“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!”

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 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—”