Hell for Leather: Black Knights Inc. (17 page)

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.”

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.

Okay, and just call him Mr. Stuck Between a Rock and a Hard Place. Because the Southern boy in him, the
gentleman
in him, couldn’t stand there watching her wilt right before his eyes, not when it would be so easy to lend her his support. Then again, there was the whole crack cocaine thing. And, truth be known, his little addiction had only gotten worse since that scene up in Sander’s bedroom.

Christ. How did I let it go so far? How could I have forgotten about the past? About Jolene? About not falling into that same ol’ trap that
—

The decision of whether he should or shouldn’t lend Delilah a strong shoulder to lean on was made for him when she opened her eyes and lifted her gaze to his face. Her expression was sad enough to bring a tear to a glass eye. And—
ah, hell
—that was it. He couldn’t stand it a second longer. He threw an arm around her shoulders.

“Okay,” Agent Duvall said to Greasy after having run her credit card. “We’re good here. Thanks for the hospitality.”

“Any time,” Greasy answered the CIA agent’s chest. Zoelner looked like he was ten seconds away from ripping the guy’s head off. And, yessiree, Mac certainly knew the feeling.

Luckily, he and Zoelner were saved from being forced to hone their decapitation skills when Agent Duvall turned, motioning for the group to follow her. And like a troop of well-trained goslings, they tailed Mother Goose out into the motel’s patchy front lawn.

“Morales booked it so you men are bunking two to a room,” she said, sorting through a handful of old-fashioned keys. The bits of dull metal were attached to key rings that were themselves attached to plastic circles sporting numbers. Apparently, Mr. and Mrs. Greasy hadn’t upgraded the Noel Motel’s locks to that of twenty-first century standards.

Again, Mac couldn’t help but think
clean
and
secure? This place?

It was almost like Agent Duvall’s supervisor was pulling a giant joke on them. And, come to think of it, he wouldn’t necessarily put it past the guy. After all, BKI’s relationship with The Company had been on shaky ground ever since the CIA erroneously listed Rock, the Knights’ resident interrogator extraordinaire, as a rogue operator. And then there was the fact that the Black Knights had happily taken on Dagan Zoelner after the spooks booted him out. So, yeah, giant joke. Had to be.

Then again, Agent Duvall didn’t
look
like there was a hidden candid camera behind one of her shirt buttons. In fact, she looked serious as death while untangling the mess of keys. “All the rooms have two full-sized beds in them,” she said. “So it shouldn’t be a problem for you boys to double up.”

“Don’t tell me the CIA is too cheap to spring for individual rooms,” Ozzie harrumphed, crossing his arms. “Or maybe you guys spent all your money on those two-hundred-dollar ashtrays and four-thousand-dollar toilet seats?”

“Z,” Agent Duvall said, completely ignoring Ozzie, “you and Mac are in room three.” She handed Zoelner the key. “Delilah gets her own room, number four.”

Mac watched Delilah reach forward to take the key and noted her hand trembled ever so slightly. He instinctively pulled her closer to his side. She tucked her thumb through one of his belt loops, and why that one small move—her subtle message of trust—should simultaneously thrill him and scare him shitless he didn’t know.

“Fitzsimmons and Wallace,” Agent Duvall handed a key to the now jean-clad, T-shirt-wearing Fitzsimmons, “you guys are in room five. I figure with Delilah between both groups, no one will feel left out.” And
that
was a bit political for a spook. Generally, they weren’t known to be all that accommodating. “I’ll be in room six. Which leaves Ozzie and Steady, once he returns, to take up residence in room seven.”

As if speaking the man’s name aloud somehow conjured him up, Mac’s phone vibrated in his hip pocket. Pulling out the device, he saw the medic’s encrypted number on his screen.

“Go,” he barked, listening intently. Then, “Steady, man, I know details aren’t your strong suit,” BKI’s medic was notorious for being overly—and most times confusingly—concise, “but I’m gonna need more than a simple report of
situation
stable, medical intervention commencing
.” Steady blew out a blustery breath on the other end of the connection before deigning to oblige him. Ending the call, Mac quickly relayed Steady’s news. “Fido’s bleedin’ has stopped. He’s bein’ wheeled into surgery. The vet says chances are good the big jughead will make it.”

Delilah lifted her free hand to her mouth, her big green eyes brightening with tears. When her chin started to wobble, Mac knew the fear, fatigue, and overwhelming doses of adrenaline she’d been running on for more than a day had finally taken their toll. She needed a hot shower and soft bed. In that order. And fast.

