Hell for Leather (Black Knights Inc. #6)(52)

Boots…

Timberlands…

Delilah’s mystery man? What the hell?

Mac’s Glock was in his hand before he made the conscious decision to reach for it. “Halt!” he yelled, pointing his weapon at Mr. Timberlands’ back. “Or I’ll shoot!”

Had he had a clean shot, he’d have gone ahead with it without giving Mr. Timberlands a warning. But Delilah’s slack form pressed all along the man’s front prohibited him from squeezing the trigger. He couldn’t chance his bullet slicing through the guy and entering her.

Timberlands swung around, his eyes bugging out of his head like a horny toad trying to shit a chicken bone when he saw Mac drawing down on him. Delilah hung limply in his arms, her head dangling until her fiery hair obscured her face, the red-painted tips of her toes barely touching the grass. Mr. Timberlands held the length of a bloody knife to her throat.

Blood…

Delilah’s blood?

Mac’s pulse roared between his ears, his scalp on fire and feeling as if it was trying to crawl off his skull. But, no. Save for the few crimson drops that had fallen from the knife to stain her pink T-shirt, she appeared unscathed. Unconscious—which was bad enough—but otherwise unscathed.

He drew in a shaky breath and whispered a quick prayer of thanks as he tracked the guy’s every move down the length of his Glock’s sights. His finger was on the trigger, ready to pump out lead the very moment he got the opportunity.

“Holy crap on a cracker,” Ozzie murmured, dropping down to one knee beside Mac, his handgun up and aimed. Steady and Zoelner quickly took up positions on his other side, weapons out and at the ready.

“I need satellite surveillance on my location now,” Agent Duvall barked into her Bluetooth. She was standing behind Mac, turkey-peeking around his back at Timberlands. “A suspect is in sight and attempting to abduct Delilah Fairchild. I need facial recognition, ASAP. Who is he?”

Mac didn’t give a flying f*ck who the guy was. All he cared about was introducing him to the full measure of BKI meanness. Just as soon as he had a clean shot, the dude was dead. Dead as in dead. Dead as in six feet under, dirt-nap dead.

“You shoot me,” Mr. Timberlands called, his accent thick, “and you might hit the woman!” The man was slowly scooting the last few feet toward the open gate at the rear of the yard.

“Anybody have a clean shot?” Mac asked from the corner of his mouth.

“No.”

“Negative.”

“Wish I did,” were the responses he received. Shit, shit, shit.

Okay. And like any good card player, Mac knew when it was time to bluff. “I’m a better shot than you think,” he yelled. And in all honesty, he was good. All the Black Knights were. But regardless of what people saw on TV and the movies, trying to hit a moving target from thirty yards away wasn’t as easy as it looked. In that split-second from the time he squeezed the trigger until the bullet found its mark, Mr. Timberlands could jerk or move just an inch or two and Delilah could end up hit. Of course, it was always possible Timberlands didn’t know that. “Now either I can put a hole clean through the center of your forehead, or we can skip the bloodstains and you can drop the woman! Dealer’s choice!”

“If you thought you could do it,” the guy called, nearly to the gate, “you would have done it already.”

And, goddamnit. So they weren’t dealing with a man a few bricks shy of a full load here. Talk about dumb luck. What were the odds this criminal, whoever he was, would have some brains in him?

Mac flicked his gaze to the right, to the left, wondering how in the world this standoff would end. Maybe if he started closing the distance, he could distract the man while the Knights moved in to flank him. Maybe if he—

But then something amazing happened. Fido lunged forward with a mighty heave and sunk his teeth into Mr. Timberlands’ ankle. It was enough to distract the guy into losing his hold on Delilah. She slid down his front, just a bit, but it gave Mac the advantage he needed.

In the blink of an eye, his heart slowed, his vision sharpened, his muscles relaxed, and on a silent exhale he applied three pounds of pressure to the Glock’s trigger. The boom was deafening in the close confines of the back porch, but he barely noticed it, too busy jumping from the top step to the yard below.

His bullet nicked Mr. Timberlands’ upper shoulder, and Mac landed on the lawn in time to witness the force of the round’s impact spin the guy like a top. He dropped Delilah in the process, and she crumpled to the ground like a rag doll, arms and legs akimbo. The moment she was free and clear, Mac let loose with all his fear and fury.

“Halt, you motherf*cker!” he roared, welcoming the burn of his thighs as his long strides ate up the distance. But, Mr. Timberlands didn’t heed his warning. The man managed to regain his balance, and, turning on his heel, fled.





Chapter Thirteen


Boom! Mac squeezed his trigger again. This time his shot flew wide, slamming into the fence, shattering one brittle length of wood into a hundred splinters. A flurry of gunfire rang out behind him, the BKI boys joining the party. And though the fence line was instantly blown to smithereens, reduced to matchsticks in some parts, Mr. Timberlands serpentined his way the last few steps and managed to miraculously slip through the gate.

“Get him!” Mac yelled as his legs churned over those last few yards. He might be slow with his words, but, by God, he was fast on his feet. Then, in a move any MLB player would envy, he slid across the final distance, ending up on his side before throwing his body over Delilah’s inert form. If there was more gunplay, he needed to make sure she wasn’t hit by a stray bullet or flying fence debris. But to his utter dismay, not one additional shot echoed out over the abandoned neighborhood. Which meant the Knights didn’t have a clear bead on Delilah’s assailant. Sonofa—