Hell for Leather: Black Knights Inc. (23 page)

“Aren’t you a vocal one?” observed one of the men as he skirted around in front her. He was dark like the others, with a hawkish nose and a cruel mouth. Was this Qasim? The man Agent Duvall spoke of? The mass murderer of innocents? He didn’t look all that impressive, below average in height and underfed. But he
did
look like he could be the leader of the group. It was the way he held his chin high, his spine straight.

“Fuck you!” she yelled around her gag, crying out when one of the men holding her in a kneeling position slapped her across the face. Her head whipped to the side. Her lip split open. Pain seared. Blood trickled and dripped from her chin. She could smell it, the iron richness of it. But she didn’t cry out. She
wouldn’t
cry out. Not again. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.
The
bastards!

Slowly turning back to face the leader, she didn’t attempt to hide her hatred. It was there in the hot glow of her eyes, in the wide flare of her nostrils.

The leader tut-tutted when he saw her bloodied lip, frowning at the man who hit her. He said something in a language she couldn’t understand before smiling down at her. The expression reminded her of a snake. Vicious. Venomous.
Savage.
She gulped. She couldn’t help herself.

“Would you like me to tell you what I just told Sami?” he asked conversationally, as if this was a social occasion and not an abduction and precursor to what she knew would be a torture session.

Torture session…

Would she be able to withstand it? She prided herself on her strength, but she never bargained to be put to the test this way.
Mac! Where are you? Are you coming for me? Do you even know I’m gone?

“Miss Fairchild,” the leader spat, his smile fading. “I asked you a question. I expect an answer. This will go easier for you if you cooperate.”

“Fuck you,” she snarled again, but the volume was gone from her voice. All that screaming had shredded her vocal cords. When she swallowed, her tears ran down the back of her nose and burned her damaged throat.

“Indeed,” the man said. “That
is
the plan. Which is why I told Sami he would have to wait to bloody you. Because the rest of us like our women to look pretty while we fuck them.”

Her limbs began to shake uncontrollably as the fire in her blood turned to glacier ice, as the flames that had mere moments ago been her lungs and heart banked, leaving the organs frozen solid.

Evil…

The word whispered through her head. And, yes. As she stared into the soulless pools of Qasim’s dark—he had to be Qasim, right?—eyes, she knew she was seeing pure evil. There was no humanity there. No compassion. Just ugly malevolence and…
death
.

And that’s when it hit her. She was going to die here. But first…she was going to experience horror.

Jesus, help me! Mac…!

***

“If you think we’re stayin’ here,” Mac thundered at Agent Fitzsimmons as they stood in the small clearing around an abandoned ranger’s station in Shawnee National Forest, “you’re crazier than a shithouse rat!”

“You have no jurisdiction,” Fitzsimmons snarled impatiently, slipping an extra clip into his pocket. The guy was back in SWAT gear, flash-bang stun grenades attached to his vest, headset radio clamped around his ear, and a Spyderco knife velcro-ed up near his shoulder. Even in the twilight filtering through the softly swaying trees, Mac could see that his face was like a hurricane. Not that he blamed the guy. Less than an hour ago, Fitzsimmons had watched his buddy’s body being covertly loaded into the back of a black SUV, the pool of Wallace’s blood cleaned away as if it’d never existed.

Which was
exactly
why Mac was insisting he and the Knights join the CIA wet team going in after Delilah and Theo. Well, that and the fact that he trusted his skills and those of his teammates over anyone else’s, but right now that was beside the point. Because, given Wallace’s brutal murder, he wouldn’t put it past these spooky boys to go in weapons hot. Exacting a little revenge for their downed comrade, and damn the two innocents caught in the crossfire.

No lie, Mac would sooner slit his own throat and the throats of every single CIA bastard gearing up around him than allow that to happen.

Delilah…
For the love of Christ, he could hardly
breathe
for the fear squeezing his chest. Barely
think
for the terrible images ripping through his brain like mortar rounds.

