Hell for Leather

by Julie Ann Walker

  “Oh, uh, yeah. So, Chelsea has a few updates to share with us. She wants us to gather in Zoelner’s room.”

  And that, effectively, was a verbal blanket thrown over the fire of Delilah’s fury. Updates. Uncle Theo…

  Her lungs squeezed down inside her chest, causing her next exhalation to wheeze out of her like a tire that had just rolled over a nail.

  Screw Mac and his cowardly, warped sense of reality. She had more important things to deal with…

  Chapter Seventeen

  “You come through with that,” Chelsea said into her Bluetooth device as she sat on the bed closest to the window, quickly swiping images on her iPad. It was Dagan’s bed. The one he’d chosen for himself. But he wasn’t going to ponder that. “And I’ll kiss you on all four cheeks.”

  His back molars set. Flirting. Chelsea Duvall was flirting with whatever douchebag technician was yapping in her ear, and it made him want to spit nails.

  “Come through with what?” he demanded, flicking a glance at the two CIA agents standing on either side of her, their eyes glued to her device’s screen. From here on out, he was going to refer to Fitzsimmons and Wallace as Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, the Bobbsey Twins of synchronized scowls and whispered exchanges. And, yes, he was fully aware he was mixing up his fictional characters, but right now he didn’t give a rat’s ass.

  Because it was obvious he was the extra wheel here, The Company folks having teamed up in an Evil Agency Trifecta. Or maybe he was just still fuming over the fact that Chelsea had lied to him. Lied straight through her pretty white teeth. And there was a large part of him that couldn’t help but wonder if she would have done the same six years ago, or if her lack of faith in him now stemmed entirely from that colossal fuckup in Afghanistan.

  Something told him it was the latter.

  Pushing the familiar pain aside, he demanded again. “Chelsea, what’s going on, damnit? Come through with what?”

  She frowned and he braced himself for the impact of her molten eyes. He’d once heard Mac characterize a woman as whiskey in a tea cup—pretty on the outside, kickass on the inside—and he couldn’t help but think the description suited Chelsea to a T. And just as he expected, when she lifted her gaze to his, it was like a potshot to the gut.

  “Hang on just one minute, you impatient ass,” she hissed at him.

  “I prefer Mr. Impatient Ass, thank you very much.” Yes, he liked to push her buttons. So sue him. Currently, it was the only advantage he had and—The door burst open, admitting Ozzie closely followed by Mac and Delilah.

  Whoa, he immediately thought. Who ate your bowls of sunshine, thunderclouds?

  Because one look at the last two arrivals told him that whatever understanding the pair had reached earlier, the one that had resulted in Delilah sporting a fresh, pink beard stubble rash, had since been blown to smithereens. Delilah’s color was so high he worried for her blood pressure. And Mac? Well, Mac managed to look simultaneously pissed and pensive.

  Jesus, you big, dumb Texan. Back to wearing your ass as a hat, are you?

  And then Mac proved him correct when the guy leaned down to whisper to Delilah, “I don’t know why you’ve got your panties in such a twist over this.” Dagan raised a brow. Because telling a woman her panties were in a twist always worked in a guy’s favor. Not. “And I don’t know why I’m the bad guy here. In fact, if you’ll just settle down and think about it, you’ll see I probably deserve a goddamned medal for Herculean self-control.”

  Delilah’s invitation for Mac to shove his opinions and his hypothetical medal where the sun didn’t shine was issued and immediately ignored.

  “Darlin’,” Mac began.

  “Don’t you darlin’ me, you overgrown ape!” Delilah snapped. “I’ve had quite enough of your darlings. In fact, if I hear one more darlin’ fall out of your mouth, I swear to God I’m going to haul off and punch you in the balls.”

  Mac’s chin jerked back, his eyes narrowing. Uh-oh. Dagan knew when a man was about to dig himself into a hole that might be impossible to climb out of. He opened his mouth to try to save Mac, but the idiot beat him to the punch.

  “Oh, yeah?” He taunted Delilah. “Well, you’re welcome to try it, sugar pants. See where it gets you.”

  Sugar pants? Dagan winced.

