Rev It Up (Black Knights Inc. #3)(5)

And, as if of that wasn’t bad enough, then when they’d actually needed al-Masri, he’d gone and lost control and killed the guy. Now, because Jake had screwed up on every level possible today, Preacher was lying in an expanding pool of dark blood.

He ran to where Boss and Rock knelt beside Preacher and choked when he saw the gaping hole through Preacher’s chest and its twin through his lower abdomen. Amazingly, Preacher was still conscious, still clutching his M4 in one hand and his open cell phone in the other—the same phone that’d called in the airstrike that had saved their lives.

Jake fell to his knees, helping Boss and Rock apply pressure to those gruesome wounds as blood pumped hot and heavy between his shaking fingers.

“Hang on, man,” he whispered, glancing up as Boss stood and whipped off his shirt. They’d lost their field medical gear in the headlong plummet down the mountainside and had no bandages or QuikClot. Their clothes were the only things they had to try and staunch the life-taking river of fluid pouring from Preacher’s body.

“Helo on…the…” Preacher choked and coughed, foaming blood oozing from both corners of his mouth, “…way,” he finally finished.

“Yeah man, yeah,” Jake murmured, not trying to fight the tears streaming down his cheeks as he ripped the shirt Boss handed him in two, pressing each half into Preacher’s wet, ragged wounds. “You did one helluva job,” he said around a heart that was sitting and throbbing in the back of his parched throat. “Gave those Air Force boys perfect coordinates. They obliterated al-Masri’s guys.”

“Good,” Preacher choked, and Jake had to resist the urge to throw his head back and shriek his grief into the hot Afghan air.

No way was help arriving in enough time to save Preacher’s life.

“I’m going to go look for our medical gear,” Boss said.

“I’ll go with ya,” Rock murmured, blood oozing from the deep gash in his shoulder to slide down his arm and drip from his fingers into the dark soil of the open poppy field. “Fours eyes are better than two.”

Jake nodded and numbly watched his teammates race back toward the side of the mountain.

“S-Snake?” Preacher coughed wetly, and Jake knew that sound. Most folks referred to it as the death rattle.

“Yeah, bro?”

“Sh-Shell,” more coughing, more awful rattling. “She’s…” Preacher’s eyes flew open, and the coughing turned to choking.

Jake could do nothing. Nothing to help his teammate, his fellow soldier, his friend as the Grim Reaper hovered overhead. He felt that bastard’s presence like a cold, wet blanket, and knew if the sonofabitch were corporeal, he’d blast him full of holes before sending him back to the stinking black abyss from which he’d sprung.

“She’s…” from somewhere Preacher found the strength to finish, “pregnant.”

Pregnant? Dear God…

“C-congratulations, bro.” He choked on his tears, hoping Preacher didn’t know the extent of his feelings for Michelle, or about that night in the bathroom of the Clover Bar and Grill when he’d almost let things get out of hand with her. The same night he’d shoved her into Preacher’s arms.

Of course, at the time, he’d never dreamed she’d go and do the smart thing and actually fall for the guy…

With one last mighty heave, Preacher tried his best to fight Death.

But in the end, Death was too strong.

And Jake could do nothing but sit, crying and cradling the lifeless body of one of the finest men he’d ever known.

He refused to let go of Preacher even after Boss and Rock returned, empty-handed, from the mountain and sank down beside him, tears streaking their faces. He refused to let go when the Night Stalkers arrived and loaded them all into their Chinook. He refused to let go until it was time to clean and prepare Preacher’s body for transport back to the states.

And all the while he was thinking, This is my fault. This is all my fault…





Chapter One


Chicago, four years later…

“Just leave them on the porch,” Michelle instructed, peeking through the peephole at the flower delivery man as she wiped her flour-covered hands on her apron.

Something wasn’t right.

For one thing, the delivery man held up the blue roses so she couldn’t see his face. For another, she wasn’t expecting any roses.

Of course, maybe she was just being paranoid, but that’s what she got for being the kid sister of a covert government defense contractor. She had the tendency to see villains lurking around every corner.

“But I’m s’posed to get a signature, ma’am,” the guy said, his deep voice muffled by the flowers.

Nope. Her brother had told her on numerous occasions—drilled it into her head was more like it—to follow her instincts. Always.

“Sorry,” she called. “I’m not expecting any flowers. You’ll just have to take them back.”

The guy seemed to hesitate. Then he shrugged his shoulders behind the giant bouquet before turning and dropping the roses on the top step. He quickly crossed the street and, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets, strolled down the block and around the corner where he’d no doubt parked his delivery van. She still didn’t get a good look at his face, but stitched across the back of his baseball cap in white lettering was the logo for Silly Lilly Flower Shop.