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.
You really are pathetic. And as much as she hated to admit it, that annoying voice was proving to be right far more often than it was proving to be wrong.
When she felt the top of her head buzzing like her scalp was threatening to lift away from her skull, she looked up to find Mac’s eyes narrowed on her and…was that slight reddening of his tan cheeks an actual blush?
Oh, great. Busted. Had her salacious thoughts been written all over her face?
She hoped not. And in the event that they hadn’t been, she licked her lips before blurting the first thing to come to mind. “Uh…just admiring your bike.”
Mac blinked, his expression turning contemplative before it once more slid into that inscrutable mask.
Delilah mentally slapped herself a high five. That was some pretty quick thinking on her part. And a believable excuse to boot. Because Mac’s custom Harley was one badass bike. Its name, Siren, said it all. With its intricate black-and-gold paint job offsetting and highlighting the glinting chrome of the handlebars, engine, battery box, and wheels—not to mention the mean stretch and the eye-catching blue LED running lights—the motorcycle was, to put it simply, flat-out mesmerizing. Enough to distract and draw in even the most disinterested of passersby just like the fabled Sirens of Greek mythology.
Still congratulating herself on her speedy and, moreover, believable explanation for the lust in her eyes and the drool on her lips, she mounted up on Big Red. Pressing her helmet over her head, she waited. Waited for the sound she loved. The sound that was the audio equivalent of a full-on, body-shaking orgasm. The sound of rolling thunder…
It didn’t take long.
Steady pushed the ignition on his bike and was rewarded by an immediate guttural rumble. Ozzie followed suit. Then Zoelner. Then Mac. And only when the full-throated roar of four well-tuned V-Twin engines filled the vast expanse of the shop did Delilah thumb the ignition on Big Red. The motorcycle came to life beneath her, growling and shaking like a steel beast.
A little thrill streaked up her spine…
That feeling, that excitement of being in control of something bigger and meaner than herself, never faded. Pressing her kickstand back with her booted heel, she twisted her wrist and followed the skid marks left by Ghost’s madcap exit from the shop, the four BKI operators rolling out behind her.
As the soft, summer breeze wafted against her face, she whispered quietly, a warm glow of hope filling her chest, “Just hold on, Uncle Theo. Whatever happened to you, wherever you are, just hold on. Because I’m coming. And I’m bringing the Black Knights with me…”
***
“She is back on her motorcycle,” Haroun relayed. The quiet hum of the small engine on the compact car they’d rented over the border in Canada barely competed with the sound of Qasim’s second-in-command’s voice. “And she is not alone. She has four men riding with her. I have followed them onto the highway. It appears they are headed south, in your direction.”
Qasim narrowed his eyes, staring into the near distance. The glitter of dust danced in the beams of the low-burning lanterns, reminding him of so many of the other dark, dusty corners he’d been forced to hide in. “In my direction? Do you suppose she’s already missing her uncle and is coming in search of him?” He hadn’t banked on that, on the fact that only a handful of hours after they’d captured Theodore, his disappearance would already be noted.
Praise Allah!
“It could be,” Haroun mused. “Perhaps she attempted to call him, and his not answering has spurred her concern.”
Hmm. That could very well be the case, especially considering how close Qasim suspected Theodore and his niece were. Flipping through the photos in the old Marine’s wallet, Qasim was privy to snapshots of the pair’s lives together. The photograph on top was apparently the most recent. Theodore had his arm thrown around a stunning, flame-haired woman. A golden turkey sat on a platter
atop a long, dark bar in front of them while the sparkle of alcohol bottles stacked on shelves glinted in the background. Both Theodore and Delilah were grinning foolishly, as if they hadn’t a care in the world. A pang of envy sliced through Qasim.
The next picture was slightly older, given the fact that Theodore’s stark white hair was peppered with black. The former Marine was smiling broadly at Delilah, who was dressed in a graduation gown and holding up a diploma in one fist, her other hand forming a V for victory. Qasim growled. So much to celebrate for those two. So much promise for the future…
Beneath the second photo was a third, older still. This one was of Theodore and Delilah on a beach somewhere, both laughing and tan. Theodore looked young and fit, and Delilah had the fresh appearance of a girl who’d just begun to blossom into a woman. Happy times. Blissful times. The kind of times Qasim hadn’t experienced since the deaths of his wife and sons…
And last, but certainly not least, was the final photo. It was of Delilah, aged seven or eight by Qasim’s calculations, pigtailed and giggling while riding Theodore’s broad shoulders. It was this picture that bothered him the most. Because seven years old was the age his youngest boy had been the day that Hellfire missile slammed into his village. The day his life changed from one of simple pleasures to one of vengeance, battle, and…blood.
