Delilah watched as Chelsea changed tactics. Instead of making good on her threat, she batted her lashes, smiling like a debutante. “Oh, Z,” she said breathlessly, “you had me at destruction.”
Ozzie choked. Mac groaned. And Delilah couldn’t tear her eyes away from Chelsea and Zoelner. She figured she was about ten seconds away from witnessing the two throwing punches or ripping each other’s clothes off.
But just when the strained atmosphere reached a pressure point—Delilah actually scooted back on the arm of the couch in preparation for the explosion—Mac cut through the tension with, “Sweet Lord, I need an aspirin. It’s either that, or I’m gonna to have to pull my weapon and start shootin’ some of you. Or all of you.”
He ran a big hand through his hair and instantly Delilah was reminded of how soft and warm those thick locks had been between her fingers. How wonderfully rough the calluses on his palm felt when he gently molded her breast. How—
Okay. Enough of that. She had to cross her legs in an attempt to squeeze away the sudden sensation throbbing between them. And, lamentably, it was true. She really was a sad sack.
“Zoelner,” Mac continued, “why don’t you stop antagonizin’ Agent Duvall, huh?” Zoelner grumbled but straightened away from Chelsea all the same.
“And Agent Duvall,” Mac scowled down at her, “I hate to be the one to tell you this, but when it comes to a showdown between you and Zoelner, you don’t have any more chance than a Junebug in a chicken coop. So quit rufflin’ his feathers, will you? And get on with the damn explanation. I’m growin’ old here waitin’.”
Ooooh, Delilah just loved it when he got authoritative and down-home countrified all in one breath. Was there anything sexier?
Um, not that I can recall.
Sad sack, whispered the voice.
Shut it!
Chelsea cast Zoelner one last fulminating glance before sighing resignedly and loosening her shoulders. “During the Vietnam conflict,” she said, “it was decided that having eight nuclear ordinances from a bygone era spread willy-nilly around the globe wasn’t really in our country’s best interest.”
Delilah barely contained a snort. “You think?”
Chelsea made a face and shrugged. “Well, it’s not as bad as one might suppose. Most of the lost weapons were at the bottom of the ocean or submerged in swamps so deep they were impossible to recover. But others…”
Delilah shivered at the thought of the “others.”
“Well,” the CIA agent continued, “by that time technology had progressed enough to make their recovery somewhat feasible. Problem was, in many instances, we didn’t know the exact locations of the warheads. Enter a five-man team of Marine Corps Advanced Sonar Specialists.”
“Including Theo Fairchild and Charles Sander,” Ozzie said, uncrossing one arm to rub a finger under his chin, his expression contemplative.
“Affirmative.” Chelsea nodded. “And low and behold, those go-getter guys not only pinpointed the exact locations of those few ordinances that were salvageable at the time, but they pinpointed the whole damn lot.”
Delilah couldn’t believe it. Her uncle had been part of some super-secret, nuclear missile detection team back in the day, and he’d never once breathed a word to her about it.
Is no one what they appear to be? First, she had to go and learn the Black Knights weren’t really a rowdy motorcycle club but were instead Uncle Sam’s most terrifying, tip, tip, tippity-top of the spear. And now this? Seriously? She tossed the question out into the ether. Surprisingly, this time the ether answered back. You mean like you’re not really a bartender, but one of Chicago’s most sought-after forensic accountants?
And touché. Delilah gave credit where credit was due.
“So this file, BA Repatriate,” Zoelner said, “I suppose it gives the global coordinates of the remaining five weapons?”
Five freakin’ missing nuclear weapons!
“No.” Agent Duvall shook her head, adjusting her glasses again. “That’s just the thing. The file containing the actual locations of the weapons was above Winterfield’s security clearance. He couldn’t access it. The only thing he could access was the file detailing the original mission and the names and ranks of the men who worked on it.”
“Of whom two are now MIA,” Mac murmured.
“The only two who are still alive,” the CIA agent confirmed.
“Christ,” Mac swung away, cursing a blue streak under his breath.
“And you didn’t think to raise a red flag and put a protective detail around Theo and Charles when the first three men turned up dead?” Zoelner demanded.
“Considering one of them died in ’78 of an overdose and the next two died in the nineties, one from a heart attack and the other in a bizarre fishing accident,” Chelsea declared, “no! No, we did not consider a protective detail!”
Ozzie plopped down on the coffee table, repeatedly running a hand back through his hair. And if Zoelner had looked like he wanted to kill Chelsea Duvall before, now he looked like he wanted to beat her senseless and then kill her.
“Do you really believe it’s possible, that after forty-some-odd years, these two men still remember the exact coordinates of the missin’ warheads?” Mac interrupted, his back still turned.
Chelsea hesitated a beat. “Obviously the terrorists believe it.” She shrugged and added, “And, honestly? Yeah. If it was me tasked with pinpointing a handful of nukes, you bet your ass I’d remember. Wouldn’t you?”
“Goddamnit, Chelsea!” Zoelner roared. “And you didn’t think that type of information warranted you going against your orders!”
“We weren’t certain there was any need for alarm!” Chelsea yelled right back, jumping up to slam her hands into her hips. “We didn’t know for sure which files Winterfield snagged. We just knew which files he had access to. And until ten minutes ago, we thought it was entirely possible Fairchild and Sander were just holed up somewhere tying one on!”
Delilah’s mind raced to reach the same conclusions the Knights evidently already had. “Excuse me,” she said after a beat, raising her hand like she was still back in school. “Can someone please explain to me what in the world all of that means? I mean, I get that you guys are under the impression that this al-Whoever guy—”
“Al-Hallaj,” Chelsea added helpfully.
“Yeah, okay.” Delilah nodded. “So, I get that you think Winterfield sold the files to al-Hallaj. And I get that al-Hallaj took Sander and my uncle in order to try to…uh…get the locations of the warheads from them.” She couldn’t bring herself to voice the word torture. “Am I correct in believing that once again technology has advanced to a point where some or all of the remaining five might be salvageable?”
The CIA agent nodded, and Delilah’s heart sank. If she wasn’t mistaken, the thing was hanging out somewhere in the vicinity of her kneecaps.
“So, let’s not get into the discussion of why we, the United States of America, haven’t gone to secure the warheads, and jump instead to the question of why I’ve been targeted twice. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Unfortunately, it does,” Mac murmured, the muscles in his mile-wide shoulders twitching fitfully.
“It does?” she asked. “But, why?”
Mac turned his face slightly, his distinctive profile in view. And if she’d ever seen a jaw looking harder than his, she couldn’t remember the occasion. That redwood of dread in her stomach hit a growth spurt, sending branches up to strangle her throat.