For the love of Christ, no. Because even though the thought of him being a tease sat about as well as a raw catfish dinner, he had to admit that that’s exactly what he was. A tease with a capital T. A tease in the classic sense of the word. Hot one minute, cold the next. Beckoning her closer with one hand while pushing her away with the other.

It had to be confusing as hell…

And the good Lord knew she didn’t deserve it. After all, she couldn’t see the future laid out before them the way he could. She didn’t know about the history he refused to see repeated… Of course, what she deserved and didn’t deserve would have to play second fiddle to him figuring out how in the world he was ever going to go back to the man he’d been before that little scene upstairs. The man who could resist her come-on-cowboy looks and blatant propositions.

She said she’d lay off if you gave her one kiss, he reminded himself. But that was all a big, smelly pile of cow manure—and he should know; he’d dealt with his fair share. Because she’d gone back on that deal almost as soon as she’d made it.

Boy howdy, did she ever. He could still feel the strength of her fingers digging into his hair. Still taste the sweetness of her tongue as she kissed him to within an inch of his life. Yep, she’d reneged on the deal faster than a bee-stung stallion out of the gate. And now here he was…sporting half a hard-on and having to curl his hands into fists lest he use them to reach out and strangle someone.

He’d prefer it was her neck he wrapped his fingers around. Unfortunately, not only was she absent from the room, but throttling her meant he’d also be touching her again. And he knew what sort of tomfuckery that led to. For shit’s sake, this situation right here was the whole reason the term FUBAR came into being.

“And there we are,” Steady said, diverting Mac’s attention from his unsavory thoughts. The image had finally rendered, displaying Charles Sander’s house, as well as the houses around it in a one-block radius. The five of them, huddled together so tightly, showed up as one giant green blob. Two more fluorescent dots of heat appeared in the backyard, Delilah’s signature about twice the size of Fido’s. Other than that, the block was empty of life.

So what else is new, Mac thought ill-temperedly. And, okay, the truth was, despite his pseudo ire at Delilah’s blatant lie when it came to that whole one-kiss-only business, he desperately wanted to help her locate her uncle. Because, damnit, not only did he like Theo, but he also liked her. Liked her spunk and grit. Liked her sultry laugh and easy smile. And despite the fact that he couldn’t give her what she was asking for in terms of them sharing some sort of relationship, the idea of being a hero for her was more than a mildly satisfying concept.

There. He admitted it.

Of course, admitting he liked her and craved playing the part of her knight in shining armor—or Black Knight in shining armor; yeah, he could be corny occasionally—didn’t change anything. So, then where did that leave—

“Okay,” Ozzie sighed, disappointment evident in his tone. Obviously, he was coming to the same conclusion that Mac had already reached. Simply put, going door-to-door in Cairo would be a useless endeavor. “Let’s keep moving. Bring up the next scan.”

But just as the image on the iPad screen began to fade, something strange happened. The dot that was Delilah separated into two distinct blotches. And it was like the Grim Reaper himself scraped a broken nail up the length of Mac’s spine.

“What the hell?” Zoelner said, but Mac was already in motion, hurtling the coffee table and knocking over a kitchen chair in his mad dash toward the back door. Had he thought it possible, he’d have left a Mac-shaped hole through the sucker—just Supermanned his way right through it—but instead he skidded to a stop, yanking the slab of warped oak open.

The scene that met his eyes was enough to stop his thundering heart. A dark-haired man was busy heaving a limp Delilah into his arms. And Fido, the poor beast, was bleeding from a wound to his chest while valiantly trying to drag himself closer to the man’s boots.

Boots…

Timberlands…

Delilah’s mystery man? What the hell?

Mac’s Glock was in his hand before he made the conscious decision to reach for it. “Halt!” he yelled, pointing his weapon at Mr. Timberlands’ back. “Or I’ll shoot!”

Had he had a clean shot, he’d have gone ahead with it without giving Mr. Timberlands a warning. But Delilah’s slack form pressed all along the man’s front prohibited him from squeezing the trigger. He couldn’t chance his bullet slicing through the guy and entering her.

Timberlands swung around, his eyes bugging out of his head like a horny toad trying to shit a chicken bone when he saw Mac drawing down on him. Delilah hung limply in his arms, her head dangling until her fiery hair obscured her face, the red-painted tips of her toes barely touching the grass. Mr. Timberlands held the length of a bloody knife to her throat.

Blood…

Delilah’s blood?

Mac’s pulse roared between his ears, his scalp on fire and feeling as if it was trying to crawl off his skull. But, no. Save for the few crimson drops that had fallen from the knife to stain her pink T-shirt, she appeared unscathed. Unconscious—which was bad enough—but otherwise unscathed.

He drew in a shaky breath and whispered a quick prayer of thanks as he tracked the guy’s every move down the length of his Glock’s sights. His finger was on the trigger, ready to pump out lead the very moment he got the opportunity.

“Holy crap on a cracker,” Ozzie murmured, dropping down to one knee beside Mac, his handgun up and aimed. Steady and Zoelner quickly took up positions on his other side, weapons out and at the ready.

“I need satellite surveillance on my location now,” Agent Duvall barked into her Bluetooth. She was standing behind Mac, turkey-peeking around his back at Timberlands. “A suspect is in sight and attempting to abduct Delilah Fairchild. I need facial recognition, ASAP. Who is he?”

Mac didn’t give a flying fuck who the guy was. All he cared about was introducing him to the full measure of BKI meanness. Just as soon as he had a clean shot, the dude was dead. Dead as in dead. Dead as in six feet under, dirt-nap dead.

