All Knighter

by Em Petrova

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  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  All Rights Reserved

  All Knighter

  Knight Ops Book 1

  Copyright Em Petrova 2018

  Ebook Edition

  Electronic book publication 2018

  All rights reserved. Any violation of this will be prosecuted by the law.

  Ben Knight has held a lot of titles—devoted son, big brother to six siblings, captain of the Marine’s Fleet Anti-Terrorism Security Team and his best-known gig of Louisiana playboy. But the ladies are just going to have to understand that his time’s stretched thin when he takes on the leadership of a new special ops force.

  With his brothers as sidekicks.

  Worst idea ever. But a decision Ben has no control over, and control is his middle name. Actually, it’s Bartholomew but thank God nobody knows that, except one pretty little brown-eyed Cajun girl with access to too much information about the Knight family and an oh-so-sweet sassy mouth. A mouth that he’s never forgotten even though it’s been three months since he’s last had her in his bed, against a wall and over a barstool.

  Dahlia was a victim of the notorious Ben Knight’s love-’em-and-leave-’em lifestyle, and it ticks her off that she can’t forget him. Maybe it’s that bad-boy smile or the way he looks like sin poured into low-slung jeans. When he comes sniffing around again, her libido makes her jump into action—and straight into a world of secrets surrounding Ben. Leading her to question whether her heart can withstand a life with a man who might not be alive tomorrow.

  All Knighter

  by

  Em Petrova

  Chapter One

  This was the fuckin’ life. Ass on barstool, drink in hand, looking between a pretty waitress flitting back and forth behind the bar and the Astros game on the flat-screen.

  Ben Knight wasn’t wearing eighty pounds of gear while hiking through combat zones or even sporting a wristwatch since he didn’t give a damn about the time, but he was packing heat. He didn’t go anywhere without his M-9 Beretta, though he’d spent enough time overseas that he’d become very fond of foreign sidearms.

  As he lifted his drink to his lips again, a cheer went up around the bar. Unaware why the patrons of the New Orleans hole-in-the-wall were making a ruckus, Ben looked at the TV to see the hitter running the bases, but a glance back at the cute blonde showed that her denim miniskirt had ridden up her tanned thighs. He cocked a smile. It had been pretty high to begin with.

  Could be cheering at either one. Right now, his bets were on the girl.

  Ben was a master of concealment, so when the bartender caught him staring at her ass, it was entirely purposeful.

  With a coy look, she sauntered up to face him across the wooden bar top and leaned in so he could also see down her shirt. Both the top and bottom halves of this woman’s body seemed to match—all curves and sultry Southern nights.

  “So, Cowboy,” she said with a twinkle in her eyes, “are you who I think you are?”

  “I am if you’ve got the time.”

  “Hey, quit hogging the bartender! Jennifer, I could use a drink,” a patron called from the opposite end of the bar.

  Jennifer gave Ben a smile and a wink before twitching her curves to the other end of the bar.

  He tugged on the brim of his Stetson and paused. The action shouldn’t cause all the hair on his nape to stand on end. Which could only mean one thing--danger.

  He slid his hand along his side, inches from the weapon tucked in his waistband.

  “Don’t move for your weapon, Captain.” The words came low, but Ben had the hearing of a fucking German Shepard and everything in him was on red alert.

  Ben didn’t bother turning his head right or left where the two men bracketed him on his stool. He wrapped his fingers around his glass again. “If you boys’re calling me captain, then you must be Marines. Join me for a drink?”

  “Your presence is required by Colonel Jackson, sir.”

  He took a bracing swallow of the whiskey and pushed out a sigh. “I’m not only off-duty, gentlemen, but I’m retired.”

  The man on his left gripped his biceps and the other gripped his right. “We have orders to drag you off this stool and put you in the trunk of our vehicle if you don’t comply, Captain.”

