Hell for Leather Read online

  “Delilah!” Mac yelled again, much closer now. Oh, how she wanted to answer him, just shout out his name so he could come and save the day. But it was too risky. She had to rely on herself here. Only herself…

  Off to her left, something rattled, and she blindly turned in that direction, holding the letter opener out in front of her. Then, heavy footsteps. Very close by.

  It was time.

  The moment had come.

  Her blood raced through her veins and roared between her ears, making it difficult to hear anything besides the pounding of her heart. Then a large hand landed on her arm and with a banshee yell, she turned and struck.

  The blade of the letter opener hit something hard yet yielding and a loud “mmph” was immediately followed by a muttered curse. Delilah pulled her hand back to stab again just as the room blazed into view. Her arm froze in mid-strike, because it was Mac who was standing beside her. Zoelner, over by the doorway, still had his hand poised in front of the light switch.

  For a few interminable seconds, they all seemed frozen in a motionless tableau, each of them blinking against the sudden glare. Then a rustling sound drew their attention to the far side of the room where jean-clad legs were quickly disappearing out a window that had been covered by a large, black garbage bag.

  “Get him!” Mac bellowed and Zoelner sprang into action, racing across the office and lunging for the set of brown Timberland boots slipping over the windowsill, missing his mark by no more than a hairsbreadth.

  “There’s scaffolding!” Zoelner yelled, yanking the garbage bag from the window casing, revealing the missing panes of glass and the rusted rails of the framework attached to the back of the house. “I’m pursuing! You stay with Delilah!”

  “Roger that!” Mac shouted as he grabbed her hand and hustled her toward the door, half-dragging, half-carrying her because her legs seemed to have transformed into wet noodles. The letter opener fell from her nerveless fingers to clatter dully against the floorboards.

  She turned back in time to see Zoelner hop over the sill—obviously the adrenaline coursing through his system had negated the effects of the booze—just as Mac gave up on her ability to ambulate by herself. With a quick dip, he hooked an arm under her knees and then…weightlessness…as she was lifted into the air and pressed tight against his broad chest.

  “Mac, I—”

  “Hush.” He cut her off, running toward the stairs, taking them two at a time. Later she would marvel at the sheer strength of him, at the feel of his hard muscles moving against her, but right at that moment, her head was spinning so fast it made it impossible to think.

  He jumped from the third step, and they landed on the lower floor with a thud that had her back teeth clacking together and the pain in her abused head ratcheting up another degree. Then Mac raced to the center of the front room where he carefully lowered her next to the sawhorses. And it was a good thing he chose that precise spot, because, to her utter chagrin, she found herself relying on the sawhorse’s support to remain upright.

  Gulping in great mouthfuls of air, she watched helplessly as he yanked a mean-looking black handgun from the small of his back. Quickly and efficiently he pulled back on the slide and the clicking sound, indicating a round had been chambered, seemed particularly vicious in the harsh quiet hanging over the room like a death shroud.

  “I have to check the rest of the house. There might be others,” he told her, his blue eyes blazing with a light she’d never seen before.

  It was the light of battle.

  And it startled her almost as much as it fascinated her. Because right there and then, she realized that in all the years she’d known Mac, this was the first time she’d ever really seen him. The real him. Which shouldn’t have surprised her, she supposed. Because if it walked like a hero and it talked like a hero, then it was probably—

  “I need you to stay here,” he told her brusquely as he bent to remove a small pistol from a holster secured around his ankle. Straightening, he handed her the weapon and she was surprised at how light it felt. And how warm. His body heat had seeped into the metal. “This is a Beretta 3032 Tomcat,” he said, quickly explaining the gun’s basics. “You have six in the clip and one in the throat. That’s only seven bullets total. So if you have to fire, you better make sure your shots count.”

  She nodded jerkily, and he ducked his chin, peering into her face. “Are you okay? Can you handle this?”

  And those were fair questions. You know, considering he’d had to carry her down the stairs.