Ten minutes after they discovered Wallace’s body—the longest ten minutes of Mac’s life—Agent Duvall finally received word on the numbers assigned to the three cellular phones Hasan and al-Hallaj purchased in Canada. It took two minutes more to pinpoint the locations of the devices. Well…
two
of the devices, anyway. The first had been taped beneath the seat of Delilah’s motorcycle—which was obviously how al-Hallaj had been able to track her to the Noel Motel. The second phone trace put the caller smack-dab in the center of the Shawnee National Forest. But the CIA had some trouble tracking the third device. Something about spotty cell tower coverage, an issue with triangulation, marginal signal strength, yada, yada, what the fuck ever. All Mac had cared about was getting to the Shawnee National Forest…

The drive from Olive Branch, Illinois, to the park should have taken seventy minutes. Mac and the BKI boys mounted up and made it in thirty-five, even beating the CIA wet team that arrived via chopper a few seconds later.

Which brought them here, to this moment. One very pissed-off CIA agent squaring off against one unspeakably terrified BKI operator. Of course, Mac couldn’t let anyone
see
how terrified he was. How his heart was pounding out of control. How his kneecaps felt like they’d been replaced by globs of Jell-O. How his hands shook before he curled them into fists.

And, really? At a time like this, the guy had the audacity to bring up jurisdiction? Mac considered giving Fitzsimmons a little sermon about the dangers of, as Mac’s father used to say, hanging his washing out on someone else’s line. But Mac had neither the patience, nor the inclination to lecture the man. Instead he went with, “You’re one to talk about jurisdiction, Mr.
CIA
”—he made sure to emphasize the word—“Agent.
We
,” he motioned to Steady and Ozzie who were lined up beside him, “have more jurisdiction than
you
any day of the week and twice on Sunday.”

“Shut up, shut up.” Agent Duvall, who was looking over a map of the park, waved him to silence. She cupped her hand over her ear, listening intently to whatever information was being relayed to her, and Mac waited with bated breath. “Are we absolutely positive?” the little CIA agent asked after a beat. More listening. More waiting. Mac thought he was about to go insane, then, “Affirmative. We’ll move out in ninety seconds.”

“What is it?” he demanded, barely resisting the urge to reach out and strangle the woman when she took the time to drag in a deep breath. The evening air hung around them, heavy with the earthy smells of moist undergrowth and spring leaves.

“We were finally able to pinpoint that third phone,” she said. “It’s now joined the second one in the middle of the park.” She folded a section of the map over her arm. Popping a penlight in her mouth to add some light, she pointed with her finger at a dot on the map labeled Devil’s Den. Beside the name was a number with a red hash mark through it.

“What does that mean?” Mac flicked a finger at the symbol.

Agent Duvall unfolded the map until she found the legend. Removing the penlight, she said, “Says here, it’s a cavern. One that’s been closed to the public for over a decade due to a cave-in near the back.”

A cave. That made sense. Dark. Quiet. Secluded. Just what a group of terrorists would need.

Mac welcomed the hard kick of adrenaline that made his pulse jump, his muscles clench. “Let’s go,” he said, reaching around to pull his Glock from his waistband.

“I
said
you’re not invited,” Fitzsimmons growled.

Mac wanted to punch the guy but couldn’t afford to waste the time or the effort. Not with Delilah in the hands of terrorists. He felt every ticking second like it was a physical blow. “And I thought I made myself clear I wasn’t waitin’ on an invitation,” he spat. Hopefully his immovability on the issue was as evident in his sneer as it was in the quick movements he used to slide out his clip, find it full and rip-roarin’-rarin’ to go, and slam it back home with the edge of his palm.

Fitzsimmons took a menacing step forward before Agent Duvall stopped him with a hand to the chest. “Hold on a second, Agent,” she said, pushing her Bluetooth closer to her head, her color rising as one second stretched into two. Then she lowered her hand and gritted, “We’ve just had orders that the Knights are to lead this mission.”

Mac’s chin jerked back. Not only go on the mission but
lead
it?
What
in
the
world?
Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw Zoelner standing off to the side, quietly talking into his cell phone. “Thanks, Boss,” the ex–CIA agent said, nodding. “And be sure to thank the president for stepping in like this.”

Mac saw Fitzsimmons’ jaw nearly fall off his face a split second before the guy snapped it shut.

“Sorry, Chels,” Zoelner said as he jogged over to them. But it was obvious from his expression that the
last
thing he was feeling was sorry. “But I thought you guys had been in charge for just about long enough. And besides, I work for the president now. My loyalty belongs solely to him. To be quite honest, it was making me antsy that you were keeping him in the dark.”

And not for the first time, Mac realized how nifty working directly for POTUS could be.
El
Jefe
himself had put the Black Knights in charge, and that was music to Mac’s ears. Had he thought he could grab Zoelner and kiss him smack on the mouth without receiving a knee to the groin for his effort, he would have done it. Instead, he simply showed his appreciation with a terse dip of his chin. Zoelner smiled, returning the gesture.

