Julie Walker - Hell for Leather

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?

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…

And to tell the truth, though he was sorry as hell for Delilah and the pain and anguish she was going through—then there was his own anxiety surrounding the matter; he happened to like Theo Fairchild immensely—he wasn’t sorry to have something other than the anniversary of that clusterfuck in Afghanistan to occupy his mind. Because, try as he might—and you can bet your ass he’d been trying with all his might—he hadn’t been able to wash away with good Scottish whiskey the memories of that hot desert afternoon and the gruesome images that flashed behind his lids anytime he closed his eyes.

And, yes, he fully realized that numbing his pain at the expense of his liver was anything but mature, and he usually made a concerted effort to be out on a mission when this particular date rolled around. But with one of the Knights’ wives about to pop out a mini Knight at any moment, Boss, the esteemed leader of their little group of covert operators, had done his best to make sure as many of the guys as possible were on hand to witness the blessed event.

And, wouldn’t you know, Dagan’s last mission had ended three days ago, and since then, nothing pressing had come over the wires necessitating him to head back out to parts unknown. Which meant that he was stuck. Here. Waiting on the arrival of a bouncing bundle of joy and unexpectedly finding himself in the middle of a party he wanted no part of…

Then again, that wasn’t totally true. Because he was happy for his fellow operator. Honestly, he was. Even now, as he looked at Ghost rubbing the lower back of his extremely pregnant wife, Ali, he couldn’t deny the tiny spark of satisfaction…and is that longing?…that flashed deep inside him.

The Knights’ transient lifestyles, while thrilling, tended to make them a bad bet for solid relationships. Being hell and gone all the time seemed to curtail serious attachments. But somehow this guy, this hard-driving, hard-fighting operator, had managed to make it work. He’d managed to find a measure of peace, a little bit of happiness, despite the oftentimes spectacular pile of shit that was their under-the-table and off-the-books work for Uncle Sam. And standing there, watching him grin at his wife like he’d just won the lottery gave Dagan hope that maybe someday he, too, might discover a love that could repair all the broken things inside him. A love that could bring him some small level of contentment, that would…he didn’t know…make it all, all the struggle and pain, all the regret and sacrifice, worth it.

On the other hand, Ghost was a grade-A, stand-up guy who didn’t have the blood of five innocent people on his hands, so—

“Three more barley pops for the new arrivals, Steady!” Ozzie, the Knights’ on-staff computer whiz, called cheerfully to the ex–Army Ranger medic who now served as BKI’s in-house sawbones. “And while you’re at it, pass me one, too.”

“I thought you said you were headed out to sow your wild oats,” Steady retorted as he popped the top on the big cooler positioned beside his bright red Adirondack chair.

“Sow his wild oats?” Becky, BKI’s wunderkind motorcycle designer/mechanic, scoffed from her position on Boss’s lap. She was simultaneously sucking down suds and lapping at one of her ever-present Dum Dum lollipops. And just imagining that particular taste combination made the scotch in Dagan’s stomach threaten a reappearance. “Is that what you call getting more ass than a sorority house toilet seat?” A wet, slightly fishy-smelling breeze blew in from the nearby Chicago River and teased the ends of her long blond ponytail. Then her smile quickly morphed into a frown as she pointed the end of her sucker in Ozzie’s direction. “And you can wipe that look off your face right this minute.”