Hell on Wheels (12 page)

“Sorry,” Ali made a face. “I’m not usually so…so…” Her hand turned circles as she searched for the right word.

“Bitchy?” Becky offered helpfully.

“I was going to say irritable,” Ali harrumphed.

Yeah, bitchy. Becky chuckled. She liked Ali. She really did. Even if the woman was a bit naïve and a little too prissy…of course, that probably wasn’t really fair. Most women were a little too prissy when compared to herself. Maybe that’s why she irritated Frank so much. Maybe he thought she was too manly. Maybe if she—

Dang.

Why did every thought have to wind up back on Frank?
Maybe
what she should do is seriously consider that lobotomy.

“It’s going to be okay, you know,” she told Ali, laying a kind hand on the woman’s leather-clad shoulder.

“It is?” Ali asked hopefully. “How do you know?”

“Because you’ve got the Black Knights on your side, and they are the absolute best. Besides, Ghost would sooner die than let anything happen to you.”

“Yeah.” Ali took a deep breath and shuddered. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Wow. Those two sure had it bad.

Ghost practically lifted a leg and pissed on Ali anytime she walked in the room, and Ali got all doe-eyed and flushed the minute Ghost looked at her.

Perhaps this trip would do them some good. Some forced togetherness might be just the thing they needed to finally compel them to break down and admit they were totally white-doves-and-orange-blossoms
in
love
with each other. Of course, it might do just the opposite. Fifteen hours was a long,
long
time to be sitting on a bike. Becky was usually wiped out after just four or five. Thinking of riding bitch on the back of Phantom for fifteen hours was…well, it was pretty crazy in her book.

Yepper, Ali certainly didn’t know what she’d signed herself up for when she’d insisted on accompanying Ghost on this little errand, but it wouldn’t take the woman long to figure it out. About three hours, Becky guessed. Then muscles Ali didn’t even know she had would start complaining—loudly.

Of course, thanks to her and Steady Soto, there really wasn’t another option. Nate didn’t trust commercial flights because, quote, “They let anyone and
everyone
on those.” There wasn’t a military transport leaving Great Lakes Naval Base for the east coast within the next twenty-four hours. Taking Ali’s little Prius was dismissed by everyone with a snort and a laugh because, really, the thing was basically a go-cart with power-steering and AC, and, unfortunately, the only two vehicles of the four-wheeled variety in the Knights’ employ were the Hummer and Christian’s souped-up silver Porsche—living in the city, with parking such a challenge, the Knights usually relied on public transportation or taxicabs when the weather was not conducive to riding the bikes.

And regrettably, the Hummer was currently sitting idle in the back of the shop without a transmission thanks to Steady’s rather unusual driving style—unusual in that the guy seemed to have a strange aversion to the clutch. And the Porsche was up on the lift with its engine in pieces, which was where Becky’s culpability came into the matter. She’d decided since the ex-SAS agent was away, it was the opportune time to get her “grubby little hands”—Christian’s words, not hers—on his baby and overhaul that gleaming eight cylinder. Because, come on, every engine could use a little tweaking. Unfortunately, the helo had arrived, and she’d gotten sidetracked.

Which reminded her, she better get going on reinstalling that turbo-charged sucker, or Christian was going to kill her very slowly and very painfully when he finally got home.

So…that left them with only one option for retrieving the thumb drive in a timely fashion. Namely, fifteen hours on the back of a rumbling, roaring piece of two-wheeled steel.

Oh, man, Ali was
so
in for it.

“Let me introduce you to Phantom,” she said, hoping to reassure the fidgeting woman a bit, because who wouldn’t be reassured with such a badass piece of machinery grumbling along between her legs? “Along with Ghost, this bad boy’s gonna take good care of you.”

She herded a reluctant Ali toward the bank of cycles parked against the east wall. They were as much her works of art as the murals on the walls or the paintings in the lofts upstairs. She was proud of each and every one of them. Not because they were über-sweet bikes, but because they represented each of the men she’d grown to love and respect over the years.

