“Good then.” Mac nodded. “It’s a plan.”

A plan. She should feel elated. Unfortunately, she was too terrified for elation. Stepping out from under the comforting weight of his arm, a sticky warmth against her side had her glancing down. Pulling aside the edge of her lightweight riding jacket, she gasped when she saw bright red blood staining the bottom of her neon pink T-shirt.

“What?” She gulped, pressing her hand against the blood. Had her assailant somehow wounded her? Had the adrenaline kept her from feeling it? “What?” she croaked again, staring at the smear of red on her fingertips when she pulled her hand away.

“Don’t worry,” Mac told her. “It’s not yours.”

“Not my—?” She blinked at him uncomprehendingly.

“It’s mine.”

“Y-yours?” Her gaze shot down to his side.

Sure enough. A circle about the size of a Frisbee stained the black cotton of his T-shirt, making it appear shiny. And then she remembered.

The letter opener…

“Jesus Christ, Mac!” she yelped, rushing forward to lift his shirt. A deep gash about three inches long sliced through the perfection of his tan flank and leaked blood sluggishly.

“It’s nothing,” he told her, dragging down the hem of his shirt. “It’s only about half an inch deep. Not something to worry about.”

“It’s not nothing,” she insisted, all her anxiety and terror suddenly joined by twin helpings of dismay and guilt. She wasn’t usually a wilting lily when it came to the sight of blood, but knowing she’d wounded a man who’d only been trying to help her made her sick to her stomach. Literally. The stupid organ turned upside down and proceeded to disgorge acid up into her throat. “I-I stabbed you!”

“Eh.” He shrugged his big shoulders. “People get stabbed all the time.”

“In what universe?” she demanded incredulously. “Most folks I know get hangnails, not knife wounds!”

“Really?” Zoelner asked, reminding Delilah of his presence. She’d completely forgotten about him. Of course, who could blame her when every fiber of her being was focused on the fact that she’d freakin’ stabbed Mac. Holy shit! “Maybe that means we’re in the wrong business, Mac. Because I’ve seen plenty of stab wounds, but I can’t recall ever laying eyes on a hangnail.”

“Are you thinkin’ a change of career is in order?” Mac asked Zoelner, one corner of his mouth twitching.

Seriously? Seriously?

“That bump to my head must’ve been harder than I thought,” she declared. “Because you two can’t really be standing here joking about the fact that I stabbed Mac.” I mean, Jesus!

“I told you it’s nothin’,” Mac assured her. And before she could open her mouth to refute his statement a second time, he wrapped a hand around her bicep and started guiding her toward the front door. “Now, let’s get back to the shop so we can get Ozzie going on findin’ out who Mr. Timberlands is, and so Zoelner and I can get going on findin’ your uncle.”

Oh, yeah. Finding her uncle. And there was that. Sweet Mary and Joseph, will this god-awful day ever end?

Chapter Three

Black Knights Inc. Headquarters

“The prodigal sons have returned! And they’ve brought Delilah back with them!”

A cheer sounded from all those gathered in the dark courtyard located behind BKI’s warehouse facilities. And the raised beer bottles, lively music, fire crackling in the pit, not to mention the canoodling couples lounging in mismatched lawn furniture around the pit, were the whole reason Dagan Zoelner had quit the scene four hours earlier in order to hail the first cab to Red Delilah’s Biker Bar.

Because the Black Knights, his colleagues…or, okay, so despite the ignominious way in which he’d joined the group, he supposed he could now count them as his friends…had decided to throw an impromptu party. And if there was one night a year when the dead-last thing he wanted to do was pull a Will Smith and “get jiggy wit’ it,” this was it.

Tonight of all nights, he had absolutely nothing to celebrate and a whole hell of a lot to lament. Beginning and ending with the five lives that had been lost six years ago because of his colossal fuckup…

And to tell the truth, though he was sorry as hell for Delilah and the pain and anguish she was going through—then there was his own anxiety surrounding the matter; he happened to like Theo Fairchild immensely—he wasn’t sorry to have something other than the anniversary of that clusterfuck in Afghanistan to occupy his mind. Because, try as he might—and you can bet your ass he’d been trying with all his might—he hadn’t been able to wash away with good Scottish whiskey the memories of that hot desert afternoon and the gruesome images that flashed behind his lids anytime he closed his eyes.

