Thrill Ride (Black Knights Inc. #4)
Julie Ann Walker
To my father, the man who taught me honor, loyalty, integrity, and perseverance. Thanks, Dad, for always leading by example.
Dare and the world yields, or if it beats you sometimes, dare it again and you will succeed.
—William Makepeace Thackeray
Prologue
Black Knights Inc. HQ
Goose Island, Chicago, Illinois…
“They say he’s gone rogue.”
Like a bad smell, the sentence seemed to hang in the air. Those seated around the large conference table shifted uncomfortably, their expressions varying from wary disbelief to stubborn denial.
Vanessa Cordero found herself falling into that last group. He wouldn’t. Not Rock.
“Who’s they?” Ozzie asked. The guy’s wild blond hair and Star Trek T-shirt—it read I beat the Kobayashi Maru—shouted of his secure position in the upper echelons of Geekdom as loudly as the three microsized laptops open in front of him.
“Official word came down through the DOD,” Boss said, pulling out a chair and wearily sinking into it. Frank “Boss” Knight, their esteemed leader, was built like an Abrams tank. Of course, right now he looked more like Atlas—the weight of the world squarely on his big shoulders.
“The DOD?” Ozzie snorted, and Vanessa watched his youthful face contort with skepticism. “Well that makes it all clear as mud, now doesn’t it?”
The Department of Defense oversaw all facets of government intelligence and defense from the NSA down to the individual branches of the military. So, yeah, saying the information came from the DOD was ambiguous at best, and downright cryptic at worst.
Boss’s jaw hardened. He seemed to hesitate before finally opening the accordion-style folder tucked under his arm. Pulling out a stack of bundled papers, he tossed them into the middle of the table. “Pass ’em around,” he commanded.
Vanessa was almost afraid to take one. Afraid of what the information might reveal and—
No. He wouldn’t do this. Not Rock.
Not the man who’d laughingly and patiently endeavored to teach her to make the perfect roux for a pot of gumbo despite the fact she totally botched and burned the first three attempts. Not the man who’d calmly showed her how to handle a motorcycle even though she kept laying the sucker over on its side. Not the man who’d scooped her up in his arms and carried her two miles back to Black Knights Inc. headquarters the time she twisted an ankle while the group was out jogging.
Not Rock…
The whine of an electric screwdriver sounded below, and Boss pushed up from his chair to stomp over to the railing. BKI’s command center occupied the second floor of an old three-story menthol cigarette factory and overlooked the custom motorcycle shop—the cover for their covert government defense firm—on the first floor below. As Ozzie liked to joke, they were grease-monkey motorcycle mechanics by day and Uncle Sam’s last resort by night.
And one of them had just been accused of going rogue…
A shiver of trepidation raced up Vanessa’s spine. A rogue operator was considered worse than a traitor. And what was the government’s stance on traitors?
That’d be death. Pure and simple.
Shitballs. What a nightmare.
“Becky!” Boss yelled as the pages he’d thrown on the table were distributed around the group. His booming bass made her wince, as usual. “Get your ass up here! We have a problem!”
A problem? Is that what he called it when every agent and operator employed by the dear, sweet U.S. of A. was going to be gunning for one of their own—when they would be required to gun for one of their own? If so, she hated to know what he considered a catastrophe.
The electric screwdriver clicked off and, seconds later, the thump of Becky’s work boots pounded up the metal treads. The hollow sound echoed throughout the building and inside Vanessa’s tight chest. And, yep, the fact that the room was doing a slow tilt probably had something to do with the fact that she hadn’t taken a breath since Boss dropped the bomb. Clamping her eyes shut, she forced herself to rake in much needed oxygen. When she heard Becky arrive on the second floor landing, she cracked an eyelid only to discover the woman’s blond ponytail covered in metal shavings. They acted as sparkling accessories to the grease spots staining her shirt.
Becky Reichert was the reason their cover worked so well. Because while most of the guys were pretty handy with a wrench, she was the genius behind the kick-ass motorcycle designs that convinced the general public they were exactly what they were purported to be—simply one of the world’s premier custom bike shops.
“Has anyone ever mentioned you bellow like a wounded bull?” Becky demanded, hands on hips, lollipop stick protruding from her pursed lips as she glared at Boss. And, yes, Vanessa would wholeheartedly agree with that assessment.
“Just you, honey.” Boss pulled the bright red sucker from her mouth, bending to give her a quick, smacking kiss.
When he straightened away, Becky accurately read his I-really-need-to-hit-something expression, because the teasing light in her eyes instantly dimmed. “What is it, Frank?” she breathed. “What’s happened?”
“General Fuller just called to inform me Rock has officially been listed as a rogue operator.”