Full Throttle (Black Knights Inc. #7)(68)
Then again, maybe he was merely feeling sentimental for a happier time. A time when he thought himself indestructible. When life was nothing but adventure and intrigue. When his wife was still alive.
His wife…
And, sonofabastard, that brought him back around to Penni and—
“Speaking of shits and giggles, if I remember correctly,” Romeo said, his speculative gaze swinging away from Penni to land on him, “I was the one doing the giggling. And LT here”—he slung an arm around Leo’s shoulders—“was the one doing the shitting. Of his pants, that is.”
Leo’s mouth curved down in a frown as he shrugged off Romeo’s arm. “What’s this?” he drawled, lifting his middle finger toward Romeo. “Why, it’s my * antenna. I’m happy to report you’re comin’ in loud and clear.”
“Oooh, good one, LT,” Romeo said, referring to Leo’s rank of lieutenant. “That earns you one of these.” He pointed to his toothy grin. It blazed white against his swarthy face and close-cropped black beard. And right now, with the fatigues and the facial hair, Spiro “Romeo” Delgado looked like the Navy SEAL he was. But if Dan’s memory served, when Romeo was clean shaven, he could give Steady some serious competition for the title of World’s Most Successful Latin Lady-killer.
“How many times do I have to tell you,” Leo harrumphed, popping his gum and pulling his always-present Ray-Ban aviator sunglasses from his face and hooking one earpiece over the collar of his army-green T-shirt, “that pirate smile of yours only works on those of us who possess a pair of ovaries.”
“Not true,” Michael “Mad Dog” Wainwright spoke up from his position leaning against the door jamb. When he grinned, it caused the scraggly brown whiskers of his beard to poke out every which way. “Remember the little blond-haired guy in that rundown cantina in Monterrey? He was bound and determined to make Romeo change his religion. And after six shots of tequila, I think Romeo was prepared to let him try.”
“Oh, that’s right,” Leo smirked and turned back to Dan. “In case you were unaware, let me be the first to tell you that Romeo’s penchant toward painted-on jeans and skin products makes him the equivalent of homosexual fly paper.” His Deep South accent seemed to draw out the last three words until they were about twenty syllables long.
“You guys say that like it’s a bad thing.” Romeo made a face. “But I take it as the ultimate compliment that I’m irresistible to both sexes.”
“You’re only irresistible because people tend to judge books by their covers,” Mad Dog retorted. “And your pretty cover disguises the fact that you’re one chromosome away from being a kumquat.”
“I’d rather be a pretty kumquat from fabulous L.A.,” replied Romeo, “than an ugly Italian mutt from Atlantic City. And zing!” He winked. “You just got hit with my truth beam. Tell me something, Mad Dog. Are you blinded by it?”
“Tell me something, Romeo. Do you huff glue? Because it’s the only thing that could explain your idiocy.”
“Has anyone ever informed you that the Venn diagram of things that make up your personality and things that are annoying is a circle?” When Mad Dog’s chin jerked back, Romeo grinned in victory. “How’s that for idiocy? And you tried to liken me to a kumquat? Let me guess, all that grease you guidos put in your hair stunted the growth of your brain cells.”
“Better to be a guido than a cholo.”
“Oh, why don’t you go over in the corner and play your own skin flute,” Romeo said, his tongue planted firmly in his cheek. It’d been Dan’s experience that spec-ops boys liked nothing better than to feed each other several servings of shit each day. And while being a crackerjack shot or good with a knife in CQB—close quarters battle—was highly revered, having a rapier wit was what really earned a guy top billing within a group.
“I think I might,” Mad Dog was quick to reply. “And with a hog as big as mine—”
“Will you guys cut the shit?” Leo said. “I haven’t set eyes on this bastard for over six years.” He grabbed Dan’s shoulder in a tight grip. “Come here, Dan Man. Let me get my mitts on ya.”
And then, in typical guy fashion, the SEALs descended on Dan. He was crushed in a round of manly back-slapping bear hugs that left him wheezing. Mad Dog was the last of his former colleagues to whack him affectionately on the back. And while doing that, he was growling lowly in Dan’s ear, “I was sorry as hell to hear about your wife, man. And what happened to you afterward. But I’m glad to see you’re back on the horse.”
“Thanks,” Dan hissed, “but I’m not back on anything.”
Mad Dog chuckled, continuing to hold him close and whispering, “Whatever you say. And speaking of lies, you sonofabitch! I knew you and Boss weren’t really leaving the SEALs to settle down and build custom motorcycles. But, f*ck me sideways, POTUS’s very own League of Extraordinary Gentlemen? I thought that was only a rumor.”
And for anybody keeping score, that’s one more group of folks who now know exactly what I am and who I work for.
In the last couple of years, for one reason or another, the list of people “in the know” about Black Knights Inc. had expanded beyond the president and his Joint Chiefs of Staff to include just about every alphabet-soup government agency housed under that behemoth known as the Department of Defense. And Dan wasn’t sure if BKI being forced from the clandestine closet would prove to be a boon or a boondoggle. As far as he could figure, for right now the jury was still out.