Hell for Leather (Black Knights Inc. #6)(85)
The drive from Olive Branch, Illinois, to the park should have taken seventy minutes. Mac and the BKI boys mounted up and made it in thirty-five, even beating the CIA wet team that arrived via chopper a few seconds later.
Which brought them here, to this moment. One very pissed-off CIA agent squaring off against one unspeakably terrified BKI operator. Of course, Mac couldn’t let anyone see how terrified he was. How his heart was pounding out of control. How his kneecaps felt like they’d been replaced by globs of Jell-O. How his hands shook before he curled them into fists.
And, really? At a time like this, the guy had the audacity to bring up jurisdiction? Mac considered giving Fitzsimmons a little sermon about the dangers of, as Mac’s father used to say, hanging his washing out on someone else’s line. But Mac had neither the patience, nor the inclination to lecture the man. Instead he went with, “You’re one to talk about jurisdiction, Mr. CIA”—he made sure to emphasize the word—“Agent. We,” he motioned to Steady and Ozzie who were lined up beside him, “have more jurisdiction than you any day of the week and twice on Sunday.”
“Shut up, shut up.” Agent Duvall, who was looking over a map of the park, waved him to silence. She cupped her hand over her ear, listening intently to whatever information was being relayed to her, and Mac waited with bated breath. “Are we absolutely positive?” the little CIA agent asked after a beat. More listening. More waiting. Mac thought he was about to go insane, then, “Affirmative. We’ll move out in ninety seconds.”
“What is it?” he demanded, barely resisting the urge to reach out and strangle the woman when she took the time to drag in a deep breath. The evening air hung around them, heavy with the earthy smells of moist undergrowth and spring leaves.
“We were finally able to pinpoint that third phone,” she said. “It’s now joined the second one in the middle of the park.” She folded a section of the map over her arm. Popping a penlight in her mouth to add some light, she pointed with her finger at a dot on the map labeled Devil’s Den. Beside the name was a number with a red hash mark through it.
“What does that mean?” Mac flicked a finger at the symbol.
Agent Duvall unfolded the map until she found the legend. Removing the penlight, she said, “Says here, it’s a cavern. One that’s been closed to the public for over a decade due to a cave-in near the back.”
A cave. That made sense. Dark. Quiet. Secluded. Just what a group of terrorists would need.
Mac welcomed the hard kick of adrenaline that made his pulse jump, his muscles clench. “Let’s go,” he said, reaching around to pull his Glock from his waistband.
“I said you’re not invited,” Fitzsimmons growled.
Mac wanted to punch the guy but couldn’t afford to waste the time or the effort. Not with Delilah in the hands of terrorists. He felt every ticking second like it was a physical blow. “And I thought I made myself clear I wasn’t waitin’ on an invitation,” he spat. Hopefully his immovability on the issue was as evident in his sneer as it was in the quick movements he used to slide out his clip, find it full and rip-roarin’-rarin’ to go, and slam it back home with the edge of his palm.
Fitzsimmons took a menacing step forward before Agent Duvall stopped him with a hand to the chest. “Hold on a second, Agent,” she said, pushing her Bluetooth closer to her head, her color rising as one second stretched into two. Then she lowered her hand and gritted, “We’ve just had orders that the Knights are to lead this mission.”
Mac’s chin jerked back. Not only go on the mission but lead it? What in the world? Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw Zoelner standing off to the side, quietly talking into his cell phone. “Thanks, Boss,” the ex–CIA agent said, nodding. “And be sure to thank the president for stepping in like this.”
Mac saw Fitzsimmons’ jaw nearly fall off his face a split second before the guy snapped it shut.
“Sorry, Chels,” Zoelner said as he jogged over to them. But it was obvious from his expression that the last thing he was feeling was sorry. “But I thought you guys had been in charge for just about long enough. And besides, I work for the president now. My loyalty belongs solely to him. To be quite honest, it was making me antsy that you were keeping him in the dark.”
And not for the first time, Mac realized how nifty working directly for POTUS could be. El Jefe himself had put the Black Knights in charge, and that was music to Mac’s ears. Had he thought he could grab Zoelner and kiss him smack on the mouth without receiving a knee to the groin for his effort, he would have done it. Instead, he simply showed his appreciation with a terse dip of his chin. Zoelner smiled, returning the gesture.
“Get them geared up, Fitzsimmons,” Agent Duvall said, her jaw working back and forth. “We move out in sixty.”
“Excuse me, Agent,” Zoelner said, “but I believe that’s our call. Mac?”
“We’ll take Kevlar, extra clips, and radio headsets,” Mac informed Fitzsimmons. “And we’ll gear up on the go. Because we’re moving out,” he waved two fingers in the direction of the dark forest and the cave known as Devil’s Den, “right now.”
Sometime later, he would appreciate the look of utter disgust on the spook’s face who was forced to hand him his gear as he jogged toward the tree line. But right at that moment there was only one thought, one name, one person on his mind. Delilah… Hold on. I’m coming…