Each one was as different as the Black Knight who rode it. Each one was as tough as the man who’d helped her design it.

“Okay,” she motioned to the fourth bike in the row. “This beauty here is Phantom. He’s an El Diablo Sturgis Special with a six-inch stretch, a Baker six-speed transmission, S&S 124ci engine with LBC pipes that sound like hell on wheels. I replaced the single seat with a king and queen this morning, so you guys are good to go.”

Ali smoothed a reverent hand over the black leather king and queen seat. “Are you speaking English?”

“To put it simply, Phantom is one kickass bike,” Becky boasted, taking a shammy from her front pocket and polishing the already sparkling forks on the front end.

“It’s very pretty,” Ali enthused.

Pretty?
Pretty?

The sucker was a wicked mofo raised to the nth degree. It was a mean machine with enough…Okay, Becky had to admit. It was pretty.

“Do you do all the work yourself?” Ali queried, touching a tentative finger to the chrome gas cap.

“Nah, each Knight helped in the design and the building of his individual bike. It’s as much their creation as it is mine. They provide the inspiration; I provide the technical expertise, and together we supply the blood and sweat.”

Except for Frank’s bike. Building Boss Hog had been an exercise in blood, sweat,
and
tears. At least, Becky had cried herself silly a time or two during the process. Particularly those days when Frank worked side by side with her for eight long hours only to pat her on the head like a kid sister and make an evening trip to Lincoln Park.

The big, stupid dill-hole.

“Is the artwork yours? I noticed paint on your T-shirt yesterday.” Ali used her finger to follow a swirl of glittering ghostly gray paint on Phantom’s custom-made gas tank.

“Yeah. It’s my release.” Her escape from the fact that she was crazy about a man who—

No. She had to stop thinking of him. She had to get on with her life and stop clinging to childish dreams—like winning the love of a knight in shining armor who’d whisk her away on his glowing white steed.

Yepper, and it didn’t escape her attention that Frank’s last name was Knight or that Boss Hog just happened to be painted a shimmering pearly white.

Talk about life’s little ironies.

“You’re very talented,” Ali said, tracing the face of the phantom barely discernable in the middle of the gas tank. “It’s amazing how you made that ghostly face appear out of the mist like that.”

“Thanks, I—

“Everything ready?” Ghost suddenly materialized beside them.

Phantom appearing out of the mist? Ghost materializing out of nowhere? Wow, perfect timing.

Becky glanced down at the thick-soled biker boots on Ghost’s big feet and shook her head. His stealth never ceased to amaze her.

“You sure you don’t need some more firepower?” she inquired innocently while watching Ghost stow three gun cases in Phantom’s saddlebags.

One of those cases contained his M-40 A5 sniper rifle, nicknamed Sierra. Sierra came with a detachable PBS 27 night optic and 10-round detachable magazine that fired 7.62 X 51 NATO rounds. At a thousand yards, that beast still had more kinetic energy than a .357 fired at point-blank range. Two words: stopping power.

She hoped someday Ghost would teach her how to shoot it, but he’d told her she had to learn to crawl before she could learn to walk, so he’d been practicing with her on a Remington Model Seven.

But someday. Someday he’d let her lay her hands on ol’ Sierra.

Ghost shot her an amused look before leaning in to hook a heavy arm around her neck and knuckle her head. That was her, everyone’s kid sister.

“We’ll be back by tomorrow night,” he told her. “Try not t’give Boss a heart attack between now ’n’ then.”

“Whatever,” she cuffed him on the arm. “And you try not to shoot anyone between now and then.”

They both glanced to the bulging saddlebags.

“How much you wanna bet I hold up my end of that bargain better than you hold up yours?”

“Smartass,” he growled with fondness, then swung one long leg over the bike.

“It’s now or never, sista,” Becky turned to Ali as Ghost started Phantom.

