Hell for Leather (Black Knights Inc. #6)(17)
Qasim glanced over at Theodore. The aging, white-haired man was tied to a chair, and the blood dripping from his broken nose stained the gag they’d secured over his large, bushy mustache and mouth, turning the cream-colored material a dingy, repugnant crimson. That shade would always remind Qasim of the bloody sheets he wrapped his wife and two sons in after a drone strike leveled his village in Pakistan.
It’d been barely a year after the towers were destroyed on September 11th. And the United States had told the media the attack was necessary due to the presence of a high-level al-Qaeda operative in the town. But Qasim didn’t know anything about an al-Qaeda operative, high-level or not. And all he found when he returned home to search through the rubble of his life were the mutilated bodies of his friends and neighbors…the shredded corpses of his wife and children.
Before the drone strike, he’d never been tempted to join the groups of bewhiskered men who occasionally came through his village, ranting and raving about justice and the need to perpetrate revenge on all the infidels. But that all changed the night an unmanned plane, flown by a soldier sitting in front of a computer screen thousands of miles away, dropped an AGM Hellfire air-to-ground missile on everything Qasim held dear.
AGM Hellfire air-to-ground missile… He would always remember the name of the ordnance that obliterated his family.
Hellfire…
The newspapers had printed it without thought to what that word would mean to those who’d survived the massacre.
Hellfire…
It was exactly what he and so many others were going to rain down on American mothers and fathers, wives and children, in the weeks and months to come.
Filthy American pigs, he thought again. Though, as he let his gaze once more travel over Theodore Fairchild, he had to give the man credit for his strength. Even after the beating Sami and Jabbar had given him, and even after watching his friend die a wheezing, eye-bulging death, Theodore remained upright, his chin held high, his aging blue eyes bright with fury.
But that strength would only last so long. And Qasim knew just how to strike fear into the hardened heart of a man like Theodore.
Smiling to himself, he tilted his head at his hostage. Theodore was listening intently to his phone conversation. Not that Qasim was concerned. It was unlikely Theodore was able to understand the stilted Arabic he was speaking—stilted because Punjabi was his native tongue and he’d only learned to speak Arabic after joining The Cause. Still, not being able to understand the words Qasim spoke did not stop the old soldier from straining to hear any recognizable phrase. Which was why Qasim winked before saying, “Excellent, Haroun. I look forward to meeting Delilah Fairchild,” he emphasized the name, “very soon.”
Theodore jerked against his restraints, yelling behind the gag, and Qasim allowed a grin to tilt his lips. “I’m going to bring your beloved niece here, Mr. Fairchild,” he said in English, infusing his voice with the promise of death and retribution. “And then you and I are going to make a deal…”
Chapter Four
Delilah was mortified.
She could not believe she’d done exactly what she’d promised herself she’d never do…which was break down like a lily-livered ninny in front of these people. These fearless guys who put their lives on the line each day, and these brave women who stood by, dry-eyed, and watched them do it.
How pathetic was she by comparison?
Pretty damned pathetic, a little voice whispered at the back of her head, to which she immediately replied, Oh, f*ck off.
Because, seriously? If a gal couldn’t rely on her own subconscious to have her back, then she couldn’t rely on anyone. Hmph. Her inner twelve-year-old crossed her arms and scowled.
Okay, now anger… Anger is good. Anger could fuel the fire that burned inside her. You know, as opposed to the fear that had left her weak and spent and falling apart in the circle of Mac’s strong arms. And, yeah, so she could admit the strong arms thing was the bright spot in an otherwise humiliating little display. But, seriously, even they weren’t enough to overcome all her embarrassment. Some, certainly. A girl would have to be dead from the waist down not to be comforted by the feel of Mac’s embrace—not to mention the warmth of his firm lips on her brow. But not all of it.
And, hey, since she was on the topic, what was with him and the forehead kisses, anyway? He’d broken—more like smashed through—his four-year moratorium on touching her only to grant her the lowliest form of affection? Because, come on, the forehead kiss, while sweet, was sort of like the kiss of death when it came to romance, placing the recipient of said kiss firmly in the friend zone. So was all Mac’s touchy, feely, forehead-kissy stuff an indication that he suddenly wanted to be friends? Was it an indication that—
“…warm up?” Ali, Ghost’s wife, dragged Delilah away from her spinning thoughts.
She looked up from her seat at the long, rectangular conference table to find the heavily pregnant blonde holding a carafe of coffee. At least Delilah assumed the black sludge sloshing around inside the glass container was coffee. Truth was, after having taken a sip of the foul stuff, she couldn’t be quite sure. It smelled like burned rubber and tasted about the same.
“What did you say?” she asked. Eighties music filled the cavernous space that was the Black Knights’ second floor…uh…what exactly would one call this area? The command center?