  Geez, way to instill confidence, Delilah…

  But even though her heart was racing about a hundred miles per hour, and even though she was still dizzy, she’d be damned if she continued to play the pathetic damsel in distress card with him. She was Delilah Fairchild, the ass-kicking, Harley-riding, shotgun-toting beer-slinger-from-hell! And, yes, she could do this!

  “No problem,” she said, press checking the chamber to see that, indeed, he hadn’t been lying about the one in the throat.

  “Good.” He nodded, something that looked gratifyingly close to admiration sparking in his eyes. And then he did something even more stupefying than earlier when he grabbed her hand…

  He leaned forward and planted a kiss in the center of her forehead. It was quick. Just a fast press of his warm, surprisingly soft lips against her skin, but it was enough to erase her fear and shock and have her toes curling inside her biker boots. Then he leaned back and grinned. And, as if her mind wasn’t already blown to freakin’ kingdom come, he went one step further and winked at her.

  Holy hell! Bryan “Mac” McMillan kissed her. Then grinned. And then winked.

  Okay, maybe that knock to the head had been harder than she thought, because that couldn’t be right, could it? She blinked, hoping that might help clear away what had to be a mirage…or else a delusion brought on by a concussion. But no amount of eyelid flapping erased the sight of Mac’s big, square teeth flashing whitely against the dark shadow of his beard stubble.

  And the cray-cray just kept on coming, because then he reached up and chucked her on the chin. She was gaping at him when he turned to disappear through the doorway leading to the back of the house.

  What the hell is happening? She felt like she’d been eating at the buffet of the bizarre all day, but that little display of Mac’s definitely put the cherry on top of the weirdo dessert of it all.

  In the span of a few minutes, he’d gone from his usual Mr. Cranky-Pants to Sir Kissy Smiles-A-Lot.

  “Lower level’s clear,” he said, reappearing suddenly, causing her to jump and instinctively raise the weapon he loaned her. “Whoa!” He lifted his hands, splaying the last three fingers of his right hand wide while his thumb and forefinger kept hold of his pistol. “Ventilating any mofo that comes at you is the general idea, darlin’. But I was kinda hopin’ you wouldn’t think to do as much to me.”

  “S-sorry,” she said, lowering the little handgun and gulping in sawdust-tinged air that scratched at her already dry, itchy throat. “I just…I’m not…” She stopped and shrugged.

  And that’s when he did it again. He freakin’ went and winked at her before turning to jog up the stairs.

  Okay, so now it was all crystal clear. Somewhere, at some point, she’d fallen into a parallel universe. Shaking her head at this place heretofore referred to as Bizarro-Land, she winced when the movement caused her bruised brain to jostle against the sides of her skull.

  Lifting a hand, she rubbed at the lump forming on the back of her head—ow—just as the front door burst open. Spinning, she raised the pistol, supporting the butt with her free hand just as her uncle had taught her, then blew out a harsh breath when she realized it was Zoelner stepping over the threshold.

  “He got away,” he informed her, panting as he placed his hands on his hips and bent at the waist. “Fucker disappeared into the labyrinth of alleys around here, and I didn’t dare follow in case he was packing. Didn’t want to find myself stuck in a fata
l funnel.”

  Huh? “What’s a—”

  That’s all she managed to get out before Mac reappeared on the stairway. “Fatal funnels are hallways and alleys,” he answered the question she’d been in the middle of asking. “And they’re the last place a guy wants to be when the bullets start flyin’.”

  “Oh.” She nodded. “Makes sense.” And that was about the only thing in this entire weird-ass day that did.

  “Who was he?” Zoelner asked, and Delilah’s chin jerked back when she realized he was looking directly at her.

  “You’re asking me?” Unconsciously, she used the pistol as a pointer and aimed it at her own chest. When she looked down and realized what she was doing, she gulped and carefully set the weapon atop one of the sawhorses. “I…I have n-no idea. I didn’t get a chance to see his f-face, and I certainly didn’t recognize his v-voice.”

  Oh, good grief. Why in the world were her teeth ch-ch-chattering like she was standing in the bar’s walk-in refrigerator? She’d been in worse situations than the one upstairs. For heaven’s sake, she’d actually taken part in a bona fide shoot-out!