And he’d tried. For years he’d tried to sate his thirst for revenge by killing Westerners and those of his brethren who’d fallen victim to the poison of Western beliefs. He’d taken lives and watched others as they were burned down to ashes. Alas, no matter how much blood he spilled, it just wasn’t enough. He’d found no solace, no refuge in the deaths of those many innocents. But perhaps this mission, perhaps destruction on this scale, would finally be enough. If he was successful here, perhaps he could finally find peace.
And in a slightly ironic twist, he had a rogue American agent to thank for the opportunity. He never would have believed his salvation would come in that form. Though, come to think of it, perhaps he should have. Winterfield had turned against his own country, turned his back on his motherland, for something as simple as money. A lot of money—those who headed The Cause had deep pockets—but it was money all the same.
Good old American capitalism and greed have come home to roost, and—
“Qasim?” Haroun asked, and he realized he’d been silent for too long.
Shaking himself, he pushed everything but the mission from his mind. “Make sure you are not spotted,” he commanded. The last thing he needed was for Haroun to find himself matched up against a bunch of big, slow-witted bikers. Qasim had watched enough American television to know that the type of men to wear leather and ride Harleys tended to use their fists or pistols first and ask questions later.
Not that Haroun couldn’t defend himself; he’d been trained by the best mujahedeen fighters on the planet. But still…it was better not to take any chances. “Follow them. But do not attempt to take Miss Fairchild while those bikers are around. Wait until she is alone.”
“Do not lose faith in me, Qasim,” Haroun said. “I know what I am doing.”
“Of course you do, my friend,” he assured his second-in-command. Haroun’s pride was easily wounded, like that of so many of the staunchest and most fanatical believers. “I just want to ensure we do not fail in our mission. I want to ensure—”
“I know what you want, habibi,” Haroun interrupted. He only used the Arabic term of endearment and friendship when they were speaking alone. All other times, he remained stubbornly formal. “But we will not fall short this time. This time victory shall be ours.”
“In sha’Allah.” God willing, he said before thumbing off the phone and spinning once more toward his hostage.
The kerosene lanterns were turned low despite the fact that his men had covered the windows with black cloth, assuring no light escaped the dilapidated building to catch the attention of a passing motorist. Though, in truth, the possibility of catching the attention of a passing motorist seemed slim. In the two days they’d been occupying this part of Main Street, they’d only heard one car rumble past. And it was obvious the driver had been lost. The vehicle had turned around at the end of the street before heading back out to the highway.
So, yes, perhaps Qasim was being paranoid by insisting the lanterns be kept at their lowest setting. But he didn’t mind the dark. He embraced it, in fact. It seemed somehow fitting. Dark deeds were usually done in dark places, after all. And even in the dim light, he could see that Theodore’s left eye was now swollen almost completely shut. A deep gash near the man’s temple stained his white hair and leaked blood down his cheek and neck.
The stale air inside the deserted Main Street shop was redolent with the metallic aroma of lost bodily fluid and the much sharper odors of fear and desperation. But even so, even suffering from all that fear and desperation, even though his aged body had to be racked by the pain of the repeated beatings Sami and Jabbar administered with glee, Theodore Fairchild refused to answer Qasim’s questions.
