Page 3
2
Black Knights Inc., Goose Island
Remember that thing Britt said about finding a home at Black Knights Inc. and feeling like those who worked there were family?
He took it back.
They weren’t family. Quite the contrary. He wanted to run upstairs, grab his trusty sidearm, and start shooting them all…in the legs—they needed maiming, not killing. Besides, if they were busy staunching blood and gritting their teeth against pain, they wouldn’t have time to give him any more shit.
And boy howdy, nobody was better at dishing out shit than the Black Knights.
On the train ride back to their side of town, Britt had repeatedly threatened Hewitt with great bodily harm should Hew decide to out him and his current…um… preoccupation with one Agent Julia O’Toole. But no matter how precise and inventive Britt’s threats had been, Hew hadn’t agreed to keep quiet.
In fact, Hew hadn’t agreed to anything.
He’d simply popped his AirPods into his ears, pulled a tattered paperback copy of Paulo Coelho’s The Alchemist from his back pocket, and ignored Britt for the entirety of the ride.
Britt had considered snatching the book from Hew’s hands and tossing it out the window. But he quite liked his nose the way it was—namely, not broken—and so he’d been forced to sit back and hope beyond hope Hew would have mercy.
He should have known better.
He was pretty sure Hew and mercy were listed as antonyms in the thesaurus.
The minute the two of them walked through BKI’s front door, Hew had hooked a thumb over his shoulder toward Britt and announced, “You’ll never guess what I found this sonofabitch up to!”
“Did you wake up and take an asshole pill this morning?” Britt had demanded, his hands curling into fists.
Hew had wiggled his eyebrows. “No need for supplements. I come by it naturally.” And then Hew had filled everyone in on how he’d caught Britt, to use Hew’s word, “mid-stalk.”
Now, Britt found himself seated at the large island in the kitchen while everyone who’d been onsite during Hew’s big announcement took turns asking him questions and relentlessly teasing him.
He wanted to crawl under the tall, metal bistro table in the corner or disappear into the brick walls. But there was nowhere to hide from his colleagues.
“You’re stalking an FBI agent?” Ozzie, an original Knight and their current tech guru, stared at him wide-eyed. Britt couldn’t tell if Ozzie was impressed or appalled. “Damn, bro. The balls on you would shame a rhino.”
Okay, so he’s impressed.
Too bad it wasn’t the kind of admiration Britt wanted.
“I take exception to Hew describing it as stalking .” His jaw was clenched so hard he marveled he could speak at all.
“And what name would you give to the action of a man following a woman around, unbeknownst to her, and watching her with a look in his eye that says he’d like to club her over the head caveman-style and drag her by her hair back to his lair?” Hew countered while happily breaking a freshly baked blueberry muffin in half and smearing each side with a generous portion of butter.
The old menthol cigarette factory was a wonderful mix of homey and industrial. Out in the shop, the smell of grease, fresh auto paint, and metal shavings permeated the air. But inside the kitchen, the scents were familiar and comforting. The earthy kick of too-strong coffee mixed with the sweeter aromas of warm pastries.
Eliza Meadows—soon to be Eliza Wakefield because she’d said yes when Fisher Wakefield had popped the question—could put together mission parameters, give them a dissertation-worthy lecture on global politics, and hobnob with D.C.’s glitterati without batting a lash. But it was a well-known fact her favorite pastime was puttering around the kitchen, cooking up tasty delights worthy of the blue ribbon at any county fair.
“Of all the times you could have chosen to pull your nose out of a book and string more than twelve words together, why’d you pick today?” Britt glared at Hew.
“Ah, ah, ah.” Hew wagged a finger. “Nice try. But answering a question with a question is the oldest trick in the book.” He thickened his accent. “And I ain’t falling for it.”
“I’m observing her,” Britt declared with a sniff. Then he attempted to succor his sorrows by shoving a strawberry tart between his lips.
The taste was so divine his eyes tried to roll back in his head.
Unfortunately, despite the comfort of the pastry, his sorrows were still happily ensconced in their front-row seats. Mostly thanks to Boss, who, as his nickname suggested, had been the brains and brawn behind the birth of Black Knights Inc. Frank “Boss” Knight had handpicked the original twelve members, had taken over running the civilian side of things once the former president no longer needed the OG crew, and still helped Britt and his teammates out whenever the occasion arose. In short, he had been and ostensibly still was…the boss .