“Get them geared up, Fitzsimmons,” Agent Duvall said, her jaw working back and forth. “We move out in sixty.”

“Excuse me, Agent,” Zoelner said, “but I believe that’s our call. Mac?”

“We’ll take Kevlar, extra clips, and radio headsets,” Mac informed Fitzsimmons. “And we’ll gear up on the go. Because we’re moving out,” he waved two fingers in the direction of the dark forest and the cave known as Devil’s Den, “right now.”

Sometime later, he would appreciate the look of utter disgust on the spook’s face who was forced to hand him his gear as he jogged toward the tree line. But right at that moment there was only one thought, one name, one person on his mind.
Delilah…
Hold
on. I’m coming…

Don’t tell them
, Delilah begged her uncle with her eyes, biting into the gag, holding back a sob as Qasim reached forward to dip a hand into her shirt and painfully squeeze her left nipple. The skin on his palm was hot and damp, evidence of his excitement.

And as terrifying as it’d been when her uncle was unconscious, it was nothing compared to the horrible moment they roused him with a vial of something held under his nose. Nothing compared to the moment his pain-filled eyes met hers, and she saw his expression morph from shock to anguish to heartrending sorrow. And it was nothing compared to the absolute misery sketched across his features now, when he was given the choice of telling the men the coordinates of the missing nukes or watching as they defiled her one-by-one.

“What will it be, Theodore?” Qasim asked. One of the men kept Delilah from turning her chin with a hard fist curled in her hair. But from the corner of her eye she could see Qasim use his free hand to rub the length of his erection. She fought the urge to retch as her bare toes curled away from the cold stone beneath them, the tops of her feet beating inconsequentially against the ungiving ground. “Will you give us the information we seek now? In which case, I can make this quick and painless for both of you.” He moved his hand from his erection to the butt of the pistol protruding from his waistband. “Or you can remain as stubborn as you’ve been all along. In which case, I will see that you both suffer unimaginably.”

Don’t tell them…
she mentally cried again. Because she knew, regardless of whether or not her uncle gave them the information they wanted, Qasim and his men were going to rape her. She knew it because she recognized lust when she saw it. She knew it because she recognized the look of a man who’d made up his mind.

Which meant now all she could hope to do was to drag out the ordeal long enough to give Mac the time he needed to find her.
Mac? Are you coming? Please, please be coming!
Or, barring salvation, simply withstand as well as she could whatever they forced on her, accept her death, and keep the world safe from the likes of these disgusting, soulless animals. Because, if it came down to her life or the lives of thousands, there was no choice.

She wasn’t being selfless. She was simply being realistic. If the terrorists found and used nuclear bombs on American soil, World War III would soon follow. The U.S. government would unleash hell on one faction after another, one rogue nation after another, allies would come to the aid of allies until the whole world was in flames. And it all,
everything
, hinged on this one moment. On two people being able to stay strong. Stay…silent. Endure.

“I am waiting, Theodore,” Qasim sing-songed, removing his hand from her shirt. She huffed out a soft breath of relief, but the feeling was short-lived. Because Qasim drew back his hand and punched her left breast. The blow was enough to knock her from her kneeling position, her ass landing on her ankles and driving her shin bones into the cool, wet rock.

Again, she had to bite into the gag to keep from crying out. Pain buffeted her from all directions. It was searing, relentless, savage. And she knew it was about to get worse.

Her uncle’s furious yell rang in her ears like a death knell. The sound of his boots scrabbling against the stone and echoing around the cavern was macabre as he fought to free himself from the man holding him. But he was far too weak to manage anything more than ineffectual struggles. And when she pressed herself back up to her knees, lifting her chin—they could beat her bloody, but she promised herself she would not yield; she would
never
yield—she saw the tears streaming down her uncle’s battered face. Her thundering heart ached for him, bled for him. Then the organ slowed and stopped altogether when his look of anguish slid into one of desperate indecision.

Oh, God. No!
She tried to shake her head, but the hand in her hair precluded the moment. “Don’t tell,” she garbled around the gag. “Uncle Theo, don’t tell.”

Her head was wrenched back and a traitorous squeak of misery slipped from her ravaged throat. She squeezed her eyes closed, felt hot tears seep from the corners.

