“Yeah,” Lead SWAT Guy spoke up. “You all look like hammered shit.”

Ozzie answered back with a colorful rejoinder about the guy’s lack of paternity.

“Oh, yay,” Delilah said, rolling her eyes and shaking her head. “I can tell this is going to be tons of fun.”

Chapter Sixteen

Noel Motel, Outside Olive Branch, Illinois

Thirty minutes later…

“Well, hi there,” the scrawny, greasy-haired guy manning the front desk said to Delilah’s boobs after Mac watched her tiredly prop a hip against the wobbly piece of furniture. If the dickhead noticed the little drops of blood on her T-shirt or the dirt still smudging her cheeks, he sure didn’t show it. “Need something for the day? Or just for an hour or so?” Greasy wiggled his wiry eyebrows, smiling licentiously. His crooked teeth were stained a disgusting shade of baby-shit brown.

Probably from years of chewin’ Copenhagen and drinkin’ cheap whiskey, Mac thought. Because even now, even from four feet away, and even though it was barely oh-nine-hundred in the morning, he could smell the dude’s breath. As his father used to say, it’s so strong you could hang the washin’ on it.

Behind Greasy, sprawled in a green faux-leather recliner, was a woman. Greasy’s sister? Girlfriend? Wife? Whoever she was, she sported a stringy mop of platinum-blond hair with two-inch black roots. Dressed in a faded muumuu, she was watching reruns of the Maury Povich show on an old tube television and smoking Parliaments. Chain-smoking Parliaments, if the overflowing ashtray beside her was anything to go by.

Taken as a pair, the two were incongruous. What with Mac estimating Greasy didn’t weigh in at over a buck and a quarter soaking wet while Mrs. Greasy had to be pushing the scales at close to four hundred pounds.

This is the clean, secure place Morales reserved for us? he thought, glancing around the wood-paneled office with its row of dusty tchotchkes in the window and the lone gumball machine by the front door. The ceiling fan whirled drunkenly overhead, off balance and doing little to cut through the smoke floating near the ceiling.

The flickering neon sign outside proclaimed the place was the Noel Motel, but from the looks of Mr. and Mrs. Greasy—not to mention the hourly rates, the rickety row of doors leading to no-doubt questionably cleaned rooms, and the off-street parking located in the back of the place—Mac figured it might as well have been named the No Tell Motel. And if Delilah hadn’t looked as though she was about to collapse in her tracks, like her giddy-up-and-go done got up and went, he might have insisted they go somewhere else.

“My boss called and reserved some rooms for us,” Agent Duvall announced as she shouldered through the front door, Zoelner, Ozzie, and the SWAT guys—now dressed in civilian garb—ambling in behind her. Quick as a cricket, the CIA had replaced the agent’s car while simultaneously supplying Fitzsimmons and Wallace with new duds. Mac had to give it to the spooks. They were grade-A number ones when it came to pulling rabbits out of hats.

“You’re the Land Management folks who’re in town to check on our water quality?” Greasy asked, dragging his eyes away from Delilah’s breasts in order to assess the newly arrived group. He grinned again when he got a load of Agent Duvall’s rack.

Talk about ten pounds of shit in a five-pound bag, Mac thought uncharitably, moving slightly in order to draw Greasy’s attention away from the women. It worked. When Greasy saw his unfriendly expression, the guy’s smile faltered.

“That’d be us,” Chelsea concurred, pushing her way up to the desk.

“You come to find out why the water outta the tap smells like swamp ass some days?” Mrs. Greasy inquired, never taking her eyes off the television screen. Smoke curled from her nostrils as she used the butt of one cigarette to light the tip of another.

“Sure did.” Chelsea reached into her carryall to whip out a credit card stamped with a picture of a pine forest and the words Land Management.

See… Rabbit out of hat. Mac shook his head, then narrowed his eyes and stepped over to Delilah when she swayed slightly. She lifted a hand to her temple and squeezed her eyelids closed.

Okay, and just call him Mr. Stuck Between a Rock and a Hard Place. Because the Southern boy in him, the gentleman in him, couldn’t stand there watching her wilt right before his eyes, not when it would be so easy to lend her his support. Then again, there was the whole crack cocaine thing. And, truth be known, his little addiction had only gotten worse since that scene up in Sander’s bedroom.