“Observing her implies you have some professional or scientific curiosity.” Boss’s low, guttural voice was made for radio. FYI, the man had a face made for radio, too. His features were as blunt as a closed fist. Considering the unnatural flatness across the bridge of his nose, Britt assumed many closed fists had made them that way. “So tell us, what is it about Agent O’Toole that you find professionally or scientifically curious?”
“Is it the way her bottom fills out those slacks she wears?” This from Sam Harwood, the former Marine Raider and current target of Britt’s heated stare. “Or is it ’cause you like waxing your axe while fantasizing ’bout her putting her cuffs on you?”
Closing his eyes, Britt prayed to any god who would listen to take pity on him.
“Not to risk putting another frown line on your already crowded forehead,” Eliza chimed in gently, “but if you like her, why haven’t you asked her out? I know you aren’t suffering from a lack of confidence. I’ve seen you pick up dozens of bar bunnies over the years. So why all the subterfuge now?”
Britt donned what he hoped was the facial equivalent of a chalkboard that’d been wiped clean. “Who says I like her?”
“Please.” Sam snorted. “There’s no putting the jam back in that jar. You wouldn’t be skulking around after a woman you didn’t like.”
Britt considered telling Sam to go do something with himself that was anatomically impossible. Instead, he took the high road— go me!
“Fine. You all caught me. I was impressed by how she handled herself during the Senator McClean case. And if I hadn’t happened to run into her again the morning I rode down south to look at some handlebars, then things would have ended there. But I did run into her again. She was off-duty, wearing street clothes, and hanging out at this park with her family. I found myself… intrigued by her.”
Sam snorted. “ Intrigued. ” He made air quotes. “Said every stalker who ever lived.”
“Fine.” Britt tossed his hands in the air. “So I like her. She’s pretty and smart. But she’s also a fed .” He stressed the last word. “Give the woman an hour in this place, and she’ll figure out we’re a hell of a lot more than a bike-building outfit. So, since I can’t ask her out, I’ve been doing the next best thing: sneaking a few glimpses of her when I get the chance. Is that so wrong?”
“There’s nothing that says you can’t date a federal agent,” Eliza countered. “Hunter married one.”
Hunter Jackson had been the first of the Knights version 2.0 to have fallen ass over teakettle into that crazy little thing called love. But there was one crucial difference between Hunter and Britt that Eliza wasn’t taking into account.
“Correct.” He nodded. “Hunter married her. As his wife, she is duty-bound to keep his secrets. But there’s no guarantee that’d be the case with Julia once I’ve scratched this itch and sent her on her way.”
Eliza frowned. “You act like sending her on her way is a foregone conclusion. Who’s to say you won’t take a page out of Hunter’s book?”
The snort that burst from him shocked him with its force. “Me,” he managed once he’d gotten himself under control. “ I say. I know you’re all”—he waved a hand to indicate the gathered group—“so annoyingly in love that you can’t imagine anyone not wanting what you have. But marriage? Kids? Happily ever after?” He scoffed. “I’m sorry, but have you met me?”
Boss crossed his big arms over his even bigger chest. “That’s what we all said.” He dragged his coverall-wearing wife, Becky—who’d been blessedly silent up to that point—under his arm and planted a kiss atop her head. Since she was more than a foot shorter than he was, he had to bend down to do it. “I’d resigned myself to being a bachelor for life until this one came along.”
Becky plucked a red Dum Dum lollipop out of her mouth and pointed it at Britt. “I never thought I wanted a ring on my finger or a bunch of ragamuffins running around my house. But then I met the big guy here”—she patted Boss’s chest—“and everything changed. You’ll start singing a different tune when you find the right one. And who knows? Maybe Agent O’Toole is the right one.”
The mere thought had cold sweat breaking out on Britt’s brow. “Nope.” He shook his head. “Not me. Not ever.”
Every face in the room morphed into a frown. But it was Sam who asked, “Why not?”
Before Britt could answer, Fisher Wakefield, former Delta Force officer and Britt’s brother from another mother—aka: his best friend—walked into the kitchen while running a hand through his shower-damp hair. He came to a stop when he sensed the odd atmosphere. “Uh. What did I miss?”
“Britt’s been stalking Agent O’Toole,” Hew said around a mouthful of muffin.
Britt refrained from smacking his forehead into his palm. But the temptation was there.
