Hell for Leather (Black Knights Inc. #6)(61)
“Don’t move!” yelled one of the three men decked out in expensive tactical gear.
Mac knew a CIA wet unit when he saw one. Not that he was all that impressed. After all, whatever training these spooky boys had gotten back at Langley, he knew it couldn’t possibly compare to the rigorous, months-long physical hell Frank “Boss” Knight had put him through before allowing him to join the ranks of Black Knights Inc. You might not officially be a Navy SEAL, Boss had thundered more than a time or two while watching him struggle to keep from drowning in the frigid waters of Lake Michigan or having him fire so many rounds that his fingers went numb, but, f*ckin’-A, I’ll make sure you should have been.
Mac had survived that ordeal. And many, many more in the years since. Which meant that although he had a small amount of respect for the skills of the black-suited men in front of him—small being the operative word—he’d still bet a dollar to a doughnut that he and the two Knights lined up beside him could drop the fancy boys faster than a buckin’ bronco could blaze out of a chute.
“I said, don’t move,” the man—obviously, he was the team leader—yelled again when Delilah started to head for Mac. And then the idiot made his second mistake. His first had been daring to come at the BKI boys with guns hot, of course. But now the dumbass had the unmitigated gall to train his weapon on Delilah.
“Uh-uh,” Mac tsked, his finger tightening on his trigger, every muscle in his body tensing to absorb the coming recoil should he have to fill Dumbass SWAT Guy full of hot lead. “You best keep pointin’ that iron at me, friend. Because if you don’t, I’ll drop you so fast you’ll be kissin’ St. Peter hello within a second.”
The guy must’ve known Mac wasn’t whistling Dixie. He hesitated barely a heartbeat before once again aiming the black eye of his quick-firing Colt in Mac’s direction.
“That’s better.” Mac jerked his chin in a nod, his anger going from a rapid boil to a slow simmer. “Now, we’re all just gonna hold our fire and our breath while Delilah makes her way over to me, capisce?”
“I’m on orders to take Miss Fairchild into protective custody,” the guy said, one small drop of sweat glistening on the bridge of his nose. Besides his eyes and the tops of his cheeks, that was the only part of his face not covered by the black, tactical balaclava he wore.
“You’ll take her over my dead body,” Mac growled.
Delilah quickly flitted across the room. When she ducked behind him and shoved her fingers into the top of his waistband, he heaved a secret sigh of relief.
“Your dead body can certainly be arranged,” Mr. Asshat SWAT-man retorted, the smug, self-satisfied gleam in his eye all but screaming that he was the winner in the big dick lottery, the hot girlfriend competition, and the sharp-shooting championship. And although Mac was well versed in dealing with the immeasurable arrogance of Company Men—even as a Fed he’d had to suffer their occasional association—he discovered he had an intense desire to wipe that look off of Asshat’s face with a well-placed strike from his handy-dandy Ka-Bar. Or a well-aimed bullet. Either one would do nicely.
“Oh, for the love of—” Agent Duvall jumped into the fray. “Are you guys kidding me with this? I mean, I’m just spitballing here, but aren’t we all on the same friggin’ team?”
“Morales informed me the Black Knights might not be willing to hand over the woman,” Mr. Asshat explained. “In which case, I’m instructed to take her by force.”
Mac’s finger twitched on his trigger as the fire under his anger flamed with new life.
“Jesus Christ,” the little CIA agent huffed before screaming into her earpiece at whatever now-deaf technician was on the other end. “Get Morales back on the goddamned line!”
As she waited for the call to go through, she let her gaze ping-pong back and forth between the two opposing groups. “This place could seriously use a Xanax salt lick,” she muttered, shaking her head in exasperation.
Ozzie chuckled despite the charged atmosphere. “You’re funny, Agent Duvall. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“Not since I gave up stand-up comedy for a regular ol’ nine-to-five,” she said, tapping her foot impatiently.
This time Ozzie barked with laughter. “There are two things I know for certain,” he said, and Mac would have rolled his eyes had he not been inclined to keep his blinkers trained on Asshat SWAT-guy. Because he was fully aware of what was coming.
“Oh, yeah?” Agent Duvall asked, falling hook, line, and sinker. Mac was pretty sure that grumbling noise he heard was coming from Zoelner. “And what two things are those?”
“Number one,” Ozzie began, “Warrant is one of the most underrated hair bands of the eighties.”
“Oh-kay. And number two?” the little CIA agent prodded when Ozzie hesitated.
“You’re going to marry me someday.”
Mac felt Agent Duvall’s look of disbelief more than he saw it. “Are you serious?” she demanded. “Are you really doing this right now? Flirting with me?”
“Yeah.” Ozzie shrugged. “I figured I’d just go for it.”
When Agent Duvall opened her mouth to say, “You know what? You’re not as good-looking as you think,” with a hint of laughter in her voice, Mac peeked over at Zoelner, not surprised to find the guy had settled into that weird state of statue-like stillness.