  Okay, and that was the dead-last thing she wanted to remember at this particular moment. Because anytime she opened the mental door to that terrible afternoon, the entire sad scene would inexplicably flash before her eyes. And, yup, right on cue, she saw it all again. Buzzard, her wiliest and most loyal patron slumped on a barstool, blood pouring from him in a thick, ghastly river, his eyes glassy and vacant and…dead.

  Her chest suddenly felt like it was supporting the weight of an elephant. And from out of nowhere came the thought that perhaps her uncle was somewhere in the same condition. Sitting or lying or crumpled in a heap, covered in blood and lifeless…

  Oh, God!

  “He spoke to you?” Mac queried, dragging her from her wild speculations. Thank goodness. She’d just about played the part of a nuclear reactor and had herself a good ol’-fashioned meltdown. “What did he say?”

  And the memory of that voice, not to mention the feel of the assailant’s hot breath brushing against her ear, caused her to shudder. Crossing her arms, she chafed her biceps, inexplicably cold despite the warmth of the late spring evening. “Well, he called me a bitch for starters,” she recalled, trying to play down the fear she’d felt in that moment by rolling her eyes and making a face. “And then he said if I behaved he wouldn’t have to hurt me.”

  “Lord almighty,” Mac growled, his wide jaw sawing back and forth as he crossed the room to retrieve the pistol she’d abandoned. Bending with a graceful fluidity that was incongruent when compared to his large physique, he resecured it in his ankle holster. “What the hell was he doin’ here? Do you suppose it has somethin’ to do with your uncle’s disappearance? Or is it possible he was simply taking advantage of your uncle’s absence to break in and steal stuff?” He straightened and glanced around the room. “There’s got to be thousands of dollars’ worth of tools in this place.”

  “But he wasn’t down here loading up the tools,” Zoelner said, a hard look of contemplation knitting his brow. “He was upstairs in Theo’s office.”

  “But that’s where Uncle Theo keeps his safe,” Delilah offered. “Maybe the guy thought there was a bigger payday to be had up there.”

  She shuddered at the memory of the man’s arms around her, his words in her ear. When Mac saw her continuing to chafe her arms, his frown turned so severe she feared his eyebrows might slide right down the middle of his nose. He reached for her wrist and dragged her next to him. Then he threw a heavy arm around her shoulders. See, Bizarro-Land. And as she absorbed some of his warmth, she admitted she was beginning to like it here.

  “I don’t believe in coincidences,” Zoelner declared.

  “Neither do I,” Mac agreed, lifting his free arm to rub a wide palm over the back of his neck.

  “Is your Spidey sense acting up?” Zoelner asked.

  Delilah frowned. Spidey sense? What the—

  “Sure as shit,” Mac said. “But that could be because we just witnessed some dude in Timberlands take a header out of a two-story window.”

  “Yeah.” Zoelner shrugged. “Or it could be because Mr. Timberlands is somehow mixed up with Theo’s disappearance.” Just the thought had another chill snaking down her spine. She shivered, and Mac absently chafed her arm. “And speaking of,” Zoelner turned to her, “I don’t suppose you found your uncle’s old address book?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “No address book. No files. Nothing that would tell us who Charlie is or where he lives.”

  “All the more reason to find out just who the hell Mr. Timberlands is.”

  “No argument here,” Mac agreed. “We can hack into the city surveillance cams back at headquarters. Maybe we got lucky and they caught an image that Ozzie can run against his facial recognition software. We can do that while we’re simultaneously searching phone records, military records, and anything else we can think of to find out just who this Charlie guy is and if it’s possible he has any connection to Mr. Timberlands. Is that all right with you?” Mac dipped his chin again, and there was that damn, tempting dimple.

  For a moment, she was too distracted with having to curl her hands into fists lest she reach up to press the pad of her finger against the thing—something she’d been daydreaming about doing for years, and, oh, for heaven’s sake, Delilah, now’s not the time—to realize what he was asking. Then it sank in.