“Can I choose never?” Ali yelled above the motorcycle’s guttural roar.

Becky just smiled and plopped a helmet into Ali’s trembling hands. “Excuse me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you demand this assignment? Wasn’t it you who refused to give up the location of that zip drive unless you were allowed to go along?”

Becky had to give the woman snaps for tenacity. Had Nate focused that black-laser gaze on her, she’d have probably folded like a poker player with a bad hand, but Ali had simply thrust up her chin and dared everyone in the room to nay-say her.

Now the poor woman wasn’t looking so sure of herself. Her next words confirmed it. “Is it too late to change my mind?”

It was a good thing Ghost hadn’t heard that above Phantom’s loud rumble, or he’d jump at the chance to leave Ali behind. Becky, however, thought this little journey was going to be good for the both of them.

“Just hang on,” she told Ali, giving the worried woman a quick, sisterly hug. “That’s the only advice I’ll give you.”

Ali made a face before slipping the helmet over her head and gingerly mounting up behind Nate. She adjusted herself, then adjusted herself again.

Uh-huh. Now Ali was beginning to get the picture. Riding backseat on a bike like Phantom was better than Mr. Blue any day. Not to mention the highly erotic act of wrapping one’s legs around the man you loved.

Becky secretly grinned at the thought of the very
long
ride Ali had ahead of her.

Ghost gave a thumbs-up, and Becky whistled. Dan Man, Ozzie, and Patti jogged down the metal stairs to the shop floor at the shrill sound of her summons.

Wow. Becky had to admit, Patti looked pretty frickin’ hot in her long, blond wig. And by the way Dan kept shooting steamy glances over his shoulder at his wife, she assumed the guy wholeheartedly agreed with her assessment.

She watched Dan and Patti mount up before shoving her helmet into place and swinging up behind Ozzie.

As the motorcycle rumbled to life beneath her, through her visor she watched Frank step off the stairway and amble toward the big, red button beside the ten-drawer rolling Craftsman tool cabinet. Smashing it with his wide palm, the red warning light blinked, and she turned to see one whole section of the shop wall slide back and to the left until there was nothing but a gaping black hole. It was the beginning of a tunnel dug down under the north branch of the Chicago River that would terminate in a parking garage two blocks west.

The smell of damp concrete and stale air drifted inside her helmet as she watched Ali lean past Ghost’s broad back to get a better look. She smiled when she imagined the woman’s surprise.

Holy secret tunnels, Batman!

Yepper, sometimes working for a group of clandestine government operators had its perks.

They’d decided to play the classic shell game. If whoever was watching—namely Ali’s mystery man—managed to somehow catch them even after they’d exited through their secret tunnel, he’d still only have a one in three chance of being able to follow the correct couple. Their plan was to take three bikes, three men, and three blond women covered head to toe in identical black leather out on the highway. Once there, each couple would quickly veer off in a different direction. Their tail, if they even had one, would have to choose. It wasn’t a foolproof plan, but it was better than nothing.

“Rebecca!”

What had she said about working for a group of clandestine government operators having its perks? Well, it had its drawbacks, too.

“Damnit!” Frank’s voice vibrated with frustration, loud enough to be heard over the three roaring bikes.

She winced as she glanced over her shoulder and saw him holding two fistfuls of suckers. Okay, so she could totally explain why she’d filled his jacket pockets with root beer Dum Dums this morning, and it had nothing to do with getting a little revenge for the hissy fit he’d thrown yesterday when she’d been forced to come clean about Ozzie’s techie lessons.

Okay, maybe it had a little bit to do with that…Okay, so it had
everything
to do with that, but the dill-hole deserved it.

She felt devilish delight knowing that big Frank Knight, the man with unshakable will, couldn’t resist those little suckers.

Just went to show, even
he
had a weakness.

Unfortunately, his weakness wasn’t her.

Whoa. What the hell?