  “Jesus Christ.” Was this really happening? All Ben wanted was peace and quiet, but his error had been in postponing his trip to the Keys. He shouldn’t have made a pitstop in Louisiana to visit his family and gone straight for the golf and the sunshine.

  He shook his head. “I suppose Colonel Jackson’s outside in said vehicle, am I right?”

  “No, sir. He’s here in New Orleans.”

  “Well,” he knocked back the rest of his whiskey and set the glass on the bar, “I guess that means I’m going with you. Mind letting go of my arms so I can pay for my drink?”

  Around them, the bar was erupting with cheers again, and this time he knew it was for the Astros, who’d just cleaned the bases. The pretty blonde had moved on to another man and was displaying her wares to him.

  Ben sighed. It might have been fun. Some playtimes weren’t—many were. For five years, he’d been with FAST—the special ops team that guarded sensitive naval installations, including ones involving nukes. But Ben had another acronym for FAST.

  Fucking All Sexy Turn-ons.

  That was his new mission, and about the only thing he was devoted to at the moment, besides whiskey, golf and sunshine. Apparently, he was putting those vices aside for the moment and visiting with Colonel Jackson.

  The men released his arms and Ben reached for his wallet. For a split second, he considered going for his weapon, but what good would it do to be retired and on the run?

  He tossed a few bills on the bar and got up. The air conditioning in the shitty bar couldn’t keep up with the Louisiana heat, and his jeans felt sticky, his thin cotton T-shirt clinging to his lower back.

  Finally, he faced the men who’d been sent to collect him. He snorted. “Christ, you guys get younger and younger.”

  “Yes, sir,” one agreed.

  Shaking his head, Ben gestured to the door. “Shall we? If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to drive rather than riding in the trunk.”

  Ten minutes later, Ben screeched to a stop in front of the facility that was really a small group of buildings that pencil-pushers liked to call a base, when really high-ranking officers just used it as a place to take a piss when passing through.

  Ben cut the engine and threw a look at the guy in the passenger’s seat and then the one in the back. Both had been white-knuckling it as he took the well-known Louisiana roads like a Nascar driver.

  He threw them a grin. “Thanks for the ride, boys.”

  He got out and walked in like he owned the place.

  Colonel Jackson’s bellow sounded the instant the door closed. “Is that Ben Knight? Get his ass in here. Now.”

  Two second-lieutenants came out of nowhere to flank Ben.

  “By all means, show me the way,” he joked.

  They didn’t smile. No, they were busy being good Marines and kissing ass. Colonel Jackson’s ass, to be exact. Those days were over for Ben. He’d put in his time. The only thing on his mind from here on out was a rod and reel, a bag of golf clubs and a nonstop stream of beautiful women in his bed.

  He was led into a room with a gleaming smoky glass table and a dozen empty chairs
circling it.

  Ben released a whistle. “Rather a large reception for me, but I don’t mind some hoopla.”

  Colonel Jackson whipped from the window and set his glare on Ben. “Damn, you’re just as reckless as you were back in North Korea. What took you so long to get here, might I ask? By my calculations, the journey from the… what was it? The Voodoo Bar should have taken no more than twelve minutes.”

  “Ten, with my driving sir.”

  Jackson pulled back his uniform cuff and checked his watch. Then he arched his brows at Ben.

  “I had to finish my whiskey first, Colonel.”

  “Dammit, Knight. Stand at attention. And take off that goddamn cowboy hat.” He pointed to a spot in front of him. Ben’s reflexes kicked in and he snapped straight upright, heels together and salute ready, Stetson on the table. He felt the officer’s gaze moving over him, probably assessing the sweat stains he bore, his too-long hair and the scruff of beard he’d refused to shave since retiring.

  “At ease, captain.” He circled him and sniffed. “Whiskey... Do I need to give you a sobriety test, Knight, or are you sober enough to hear what I have to say?”

  “Meaning no disrespect, sir, but I didn’t have enough drinks to even give me a buzz, sir.”

