She went gladly. Sidling up to his warmth, his strength. Hating herself for needing either. Loving the fact that he offered both.
For Heaven’s sake. You’re one sad sack.
What did I tell you about fucking off, huh? she demanded of that infinitely bothersome voice. Though, secretly, she was glad for its presence. It always pissed her off. And she heartily preferred being angry to being on the verge of another humiliating breakdown.
Of course, her flying thoughts crash-landed back into the conversation when Zoelner cocked his head and demanded, “Okay, Agent Duvall. You want to try this again, and tell us why you’re really here?”
“I—” Chelsea began, but Zoelner cut her off.
“And before you think to feed us anymore of your bullshit—”
“It wasn’t bullshit,” Ozzie interrupted, his usually jocular expression now as somber as death. Delilah wasn’t sure she’d ever seen the guy look quite so…threatening.
“No?” Zoelner asked.
“No.” Ozzie shook his head. “Her coming here and stovepiping,” he emphasized the word, “us while insisting oh-so-innocently that she wasn’t, was some serious, fucked-up shit, which is an entirely different bouquet.”
“Indeed,” Zoelner agreed, still frowning down at Chelsea. “I believe you’re right, Ozzie. So, Agent Duvall, before you think to try to feed us anymore of your serious, fucked-up, I’m-just-here-as-your-liaison, stovepiping shit, please understand that although we’re used to backdoor dealings, double crossings, and backstabbings from the likes of your kind, we—”
“You used to be one of my kind, Z,” Chelsea interrupted.
“Exactly.” Zoelner nodded. “Which is why I, along with my colleagues here, won’t hesitate to take everything we know and the huge amount we obviously don’t know straight to POTUS. See what he thinks about The Company’s shenanigans here.”
Delilah had to think about that one for a bit. The Knights were always using weird acronyms. But then it hit her…POTUS. President of the United States.
“I was following the orders of my s-supervisor,” Agent Duvall said, shifting uncomfortably.
“And throwin’ us under the bus in the meantime,” Mac added. Delilah could feel the tension radiating through him as if she was holding on to a live wire.
“I wasn’t throwing you under the bus,” Chelsea insisted with a huff, crossing her arms to mirror the men’s stances. “I was following orders. Surely you guys remember what those are. Surely you haven’t been calling your own shots for so long that you’ve forgotten—”
“Agent Duvall,” Mac rumbled, “Zoelner’s already explained this to you, but let me put it another way. We’re not farmers, so stop tryin’ to sell us a load of fertilizer and just tell us what the hell is goin’ on here.”
Okay. And, yeah. Despite being a card-carrying member of the sisterhood, Delilah had to agree with Mac’s insistence. After all, she herself was more than a bit curious as to what the hell was going on here.
Chelsea frowned up at them, hesitated a second more, then finally shrugged. “Have you guys been keeping up with the headlines chronicling the misadventures of an ex–CIA agent named Luke Winterfield?”
“Of course,” Ozzie said. “He just fled to Nicaragua, right?”
“I thought it was Honduras,” Zoelner said. Delilah had been under the impression it was Guatemala.
“It doesn’t matter where he is.” Chelsea waved an impatient hand through the air. “What matters is that along with copies of the files pertaining to the locations of our government’s black sites, we also suspect he took copies of…other files.”
A curious sense of dread bloomed in the pit of Delilah’s stomach.
“What other files?” Mac demanded.
“A lot of other files,” Chelsea admitted. “But the one we’re most concerned about right now, in this situation, is labeled BA Repatriate.”
“BA…” Zoelner’s chin dropped down as if someone had unhinged his jaw. For a moment, Delilah thought he resembled a handsome Pez dispenser. “You don’t mean broken arrows.”
Chelsea nodded. “That’s exactly what I mean.”
The room grew so still, so quiet, Delilah could hear the hum of electricity in the lamps beside the sofa. Mac was literally vibrating beside her. And that bloom of dread in her stomach? Well, it grew to the size of redwood. “I don’t think I really want to know, but…” she licked her lips, “what are broken arrows?”
“I take it you’re not a big John Travolta fan,” Ozzie said.
Huh? “What in the world are you talking about?”
“You know that ’90s movie with the train and the—”
“Broken arrows are missin’ nuclear warheads,” Mac cut in succinctly.
Delilah shook her head, digging a finger in her ear. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I thought you said missing nuclear warheads.”
In answer, Mac gave her a squeeze. It was meant to be comforting, she was sure, but the gesture missed the mark. Holy hell, did it ever! Because that simple little squeeze was an affirmative that, yes, in fact she had heard him correctly.
“We have missing nuclear warheads?” she screeched, jerking out from under his arm so quickly she thought perhaps her head spun in a circle. She had to lower herself to the arm of the sofa lest she wilt to the dirty shag carpeting.
“If by we you mean the U.S. of A. then, yes,” Ozzie concurred. “Eight at last count.”
