He motioned toward the pistol he’d moved to the front of his jeans. It was a big gun. What most operators like to call a huge persuader. She gulped.

“Or else,” he added, “I might be tempted to empty a clip in you and any other government asshole who comes my way based on principle alone.”

She nodded in acquiescence—screw Morales and his orders to keep her mouth shut—just as Dagan and Ozzie barged through the back gate. Dagan was still holding his cell phone to his ear, listening in on every word being spoken.

“Mac!” he yelled furiously, his voice echoing out over the yard and neighborhood. “If there’s anything left once I’ve finished with her, you can be my guest!”

Chapter Fourteen

If Delilah didn’t know the men of Black Knights Inc. as well as she did, she might have feared for the life of the little CIA agent. All three operators surrounded Chelsea Duvall, who was perched on the edge of Sander’s ruined sofa.

At first, Delilah expected them to fire up the engines on their motorcycles and take off to join the chase for Mr. Timberlands. And even though her head was still spinning slightly from being choked out, she’d been ready—more than ready—to accompany them. No one attempts to kidnap me twice and gets away with it. Wonder Twins, unite!

But when she’d said as much to Mac, he’d quickly informed her, “We’re better off lettin’ the spooks risk life and limb tryin’ to catch him. Choppers are better equipped to tail him anyway. Besides, we need to stay here and protect you.”

And to say she’d been peeved by the need for protection was an understatement. But what with that whole two attempted abductions thing she had going for her, she didn’t really see a way to naysay him. Which meant that she now found herself standing in the middle of Sander’s living room, watching three grown men bully one small woman. And they were bullying Agent Duvall, insomuch as they were towering over her.

“You all stop looking at me like I killed your canary,” Chelsea said, lifting her chin in defiance.

You go, girl, Delilah thought as a proud, card-carrying member of the sisterhood. On the other hand, the CIA agent was here under what Delilah was now certain were nefarious circumstances, so her support of the woman didn’t go much further than that.

“Not our canary,” Ozzie said, crossing his arms and shaking his shaggy head. “But you may’ve been instrumental in the death of a dog.” Fido… Tears pricked behind Delilah’s eyes. “I mean, did you guys see that? It was straight out of Turner and Hooch!”

“What was?” she asked, running a hand under her nose. She couldn’t help but notice her fingers smelled like dirt and dog, and gah! That just made everything so much worse. God, Fido. Don’t die. “What was straight out of Turner and Hooch?”

“Fido chomped onto Mr. Timberlands’ boot like the thing was made of jerky,” Mac said without taking his eyes off the CIA agent, without uncrossing his powerful arms.

“Haroun al-Hallaj,” Agent Duvall corrected, her voice only slightly tremulous. “His name is Haroun al-Hallaj.”

Mac made a face that clearly stated he didn’t give one shit, much less two shits, what the guy’s name was. It was cold, that expression of his. Ice cold. Delilah shivered in response. This Mac, this frigid mountain of a man, was hard to equate with the hot, growling lover who’d given her such intense pleasure upstairs just… She glanced at the old Felix the Cat clock ticking away on the kitchen wall and realized in astonishment that it’d been less than thirty minutes since she’d been burning up beneath his ravishing kisses.

It felt more like a week had passed.

“Fido’s bite caused the man to drop you,” Mac continued, “which is the only reason you’re here with us now instead of…wherever the hell he’d been planning to take you.”

The tears behind her eyes pricked more forcefully. Mac must’ve recognized her trouble because, with a back-and-forth grind of his jaw and a twitch of that delectable chin dimple, he held out his hand, beckoning her under his arm.

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.”