“You shoot me,” Mr. Timberlands called, his accent thick, “and you might hit the woman!” The man was slowly scooting the last few feet toward the open gate at the rear of the yard.

“Anybody have a clean shot?” Mac asked from the corner of his mouth.

“No.”

“Negative.”

“Wish I did,” were the responses he received. Shit, shit, shit.

Okay. And like any good card player, Mac knew when it was time to bluff. “I’m a better shot than you think,” he yelled. And in all honesty, he was good. All the Black Knights were. But regardless of what people saw on TV and the movies, trying to hit a moving target from thirty yards away wasn’t as easy as it looked. In that split-second from the time he squeezed the trigger until the bullet found its mark, Mr. Timberlands could jerk or move just an inch or two and Delilah could end up hit. Of course, it was always possible Timberlands didn’t know that. “Now either I can put a hole clean through the center of your forehead, or we can skip the bloodstains and you can drop the woman! Dealer’s choice!”

“If you thought you could do it,” the guy called, nearly to the gate, “you would have done it already.”

And, goddamnit. So they weren’t dealing with a man a few bricks shy of a full load here. Talk about dumb luck. What were the odds this criminal, whoever he was, would have some brains in him?

Mac flicked his gaze to the right, to the left, wondering how in the world this standoff would end. Maybe if he started closing the distance, he could distract the man while the Knights moved in to flank him. Maybe if he—

But then something amazing happened. Fido lunged forward with a mighty heave and sunk his teeth into Mr. Timberlands’ ankle. It was enough to distract the guy into losing his hold on Delilah. She slid down his front, just a bit, but it gave Mac the advantage he needed.

In the blink of an eye, his heart slowed, his vision sharpened, his muscles relaxed, and on a silent exhale he applied three pounds of pressure to the Glock’s trigger. The boom was deafening in the close confines of the back porch, but he barely noticed it, too busy jumping from the top step to the yard below.

His bullet nicked Mr. Timberlands’ upper shoulder, and Mac landed on the lawn in time to witness the force of the round’s impact spin the guy like a top. He dropped Delilah in the process, and she crumpled to the ground like a rag doll, arms and legs akimbo. The moment she was free and clear, Mac let loose with all his fear and fury.

“Halt, you motherfucker!” he roared, welcoming the burn of his thighs as his long strides ate up the distance. But, Mr. Timberlands didn’t heed his warning. The man managed to regain his balance, and, turning on his heel, fled.

Chapter Thirteen

Boom! Mac squeezed his trigger again. This time his shot flew wide, slamming into the fence, shattering one brittle length of wood into a hundred splinters. A flurry of gunfire rang out behind him, the BKI boys joining the party. And though the fence line was instantly blown to smithereens, reduced to matchsticks in some parts, Mr. Timberlands serpentined his way the last few steps and managed to miraculously slip through the gate.

“Get him!” Mac yelled as his legs churned over those last few yards. He might be slow with his words, but, by God, he was fast on his feet. Then, in a move any MLB player would envy, he slid across the final distance, ending up on his side before throwing his body over Delilah’s inert form. If there was more gunplay, he needed to make sure she wasn’t hit by a stray bullet or flying fence debris. But to his utter dismay, not one additional shot echoed out over the abandoned neighborhood. Which meant the Knights didn’t have a clear bead on Delilah’s assailant. Sonofa—

He could hear them charging toward him, but he didn’t dare raise his head until he felt them draw near. Zoelner flew past him first, boots pounding, arms pumping. Ozzie was right on his heels, pistol locked and loaded, up and ready to fire. When Steady pulled even, Mac reached out and snagged his foot.

“La madre que te parió!” Steady bellowed in Spanish as he tripped, arms flailing, legs pinwheeling before his quick, operator reflexes kicked in and he righted himself.

“The dog.” Mac pointed to the animal, lying on its side no more than two feet away, its panting breaths fanning the dirt of the yard. “He may’ve just saved her life. Now you have to try to save his.”

Steady gulped as he looked down at the dog, his expression pitying. Then he nodded and knelt beside the animal.

Carefully, Mac pushed into a seated position, tucking his Glock into his waistband as he gathered Delilah in his lap. She was so still. So pale.

“Delilah.” He gently tapped a finger against her satiny cheek, taking comfort in its warmth. “Darlin’…you need to wake up, now.”

Nothing. Not one move. Not one whimper. His heart hammered hollowly against his ribs.

Letting his gaze slip down to her throat, he noted with intense satisfaction that her pulse was hammering there, and when his eyes slid farther down, to her chest, he wanted to crow with victory when he saw it rise on a shallow breath. Come on, darlin’. You can do it. Wake up.

“Hijo de puta,” Steady cursed, whipping off his shirt to press it to the wound in Fido’s chest. “I don’t know dick about canine physiology, Mac.”

“Just do your best,” he said, softly rocking the woman in his arms, murmuring to her as he continued to caress her dirty cheek.

And you know that soft, gooey center of his? Well, it was melting like a Hershey’s bar left out in the summer sun. Because not only was he witnessing what were probably the last moments of one very valiant dog—was that a goddamn tear in his eye?—but seeing Delilah like this…so limp, so quiet…was like watching a raging inferno sputter and die. All that fiery energy was just…gone.

He ran his hand over her head, trying to feel for bumps or for the warm wetness of blood. Had Mr. Timberlands hit her with something? With the hilt of his knife, perhaps? Was her brain even now swelling inside the confines of her skull, causing her to slip into a coma? But his searching fingers found nothing, nothing to account for the fact that she was still out cold. Dear God, I promise you that if you let her—