Full Throttle (Black Knights Inc. #7)(91)
They had started the tour with the third-floor bedrooms, where those BKI boys still living on site—Steady included—managed to catch some Z’s between missions and when Becky, the all-around superstar bike builder and woman Leo had asked about, didn’t have them down in the shop, grinding metal or installing break lines. Then they had moved to the second floor, the heart of the operation, where the many offices, conference room, and state-of-the-art electronics belied the true nature of their work. And, now, finally, they stood on the shop floor, where all the custom motorcycles were made and where the civilian front for Black Knights Inc. began and ended its domination.
Put together, the place was a sight to behold. Underscored by Leo’s low whistle when he stood at the second-floor railing, taking it all in, including the newly painted UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter with its red BKI logo visible through the windows on the huge garage doors at the opposite end of the shop. The helicopter was ostensibly used to promote the custom bike business—sí, just go ahead and insert an eye roll of disbelief there. But in reality, that logo peeled off in an instant, turning that badass war bird back into…well…a badass war bird.
“She’s out buying a leg of lamb to cook up for Angel’s homecoming tomorrow,” Boss said, motioning them over to the next custom bike and ripping Steady from his thoughts.
“Angel?” Leo asked, squatting to look at the bike.
“You don’t know him.” Boss waved a hand of dismissal. “But the long and short of it is, he joined us a couple of years ago, happens to be Jewish, and for reasons beyond me, my wife has since made it her mission in life to learn how to cook kosher. With varying degrees of success, I can assure you.” He made a face that caused the scar cutting up from the corner of his lip to pucker, and Steady found himself smirking. He loved Becky Knight, née Becky Reichert, to death. And the woman was many things. However, a kosher chef she most definitely was not.
“As for the rest of the crew,” Boss continued, “they’re out on missions or else otherwise occupied with family matters. In fact, I don’t know if you guys have heard, but that asshat Jake ‘The Snake’ Sommers had the gall to up and marry my baby sister and put a bun in her oven. They’re at the doctor’s office right now getting a final ultrasound before she’s due at the end of the month.”
Leo hooted as he pushed to a stand. “I had heard they finally tied the knot. When Snake left the Teams, he was hell bent on gettin’ her back. It was all he talked about. And, don’t kill me for this”—he winced when Boss scowled at him—“but I always kinda thought those two belonged together.”
“Unfortunately”—Boss was unable to hold on to his severe expression. His mouth curved into a lopsided grin—“I did too.”
“Well, as this Angel fellow would probably say”—Leo slapped Boss on the back—“mazel tov. And speaking of glad tidings, what have you heard on your injured man, the one still back with the carrier group? Anything?”
Boss’s smile disappeared. And just like it had the moment Steady laid eyes on that gruesome wound on Ozzie’s thigh, just as it had every time he’d checked on his best friend’s status since, his heart sank like a stone. And if he ever got his hands on Umar Sungkar, he vowed to tear the guy so many new *s, he wouldn’t be able to remember which one was the original.
“He kept his leg,” Boss said. “And as soon as he’s stable for travel, he’ll be transported back here.”
“That’s good.” Leo nodded, whistling again when they moved to the next bike and he saw the intricate, chrome wheels whose spokes were a series of chains woven around five-point stars. The motorcycle, aptly named Ranger, was Steady’s pride and joy, a nod to his time in the Army. And every time he looked at the glistening green camo paint covering the fenders and gas tank, or the killer front forks truncating in brass .50 caliber bullets, or the chrome battery box that was stamped with the Ranger motto—Rangers Lead the Way—he felt a punch of pride. Then there was the exhaust: three twisting, twining, glistening pipes that put out a roaring rumble that was the audio equivalent of a full-on, body-shaking orgasm.
Not that all the bikes at Black Knights Inc. weren’t hardcore, mind you. They were. But Ranger? Ranger was one badass mofo.
“Shit yeah. We’ll be glad to have him home,” Boss continued, running an agitated hand back through his thick crop of dark hair. “But as of right now, we’re not sure what his combat status will be.”
Ethan “Ozzie” Sykes had months of PT—physical therapy—ahead of him. And even then, it wasn’t a given he’d ever be mission ready again. The kinds of jobs they were required to do for the president and his JCs demanded the utmost in physical fitness. A gimp leg was pretty much a career killer.
Mierda.
And Ozzie knew it, too. The few times Steady had managed to get through to him via satellite phone, he’d heard it in the man’s voice. The despair, the desperation, the…fear.
“Fuckin’-A.” Mad Dog shook his head. “That sucks.” And Steady figured that was putting it in the mildest of terms. “And it always seems to happen to the best of us, doesn’t it?”
This time Steady was the one to answer. “Sí. If by the best of us, you really mean all of us. I don’t know one guy who’s quit because he wanted to. Injury seems to be the way we all go out eventually.” Which was just one of the tough truths about being a million-dollar, government-trained, spec-ops warrior. Once Uncle Sam turned a man into a machine of destruction, it was hard…no, not hard…it was damn near impossible for him to be anything else.