“Here you g—”
That’s all she managed before a hand grabbed her wrist, yanking her forward. Her forehead slammed into the window sash, causing stars to dance in her field of vision. She was half hanging out the window, her knees atop the toilet tank, the cup having fallen from her hand to bounce on the ground below. In confusion, she watched it land atop Agent Wallace…
He was lying in the dirt beneath the window, his lifeless gaze staring vacantly into the sky above—a look that chilled her to the bone as it instantly reminded her of Buzzard—blood pooling beneath his head from the giant gash flaying his throat open in a gruesome, macabre smile. His foot was twitching. She didn’t know why she should notice such a thing in the split second it took her to open her mouth to scream, but she did. She saw it. That awful, twitching foot. She heard it. That terrible scuffling sound it made against the ground.
Then…pain. White-hot agony. It exploded at the base of her skull. From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a familiar set of brown Timberlands, felt the brutal bite of terror as it sank its sharp fangs into her galloping heart. The second blow to her head cut off the cry lodged at the back of her throat. And then…lights out…
Chapter Twenty-one
Mac was a coward.
That’s all there was to it. Because he’d wanted to stay with her while she slept. Hold her in his arms. Pet her. Kiss her. Watch her dream…
But he couldn’t. He had fallen…just a little. And he didn’t dare risk it. He was too afraid to risk it.
On the other hand, it’d been nearly three hours since he slunk from her room like the lily-livered cur that he was, and that probably meant she’d be waking up soon. He couldn’t stand the thought of that, of her rolling over to discover his dastardly desertion.
Yes, he was determined to stick to his guns, to let their dalliance end here, today. But that didn’t mean she deserved to be treated like some nameless, faceless hook-up. Like some woman he’d taken home from the bar only to ghost out on her in the middle of the night. Because she wasn’t that. She was so much more. She deserved so much more, so much better from him.
Christ almighty, what the hell was I thinking?
“Ozzie!” he barked. The guy was down at the end of the building, filling a bucket with ice from the machine. “Come take my place, will you? I need to talk to Delilah.”
“Talk?” Ozzie snorted, sauntering toward him. “Yeah. By my count, this will be the, uh, fifth time you guys have…talked.”
“I’m serious,” Mac growled. “And remember what I told you I’d do to you if you tell her you heard us?”
“Oh, I remember,” Ozzie said, eyeing him askance. “The imagery of your description is sure to give me nightmares for years.”
“Excellent.” Mac winked, lifting his hand to the knob of the Noel Motel’s room number four. He was stopped from turning it when Agent Duvall burst from her room, running to rap hard knuckles against Steady’s door. She turned and pounded on the door of the room Fitzsimmons and Wallace shared before marching over to Mac. Instantly, his operator senses were on high alert.
“What have you got?” he asked.
“Let’s wait until…ah,” she said when Fitzsimmons poked his head out of his room followed quickly by Steady down the way. “Good. Come join us, gentlemen.”
“What’s going on?” Zoelner said, wrenching open the door beside them, wiping sleep from his eyes.
“We’ve got a lead,” Agent Duvall announced, her gaze bright with excitement. Mac felt all the cells in his body slow down and come to attention. A lead… Those two beautiful words still spoke to his Federal Agent heart. “We found footage of Hasan and al-Hallaj buying cell phones from a store up near Thunder Bay, Ontario. We got the model and product numbers from the receipt. Now we’re talking with the phone company to try to determine which wireless numbers are assigned to those particular phones.”
“And once you know the numbers, you can monitor when that device pings local cell towers, thereby allowing you to triangulate their locations,” Ozzie said.
“Exactly.” The agent nodded.
“And now?” Mac asked, his eyes darting to Delilah’s door.
“And now we wait for the numbers.”
Wait. He was usually a patient man, but when it came to an op, he hated the word wait. Huffing out a sigh, he immediately thought, oh, sweet Jesus. Because he could still smell her on his breath, still taste her on his tongue. Swallowing, he glanced around, wondering if anyone else noticed that he was absolutely covered, head-to-toe, in Delilah Fairchild. Delicious, delightful, delectable Delilah Fairchild…
“You want to be the one to tell her?” Chelsea asked, nodding toward the baby-blue door. “While you’re doing that, I’ll run around back and alert Wallace to the progress.”
Dipping his chin in acknowledgment of Chelsea’s plan, he stepped up to Delilah’s door, waiting to push it open until the group dispersed. He’d left her naked, sated, and sprawled atop the mattress, her plump ass—and that wonderfully kissable tattoo inked above it—there for all the world to see. And, call him crazy, or territorial, or…yeah, just crazy, but he wanted what they shared, the glory of her nudity, to be his and his alone.
Can you say dangerous thinking, boys and girls?
Shaking his head at himself, he stepped into the room, blinking against the gloom in sharp contrast to the bright glow of the setting sun outside. The instant his eyes adjusted, he noted her absence from the bed. The sheets were rumpled and messy, proof of her presence, of their presence—Lord almighty, what an afternoon. But she was gone.
Shit. She had woken up to find him missing. He had subjected her to that particular humiliation. Someone should definitely kick his ass. And, no joke, he volunteered to be first in line.
“Delilah,” he called, marching toward the bathroom. “We’ve got some good news. Agent Duvall—”
A loud gasp sounded from the bathroom, followed by a whimpering kind of squeak. He threw open the door, only to find the space…empty.
Huh? Then where had the sounds—
The window. It was open.
He was across the bathroom in two steps, placing his palms on the windowsill in order to lean out. The first thing he saw was the pint-sized CIA agent. She was holding one hand to her mouth, her eyes trained on the ground in front of her.
Mac glanced down. “Son of a goddamned bitch!” he roared, instinctively reaching into his waistband for his sidearm, his heart growing teeth and trying to gnaw its way through his breastbone. Wallace’s inert, bloody form lay in the dirt, staring unseeingly at the sky above. And Delilah was…gone.
Qasim stood at the entrance to the cave, his eyes searching the twilight gloom of dense woods beyond. “Where are you, Haroun?” he said into his cell phone. “I do not see you.”
“I am coming, habibi,” Haroun grunted. “Almost there. The woman is heavier than she looks.”