Dagan threw some folded George Washingtons on the counter, grabbed his double-shot espresso from the startled barista, and scrambled out the door of the little coffee shop on the corner of Noble and West Division just in time to see three of the Black Knights’ monster bikes fly past.

The three leather-clad figures clinging to the men’s backs were all petite, all blond. And, unfortunately, any one of them could’ve been Alisa Morgan.

Damn.

He fished inside his pocket and pulled out a small device. Jumping into his newly rented SUV, he started the engine and swerved into traffic amidst the blaring horns of pissed-off Chicago cabbies. Glancing down at the device in his hand, he frowned at the glowing green light.

So…

They hadn’t exited the Knights’ compound by the front gate.

He’d planted a sensor there last night to alert him whenever the gates were opened, and his reconnaissance revealed no other way in or out of the grounds, which left only one thing…

Black Knights Inc. came equipped with a bolt-hole.

He’d figured they might have one, because those guys would never allow themselves to be put in a situation where there was only one avenue of escape.

Battle Strategy 101.

And, honestly, didn’t he understand that life? Never relaxing your guard, always having a contingency plan for every minor thing, and most importantly, always having a way out if discretion was the order of the day or if, more importantly, things went from sugar to shit, as they so often had the tendency to do?

And that only proved you could take an operator out of the field, but you could never un-program a man who’d been programmed.

Dagan himself was a bitter, shining example of that unsavory fact.

The CIA didn’t want him anymore after the unhappy little goatfuck in the Sandbox, but he hadn’t been good for anything besides this…this
work
. This skulking about in shadows, gathering Intelligence, abstaining from the women and the scotch he so loved because there was always a national security secret to be uncovered and he was the goddamned best at making sure no one uncovered them.

Case in point: he chose that particular coffee shop because it was across from the only highway access for fifteen blocks in any direction and he determined it was his best bet for catching them if and when they emerged from their compound via any route other than the front gate and, like usual, following his instincts had paid off.

Now the question became, where the hell were they all going?

As he tailed the trio up the onramp onto southbound I-94, he figured he had a pretty good idea. They were going to retrieve the files.

If
the damn things even existed. He was really beginning to wonder…

“
Sonofa—
”

He blinked in disbelief as two bikes peeled off. One took the nearest off-ramp, a big loop that would swing them back north. The other motorcycle veered onto westbound I-290, while the third continued heading south.

He had a split second to make his decision.

Swiveling in his seat, he cursed and squinted a look at the bike on the off-ramp. Nope. That wasn’t the ghostly gray beast he’d seen Nate Weller mount last night outside Red Delilah’s, and he would lay odds there wouldn’t be anyone but Grigg’s best friend tasked with this particular mission. Craning his head to the right, he got a quick glimpse of the bike heading west. Another negative.

So that left the southbound chopper.

Back to Jacksonville?

***

“What the fuck do you mean you’re out, Zoelner?” Senator Aldus shouted into his cell phone as he pulled his government issue black sedan into the parking lot of a rest stop off I-95.

He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Could not
fucking
believe it. He was going to have that insubordinate cretin deleted. That’s all there was to it.

“Like I said, you aren’t paying me enough to go head to head with former sergeant Weller. And I’ve been made, sir. Weller is onto me. So I’m out.”

Dagan Zoelner’s voice didn’t sound the least bit contrite, nor the least bit frightened. And that wouldn’t do. It simply would not do.

Aldus felt his head threaten to explode. It was going to burst through his skull and discharge gray matter all over the cream leather interior of his car, because he was SOL if Zoelner quit. There was no one else who could do the job. No one else he trusted to quietly snatch Alisa Morgan and shake the location of those files out of her.

“What about the money, Z? You need that money. Or have you forgotten about your brother and that spot of trouble he’s in?”

Christ, families were nothing but weakness and misery.