That would soon change…
“I have it on good authority that your niece is traveling this way,” Qasim said conversationally, examining his fingernails. “She’s riding with a group of bikers.” Something flashed in Theodore’s good eye and Qasim cocked his head. “Friends of yours?” The old man refused to make so much as a peep behind his gag. “Ah.” He nodded, smiling appreciatively. “That is perfect. A few more bargaining chips to add to my pile…”
Chapter Seven
Highway 57, 10 miles outside Cairo, Illinois
Five hours later…
Mac had spent the entire ride staring at Delilah’s ass…
Not that he was overly partial to Delilah or anything—he wasn’t, by God! Well, at least not any more than any sighted, red-blooded, heterosexual male would be—but he was overly partial to asses. And Delilah’s ass, jiggling slightly against the hand-tooled leather seat of Big Red…not to mention the fact that her T-shirt and biker jacket occasionally rode up to reveal the tramp stamp on her lower back—two colorful doves holding a pink ribbon between their beaks with her deceased parents’ names inked onto it—and holy shit fire! It was a sight to see, to say the least…
Little Mac had been at full attention for most of the journey, and for anyone who’s ever tried to ride a motorcycle with a massive chubby, saying it was painful was belittling the definition of sheer agony. Of course, his own physical discomfort was eclipsed by a sharp spike of…some emotion—it wasn’t jealously, but it was a mean-eyed cousin thereof—when they exited the highway, stopped at a lonely streetlight, and Ozzie pulled up beside him and murmured loud enough to be heard over their grumbling engines, but not loud enough to reach Delilah’s ears, “Damn! That woman sure has a sweet dumper, doesn’t she? I’m going to ask her to marry me!”
Oh, for the love of—
Mac couldn’t very well tell Ozzie to shove his sweet dumper comment—I mean, come on, now. Dumper?—down his throat without alerting the guy to his…not-jealousy…unjealousy?…so he did the next best thing. He laughed and shook his helmeted head. “I think you’ve already asked her a dozen times, and I think she’s already turned you down each and every one.”
“Yeah.” Ozzie shrugged laconically. “But that was before I rode to her uncle’s rescue—quite literally. Now I’m going to the big, strapping hero. And, as far as I can figure, that’s pretty much catnip to the feline-esque female of the species.”
As much as Mac wanted to brush off Ozzie’s comment as a bunch of bull, he had to admit the sentiment actually held some merit. Not only was Ozzie handsome in the way of most movie stars—even with his mad scientist mop of blond hair—but the guy was also smart and charming and…fun. Delilah was fun. Ozzie was fun. Mac was…not-fun…unfun? So, yessir, maybe Ozzie was right. Maybe his riding to her uncle’s rescue would be just what Delilah needed to nudge her over the line from no way in hell, Ozzie to sure, Ozzie, let’s give it a go.
Unbidden, the image of
Delilah arching beneath BKI’s tech wizard flashed in front of his eyes. Immediately, his ears began to burn and red edged into his vision. But he wasn’t jealous. Hell, no. He was just…something. Something that wasn’t jealous.
And instead of going with his first instinct, which was to tell Ozzie to just keep on dreaming when it came to Delilah finally saying yes to one of his myriad proposals, Mac went with, “Yeah, dude. You might be right. This little huntin’ expedition might be just the thing to turn her no into a yes.”
Ozzie flipped up the visor on his helmet, gaping at Mac in the dim red glow cast by the overhead stoplight.
“What’s that look for?” Mac demanded.
“I just figured,” Ozzie lifted a shoulder, “you know, given all the not-so-subtle sexual tension between you two, that you’d be a little less apt to toss her happily my way.”
“Hey,” Mac lifted one hand from his handlebars, making a dismissive gesture, “I don’t have, nor do I want any sort of claim over That Woman. The field is free and clear, my man. I say, go all Pat Benatar on her and hit her with your best shot.”
Ozzie’s chin jerked back as if Mac’d gifted him with a pop to the jaw instead of a magnanimous piece of advice.
“Okay, not that I don’t appreciate the ’80s music reference, dude, because, seriously? Pat Benatar? High five for that one. But if you don’t mind me saying, I think you’re completely full of shit.”
Why does everyone keep sayin’ that? First Zoelner, now Ozzie?
Mac opened his mouth to refute the guy’s claim, but, thank the sweet Lord, the light flicked from red to green. Twisting his wrist, Siren’s big engine growled appreciatively at the influx of high-octane fuel, and he motored out into the intersection, following behind Delilah and her luscious, world-class ass.
He wondered idly how all his teammates could be so wrong when it came to the relationship…non-relationship…unrelationship?…he had with Delilah. The Black Knights were usually a pretty astute group, constant ribbing and one-upmanship aside. But, he was sad to say, they were dead-eye wrong when it came to this…
Hell for Leather Page 9
