyway since this was the place where her uncle had disappeared, and being here allowed her to feel close to him. Let a couple of CIA agents hang around as bodyguards? Check, check. The more guns the merrier, she figured. After all, a freakin’ terrorist was out to get her. And have the boys of BKI play the part of her PSD? Uh…triple check? Because, even though she had absolutely no idea what in the world a PSD could be, she got the distinct impression that whatever it was, it meant she was going to be able to stay with them.

  She allowed her gaze to flit around the room, measuring each expression. The SWAT guys were hard to read since their eyes were the only things visible on their entire bodies. Chelsea looked apprehensive as she gnawed on her bottom lip and darted looks back and forth between the Men in Black and the Knights. Zoelner had gone back to being a Greek statue. Ozzie’s head was cocked contemplatively, his eyes narrowed. And Mac? Well, you guessed it. He was wearing the Mask of Inscrutability.

  To break the tension, Delilah asked, “Will someone please tell me what the hell a PSD is?”

  “Personal security detail,” seven voices rang out simultaneously. The unexpectedly loud, in-stereo response startled her into stumbling back. Mac’s hand darted out quicker than a snake strike, cupping her elbow to steady her before releasing her just as swiftly. The stupid skin on her arm tingled in response to his touch.

  “Sure.” She nodded, rubbing at her elbow. “And as much as I hate to admit it, I think I could use a personal security detail right about now. So, then, um…if we’re all in agreement here, why are we still standing around and staring at one another like someone’s about to pull the pin on a hand grenade?”

  Of their own accord, her eyes darted to the three SWAT guys. And, sure as shit. Those were definitely hand grenades attached to the straps of their suits. Gulp.

  “I’m just waiting for Fitzsimmons and Wallace to kiss,” Ozzie said. “I love it when chicks make out.”

  “Get bent,” Fitzsimmons…er…Wallace?…barked angrily.

  “Go eat a bowl of dicks,” Ozzie shot back.

  And just when Delilah sensed fingers going back on triggers, Chelsea stepped in.

  “I just went out on a limb for you guys,” she said, addressing the Knights. “And believe me when I say my boss knows how to handle a chainsaw. So, cut the shit. All of you. But especially you, Ozzie.” She skewered BKI’s computer guru with a look sharp enough to run him clean through.

  “As for you guys,” Chelsea turned to the Men in Black, “I’m in charge. Fitzsimmons and Wallace,” two of the men stepped forward, “you’re with me. Jacobs, you’re to report back to your team. They’re converging downtown.”

  When MIB III, er…Jacobs, slung his gnarly looking machine gun over his shoulder, nodded to his two compatriots, and slipped out the front door, Chelsea made no effort to disguise her sigh of relief. “Morales is renting rooms for us at a motel outside the town of Olive Branch.” She snorted. “And, yes, I fully appreciate the irony in that name given our current situation. It’s only a few miles away. It’s clean. It’s secure. It’ll work quite nicely as a base of operations while we continue to search for al-Hallaj, Fairchild, and Sander. And it means we’ll
each have a bed to sleep in when we aren’t taking a shift guarding Delilah. If I’m not mistaken, every single one of you could use a nap.”

  “Yeah,” Lead SWAT Guy spoke up. “You all look like hammered shit.”

  Ozzie answered back with a colorful rejoinder about the guy’s lack of paternity.

  “Oh, yay,” Delilah said, rolling her eyes and shaking her head. “I can tell this is going to be tons of fun.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Noel Motel, Outside Olive Branch, Illinois

  Thirty minutes later…

  “Well, hi there,” the scrawny, greasy-haired guy manning the front desk said to Delilah’s boobs after Mac watched her tiredly prop a hip against the wobbly piece of furniture. If the dickhead noticed the little drops of blood on her T-shirt or the dirt still smudging her cheeks, he sure didn’t show it. “Need something for the day? Or just for an hour or so?” Greasy wiggled his wiry eyebrows, smiling licentiously. His crooked teeth were stained a disgusting shade of baby-shit brown.

  Probably from years of chewin’ Copenhagen and drinkin’ cheap whiskey, Mac thought. Because even now, even from four feet away, and even though it was barely oh-nine-hundred in the morning, he could smell the dude’s breath. As his father used to say, it’s so strong you could hang the washin’ on it.

  Behind Greasy, sprawled in a green faux-leather recliner, was a woman. Greasy’s sister? Girlfriend? Wife? Whoever she was, she sported a stringy mop of platinum-blond hair with two-inch black roots. Dressed in a faded muumuu, she was watching reruns of the Maury Povich show on an old tube television and smoking Parliaments. Chain-smoking Parliaments, if the overflowing ashtray beside her was anything to go by.