Lucky for him, he’d learned long ago how to prey on that weakness in others and had worked damned hard not to allow himself the same Achilles heel. His wife thought they were childless because he’d had a bad case of the mumps as a young boy. The real truth was he’d known right from the start he never wanted to have someone who could be taken from him, held for ransom, or used as blackmail. So he’d gotten a vasectomy two weeks before he’d said his “I dos,” and he hadn’t regretted that decision in all the years since.

He was untouchable, his reputation unblemished, a man destined for great things. That is, if he could ever get out from under the dark shadow of Grigg Morgan and those fucking missing files.

Things were getting complicated. He absolutely hated when things got complicated. Of all the loose ends on this deal, he had only one left to tie up, and it was proving to be so much harder than it should’ve been.

She was one small woman, for Christ’s sake. She should’ve been taken care of months ago along with everything else.

It’d been easy to drop a bug in the ear of those bloodthirsty Hezbollah quacks, giving them the whereabouts of the covert operatives who’d killed their esteemed leader, Hassan Kassim, in exchange for them torturing the whereabouts of a certain set of files out of the pair. It’d been just as easy for him to alert the local Syrian militia to the Hezbollah operatives working in their backyard once those same operatives were of no more use to him. And, likewise, it’d been a piece of cake to make sure that nosy-ass Delaney and that shithead Morgan were crucified after they’d had the audacity to break into his secret computer files…or at least they’d tried to.

It was a bit of tragic irony who’d done the
actual
crucifying in Morgan’s case. Christ, when he’d read that report detailing Grigg Morgan’s death, even
his
hardened stomach had shriveled at the horror of it.

So…he’d managed all of that, but somehow he couldn’t manage to get his hands on one untrained, uninformed woman?

It was absolutely beyond the pale, and he’d reached the limit of his patience, especially when Zoelner quietly informed him, “There are other ways for me to get the money.”

Aldus ground his jaw so hard his eye sockets ached. “Is that so? Who’s going to hire you, Z? Who wants a washed up ex-CIA agent who managed to get his whole team and two civilians killed? No one, that’s who. No military, no government body, not even one of those contractor outfits. Because they’re not going to trust you, Z. No one’s going to trust you. So your best bet to get that cash to poor, misguided Avan is to stick with me.”

There was a long pause, and Aldus held his breath. He
needed
Dagan Zoelner and,
goddamnit,
he hated needing anyone.

“I don’t think you’ve been playing straight with me, sir,” Zoelner finally said. “I think you orchestrated that mugging, and I know for a fact there’s more going on here than you’ve led me to believe. Both of those things make me decidedly uncomfortable. So, thank you for the opportunity, but I’m out.”

“Where are you?” Aldus demanded, maybe he could talk the idiot into—

“On I-90, heading south.”

“You’re coming back to DC?”

“Maybe, but I doubt it.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“That’s no longer any of your business…sir.”

Aldus heard the faint roar of a motorcycle in the background, and the top of his head felt like it was lifting away. “You’re following them, aren’t you, you asshole? Where are they going?”

“Good-bye, senator.”

Fuck!

He smashed the cheap, plastic pre-paid cell phone against the dashboard twice, but even when the device splintered into pieces in his hand, his rage wasn’t satisfied. The only thing that kept him from jumping from the car and stomping the remaining bits of the phone to hell and back was the young mother who carried a toddler on her hip. She was eyeing him with blatant apprehension as she scurried up to the restrooms.

Not good. She might recognize him. Because of his position, his face wasn’t a stranger to national television.

Okay, okay. Get a handle on yourself, Aldus.
He took a couple of deep breaths and forced himself back under control.

This wasn’t the end of the world. He had another option.

An option he hadn’t wanted to employ, but now he was left with no choice. His back was to the wall. So just like always, and despite his personal feelings on the matter, he’d make the tough decision.

Looking at the broken pieces of plastic in his hand and littering the gray pinstripe of his suit pants, he silently cursed his earlier burst of temper.

He needed that goddamned phone.

His personal cell phone wasn’t useful in this particular situation, because the call he was about to make could never be traced back to him.

