Hell for Leather (Black Knights Inc. #6)(36)

Dumbfounded, Delilah watched Zoelner crouch down and sneak slowly forward. Then the former CIA agent reached out and struck, quicker than—as she’d once heard Mac put it—greased lightning. One of Zoelner’s arms wrapped around Mac’s throat. His other arm clamped tight around Mac’s broad shoulders. A second later, Mac was yanked out of the chair.

The cup went flying. The newspaper fluttered to the ground. The chair tipped, and only after Zoelner dragged Mac halfway across the living room floor, Mac’s boots scrabbling for purchase, did Mac reach up and tap the guy’s forearm, saying, “Okay, that’ll do.”

He stood to his impressive height, adjusted his biker jacket, winced and touched his side like his stitches hurt—yeah, she still felt guilty about that—and gestured toward the kitchen. As a group, Delilah and the rest of the Knights turned to look. And, sure as shit, the chair was lying on its back. The paper had settled beside the table leg. And the coffee mug, though not quite where it’d been before, was still pretty darn close.

“Jesus,” Ozzie muttered, his face void of its usual grin.

Okay, and now Delilah was a convert, a wholehearted believer in Mac’s Spidey sense. We’re talking ready to prostrate herself in front of the altar of his Spidey sense because…damn…

A fresh wave of cold fear crashed over her, chilling her to the bone. Charlie Sander had been attacked and abducted from his own house. And her uncle, who’d come here to meet him, was missing now, too. It was one thing to suspect foul play, but another thing entirely to know something dark and treacherous had happened here.

She rolled in her lips as all manner of violent scenarios flicked through her head, as every ax-murderer horror movie she’d ever seen scrolled through her mind’s eye on fast-forward. And she must’ve made a noise, or else what she was feeling was radiating around the room, because Fido—finished with his kibble—bumped her limp, dangling hand with his head and stared up at her, whining in doggy concern.

Grateful for his presence—for one, he was warm and wiggly and alive, which was comforting, and two, he gave her an excuse to bend down and bury her face in the scruff of his neck, thereby hiding the tears that threatened at the back of her eyeballs—she hugged him and kissed him and told him he was a good boy before getting control of herself enough to lift her gaze to Mac.

“What’s going on here?” she asked, not surprised her voice came out sounding like she’d been choking down broken martini glasses. “I mean, seriously, what’s going on here?”

Mac leveled a look on her. And not a dismissive look, or a disapproving look, or his standard inscrutable look. No. This one was a look of one hundred percent pure confidence. “I don’t know, darlin’. But I sure as hell aim to find out.”

***

“They have stopped at Sander’s house,” Haroun whispered through the phone, and Qasim sat back in the rickety plastic chair, marveling at how easily things appeared to be falling into place. First Theodore’s speedy arrival in Cairo, and now Delilah’s. Perhaps qadar, along with Allah, really was on their side…

“Your plan?” he asked after impatiently signaling for Sami to get off the big, shining motorcycle parked in the center of the dusty room. Ever since riding Theodore’s Harley-Davidson into the dilapidated Main Street building—they hadn’t dared leave it parked in Sander’s driveway for fear it would draw the attention of some random passerby—the silly man had been mesmerized by the thing.

Qasim, for his part, didn’t understand the allure. The motorcycle was loud and flashy and obnoxious… Just like the Americans, he supposed, curling his lip. It was certainly not the kind of vehicle he’d ever choose for himself, preferring the nearly inaudible hum of the two electric cars they’d rented in Canada. Not only were the little rentals stealthy, but they also weren’t vehicles likely to draw attention. Just the kind of attributes a man like him both revered and required.

“I am in the backyard, hiding behind a doghouse,” Haroun breathed, his voice so low Qasim strained to hear, “watching them as we speak. My plan is to take the woman as soon as she is alone.”

“And if she leaves with the men before you have the opportunity?”

“I will follow,” Haroun assured him. “I taped the extra cellular phone beneath the seat of her motorcycle. No matter where she goes, I will find her.”

Qasim hadn’t thought they would have a need for the third phone and hadn’t wanted to spend the cash on it or the “find my phone” application Haroun had downloaded onto it. But in his firm but respectful way, Haroun had insisted. And that was exactly why he’d risen through the ranks to be Qasim’s second-in-command. The man was a consummate professional, always prepared for every eventuality.

Qasim rose from the chair to walk toward one of the large cracked windows at the front of the building. Carefully pulling back the thick, black cloth, he peeked outside. The main thoroughfare was as deserted as it’d been since they first arrived, the golden rays of the sun slipping over the eastern horizon dimly illuminating the decaying facades of the buildings, the trash littering the street, and the broken glass globes sitting atop streetlamps that hadn’t functioned in years.

“It will be daylight soon,” he murmured, as much to himself as to Haroun.

“Which will be perfect,” Haroun said. “People drop their guard during the day. And I know how to stick to the shadows.”