Hell on Wheels (Black Knights Inc. #1)(29)
No. He most certainly did not.
Changing tactics, he’d been in the process of devising a way to casually bump into her, to befriend her and then…she’d been mugged.
He was pretty sure Aldus was behind the attack on Alisa Morgan despite the senator’s protestations of innocence. And that just didn’t sit well with him…at all.
He was absolutely convinced that, whether or not Ms. Morgan had the files, she was an innocent pawn simply caught in the middle of…whatever the hell this was turning out to be.
He hadn’t been too surprised when she’d taken off after the mugging. Nor had he been surprised when she’d stopped at her dead brother’s former place of employment. After all, what could make a woman feel safer than to surround herself with a bunch of ex-spec ops types?
Oh, he knew all about Grigg Morgan and his friends and their custom motorcycle shop. At least he thought he did…
One look at the blueprints of the compound that was Black Knights Inc. had convinced him he didn’t know dick.
Earlier this afternoon, when Dagan tried his contact within the CIA—he still had one even after that horrible little incident in Iraq, saints be praised—in order to get more information, he’d run into the proverbial brick wall. Which fell directly into the downright spooky category, because the CIA was supposed to know everything.
Well, it appeared they didn’t know dick about the guys at Black Knights Inc. According to his source, the Knights were just what they seemed. A group of ex-military men who’d traded in their knives and guns for wrenches and grinders.
Um. No.
The whole motorcycle thing was only their cover. Anyone with any sort of military training could tell you those bad boys absolutely reeked of government affiliation.
Which meant that Grigg Morgan had been affiliated with the government. And that didn’t lend much credence to Senator Aldus’s claim that Morgan had become tired of living on a grease monkey’s salary, had taken the skills he’d learned from Uncle, and employed them in order to steal highly classified and potentially threatening government documents. According to Aldus, Morgan had planned to sell those documents on the black market.
Sure. And Dagan was the bloomin’ tooth fairy.
He was beginning to suspect the good senator was completely full of shit. Which meant the intelligent thing to do would be to quit this sketchier-by-the-minute job, haul ass back to DC, and forget he ever heard the name Senator Alan Aldus.
But something held him in his seat in the corner table, deep in the dusky shadows of Red Delilah’s. And it wasn’t the brunette who’d become disheartened with his lack of follow-through and decided to take her gin and tonic and her very nice ass—Sweet Lord! It’s heart-shaped!—into the next room.
He almost groaned at the lost opportunity, but he didn’t give chase as his always-intrepid cock begged him to do.
Because like it or not—which he most certainly did not—he’d allowed himself to be dropped center-stage in the middle of what was promising to turn into a shit-storm of near epic proportions.
So he’d do what he did best.
Watch. And wait.
And then former sergeant Nathan Weller turned dead black eyes on him and Dagan’s entire plan for the evening did a one-eighty.
His CIA contacts had been able to give him the military files on the employees of Black Knights Inc., and despite all the black ink hiding about fifty percent of what the documents held, the damned things still read like a catalog of Great American Heroes.
Shit! It was a rare thing when an ex-spook was genuinely rattled.
But there you had it. He’d spent the entirety of his adult life weighing the risks, playing the odds, and right now, looking into Ghost’s eyes, he suspected both were stacked up against him.
Like any smart man, Dagan Zoelner knew when to cut his losses and get the hell out of Dodge.
Chapter Seven
“I could be wrong, but I’m thinkin’ Ali and Ghost are sittin’ in a tree,” Ozzie whispered in Nate’s ear as Delilah returned to her position behind the bar. Nate snatched a surreptitious glance back at the table where the ladies sat.
“D’you have a death wish?” he asked the kid in all earnestness, even though he was only giving Ozzie about half of his attention because Buzzard—that dick—was reaching across the table to grab Ali’s hand.
“K-I-S-S-I-N-G.” Ozzie singsonged. “I’m right, aren’t I? You like her.” He didn’t wait for Nate’s reply before he announced gleefully to the others, “Nate ‘Ghost’ Weller, aka Mr. Emotionless, has feelings.”
Sweet. Christ.
What was it with everyone today? First Delilah and now Ozzie. Did he have some sort of flashing neon sign on his forehead?
“Y’better get away from me,” he advised Ozzie, skating another quick glance toward the booth. Now Buzzard—that dick—was levered halfway across the tabletop, whispering in Ali’s ear, and the woman was just crazy enough to laugh at whatever the licentious old fart was saying.
“But dude, that’s so sweet, so roman—”
Nate grabbed the kid’s arm none-too-gently and jerked him into the corner behind the jukebox. Boss lifted a brow at the two of them but continued his conversation with Dan.
“—tic,” Ozzie finished, rubbing his upper arm where Nate’d manacled him. “Easy on the goods, man. The ladies love these guns.” The kid flexed his biceps and bent his head to give each of his “guns” a kiss.