And, yes, he fully realized that numbing his pain at the expense of his liver was anything but mature, and he usually made a concerted effort to be out on a mission when this particular date rolled around. But with one of the Knights’ wives about to pop out a mini Knight at any moment, Boss, the esteemed leader of their little group of covert operators, had done his best to make sure as many of the guys as possible were on hand to witness the blessed event.

And, wouldn’t you know, Dagan’s last mission had ended three days ago, and since then, nothing pressing had come over the wires necessitating him to head back out to parts unknown. Which meant that he was stuck. Here. Waiting on the arrival of a bouncing bundle of joy and unexpectedly finding himself in the middle of a party he wanted no part of…

Then again, that wasn’t totally true. Because he was happy for his fellow operator. Honestly, he was. Even now, as he looked at Ghost rubbing the lower back of his extremely pregnant wife, Ali, he couldn’t deny the tiny spark of satisfaction…and is that longing?…that flashed deep inside him.

The Knights’ transient lifestyles, while thrilling, tended to make them a bad bet for solid relationships. Being hell and gone all the time seemed to curtail serious attachments. But somehow this guy, this hard-driving, hard-fighting operator, had managed to make it work. He’d managed to find a measure of peace, a little bit of happiness, despite the oftentimes spectacular pile of shit that was their under-the-table and off-the-books work for Uncle Sam. And standing there, watching him grin at his wife like he’d just won the lottery gave Dagan hope that maybe someday he, too, might discover a love that could repair all the broken things inside him. A love that could bring him some small level of contentment, that would…he didn’t know…make it all, all the struggle and pain, all the regret and sacrifice, worth it.

On the other hand, Ghost was a grade-A, stand-up guy who didn’t have the blood of five innocent people on his hands, so—

“Three more barley pops for the new arrivals, Steady!” Ozzie, the Knights’ on-staff computer whiz, called cheerfully to the ex–Army Ranger medic who now served as BKI’s in-house sawbones. “And while you’re at it, pass me one, too.”

“I thought you said you were headed out to sow your wild oats,” Steady retorted as he popped the top on the big cooler positioned beside his bright red Adirondack chair.

“Sow his wild oats?” Becky, BKI’s wunderkind motorcycle designer/mechanic, scoffed from her position on Boss’s lap. She was simultaneously sucking down suds and lapping at one of her ever-present Dum Dum lollipops. And just imagining that particular taste combination made the scotch in Dagan’s stomach threaten a reappearance. “Is that what you call getting more ass than a sorority house toilet seat?” A wet, slightly fishy-smelling breeze blew in from the nearby Chicago River and teased the ends of her long blond ponytail. Then her smile quickly morphed into a frown as she pointed the end of her sucker in Ozzie’s direction. “And you can wipe that look off your face right this minute.”

“What look?” Ozzie asked innocently.

“The one that says you know what color panties I’m wearing.”

“Well, I can’t help that.” Ozzie grinned, reaching up to adjust an invisible tie around his neck. “Guessing the color of women’s drawers is just one of my many talents.”

“Ozzie…” Boss warned.

“Now back to this sorority house toilet seat comment,” Ozzie blazed ahead. “I thank you for the vote of confidence in my manly prowess, but if we’re talking manwhores, we need to turn the spotlight off me and shine it on this guy sitting beside me.”

“Me?” Steady hooked a thumb at his chest. The firelight flickered across his swarthy, Hispanic features and flashed in his laughing black eyes. “I’m not the one who goes through women like Kleenex, cabrón.”

“Pfft.” Ozzie waved him off. “I may technically,” he stressed the word, “have a few more notches on my bedpost than you do.” Dagan rolled his eyes. Surely they weren’t keeping a running tally. Surely. “But at least I’m not the high king of one-night stands. At least I’m gentlemanly enough to take them out to dinner a couple of times afterward, make some kind of connection. I think you’re known around town as Mr. One-and-Done!”

“Okay, children.” Boss clapped his hands together. “That’s enough.” Frank “Boss” Knight was well versed in riding roughshod over a group of overgrown men who liked slinging bullshit at one another almost as much as they liked dangerous missions, high stakes odds, and bright, shiny new weapons. Usually Dagan enjoyed the good-natured camaraderie, the relentless ribbing. But not tonight. Tonight he either wanted to wallow in his own self-pity or find something to take his mind off the weight of his unremitting guilt. The scotch had been helping him, albeit marginally, to do both… “Let’s not forget we’re here to celebrate the imminent birth of a little hellion,” Boss continued. “So how ’bout those beers, Steady?”