Hell for Leather (Black Knights Inc. #6)(87)

And then, as quickly as it began, it ended. Like a switch had been flipped.

She swallowed, glancing up to find Qasim staring at her.

Evil… Again, the word whispered through her head. Then Qasim snarled something to the men holding her. She didn’t understand it, but then he translated, “I told them to throw you to the ground so I can f*ck you bloody.”

Her uncle howled and struggled against his captor. She kicked and bucked as two sets of hard, bruising hands pushed her to the floor. The bones in her tied arms cried out as the appendages were smashed between her back and the rock. A knee landed on her chest, digging into her breastbone, making it impossible to breathe. Cruel fingers bit into the skin of her thighs, wrenching them wide. The tart smell of unwashed male bodies tunneled up her nose, causing her to gag.

She crushed the cloth between her teeth with such force her jaws popped. But she didn’t make a peep. She refused to—

BOOOOOMMMM!

The explosion was tremendous. Thunderous. It shook the earth.

A split second later, the knee was gone, the hands were gone. Bodies fell around her, slamming into the cavern floor with disgusting-sounding thumps and crunches. Confused, disoriented, she dragged in a shuddering breath, staring up at the ceiling, at the golden light playing with the shadows.

Wha—

And then she could hear the hollow thud of boots against stone, the steady beat of running feet. The sound was distant, empty, competing with the ringing in her ears. She turned her chin, blinking, trying to make sense of the scene laid out before her. The four terrorists were sprawled around, dead to a man, blood pooling beneath their heads.

And then she knew. It hadn’t been one massive explosion; it’d been four simultaneous ones. Four shots from four guns that had instantly taken out the threat. And, sweet Jesus! Was it over? Could it really be over?

The sobs shuddering in her chest broke free as she finally allowed the shock and the terror and the pain to pour from her.

“Delilah!” She heard her name. Heard his voice.

“Mac!” she tried to yell, but the only sound to issue from her throat was a pitiful, hiccupping wail.

“Delilah!” And he was there, beside her, gathering her up in his arms, peppering her face with kisses, reaching around to undo the gag. He crushed her to him, burying his nose in her neck—God, he smelled good. Like Mac—and that’s when she saw it.

Movement…

The terrorist closest to them, the one who’d had his fist in hair. He was reaching for the pistol tucked in his waistband, the deep bloody furrow along his temple proof he’d only been grazed.

“Mac!” she screamed, bucking in his embrace, her hands still tied behind her back.

Later she would marvel at Mac’s speed, at the battle-honed reflexes that allowed him to raise his gun, aim, and fire all in a split second. But right then she was too busy wincing at the deafening roar of his Glock, at the bright flash as the bullet left the muzzle, at the hot spray of blood that landed on her arm and leg when the terrorist’s skull exploded like an overripe melon.

No one moved for a beat. The shock of it all overwhelming. Then Mac recovered and yelled over his shoulder, “Somebody bring in a stretcher!” before gathering her shaking form close once again, murmuring, “Shh, now, darlin’. I gotcha. It’s all over…”

***

Northwestern Memorial Hospital

Chicago, Illinois

Delilah turned from her uncle’s bedside and gifted Mac with an ear-to-ear smile. He felt the jaws of a trap—one that was both deadly and strangely alluring—closing around him.

In the forty-eight hours since the spooks choppered them to a farmer’s field just outside the city, then loaded them into an SUV for a quick ride to the hospital, Mac had had to tell the story of the “backwoods car wreck” that caused Theo and Delilah’s injuries a total of one time…to the attending ER physician when they first arrived. That’s it. Just the once. Explanation…swallowed whole. It was almost as if he heard an audible gulp.

And even though he was a bona fide covert operator, living all that cloak and dagger stuff day-in and day-out, there were times, like this one, that even he felt the need to shake his head at the…uh…surreal-ness? Was that even a word?…of it all. Because, no one, not the nurses or the doctors or, hell, even the night janitor had the first clue that the real reason Delilah had a concussion, bruising, and scrapes, and Theo had a broken leg, lacerations, and contusions, was because a group of terrorists bent on securing nuclear warheads had kidnapped and interrogated the pair inside of a…wait for it…freakin’ cave.

But, seriously, why would they suspect it? Even for Mac it was damn near unbelievable. The stuff of poorly written, overly dramatic spy novels, and—

“Mac?” Delilah jerked him from his thoughts. “Are you okay?”

Okay? No. Hell, no, he was not okay. Not even close to being okay. Because in the last forty-eight hours, as he watched her stoically suffer pokes and prods from the medical staff, as he watched her answer a gazillion questions from the civilian-clad CIA agent sent in to debrief her, as he watched her refuse to leave her uncle’s bedside, he’d come to the awful conclusion that he’d not only fallen a little bit…but a lot in love with her. As in, all the way. Ass-over-tea-kettle.

Delilah Fairchild, with her smile and charm, with her bravery and grit, had stolen his goddamned heart. Like a thief in the night. Or maybe it was more like a thief in the day. Because she’d made no bones about her pursuit of him. Not even at the very beginning. So, yessir, the fact that he’d reneged on his pledge to himself was nobody’s fault but his own.