  “You did not just call me sugar pants,” Delilah snarled.

  If Dagan had to give a title to the expression Mac suddenly donned, it would be Extreme Disinterest. And that, along with accusations of twisted panties, was another thing universally known not to sit too well with a woman, especially not one a guy was in the middle of having an argument with. Dagan imagined he could actually see Mac heaving a shovelful of dirt over his shoulder.

  “You just said you didn’t want me callin’ you darlin’.” The former Fed shrugged. “And of the other two names that came to mind, sugar pants seemed the nicest.”

  Dagan watched Delilah’s eyes narrow to slits, her lips flattening into a thin line. He began to worry for Mac’s balls when her hands curled into fists. “Mac,” she hissed, “I swear to God, I’m going to—”

  “Hey,” Chelsea cut in, having signed off with that douchebag of a technician, “can we roll the credits on this little feel-good movie and get down to brass tacks?”

  “By all means. Let’s do that,” Mac said, shooting Delilah a look that had morphed from disinterest to disapproval. And, yep. There went shovelful number two.

  Dagan’s gaze flicked to Delilah. With a tinge of admiration, he watched as she physically pulled herself together. Taking a deep breath, she briefly closed her eyes before squaring her shoulders and saying to Chelsea, “Yes, Agent Duvall. Please fill us in on what you know.”

  When he was sure Delilah’s attention was diverted, Dagan reached over and socked Mac on the shoulder, scowling, his expression yelling, what the hell, dude?

  The look Mac offered him in response couldn’t be mistaken. Quite simply, it was the facial equivalent of mind your own fucking business.

  Shovelful number three? Four?

  Dagan just shook his head. Who was he to try to save a guy who didn’t seem to want saving?

  “The good news is,” Chelsea said, “we’ve found your uncle’s motorcycle.”

  “You did?” Delilah breathed, reaching up to place a hand over her mouth.

  “Yes.” Chelsea nodded. “It was parked inside one of the buildings on Main Street back in Cairo.” She turned to Dagan then, and he could still read her well enough to know what was coming next. Christ. They’d been so close. “The same building we saw the four green dots in on the thermal imagery earlier this morning. The same building that is, as I’m sure you’ve already guessed, now empty.”

  “H-he was there,” Delilah whispered, her eyes wide. “My uncle was there in that building, only a few blocks away, while we were in Sander’s house.”

  “Yes.” Chelsea nodded. “We’re certain he was.”

  Dagan picked up on her inflection. “Certain? What do you mean by certain?”

  Chelsea lifted her hand to push her glasses up the length of her nose. He knew it for the stalling tactic it was. Whatever was coming next, it wasn’t good news.

  “There was blood at the scene,” she admitted, her eyes trained on Delilah. “And though our labs are going to need a DNA cheek swab from you to verify it’s source, initial indications are that it is your uncle’s. We have his blood type on file from his time in the military. The sample at the scene is a match.”

  And speaking of blood…every ounce drained from Delilah’s face. Her cheeks had been red as cherry bombs when she entered the room a minute ago. Now they were whiter than the snow that blanketed the Windy City in January.

  “But we view this discovery in a positive light,” Chelsea continued, attempting to provide Delilah with hope. “Because even though there’s blood, the fact that he was taken means he’s still alive. And that’s what you need to focus on.”

  Delilah blew out a blustery breath, and Dagan watched Ma
c curl his hands into fists in an obvious attempt to keep from reaching out to comfort the woman. Jesus, dude. Just do it. Just show her how much you care.

  “Which is more than I can say for Charles Sander,” Chelsea admitted, and Dagan’s chin snapped around, his eyes landing on her face. “We found his body in another abandoned building. Our MEs are saying he’s been dead about twenty-four hours. Initial indications are that he had a heart attack or a stroke while undergoing…uh…”—she hesitated, seeming to search for words—“rigorous questioning.”

  “You can say torture,” Delilah whispered. “I can handle it.”

  Chelsea’s expression was sympathetic. “Your uncle is now the only person who can give the terrorists the information they seek. Which means they’re going to do everything they can to keep him alive until they get it.”