  “Enough of your mouth. Take a seat.”

  As Ben pulled out a chair and sat, the two guys who’d flanked him moved to the door and placed their backs to either side, guarding it. From what? Ben couldn’t help but feel he was being barricaded inside, but what the hell for? He was done, had the official papers to prove it. No more bullets flying by his head, just sun on water and drinks served up by women scantily clad in bikinis.

  Jackson took a chair at the head of the table and steepled his fingers, his gray eyes piercing over the tips. Ben had survived more stressful experiences than being stared at by a commanding officer, so he rested his arms on the table and waited.

  “You’re a cocky asshole, you know it, Knight?”

  “I’ve been told that, sir.”

  “You started out at Lejeune, moved up quickly to first lieutenant. Deployed to Afghanistan in ’13. Then quickly became one of the FAST team, where you did some good in North Korea.”

  Ben swung his gaze to the colonel. “All due respect, sir, but we did more than some ‘good’ in North Korea.”

  “Don’t get mouthy with me, Captain. I know exactly what you did there. But that’s classified, isn’t it?” The way he drawled told Ben this man was a native of Louisiana, the accent too close to his own native roots, no matter how many years either of them had spent outside the state.

  The drawl also reminded him—vividly—of a dark-haired, sloe-eyed belle femme he’d spent a weekend holed up with after being in North Korea. The things that woman could do with her mouth…

  Well, now wasn’t the place to consider that, was it?

  Jackson eyed him. Ben eyed him back.

  “Damn, but you’re a snot-nosed brat of a Marine, aren’t you, Knight?” He sat back in his seat. “If I didn’t need your skills right now, I’d kick you out of my office for stinking like whiskey.”

  So, they were getting to the crux of his visit at last.

  “Permission to ask what you need me for, Colonel. I might remind you I’m retired.”

  “You don’t need to remind me of jack shit, Knight. What I have for you is a team.”

  Ben nearly groaned and felt his dreams of golfing in the Keys and drinking rum all day washing out from under him like sand in the Gulf.

  Jackson narrowed one eye at him. “Ever hear of Operation Freedom Flag?”

  Dammit, Ben knew he wouldn’t be allowed to kick back and relax for the rest of his days. They were going to ask him to serve his country further and using his own fucking patriotism to manipulate him into doing it. It was damn easy to bury his head in the sand and ignore the world events that he’d been so embroiled in for years. But Operation Freedom Flag was a brand-new team created on American soil to protect in ways Homeland failed to. Bigger, deeper, scarier shit.

  “I can see you know it,” Jackson went on. “We need a team, special ops like FAST, but more centralized to the South. Lots of bad shit goin’ on down here, Knight.”

  He pushed out a sigh. “Not surprising, Colonel.”

  “Don’t be insolent with me. Now we need you, Knight. When General Heyr sat down with me, the commander of ICE and even the goddamn Vice President of the United States, your name was the one that continued to come up. In fact, the only one to come up.”

  Fuck, this was worse than he’d imagined. He wished to hell he was still back on that barstool ogling the blonde’s ass. Or better yet, off to the oldest section of New Orleans to locate the dark beauty that had stirred his blood so right all those months ago.

  “You would be heading Operation Freedom Flag Southern US division, Knight.”

  “Heading? How many men are we talking about?”

  “OFFSUS would have the best of the best, I assure you, Knight.”

  He rolled with the acronym, already identifying with it and seating himself in charge. Dammit to hell, all he wanted was to hit eighteen holes.

  “If I take this, Colonel, do I get to choose my men?” He already had a few in mind—guys he’d served with, brothers who’d—

  “I’ve already done that for you, Knight.” Jackson looked over his head and nodded to the guards. Seconds later, through the window on the far wall, Ben could see the vehicles pouring onto the property.

  An El Camino painted in Tuxedo Black. Only one man could drive such a pimped out Southern car.

