“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.

Taken as a pair, the two were incongruous. What with Mac estimating Greasy didn’t weigh in at over a buck and a quarter soaking wet while Mrs. Greasy had to be pushing the scales at close to four hundred pounds.

This is the clean, secure place Morales reserved for us? he thought, glancing around the wood-paneled office with its row of dusty tchotchkes in the window and the lone gumball machine by the front door. The ceiling fan whirled drunkenly overhead, off balance and doing little to cut through the smoke floating near the ceiling.

The flickering neon sign outside proclaimed the place was the Noel Motel, but from the looks of Mr. and Mrs. Greasy—not to mention the hourly rates, the rickety row of doors leading to no-doubt questionably cleaned rooms, and the off-street parking located in the back of the place—Mac figured it might as well have been named the No Tell Motel. And if Delilah hadn’t looked as though she was about to collapse in her tracks, like her giddy-up-and-go done got up and went, he might have insisted they go somewhere else.

“My boss called and reserved some rooms for us,” Agent Duvall announced as she shouldered through the front door, Zoelner, Ozzie, and the SWAT guys—now dressed in civilian garb—ambling in behind her. Quick as a cricket, the CIA had replaced the agent’s car while simultaneously supplying Fitzsimmons and Wallace with new duds. Mac had to give it to the spooks. They were grade-A number ones when it came to pulling rabbits out of hats.

“You’re the Land Management folks who’re in town to check on our water quality?” Greasy asked, dragging his eyes away from Delilah’s breasts in order to assess the newly arrived group. He grinned again when he got a load of Agent Duvall’s rack.

Talk about ten pounds of shit in a five-pound bag, Mac thought uncharitably, moving slightly in order to draw Greasy’s attention away from the women. It worked. When Greasy saw his unfriendly expression, the guy’s smile faltered.

“That’d be us,” Chelsea concurred, pushing her way up to the desk.

“You come to find out why the water outta the tap smells like swamp ass some days?” Mrs. Greasy inquired, never taking her eyes off the television screen. Smoke curled from her nostrils as she used the butt of one cigarette to light the tip of another.

“Sure did.” Chelsea reached into her carryall to whip out a credit card stamped with a picture of a pine forest and the words Land Management.

See… Rabbit out of hat. Mac shook his head, then narrowed his eyes and stepped over to Delilah when she swayed slightly. She lifted a hand to her temple and squeezed her eyelids closed.