“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.