  And then Delilah proved just what a bright bulb she really was. “But that also means they’re going to do everything they can to make him talk, right?”

  Chelsea swallowed uncomfortably, nodding.

  “Jesus.” Delilah turned her back on the group, and Ozzie threw an arm around her shoulders, bending to whisper something in her ear. Mac’s jaw ground with such force, Dagan was surprised little bits of tooth enamel didn’t come flying out of his ears.

  “There’s more,” Chelsea said. “An investigation into the car that al-Hallaj left behind revealed he rented it, along with a similar vehicle, over the border in Canada.”

  “Canada?” Dagan shook his head. “So, that’s how he made it into the country?”

  “Yes. From what we’ve been able to determine, he snuck into Canada on a cargo barge that docked in the Port of Quebec. Then, using false documents, he made his way inland. Highway photos taken from Canadian Border Services reveal that after he rented the two vehicles, he crossed into the U.S. with three compatriots. One of whom is Qasim ibn Hasan.”

  The minute the name was spoken, a cold chill snaked up Dagan’s spine.

  “Oh, crap,” Ozzie muttered at the same time Mac said something under his breath that wasn’t worth repeating.

  Delilah glanced around at the faces of the men, her brows pulled down in confusion. “And who is Qasim ibn Hasan?” she asked.

  Dagan wasn’t too surprised by her question. Most Americans didn’t pay all that much attention to terrorist attacks on foreign soil, even when the news of the attacks was splashed all over their television screens and headlining their newspapers.

  “You remember hearing or reading about the bombing of the Grand Hyatt hotel in Istanbul?” Chelsea asked. Delilah rolled in her lips, nodding. “How about the series of bus bombings in Dublin and the murder of schoolgirls in Iraq?” Again Delilah jerked her chin up and down. “Well, Qasim ibn Hasan is responsible for all three, and likely a whole lot more that we’re not certain of.”

  “And he has my uncle?” Delilah rasped.

  “Indeed he does. But we’re doing everything we can to find him.”

  Qasim ibn Hasan…Jesus, Dagan thought. And if he wasn’t mistaken, that sound he was hearing was the sweet, dulcet tones of the shit hitting the fan.

  “Why?” Delilah asked, and he cocked his head, staring at her in confusion.

  “What do you mean?” Chelsea asked.

  “Why would he bomb hotels or blow up city busses or kill schoolgirls? Why does he hate everyone so much?”

  Ah, the search for reason in the unreasonable. Dagan knew the exercise well.

  “Not everyone,” Chelsea corrected. “Just us. Because even though his previous targets were all on foreign soil, each of those countries is one of our allies. And all of his victims were either Westerners, like those in the hotel and on the buses, or they were proponents of Western ideals, like the Iraqi girls who had the unqualified gall to try to get an education.”

  “Then why does he hate us so much,” Delilah asked, shaking her head. “I mean, what did we ever do to him?”

  “Killed his family,” Tweedle Dee spoke up for the first time.

  “What?” Dagan snapped.

  “It’s true.” Chelsea nodded. “His wife and two boys were victims of a drone strike about a dozen years ago. Before that, Qasim was a simple merchant. Now, he’s one of America’s Most Wanted.”

  “For fuck’s sake,” Mac grumbled, running a hand over the back of his neck. “Sometimes I don’t know if we make more enemies with predator drone strikes than we kill.”

  Dagan snorted. “Fire from above does tend to radicalize men who would have otherwise remained neutral.” After much consideration on the subject, years in fact, the only sense he could make of it all was that drones were an imperfect solution to an incredibly complicated issue.

  “So it’s revenge he’s after?” Delilah asked.

  “Yes,” Chelsea admitted. “But it’s warped revenge. What you have to remember is that his family was killed by accident. As terrible as it is to say, they were unfortunate collateral damage in a war. The war on terror. It happens. But he is deliberately taking his remorse and vengeance out on innocent targets. I mean, schoolgirls? Grannies and single moms riding the bus? There’s no reciprocity there, no equality of grievance. If he targeted military bases or embassies? Sure, I could see that. Give credence to his actions, even. A war is a war, after all.

