Julie Walker - Hell for Leather

Okay? No. Everything was not okay.

“We’re fine,” Mac grumbled, sparing her a quick glance. She wanted to gouge his pretty blue eyes out. “What’s up?”

Ozzie hesitated a second, frowning at Delilah.

Damnit! Tears burned behind her eyes. But this time they weren’t sad tears or frightened tears. They were pissed-off tears! I’m-going-to-punch-Mac-in-the-balls tears!

“I feel like I’m missing something here,” Ozzie ventured.

“Yeah,” Delilah told him. “You’re missing the fact that your pal,” she motioned to Mac, “is an enormous asshole.”

One corner of Ozzie’s mouth twitched. “Nah. I’ve known that for years, and I—”

“Ozzie.” Mac cut him off, that wonderful drawl of his grating against Delilah’s nerves like sharp teeth sawing on bone. “What was it you came in here for?”

“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…

“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 Mac 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.”