“Which is why I’m sending you in alone, Agent Duvall.”
Okay, huh? He was…sending her in? As in, out into the field? But she wasn’t a field agent! She was a desk-jockey analyst with lines of code instead of listening devices and reams of Intel instead of incendiary devices. “Uh, sir? I’m…I’m not sure I copied you correctly on that last bit.”
“If this is just a red herring,” Morales said, “I don’t want to alert the Knights to the true scope of the problem Winterfield has caused for us. So I’m sending you in to—”
“If you’ll pardon my interrupting, sir. The Knights have proved themselves trustworthy time and again. Heck, they’re the personal goon-squad to the president and the JCs. How much more proof do you need of their reliability?”
“Loose lips sink ships, Agent Duvall. You know that as well as I do.”
Loose lips sink ships, she silently mimicked, rolling her eyes. “Spare me the World War II propaganda, sir,” she harrumphed, disliking where this conversation was leading. Disliking the thought of having to lie straight to Dagan’s face. “I know better than most how important it is to keep our cards close to our vest. But the Knights—”
“You’ll go in,” Morales cut her off, “working under the auspices of your new title and you’ll assess the situation.” And she recognized a red line when she was poised to jump right over it. Her supervisor had made up his mind. Any more argument from her would be flying precariously close to insubordination. “If you think there’s more going on in Illinois than a simple misunderstanding, I’ll have a team ready and waiting to swoop in. If not, then BKI, and the world at large, will remain blessedly unaware of just what a clusterfuck Winterfield created for us.”
“The Knights aren’t the world at large,” she muttered, unable to help herself.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing, sir,” she said, biting her tongue so hard she marveled she didn’t taste blood.
“Good then,” Morales said, finality in his tone. “I’ll arrange transport for you immediately.”
The line went dead, and Chelsea pulled the phone away from her ear. Her eyes scanned the file in her hand, and she imagined the warm welcome—not—she’d receive when she just showed up on the Knights’ doorstep.
This is bad, she thought. This is going to be very, very bad…
“Blow,” Becky demanded, holding Delilah’s shiny silver Breathalyzer—a handy device used for checking blood/alcohol level—up to Mac’s mouth.
Delilah had taken to carrying the thing around in her saddlebags because anytime she joined one of the local MCs—motorcycle clubs—on a ride, it was inevitable the group would stop at a bar or roadhouse somewhere. Equally inevitable was the fact that some sorry sucker would have one too many, forcing Delilah and the rest of the gang to wait around while the guy—it was usually a guy, though once, it had been a gal—sobered up enough to blow below .08%.
“You heard me. Blow,” Becky repeated, wiggling the device.
Mac’s dark eyebrows winged down in a fierce V, his five-o’clock…no, more like ten-o’clock-shadowed jaw clenching. “I’m not drunk,” he ground out, crossing his arms over his chest, causing his leather biker jacket to pull tight across the wide expanse of his back.
They were standing in the lower level of the shop, readying their bikes for the ride south following what had been about five minutes of sheer pandemonium after Ali’s water broke. Ghost had immediately scooped his wife up in his arms, ran toward the stairs, then turned and ran back to the conference table to snag Ali’s purse. It was then that he nearly slipped in the puddle of clear amniotic fluid. Delilah had never seen a group of men move as fast as the Black Knights when, in unison, they’d leapt forward to steady the couple.
“H-E-double-hockey-sticks, Nate!” Ali’d bellowed, whacking Ghost on the arm. “I can walk! It’s not like this kid is going to slide out of me or something! And you’re liable to get us both killed this way!”
Ghost had ignored her, refusing to put her down. And after slinging her purse over his big shoulder—now that had been a sight, seeing a big, tough-looking guy like Ghost shouldering a pink, sparkly Guess tote bag—he’d bolted down the metal steps two at a time, his booted heels thundering and echoing around the cavernous space. Seconds later, the engine of BKI’s monster Hummer roared to life. A moment after that, the big garage door at the end of the shop rolled up, and Ghost left rubber on the concrete floor, fishtailing his way out of the building.
It was at that point that Becky yelled, “Ew! No! Bad kitty!”
As a group they’d all turned to find Peanut down on his fat, furry haunches, lapping at the puddle of fluid while purring contentedly. Ozzie made a retching sound. Boss muttered, “I think I might be sick.” Becky raced over to the supply closet and pulled out a mop and a bucket, while Steady grabbed the tomcat, holding the beast out in front of him and grimacing like he was about to lose the coffee he’d been swigging.
Some mopping, one quick, disgruntled cat bath, and a couple of packed saddlebags later, and the group heading south was finally ready to go. Well, almost. If Mac would only stop scowling like he’d been sucking on a lemon and blow into the damn Breathalyzer…
“You’re not drunk?” Becky impatiently shoved a green sucker into her mouth. The gesture looked like the physical equivalent of men…why the hell do they have to make everything so freakin’ difficult?
And even if Delilah had not felt obliged to agree with that sentiment based solely on the unspoken pledge between the sisterhood—you know the one, we gals stick together—she’d have agreed because, after all, it was Mac they were dealing with here. Mac…numero uno on her very short list of things that put a kink in her otherwise fairly straightforward life.
“No, ma’am. I’m not drunk,” he insisted. “I’ve had so much coffee that we’ll have to pull over every ten minutes so I can pee like a Russian racehorse.”
“I’ve always wondered about the origins of that phrase,” Ozzie observed. He’d already mounted up on his custom chopper. Steady was behind him in the process of doing the same. “I mean what’s so special about a ruski equine, I ask you?”
Becky ignored him, still frowning up at Mac. “So if you’re not drunk, prove it, Gigantor. Puff, puff.”
“Fine,” he grumbled before sticking the short, plastic tube between his lips and blowing. “There.” He showed Becky the digital number on the device’s screen, wiggling it in front of her face victoriously. “I told you. So, go cork your pistol.”
Becky rolled her eyes before moving on to Zoelner with the Breathalyzer.
After Zoelner blew and proved that he, too, was fit to make the journey, Mac swung astride his monster bike. Delilah watched as his big thighs pulled the fabric of his faded jeans tight. For a second, just a split second, the searing image of what it would be like to have those muscled thighs pushing her legs wide burned through her mind. And in that fleeting moment, she imagined she could feel his crinkly man-hair brushing the tender skin at the apex of her legs as he pumped and strained into her. For that one all-too-brief instant, she fancied she could actually feel him there, so big and rough, so hot and hard, and…okay, crap. Her mind suddenly shook itself out of La-La-Land, and she realized she was staring at Mac’s jean-clad thighs like she was honing her knife and fork, ready to cut a big bite out of each.