Hell for Leather (Black Knights Inc. #6)(101)
“Seychellois waters are considered secure. Pirates have never attacked a vessel so close to Assumption Island, so it is reasonable to assume the women believed they would be perfectly safe,” rasped Jamin Agassi.
Frank glanced over at one of Black Knights Inc.’s newest employees and, not for the first time, felt a shiver of trepidation run down his spine. How could you trust a guy who knew the adjective form of Seychelles was Seychellois?
And it didn’t help matters in the least that Agassi had been dubbed “Angel” by Becky because the man’s features were so perfect they were almost unearthly. Of course, the plastic surgeries he’d undergone after defecting from the Israeli Mossad and before Uncle Sam decided to conceal him within the ranks of Frank’s Black Knights no doubt had something to do with the perfection of the man’s mug.
Goddamn pretty boy.
Which only served to remind Frank of all the other goddamned pretty boys who worked for him. The ones who’d been out on assignment when the call for Becky’s ransom came in, leaving him to catch the next transport onto the USS Patton with only Bill and the FNG—the military’s warm and fuzzy acronym for the f*cking new guy.
“Yes, Seychellois waters,” he unnecessarily emphasized the word, “have never before seen pirate attacks, but military ships from across the globe have increased patrols and secured the shipping lanes around the bottlenecked Gulf of Aden, which anyone with a smidge of gray matter will tell you has only chased the pirates farther south around the Horn of Africa. So it stands to reason that it was only a matter of time before the waters around the Seychelles and Madagascar started seeing pirate activity.”
See, just because he didn’t know the adjective form of Seychelles didn’t necessarily mean he was a slavering idiot. He knew some shit about some shit even though his vocabulary—liberally sprinkled with four-letter words on a good day—tended to indicate otherwise.
“It’s not really their fault, you know,” Bill said quietly, never taking his eyes off the text as he turned another page.
“Of course it is,” Frank rumbled, throwing his hands in the air and wincing when his trick shoulder howled in protest of the sudden movement. Damn, getting old sucked…hard. “She didn’t have to go on this asinine vacation halfway around the world to potentially pirate-infested waters. If she wanted to get some sand and sun, I know of some very nice beaches in Florida and California, on U.S. soil,” he emphasized as he rolled his shoulder and reached into a zippered pocket on his cargo shorts to pull out his trusty bottle of ibuprofen.
He was never without the pain pills these days…
Goddamnit.
And that fun little fact was beginning to make him feel like he was just one step away from Metamucil and Viagra, and that just pissed him off.
“I wasn’t talking about Becky,” Bill said, “although you know as well as I do a mere weekend stroll along a beach in Florida or California wasn’t going to do it for her. She needed to get away, far away, to clear her head.”
Ah God. Why did no one agree with his decision to keep Becky from risking her fool neck by becoming an operator? Had everyone suddenly gone completely kill-the-bunny crazy?
Obviously. Because before he’d found out and eighty-sixed their activities, a few of the Knights had been teaching her—upon her repeating wheedling, no doubt—such dubious skills as computer hacking, sniping, explosives, demolitions, FBI investigative techniques…and God only knew what else. He was still mulling over some really inventive ways to kill his men for that.
She was supposed to be their cover. Nothing more. End of story.
Author’s Note
For those of you who have ever been to Cairo, Illinois, you’ll notice I embellished a bit on the decline of its population. Although the lynchings at the turn of the century; the race riots, boycotts, and “white flight” in the 1960s; and the 2011 Mississippi and Ohio River floods all struck major blows to the number of residents in Cairo, there are still many intrepid souls who are proud to call the town home. This book is dedicated, in part, to them and the inspiration their fascinating little burg afforded me.
Acknowledgments
Ever and always, I must thank my husband. Sweetheart, you’ll never know how much it means that you graciously and uncomplainingly put up with missed dinner dates, uncombed hair, and my wearing of a seemingly endless—and terribly unsexy—array of grungy sweatpants when I’m on deadline. And I’m always on deadline. So, simply put, you’re the best.
Next up, I must give a shout-out to my 4D gals—Chicago divas who dine, drink, and dish. Divas, without your advice, encouragement, and willingness to share a bottle of wine, I don’t know if I would have kept my sanity in this cutthroat world of publishing. Three words: Writers unite! Huzzah!
Also, hugs and kisses to Amanda Carlson, Amanda Bonilla, Kristen Callihan, Roxanne St. Claire, Louisa Edwards, and Kristen Painter. You guys never fail to make me laugh or get me a little tipsy…usually by way of Cards Against Humanity and peach champagne. Until the next conference…Monkey Toes!
And, as always, thank you to our fighting men and women, those in uniform and those out of uniform. You protect our freedom and way of life so we all have the chance to live the American Dream.
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