Hell for Leather (Black Knights Inc. #6)(37)
Qasim knew that to be true. Haroun was like those small, electric cars. Silent, unassuming, and incredibly efficient. Still, even if his second-in-command happened to apprehend the woman… “If you take her, the men with her will tear this town apart searching for her.”
“They will,” Haroun agreed. “But it will take them time to do so. And, by then, we will have the information, the Marine and the woman will both be dead, and we will be long gone.”
Haroun obviously had more confidence in the timeliness of this particular plan than Qasim did. Not that Qasim doubted Theodore would—how did the Americans put it?—spill his guts as soon as Delilah’s life hung in the balance. But he did doubt how long it would take the motorcycle fanatics to find them once they began looking. Thirty minutes, he wondered? Forty? An hour at the most? The town was fairly large and sprawling, but it wasn’t a metropolis by any means. Did Haroun’s plan really give them enough time to secure the information they were after and silently make their escape?
Qasim ran though the logistics in his head, scowling at the number of ways it could all go horribly wrong. On the other hand, it could also go really, really right. And Fate did seem to be favoring them…
“Yes,” he finally decided. “Grab the woman when you can. Be quick and quiet about it.”
“Am I ever any other way?” Haroun asked, a hint of pride entering his tone.
Qasim closed his eyes, letting the black cloth drop back into place. “No, dear friend,” he assured Haroun. “You are the very epitome of stealth. And I eagerly await your arrival with Miss Fairchild.”
Clicking off the phone, he turned and sauntered over to Theodore. The man’s head hung limply on the column of his neck, his chin touching his chest. Qasim grabbed a handful of snowy white hair and wrenched the old Marine’s head back, gratified by the grunt of pain he elicited and unfazed by the fury sparking in those aging blue eyes.
“My second-in-command has your pretty niece in his sights,” he said in English, smiling when Theodore’s look of hot fury was replaced by one of cold fear. “She is here. In Cairo. So, now we can… How is it you say? Do this the easy way or the hard way?” He chuckled in delight that he’d found himself in a position to use that particularly charming little colloquialism. “You can either tell me what I want to know, and I will call my man and instruct him to leave Delilah alone. Or you can remain stubbornly mute, forcing me to bring your niece here where I will kill her if you do not give me the answers I seek.”
He leaned down until he was nose-to-nose with Theodore, until the smell of the man’s spilled blood filled his nostrils. “I suggest you go with the first option,” he whispered, loving the way Theodore’s chest heaved with emotion.
Struggling against his restraints, the old Marine mouthed something around his bloodied gag.
“What is that?” Qasim lifted a brow, reaching around to untie the cloth.
The minute the gag slid free, Theodore spit in his face, yelling, “Fuck you!”
Sami and Jabbar raced forward, but Qasim waved them back, straightening. He used the hem of his Western-style T-shirt to wipe the saliva from his cheek, the anger he usually kept in check—it didn’t do to lose one’s head to fury—boiling just beneath the surface.
“Go f*ck yourself! You goddamned terrorist sonofa—” That was all Theodore managed, because Qasim slammed his balled-up fist into the man’s jaw, effectively knocking him out cold. Haroun wasn’t the only one who’d learned a thing or two from the mujahedeen.
Flexing his hand, reveling in the pain radiating up his arm, Qasim threw the bloody gag to Jabbar, absently noting the black eye Jabbar had sustained in the initial struggle to bring Theodore down. He was getting very tired of the old Marine’s antics. “Put this back on him and then revive him,” he said, walking back toward the plastic chair, sinking into it wearily. Anytime he gave into the violence roiling inside him, he felt both elated and, at the same time, strangely drained. “I want him awake when Haroun arrives with his niece.”
Chapter Nine
“This little door-to-door operation we’re scheduled to begin in…” Mac watched Ozzie check the big, black Luminox watch on his wrist, “an hour or so would be a whole hell of a lot easier if we knew which residences were actually occupied.”
Mac had convinced the group that it would be best to wait until oh-eight-hundred before going around and pounding on Cairo’s front doors in order to flash Theo’s and Charles’s DMV photos. In his experience, people didn’t take too kindly to strangers demanding answers from them before they’d had their first cup of morning joe. And given the…uh…self-styled hermits liable to still be inhabiting this defunct town? Well, he figured they’d appreciate that kind of intrusion even less.
Can you say answering the door shotgun first, ladies and gents?
And Mac, already a little cranky because he was experiencing the tiniest vestiges of the hangover-that-never-was—a bit of a headache and a craving for greasy cheeseburgers—not to mention the fact that the stitches in his side burned like holy hellfire, didn’t fancy the idea of adding buckshot to his current list of ailments.
Delilah had put up a fight, anxious to charge ahead in the search for her uncle. But she’d finally admitted the logic of his decision to give it a couple of hours. And since she’d still been wearing the shirt stained with his blood, she’d decided to use that time to run up to the second-floor bathroom to grab a quick shower.