“He’s really going to make it?” she asked, trying to blink away her tears. One lone drop defied her efforts and slid down her dusty cheek.

“He said chances are good,” Mac assured her, taking the key from her hand and nodding for the rest of the group to carry on as he escorted her to her room. Inserting the key into the lock, he had to wiggle it a bit, but the knob finally turned. Pushing the door open, he hit the light switch on the wall and discovered, much to his surprise, that the Noel Motel’s room number four was decently clean.

Oh, the bedspreads on the two beds were faded, and the carpet sported a faint stain under the window air-conditioning unit. But the walls appeared to be freshly painted. The furniture seemed to have been made sometime within the past decade. And the air smelled of cleaning supplies, furniture polish, and freshly laundered linens. Apparently, Mr. and Mrs. Greasy were smart enough to employ a decent maid staff.

Who
woulda
thunk
it?

Maneuvering Delilah over the threshold, he allowed the door to swing shut behind them. Well,
almost
shut. It caught on the doorframe at the top and remained open a tiny crack.
Yeah, super secure spot Morales picked out for us. Pfft.
Not bothering to wrestle the aperture into place, he turned back to find Delilah watching him. And it was then he realized he was alone. With her. In a motel room. With
two
beds.

His stomach began a freefall like the time he’d been on a BKI mission that required him to execute a HALO—high altitude/low open—jump out of a Boeing C-17 over the spiky mountains of the Hindu Kush. That particularly hairy assignment had almost killed him. He wasn’t completely certain this situation right here wasn’t just as dangerous.

***

“If you’re okay here, I’m gonna head next door,” Mac said after he switched on the window air-conditioning unit. It hummed to life, filling the room with the sharp, dry aroma of chemical coolant.

Delilah turned to find him backing toward the door, the look on his face wary and slightly…alarmed?
Wha
—She blinked, narrowing her eyes as her weary brain tried to make sense of his expression. Then it hit her when his gaze darted to one of the beds and lingered there a moment.

Really? He’s scared I’m going to jump his bones?

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. And then, blame it on exhaustion or frustration or mental whiplash from riding an emotional roller coaster for the last thirty-six hours, but she found, in that moment, she very much wanted to prove him right. She
did
want to jump his bones. If for no other reason than to wipe that ridiculous look off his face.

Crossing her arms, she tilted her head. “What’s with you, anyway?”

He blinked. “Huh?”

“I mean, all this time, I thought you didn’t particularly like me. Thought maybe you didn’t like red hair.” She lifted a lock off her shoulder. “Or thick thighs.” She motioned toward her legs. “But then there was that whole deal up in Sander’s bedroom and—”

“You don’t have thick thighs,” Mac muttered, not quite meeting her gaze. “I don’t know why women always think they have thick thighs…”

“
That’s
what you took away from what I just said?”

He
did
meet her gaze then. And what do you suppose the big, irritating, lug did? He shrugged. Shrugged!
Ooh!

“Okay,” she huffed. “Let me put it another way. How can you have spent the last four years sneering at me like I’m something stuck to the bottom of your shoe, and then suddenly claim last night that you’re my friend? How can you claim to be my friend last night, only to kiss me cross-eyed up in Sander’s bedroom this morning?” She enumerated her points on her fingers as she made them. “And how can you kiss me cross-eyed this morning, only to turn around and sneer at me down in Sander’s living room five minutes later? It’s like you can’t decide whether you like me or loathe me.”

He hooked his thumbs in his front belt loops and rocked back on his heels. He may’ve been trying to pretend supreme indolence, but the air around him, the air between them, crackled with electricity. And his expression might’ve suddenly gone all lazy, Southern boy, devil-may-care, his stare heavy lidded, but his eyes were absolutely full of guarded calculation.

“Like you said,” he mumbled, “given the evidence in Sander’s bedroom, it’s quite obvious my feelings toward you fall
firmly
in the ‘like’ category.”

“I’m not talking
physically
,” she stressed. “I get now that your boy parts like my girl parts, thick thighs and all, but—”

“You
do
not
have thick thighs!”

“Why the hell are we still talking about my thighs?”

“Because you keep bringin’ them up!” He’d dropped the easy-going act. Now his wide jaw was sawing back and forth, and he crossed his arms over his chest. Yep. There were those barbed wire tattoos. And
there
were those bulging biceps.