  Ben didn’t even get a chance to open his mouth to speak when the second vehicle had his molars grinding. The Jeep with the top down left no question as to who was behind the wheel—cocky sunglasses and all.

  The practical economy car in third place could be anyone, though. It had to be anyone. Please let it be anyone else, Ben thought.

  But the Ninja motorcycle rolling in last left no doubt.

  He swallowed the anger and acid of the words he was about to spew at a commanding officer. “What the hell is this, Colonel?” was enough to earn him a sharp look.

  “I take it you recognize your new team, Knight.”

  “Team?”

  The doors opened and Ben whirled to glare at the Marines striding in, each as big and full of themselves as he was. Nobody but a Knight could be.

  “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “My brothers are the men I’m to command?”

  “Hey, Ben. I see you’ve gotten some sun,” Sean threw out as he circled the table and plopped into the seat opposite him.

  “You little shit ass—”

  A clap on his back had him turning to lock gazes with Chaz, the blonder of the five Knight brothers, though everyone teased him that his hair just bleached out with the top of his Jeep down in the baking Louisiana sun.

  Chaz shoved his glasses up on his head and offered a crooked grin. “Good to see ya again, bro.”

  Ben had just eaten a Sunday meal with his family and nobody had uttered a word about this new special ops team—or that they were part of it. Had they known? He didn’t think Dylan was capable of hiding anything, so he turned to him as he entered the room.

  He took a double-take. “What’s with the nerd glasses, Dylan?”

  His little brother sported horn-rimmed glasses, which were new.

  Dylan gave him a crooked smile and waggled his brows above the frames. “Givin’ them a test run.”

  “You can’t be on my team with poor vision. Colonel—” He spun to look at Jackson, who was smiling at him. Too late, Ben realized what he’d said.

  His team. Goddammit.

  “My eyesight’s just as perfect as it was back when I was in sniper training, Ben. Don’t get your boxers in a twist. These glasses have other features.”

  Ben could only imagine the gadgets Dylan loved toying with. Not only was he a master of weapons and a sniper with a near-perfect record of accuracy, but he was brilliant with technology. He�
��d hacked the damn Pentagon at seventeen, which had earned him a ride straight to the nearest prison cell—and then he’d been recruited directly to the US government. Dylan hadn’t even finished high school before he’d been set up hacking electronics and decoding correspondence. Then he’d claimed to have “gotten bored” and enlisted in the Marines like his brothers, where he’d become a top sniper.

  And Rhoades… Dammit, Ben’s youngest brother was hardly out of boot camp. Could barely wipe his own ass. Now he was riding a crotch rocket and was the final man entering the room.

  The Knight boys all took seats and stared at Ben, along with Jackson, the sneaky bastard.

  “You knew this,” Ben accused, wagging a finger at his family members.

  They started shaking their heads, when Jackson said, “I just notified them earlier today, Captain. Now sit.”

  Directly disobeying an order, he looked back to the door. “We need six on a team. Should I expect Tyler to walk through that door next?” It wouldn’t surprise him one fucking bit to see their little sister, one of the twins, enter with her sassy attitude.

  He groaned.

  “You’ll be getting that sixth man, rest assured, Captain. Now sit and let’s lay this out on the table.”

  Ben stiffly sat and glared at each and every one of his brothers. Stupid fuckers, all of them. The Knights were a military family, but that didn’t mean they needed to be dumb, and he was seriously questioning their brain capacities right now.

  “You realize if something happens to any one of us, our parents have lost a son. Right?” He directed his question at the room.

  Sean lifted a shoulder and let it drop. “Nothing new there, Ben, whether we’re fighting with you or another captain. Calm down.”

  “If I’m your captain, then what I say goes.” He pointed at each. “And you, you, you and you can all go. I’m not fucking leading my brothers on missions that could get one of them—or all of us—killed.” He glared now at Jackson and didn’t even give a damn if he was court-martialed and shot against a wall.