“Sorry,” she heard her uncle choke, and her eyes shot wide, her breath shuddering from her lungs.
No. Surely he wouldn’t…

The man with his fist in her hair allowed her to lift her chin, and she did so with trepidation. She didn’t want to see defeat in her uncle’s eyes. She didn’t think she could stand watching him surrender. But one quick glance at his beloved face, one swift look into those blue eyes she’d always adored, and she knew…

Her uncle wasn’t apologizing for giving in to the terrorists. He was apologizing because he
wasn’t
giving in to them. He was apologizing because he knew they were both going to die here today. And he was apologizing for the pain they were both going to suffer beforehand.

She’d never been prouder of the man than she was in that moment. It took everything she had to hold back the sob burning like a bonfire in her throat. And she
couldn’t
hold back the tears continuing to stream down her face, soaking into the salty gag and stinging her split lip. But she raked in a deep breath and managed around the gag, “Love you.”

His chest quaking, his face crumpling as he sobbed uncontrollably, her uncle nodded. And then, three precious words… “Love you, too.”

Qasim threw back his head and bellowed his fury to the ceiling. He’d been watching the exchange. He knew what’d just passed between them. He understood the pact they’d made. Delilah’s entire being, body, spirit, and mind, trembled at the terrible sound of rage as it echoed around the cavern. She’d never heard anything like it. It was awful. Obscene. She closed her eyes against it. Wished she could close her ears against it.

And then, as quickly as it began, it ended. Like a switch had been flipped.

She swallowed, glancing up to find Qasim staring at her.

Evil…
Again, the word whispered through her head. Then Qasim snarled something to the men holding her. She didn’t understand it, but then he translated, “I told them to throw you to the ground so I can fuck you bloody.”

Her uncle howled and struggled against his captor. She kicked and bucked as two sets of hard, bruising hands pushed her to the floor. The bones in her tied arms cried out as the appendages were smashed between her back and the rock. A knee landed on her chest, digging into her breastbone, making it impossible to breathe. Cruel fingers bit into the skin of her thighs, wrenching them wide. The tart smell of unwashed male bodies tunneled up her nose, causing her to gag.

She crushed the cloth between her teeth with such force her jaws popped. But she didn’t make a peep. She refused to—

BOOOOOMMMM!

The explosion was tremendous. Thunderous. It shook the earth.

A split second later, the knee was gone, the hands were gone. Bodies fell around her, slamming into the cavern floor with disgusting-sounding
thumps
and
crunches
. Confused, disoriented, she dragged in a shuddering breath, staring up at the ceiling, at the golden light playing with the shadows.

Wha
—

And then she could hear the hollow thud of boots against stone, the steady beat of running feet. The sound was distant, empty, competing with the ringing in her ears. She turned her chin, blinking, trying to make sense of the scene laid out before her. The four terrorists were sprawled around, dead to a man, blood pooling beneath their heads.

And then she knew. It hadn’t been
one
massive explosion; it’d been four
simultaneous
ones. Four shots from four guns that had instantly taken out the threat. And,
sweet
Jesus!
Was it over? Could it really be over?

The sobs shuddering in her chest broke free as she finally allowed the shock and the terror and the pain to pour from her.

“Delilah!” She heard her name. Heard
his
voice.

“Mac!” she tried to yell, but the only sound to issue from her throat was a pitiful, hiccupping wail.

“Delilah!” And he was there, beside her, gathering her up in his arms, peppering her face with kisses, reaching around to undo the gag. He crushed her to him, burying his nose in her neck—God, he smelled good. Like Mac—and that’s when she saw it.

Movement…

The terrorist closest to them, the one who’d had his fist in hair. He was reaching for the pistol tucked in his waistband, the deep bloody furrow along his temple proof he’d only been grazed.

“Mac!” she screamed, bucking in his embrace, her hands still tied behind her back.

Later she would marvel at Mac’s speed, at the battle-honed reflexes that allowed him to raise his gun, aim, and fire all in a split second. But right then she was too busy wincing at the deafening roar of his Glock, at the bright flash as the bullet left the muzzle, at the hot spray of blood that landed on her arm and leg when the terrorist’s skull exploded like an overripe melon.