An evil grin slowly spread over Fish’s face. “Why, Britton Daniel Rollins. How absolutely scandalous of you.”
Oh, god. Not the government name.
Britt braced himself for whatever scathing witticism was next poised to come out of Fish’s mouth. Thankfully, he was spared the mortification when his phone jangled to life in his pocket.
One look at the screen told him it was Rafer Connelly at the front gate.
“Saved by the bell.” Eliza smiled at him softly.
“Right.” He nodded, but his expression was the epitome of sarcasm. So was his tone when he added, “Everything is coming up Britt!”
Eliza’s smile turned sympathetic. Then she squealed when Fisher swept her off her feet to press a smacking kiss on her lips.
For years the two of them had bickered like they were getting paid for every insult. But ever since they’d admitted their animosity was really L.O.V.E, they’d been on each other like cold on ice cream.
It was annoying.
And adorable.
But mostly annoying.
“Put me down, you big oaf!” Eliza swatted Fish on the shoulder, but there was no real force behind it.
“Fine.” Fisher lowered her slowly, letting her body drag against his so that by the time Eliza’s feet hit the floor, her cheeks were flaming red. “You woke up on the bossy side of the bed this morning, huh?”
The smile she slanted him was pure seduction. “You love it.”
Fish’s return grin was that of a man who’d gotten everything he wanted out of life. “Yeah, I do. I really do.”
“Ugh.” Sam rolled his eyes. “Get a room.”
Fish frowned at Sam. “Don’t yuck our yum just because you’re cranky that your girlfriend is out of town again.”
Sam’s girlfriend, a purple-haired computer whiz named Hannah, was employed by the Cyber Crimes Division of the DOD. She’d recently been working on cases that required her to travel. It was a situation that made Sam—who was otherwise a pretty amiable guy—decidedly grouchy.
Sam opened his mouth to answer, but Britt didn’t stick around to hear it. Instead, he quickly made his way to the door and thumbed on his phone.
“What’s up, Rafe?” Before Rafe could answer, Britt grimaced and added, “Sweet Jesus. Is there anything in your Spotify account that doesn’t make me want to take a bath with a toaster?”
The Connelly brothers, the four huge, freckled native Chicagoans who took shifts manning the gate, were great at their jobs. They were never late. They never complained about the long hours or the boredom that was occasionally followed by bursts of excitement or gunfire. And they could tell jokes better than standup comedians.
But they had shit taste in music. Geralt was a fan of jazz. Manus preferred death metal. Toran had recently gotten into a musical genre called “folktronica.” And Rafer? Well, Rafe blared nothing but yacht rock.
The dulcet tones of Rupert Holmes singing his one-hit wonder “Escape” drifted over the open connection.
Not that Britt couldn’t appreciate some soft-sational seventies tunes. But he’d always thought “Escape”—otherwise known as “The Pina Colada Song”—was complete garbage.
I mean, they both set out to cheat on each other. And then, when they catch each other, they just laugh and act like their mutual deception is nothing?
Ignoring him, Rafer announced, “You’ve got company.”
Britt hurried out to the shop, where a monitor was mounted on the wall beside the front door. The screen was tuned to the security feed at the front gate.
He squinted at the two figures on the feed. The first was a woman huddled in a light jacket. The second was a man leaning an arm casually into the window of the guard house.
But not just any man. Britt’s brother .
Knox had gone missing soon after being released from his last stint in the pen.
On the one hand, Britt was relieved to see him alive and kicking. The last time they’d talked, Knox had been amped about some new venture, and Britt had assumed the next word he’d hear about his brother was when Knox was either back inside the big house or dead . On the other hand, he was filled with a deep sense of dread. Because as much as it pained him to admit it, Knox’s sudden arrival could mean only one thing.
Trouble.
Table of Contents
- Page 1
- Page 2
- Page 3 (Reading here)
- Page 4
- Page 5
- Page 6
- Page 7
- Page 8
- Page 9
- Page 10
- Page 11
- Page 12
- Page 13
- Page 14
- Page 15
- Page 16
- Page 17
- Page 18
- Page 19
- Page 20
- Page 21
- Page 22
- Page 23
- Page 24
- Page 25
- Page 26
- Page 27
- Page 28
- Page 29
- Page 30
- Page 31
- Page 32
- Page 33
- Page 34
- Page 35
- Page 36
- Page 37
- Page 38