Christ. How did I let it go so far? How could I have forgotten about the past? About Jolene? About not falling into that same ol’ trap that—

The decision of whether he should or shouldn’t lend Delilah a strong shoulder to lean on was made for him when she opened her eyes and lifted her gaze to his face. Her expression was sad enough to bring a tear to a glass eye. And—ah, hell—that was it. He couldn’t stand it a second longer. He threw an arm around her shoulders.

“Okay,” Agent Duvall said to Greasy after having run her credit card. “We’re good here. Thanks for the hospitality.”

“Any time,” Greasy answered the CIA agent’s chest. Zoelner looked like he was ten seconds away from ripping the guy’s head off. And, yessiree, Mac certainly knew the feeling.

Luckily, he and Zoelner were saved from being forced to hone their decapitation skills when Agent Duvall turned, motioning for the group to follow her. And like a troop of well-trained goslings, they tailed Mother Goose out into the motel’s patchy front lawn.

“Morales booked it so you men are bunking two to a room,” she said, sorting through a handful of old-fashioned keys. The bits of dull metal were attached to key rings that were themselves attached to plastic circles sporting numbers. Apparently, Mr. and Mrs. Greasy hadn’t upgraded the Noel Motel’s locks to that of twenty-first century standards.

Again, Mac couldn’t help but think clean and secure? This place?

It was almost like Agent Duvall’s supervisor was pulling a giant joke on them. And, come to think of it, he wouldn’t necessarily put it past the guy. After all, BKI’s relationship with The Company had been on shaky ground ever since the CIA erroneously listed Rock, the Knights’ resident interrogator extraordinaire, as a rogue operator. And then there was the fact that the Black Knights had happily taken on Dagan Zoelner after the spooks booted him out. So, yeah, giant joke. Had to be.

Then again, Agent Duvall didn’t look like there was a hidden candid camera behind one of her shirt buttons. In fact, she looked serious as death while untangling the mess of keys. “All the rooms have two full-sized beds in them,” she said. “So it shouldn’t be a problem for you boys to double up.”

“Don’t tell me the CIA is too cheap to spring for individual rooms,” Ozzie harrumphed, crossing his arms. “Or maybe you guys spent all your money on those two-hundred-dollar ashtrays and four-thousand-dollar toilet seats?”

“Z,” Agent Duvall said, completely ignoring Ozzie, “you and Mac are in room three.” She handed Zoelner the key. “Delilah gets her own room, number four.”

Mac watched Delilah reach forward to take the key and noted her hand trembled ever so slightly. He instinctively pulled her closer to his side. She tucked her thumb through one of his belt loops, and why that one small move—her subtle message of trust—should simultaneously thrill him and scare him shitless he didn’t know.

“Fitzsimmons and Wallace,” Agent Duvall handed a key to the now jean-clad, T-shirt-wearing Fitzsimmons, “you guys are in room five. I figure with Delilah between both groups, no one will feel left out.” And that was a bit political for a spook. Generally, they weren’t known to be all that accommodating. “I’ll be in room six. Which leaves Ozzie and Steady, once he returns, to take up residence in room seven.”

As if speaking the man’s name aloud somehow conjured him up, Mac’s phone vibrated in his hip pocket. Pulling out the device, he saw the medic’s encrypted number on his screen.

“Go,” he barked, listening intently. Then, “Steady, man, I know details aren’t your strong suit,” BKI’s medic was notorious for being overly—and most times confusingly—concise, “but I’m gonna need more than a simple report of situation stable, medical intervention commencing.” Steady blew out a blustery breath on the other end of the connection before deigning to oblige him. Ending the call, Mac quickly relayed Steady’s news. “Fido’s bleedin’ has stopped. He’s bein’ wheeled into surgery. The vet says chances are good the big jughead will make it.”

Delilah lifted her free hand to her mouth, her big green eyes brightening with tears. When her chin started to wobble, Mac knew the fear, fatigue, and overwhelming doses of adrenaline she’d been running on for more than a day had finally taken their toll. She needed a hot shower and soft bed. In that order. And fast.

“He’s really going to make it?” she asked, trying to blink away her tears. One lone drop defied her efforts and slid down her dusty cheek.

“He said chances are good,” Mac assured her, taking the key from her hand and nodding for the rest of the group to carry on as he escorted her to her room. Inserting the key into the lock, he had to wiggle it a bit, but the knob finally turned. Pushing the door open, he hit the light switch on the wall and discovered, much to his surprise, that the Noel Motel’s room number four was decently clean.