  “You mean am I willing to let super-secret agents with contacts at the top tier of government take the lead on the investigation to find my uncle?” She made sure her expression adequately matched her scoffing tone. And, okay, so she couldn’t completely dispense with the sarcasm. “Uh, yeah. I think that’ll be all right with me.”

  “Good then.” Mac nodded. “It’s a plan.”

  A plan. She should feel elated. Unfortunately, she was too terrified for elation. Stepping out from under the comforting weight of his arm, a sticky warmth against her side had her glancing down. Pulling aside the edge of her lightweight riding jacket, she gasped when she saw bright red blood staining the bottom of her neon pink T-shirt.

  “What?” She gulped, pressing her hand against the blood. Had her assailant somehow wounded her? Had the adrenaline kept her from feeling it? “What?” she croaked again, staring at the smear of red on her fingertips when she pulled her hand away.

  “Don’t worry,” Mac told her. “It’s not yours.”

  “Not my—?” She blinked at him uncomprehendingly.

  “It’s mine.”

  “Y-yours?” Her gaze shot down to his side.

  Sure enough. A circle about the size of a Frisbee stained the black cotton of his T-shirt, making it appear shiny. And then she remembered.

  The letter opener…

  “Jesus Christ, Mac!” she yelped, rushing forward to lift his shirt. A deep gash about three inches long sliced through the perfection of his tan flank and leaked blood sluggishly.

  “It’s nothing,” he told her, dragging down the hem of his shirt. “It’s only about half an inch deep. Not something to worry about.”

  “It’s not nothing,” she insisted, all her anxiety and terror suddenly joined by twin helpings of dismay and guilt. She wasn’t usually a wilting lily when it came to the sight of blood, but knowing she’d wounded a man who’d only been trying to help her made her sick to her stomach. Literally. The stupid organ turned upside down and proceeded to disgorge acid up into her throat. “I-I stabbed you!”

  “Eh.” He shrugged his big shoulders. “People get stabbed all the time.”

  “In what universe?” she demanded incredulously. “Most folks I know get hangnails, not knife wounds!”

  “Really?” Zoelner asked, reminding Delilah of his presence. She’d completely forgotten about him. Of course, who could blame her when every fiber of her being was focused on the fact that she’d freakin’ stabbed Mac. Holy shit! “Maybe that means we’re in the wrong business, Mac. Because I’ve seen plenty
of stab wounds, but I can’t recall ever laying eyes on a hangnail.”

  “Are you thinkin’ a change of career is in order?” Mac asked Zoelner, one corner of his mouth twitching.

  Seriously? Seriously?

  “That bump to my head must’ve been harder than I thought,” she declared. “Because you two can’t really be standing here joking about the fact that I stabbed Mac.” I mean, Jesus!

  “I told you it’s nothin’,” Mac assured her. And before she could open her mouth to refute his statement a second time, he wrapped a hand around her bicep and started guiding her toward the front door. “Now, let’s get back to the shop so we can get Ozzie going on findin’ out who Mr. Timberlands is, and so Zoelner and I can get going on findin’ your uncle.”

  Oh, yeah. Finding her uncle. And there was that. Sweet Mary and Joseph, will this god-awful day ever end?

  Chapter Three

  Black Knights Inc. Headquarters

  “The prodigal sons have returned! And they’ve brought Delilah back with them!”

  A cheer sounded from all those gathered in the dark courtyard located behind BKI’s warehouse facilities. And the raised beer bottles, lively music, fire crackling in the pit, not to mention the canoodling couples lounging in mismatched lawn furniture around the pit, were the whole reason Dagan Zoelner had quit the scene four hours earlier in order to hail the first cab to Red Delilah’s Biker Bar.

  Because the Black Knights, his colleagues…or, okay, so despite the ignominious way in which he’d joined the group, he supposed he could now count them as his friends…had decided to throw an impromptu party. And if there was one night a year when the dead-last thing he wanted to do was pull a Will Smith and “get jiggy wit’ it,” this was it.

  Tonight of all nights, he had absolutely nothing to celebrate and a whole hell of a lot to lament. Beginning and ending with the five lives that had been lost six years ago because of his colossal fuckup…