***

She’d finally fallen asleep.

Leaning heavily along his back, Ali’s slim, leather-clad thighs rested softly against the outside of Nate’s legs, and he could detect the heavy rise and fall of every breath she took.

For the first three hours of their trip, she’d been studiously careful to keep a handful of inches between their bodies, her knees angled
way
out.

Wouldn’t want to get too personal now, would we?
Wouldn’t want to touch him anymore than was
absolutely
necessary.

Geez, he’d handled last night all wrong, literally tossing her out of his bedroom when he couldn’t stand having her look at him with such sweet compassion and desperate longing. So he had no one but himself to blame for the hurt look on her face today, for those dark smudges of exhaustion beneath her eyes.

Someone should kick his ass.

Unfortunately, as he looked in his side mirror and again caught a glimpse of that silver Escalade way back there, he was starting to think someone just might try.

If he had to guess, it was Ali’s Mystery Man on their six. Their shell game obviously hadn’t worked. Which left them with two options.

One: Given Mystery Man had tailed Ali for months, knew where she lived and worked, the dude had to surmise from their current trajectory that they were headed back to Jacksonville. So what was the point of trying to shake him?

Or
…Nate could go with option numero dos. Namely, lose the fucker.

Given he didn’t particularly care to have an unknown at his back for the next six hundred miles, there was really no question which option he’d choose.

“Wake up, Ali,” he said into his helmet mic. He hated having to do this. Riding on the back of a bike was exhausting for those not accustomed to it and, man, she needed the z’s. Unfortunately, there was no other way.

“Uh.” He felt her move against his back. “Wh-what?”

Even through the tinny-sounding communications system, he could hear the huskiness of her sleepy voice. His gut tightened in response.

“Y’needa wake up, sugar.” Crap. That little endearment just slipped out. He’d always thought of her as such, considering she was about the sweetest person he’d ever known, but he’d never dared say it her face. He comforted himself with the fact that he hadn’t really done so now, either. She was at his back, after all. “I’m gonna need you to hold on tight.”

She stiffened against him and pulled her thighs wide.

Yeah, she was fully awake now.

“What? Why?” she asked.

“We got company, and I’m gonna need t’employ a few escape and evasion tactics. It may get fairly hairy for a few klicks.”

“What kind of company?” Her arms tightened on his waist as her thighs snapped securely around his.

Hey now, how about that?

Had he known that’s all it would take to get her to stop twisting herself into a pretzel, he’d have played the whole
escape
and
evasion
card a long time ago.

“I’ll give you two guesses and the first one doesn’t count,” he replied dryly.

“The CIA agent?” she asked, her hand crawling up to lay over his heart, as if the rock-steady beat somehow comforted her.

“If that’s indeed who Mystery Man is workin’ for.” He covered her small hand with his gloved palm, giving her fingers a reassuring squeeze.

Shit, he should’ve insisted she stay back at headquarters. The woman was a kindergarten teacher, for Christ’s sake. She wasn’t cut out for escape and evasion tactics employed from the back of a tricked-out Harley. Of course, there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it now. She was here, and it was his job to make sure nary a hair on her pretty little head sustained so much as a split end.

“I need to call headquarters,” he told her. “See if Ozzie can’t do us a huge favor and find us a nice little hidey hole.”

“Uh, okay…”

He pulled his secure, encrypted cell phone from his jacket pocket and thumbed two on the speed dial. There were a series of clicks. He stated his password.

“Go ahead, Ghost,” the voice came clear as a bell through his headset. Ozzie rigged all their helmets with Bluetooth technology. Kid was an asset; no bones about it. Only that wasn’t Ozzie on the other end of the line.

“Rebel?” he asked.

“The one and only,” she answered proudly. “Ozzie’s in the can. What can I do ya for?”

“I’ve got company,” he told her, quickly glancing into his rearview mirror only to find the silver SUV nowhere in sight.