  “But he’s not going after soldiers or diplomats.” She shook her head. “He’s deliberately going after women and children. And that makes him a monster in my book. Whatever kind of man he might have been before that bomb landed in his village doesn’t matter. Now he’s evil. An evil man doing evil deeds.”

  It was an impassioned speech given by a passionate woman. Chelsea was a true patriot. And she believed in the U.S. government. Even through all its missteps and mistakes, through all its self-serving appointments and support of totalitarian dictators, through all its posturing and bullying, she believed America was still a beacon of hope the world over. They’d had many discussions on the subject long ago, and it seemed her stance hadn’t become jaded in all the years since.

  But she wasn’t finished. “We all, each and every one of us standing in this room,” she slid a glance toward him, “have lost people we love in this war. But you don’t see us killing indiscriminately. You don’t see us searching for nuclear weapons to unleash on an innocent civilian population.”

  “Yeah.” Delilah nodded wearily, lifting a hand to her temple. “I…I understand. I really do. I just can’t help but wish my uncle wasn’t caught up in the middle of it.”

  “You and me both.” Chelsea’s smile was compassionate. “But we’re doing everything we can, using satellite imagery and scouring traffic camera footage to try to locate that second rental vehicle. We’re going through phone records, recent online chatter of known domestic terrorist groups, and much, much more. I assure you, the minute I hear something, you’ll be the first to know. In the meantime, why don’t you head next door and get some sleep.”

  Delilah shook her head. “I don’t think I can.”

  “Then just lie down and rest for a while. We don’t know how long this thing will last. But regardless of whether its hours or days, you’re going to need your strength.”

  “Yeah,” Delilah conceded on a heavy sigh, looking a little lost and a lot beaten down. “Yeah, you’re right.”

  “And you don’t have to worry about al-Hallaj making another attempt to snatch you. These guys,” Chelsea motioned to the Knights as well as Dee and Dum, “will be taking shifts guarding both your door and your bathroom window around back.”

  “Thank you,” Delilah said wearily, allowing her gaze to alight on every face in the room in turn. “Thank you all for everything.”

  “No thanks are necessary,” Dagan assured her.

  She gifted him with a sad, tired smile before turning for the door.

  “I’ll take first shift out front,” Mac declared, stepping up behind her.

  “Hey.” Dagan stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “Why don’t you let me do that?” He lowered his voice so
only Mac you hear him. “Then you can go make right with her whatever it is you just made wrong with her.”

  “I didn’t make anything wrong with her,” Mac insisted. “And I’m takin’ the first shift.”

  Dagan released the big Texan, shrugging and thinking, well, like my mother used to say, there’s no use trying to make chicken salad out of chicken shit…

  Chapter Eighteen

  Three hours later…

  Sitting in the plastic chair he’d positioned beside the door of the Noel Motel’s room number four, Mac closed his eyes and counted to ten. Twice. Then three times. And when that didn’t work, he went in for a fourth.

  None of it helped. He was still hornier than a bull separated from the heifers in the herd. And why should that be, do you suppose? Well, because five minutes ago, when he knocked on Delilah’s door to hand her the turkey sandwich and bag of chips Ozzie procured from the local Subway, she answered his summons in her T-shirt.

  In her T-shirt, and nothing else…

  Oh, sure. She’d been wearing panties. Pink panties, to be exact. Pink panties with a little red bow on the front—not that he was obsessing about them or anything. Okay, so maybe he was obsessing a little. But, the pink panties alone wouldn’t have put him in this particular predicament—hot and hard and fidgety as a woodshed waiter—had they not also been paired with a clean white T-shirt that she’d donned after taking yet another shower. And let’s not even get him started on the earlier agony of what it had been like to sit outside her door, listening to water running inside, all the while picturing her naked and wet, because that was another issue altogether.

  No. When he said she answered the door in her T-shirt and nothing else, what he really meant was that she’d been without a bra. And he’d been able to make out the shape of her nipples. Her decadent, rosy-red nipples. Those nipples he’d licked and laved and sucked just a few hours back. Those nipples that, despite everything he told himself to the contrary, despite everything he told her to the contrary, he wanted quite desperately to lick and lave and suck again.