No one moved for a beat. The shock of it all overwhelming. Then Mac recovered and yelled over his shoulder, “Somebody bring in a stretcher!” before gathering her shaking form close once again, murmuring, “Shh, now, darlin’. I gotcha. It’s all over…”

***

Northwestern Memorial Hospital

Chicago, Illinois

Delilah turned from her uncle’s bedside and gifted Mac with an ear-to-ear smile. He felt the jaws of a trap—one that was both deadly and strangely alluring—closing around him.

In the forty-eight hours since the spooks choppered them to a farmer’s field just outside the city, then loaded them into an SUV for a quick ride to the hospital, Mac had had to tell the story of the “backwoods car wreck” that caused Theo and Delilah’s injuries a total of one time…to the attending ER physician when they first arrived. That’s it. Just the once. Explanation…swallowed whole. It was almost as if he heard an audible
gulp
.

And even though he was a bona fide covert operator, living all that cloak and dagger stuff day-in and day-out, there were times, like this one, that even
he
felt the need to shake his head at the…uh…surreal-ness? Was that even a word?…of it all. Because, no one, not the nurses or the doctors or, hell, even the night janitor had the first clue that the real reason Delilah had a concussion, bruising, and scrapes, and Theo had a broken leg, lacerations, and contusions, was because a group of
terrorists
bent on securing
nuclear
warheads
had
kidnapped
and
interrogated
the pair inside of a…wait for it…freakin’
cave
.

But, seriously, why
would
they suspect it? Even for Mac it was damn near unbelievable. The stuff of poorly written, overly dramatic spy novels, and—

“Mac?” Delilah jerked him from his thoughts. “Are you okay?”

Okay? No.
Hell, no,
he was not okay. Not even close to being okay. Because in the last forty-eight hours, as he watched her stoically suffer pokes and prods from the medical staff, as he watched her answer a gazillion questions from the civilian-clad CIA agent sent in to debrief her, as he watched her refuse to leave her uncle’s bedside, he’d come to the awful conclusion that he’d not only fallen a little bit…but
a
lot
in love with her
.
As in, all the way. Ass-over-tea-kettle.

Delilah Fairchild, with her smile and charm, with her bravery and grit, had stolen his goddamned heart. Like a thief in the night. Or maybe it was more like a thief in the
day
. Because she’d made no bones about her pursuit of him. Not even at the very beginning. So, yessir, the fact that he’d reneged on his pledge to himself was nobody’s fault but his own.

Which pissed him off. And…scared him to death.

Goddamn history…
why
did it have to go and repeat itself?

“Mac?” Delilah said again. “You’re starting to scare me. What is it? Is Fido—”

“No, no,” he assured her, shaking himself out of his own head. “Fido’s fine. In fact, Steady said the vet will release him tomorrow mornin’. We can make sure someone transports him up here. If you’d like, he can be at the bar waitin’ when you bring Theo home.” He motioned with his chin toward the softly snoring old man.

And there it was again. That goddamn smile. The one that said he hung the moon and had the ability to jump over it. It was a problem, that smile. It made him want to throw caution to the wind.

“I’d like that very much,” she said, pushing to a stand.

He gulped as she strolled toward him. She was wearing her standard daily get-up of painted-on jeans and a soft, body-hugging T-shirt. And that sensual, hip-swaying gait of hers? Well, there should be some kind of law against it. It was just too mesmerizing, reminding him of all they’d done together not so very long ago, taunting him with the things he’d never allow himself to do again. And it was no surprise when Little Mac, the prick—ha!—took notice of her approach. He had to adjust his stance.

“Were you able to get the bikes transported up?” she asked, stopping barely a foot from him. Close enough so that he could smell the spicy sweetness of her. Close enough so that he could see the golden flecks in the centers of her pretty green eyes. He loved those little bits of yellow, like the first autumn leaves turning on a tree.

Oh, for the love of… And now what am I? A freakin’ poet?

He nodded. It was all he could manage with his tongue threatening to hang out like a dog’s. She was so beautiful.
Too
beautiful.

“Good.” She nodded. “Thank you for that.”

“No problem,” he somehow managed to say while keeping his tongue clamped firmly between his teeth.

“Mac?” She tilted her head, her sleek auburn brows angling down. He loved it when they did that. The smooth arches curling at the innermost edges, a delightful little wrinkle forming between them.
Good
God, and now you’re going on about her eyebrows?
He really was in sad,
sad
shape. And that…well…he wasn’t too proud to say, made him feel the need to vamoose himself, like, yesterday. The soles of his feet were actually itching to send him running far and fast and…
farther
away from her. “Are you sure you’re okay?”