“No.” Chelsea shook her head. “It’s five now. The two lost in the Mediterranean in ’56 were recovered nearly forty years ago. And the one that rolled off the deck of the USS Ticonderoga and fell into the Pacific Ocean was finally recovered in ’76.”
“Huh.” Ozzie raised his brows. “Well, what do you know? That’s good news.”
Good news? Good news? The U.S. was still missing five freakin’ nuclear warheads, and Ozzie considered this good news?
That’s it. She’d suspected it before, but now she knew for sure. The Black Knights were crazy. Without a doubt, do not pass go, do not collect $200, batshit crazy. But right now the more pressing question was, “What in the world do five missing nuclear warheads have to do with my uncle?”
Chelsea turned to her, reaching up to adjust her glasses. Again Delilah couldn’t help but think the woman would be better suited to a kindergarten classroom. “You know your uncle did a stint in the Marines during Vietnam, right?”
“Yes.” She nodded emphatically. Yes, yes, yes. She was well aware of that fact. It’d been brought up enough in the last twenty-four hours.
“Do you know what he did?” Agent Duvall eyed her curiously.
“He was an engineer or a technician or something.”
Chelsea laughed. “Yeah. Or something.” Blowing out a breath that barely ruffled the short, dark bangs hanging over her forehead, she said, “Now, it goes without saying that what I’m about to tell you guys is highly classified.”
Highly classified. People really used that phrase?
“We have clearance,” Zoelner growled. “We’ve had clearance from the get-go. Probably higher clearance than you have, come to think of it.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Chelsea waved him off. “You’ve already bent me over. There’s no reason to break it off up in there, too.”
“I just don’t enjoy getting pissed on from a great height.”
Chelsea rolled her eyes. “And cue sad, slide whistle sound.”
Delilah saw Zoelner’s hands clench and heard him whisper something under his breath. She couldn’t quite make it out, but Ozzie obviously could. “Whoa,” Ozzie said, stepping back, his gaze darting between the CIA agent and the ex–CIA agent. “Shots fired. Shots fired.”
“Uh-huh.” Chelsea nodded, so much heat in her eyes Delilah was surprised Zoelner’s eyebrows didn’t burst into flames. Obviously, she’d heard what Zoelner said, too. “Well, you might want to pack a coat for your stay at the Moral Highground, Z. I’ve heard it’s quite chilly up there.”
“Cut the
shit, Chelsea.” Zoelner leaned in until his nose was barely an inch from hers.
“You better back the hell off,” Chelsea growled, “or I’m liable to do something to you that’ll make walking impossible.”
“Come sip from the cup of destruction. I dare you.”
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.
“It means they’ve been unable to get the information from the men by traditional means.” Traditional means. She knew he meant torture. “So, they’re attemptin’ to use you as leverage.”
Uh-huh. Okay. Righ
t. So…terrorists—freakin’ frackin’ terrorists—wanted to use her as leverage. Against her uncle. In order to find nuclear weapons…
She bent at the waist, trying to decide if she was going to puke or pass out. Fortunately, she was saved from doing either when the soft muttering of helicopter blades sounded overhead a mere second before the front door exploded open. What was left of the ruined slab of oak disintegrated on impact with the wall.
She bolted upright just as three men in full-on SWAT gear poured into the house, their huge, black machine guns up and at the ready. The Black Knights answered in kind, handguns whipped from waistbands and holsters in the blink of an eye. Each group aimed for the other. Each group yelled for the other to drop their weapons. It was a rootin’, tootin’, gun-totin’ Yosemite Sam melee.
And Delilah was caught smack-dab in the middle of it. Yippee!
Chapter Fifteen
“Get behind me,” Mac bellowed to Delilah, barely sparing her a glance as he kept his weapon trained on the intruders. But that quick peek was enough to tell him her face had completely drained of blood. It was as white as the chalk he and his father had used to paint the cattle with during culling season.
“Don’t move!” yelled one of the three men decked out in expensive tactical gear.
Mac knew a CIA wet unit when he saw one. Not that he was all that impressed. After all, whatever training these spooky boys had gotten back at Langley, he knew it couldn’t possibly compare to the rigorous, months-long physical hell Frank “Boss” Knight had put him through before allowing him to join the ranks of Black Knights Inc. You might not officially be a Navy SEAL, Boss had thundered more than a time or two while watching him struggle to keep from drowning in the frigid waters of Lake Michigan or having him fire so many rounds that his fingers went numb, but, fuckin’-A, I’ll make sure you should have been.
Mac had survived that ordeal. And many, many more in the years since. Which meant that although he had a small amount of respect for the skills of the black-suited men in front of him—small being the operative word—he’d still bet a dollar to a doughnut that he and the two Knights lined up beside him could drop the fancy boys faster than a buckin’ bronco could blaze out of a chute.
Hell for Leather Page 18
