Hell for Leather (Black Knights Inc. #6)(23)

“Should that name ring a bell?” She glanced around at the myriad files she’d yet to go through since that treasonous agent, Luke Winterfield, had leaked classified information to the press—and then run like a scared rabbit to hide out in a Central American country with whom the U.S. had no extradition agreement. Of course, if the location of the CIA and NSA black sites had been all he leaked, and if the press had been the only people he leaked to, she wouldn’t be getting calls about red flags from her supervisor at eleven o’clock at night.

“No. It shouldn’t ring any bells. At least not yet,” Morales assured her. “It could be nothing more than coincidence, but I want to make sure of that. And you’re just the agent for the job.”

Usually when her supervisor stroked her ego, the ambitious, upstart career woman in her was tempted to purr like a cat. Not tonight, though. Because tonight he was asking her to phone Dagan Zoelner.

“Thank you for the vote of confidence, sir.” She hoped he couldn’t hear the slight tremor in her voice. “Do I tell the Knights why I’m inquiring about their most recent Internet search?”

“No.”

Chelsea waited for more. Nothing came.

Morales could be amazingly eloquent and long-winded, especially when he was ranting about terrorist factions and rogue nations. Or he could be frustratingly succinct. At this moment, unfortunately for her, he’d chosen to be the latter.

“If you’ll pardon my confusion here, sir,” she finally said, “what do I tell them if not the truth?”

“Tell them that in our ongoing effort to assist them in their exemplary work for the president and his Joint Chiefs, we’ve been monitoring the online activity on one of their computers and we were simply wondering if there was anything we could do to help in regard to their most recent endeavors.”

Chelsea lifted her brows. Okay, and now he goes for eloquent? “And what’s the real reason we’ve been monitoring the online activity on one of their computers?”

“It’s just a leftover from when we were looking for Rock Babineaux,” Morales admitted, referring to the huge blunder involving the framing of one of the Knights by a psychotic former government psychiatrist. And, yes, Chelsea knew just how ironic that sounded. Psychotic psychiatrist. Jesus. “And you know that once we get our sharp, little eavesdropping hooks in someone, we don’t like to let them go.”

Did she ever. “Dagan…uh…” She cleared her constricted throat. Damned pesky lump. “What I meant to say is that Agent Zoelner—”

“Former Agent Zoelner,” Morales stressed, obviously still firmly entrenched in the camp of people who placed the blame for that failed Afghani mission squarely on Dagan’s shoulders.

“Yes, sir,” she capitulated. “Former Agent Zoelner might ask why I’m the one calling. What should I tell him?”

“Tell him, given the friendly relationship you two once shared, that you’ve been appointed the official liaison between the United States Central Intelligence Agency and the covert group known as Black Knights Incorporated.”

“Is the official liaison between yada, yada even a real thing, sir?”

“It is now. Congratulations on the promotion, Agent Duvall,” Morales said. And, yeah, as well as its sharp, little eavesdropping hooks, the agency was also known to come up with nifty titles for people when it behooved them to do so.

“Thank you, sir. Does this promotion come with a raise?”

“Of course not.”

Uh-huh. “I didn’t think so, sir.”

“Get on it, Agent Duvall. And call me back with whatever information you discover.”

“Roger that.”

After punching the “end” button on her iPhone, Chelsea simply sat and stared at the blank screen as the old grandfather clock in the living room ticked away the seconds.

Oh, quit being such a wuss, her pride finally admonished. And with a shaky finger—really? Were her hands shaking?—she dialed Dagan’s number…

***

“So, what now?”

All the Knights were seated around the conference table, and Delilah felt buoyed just looking at their capable, determined faces. Now that they’d identified Charlie Sander and pinned down his address, the cold fear that had squeezed her in its merciless grip, the one that had fostered all those nebulous, terrifying feelings that she might never see her uncle again, finally released its icy hold.

She was going to see Uncle Theo again. She wasn’t exactly sure how or when. But she was sure of where to start looking. Cairo, Illinois…

“It’s called a plan, shit for brains,” Steady answered the question Ozzie posed to the group, a grin pulling at his handsome, swarthy face. “You know, as in, we need one?”

“Well, derrr.” Ozzie rolled his eyes. “Thanks for that brilliant—”

“We head down to Cairo,” Mac interjected, cutting short what Delilah had come to suspect would be a lengthy back-and-forth. For a group of highly educated, highly trained men, they sure talked a lot of smack. Of course, her years behind the bar had taught her that an overload of testosterone tended to have that effect on guys when they were grouped together. “We check out Charles Sander’s house. And if we don’t find Theo there, we go door-to-door, flashin’ his photo until we locate someone who’s seen him.”