Man in Black

Chapter 15

Black Knights Inc.

Britt Rollins quietly slipped out the front door of the old menthol cigarette factory. When he turned to shut it behind him, he had to awkwardly balance the two mugs of hot chocolate he carried.

He couldn’t sleep. Which was usually the case when he got a middle-of-the-night call from his older brother.

Knox had been on the outside for little more than two weeks following his second stint in the big house. And even though Knox had promised Britt he was keeping his nose clean, Britt had recognized the fast, excited way his brother was talking.

Knox was on the trail of a new con. Britt was sure of it. And like an addict who’d just taken a hit, Knox was high on the excitement.

In a way, Knox was an addict, Britt supposed. His big brother didn’t crave the oblivion of booze or the zest of cocaine, but he lived for the euphoria of the next big score. And the quest for easy money meant Knox had spent the majority of his adult life behind bars.

If Knox got caught this time, he’d spend the rest of his adult life there. There’d be no more five-year stints. The long arm of the law believed in second chances. But it didn’t believe in third ones.

Britt couldn’t help but feel responsible.

Not in any direct way. He wasn’t pushing his brother toward illegal activity. Quite the opposite. He did his best to encourage Knox to steer clear of such nonsense and make a life for himself he could be proud of.

But Britt was responsible in an indirect way. Because Knox Rollins’s life had taken a sharp turn onto its current twisted and illicit road when their father died, and Britt had become Knox’s responsibility.

Had nineteen-year-old Knox not taken on the burden of raising thirteen-year-old Britt, had he not been forced into some less-than-legal dealings to keep a roof over their heads and food on their plates, had he been allowed to stay in college and finish his degree, things might have been different.

Knox might have been different.

Or maybe not…

The Rollins boys were both thrill-seekers, both hedonists by nature. Britt fed his cravings for excitement and adventure by skydiving and rock climbing and surfing Maui’s big waves. But who was to say Knox wouldn’t have always found a way to feed his cravings through unlawful enterprise?

Were crooks born or made? Britt had always assumed it was the second, that horrible luck and impossible choices were the reasons most people turned to a life of crime. But perhaps that wasn’t the case for everyone. Maybe for some people, the thrill and stimulation they got from illicit activity was stamped into the very fabric of their souls.

It was a depressing thought.

Sighing heavily, he made his way across the grounds toward the gatehouse. The asphalt expanse had been recently seal-coated, and the chemical smell of the stuff, like a mixture of sulfur and crude oil, lingered in the damp air.

The storm had moved on, but it had left behind dark puddles that gathered the moonlight and reflected it back into the night sky like mirrors.

Off in the distance a siren wailed. The Chicago River lapped leisurely at the banks on the backside of the property. And closer in clashed the discordant notes of a jazz band.

Manus Connelly, one of the four native Chicagoans who’d been taking round-the-clock shifts guarding the gate at BKI, had terrible taste in music. He was an excellent conversationalist, though.

And that’s what Britt needed.

Some conversation. Some amusement. Some distraction from his swirling thoughts.

All the Connelly brothers were good for a rowdy and raucous good time. They had personalities as big as their statures and as many jokes as they had freckles. But Manus was the true wordsmith, a genius when it came to exchanging quips and matching wits.

When Britt got within five feet of the wrought iron gate, it began to slide open, rattling on its track as it went. The guardhouse had monitors showing footage from the security cameras around the property. No doubt Manus had seen the moment Britt exited the building and had been waiting for him to cross the grounds.

After Britt slipped through the opening in the gate, Manus’s big head with its giant bush of red hair poked through the access window on the side of the little building. His thick, Chicago accent mixed with the humidity of the air until Britt felt enveloped in all that was Chi-Town. “What’s up, my man? Can’t sleep?”

“Not a wink.” Britt passed a mug through the window and Manus accepted it gratefully.

“Damn.” Britt waved a hand in front of his face when he was hit by the noxious cloud that wafted out of the guardhouse. “It smells like a camel’s ass crack in here. What the hell have you been eating?”

“Sausage and sourcrout.” Manus gave him a toothy grin. “And don’t knock it ’til you try it.”

“I’ll pass.” Britt leaned his elbow on the windowsill. “Is Birgit German?” he asked, referring to Manus’s pretty wife. “I didn’t know that. Although I probably should’ve guessed given her name.”

“Mmm.” Manus nodded. “First-generation German American. Her folks came over in the late seventies.”

“Huh. A second-generation Irish American and a first-generation German American. Did y’all meet over a pint of beer?” He smirked at his own joke since both cultures were known for their love of the hop juice.

“As a matter of fact, we did. First time I saw her was at the St. Patty’s Day parade. We drank green beer until we puked. By the time Octoberfest rolled around, I’d put a ring on her finger.”

Britt laughed and shook his head. “A Windy City romance made in heaven.”

“True enough.” Manus saluted him with a self-satisfied grin before sniffing the contents of his mug. “Hot chocolate? In July?”

“Made it for Eliza. You know how shock and trauma have a way of chilling you down to the marrow of your bones.”

Manus chuffed distastefully. “Wish I didn’t. But I do.”

Having worked at Black Knights Inc. for nearly a decade, he and his brothers had born witness to some high-stakes action that would’ve had your everyday security guard shitting his shorts. The Connelly boys were as tough as old cow hide, though. Thankfully.

“Eliza’s recipe?” Manus asked before taking a tentative sip of the steaming liquid.

“Mmm.” Britt nodded, drinking from his own mug. “With just a dash of cinnamon tossed in for good luck.”

Manus nodded appreciatively. “And how is our girl?”

One corner of Britt’s mouth quirked. “She kicked Fisher out of her room a while ago. So I’d say she’s fine as a fiddle, back to her regularly scheduled programming.” He paused and shook his head. “It astounds me how two people I love like family can be so different. But they’re like fire and ice.”

“If you ask me, they’re more like fire and gasoline.”

Britt snorted his agreement since he’d said something very similar earlier that evening.

They lapsed into silence as they enjoyed their drinks. Manus went back to eyeing the security footage. And Britt sighed deeply as he watched the owner of the bagel shop pull into the empty lot.

The place opened at six AM. Which meant the bagels started baking hours before.

Britt had never been much of a morning person. But there was something appealing about the simplicity of running a business like the one across the street.

No middle-of-the-night flights to the other side of the world. No one attempting to put a period on the end of his life. No bombs or bullets or illicit assignations with fellow operatives in the back rooms of bars. Just early mornings.

Early mornings. And monotonous days. And weeks that drifted into months…

Britt wouldn’t last a minute in a job like that. But he wished, oh how he wished he could. Because then he could invite Knox to come live and work with him.

As it was, Knox couldn’t be trusted to know the truth of Black Knights Inc. Knox couldn’t be trusted with much of anything, come to think of it. And that’s what bothered Britt the most.

The brother he’d so loved and admired growing up, the brother who’d sacrificed his future so Britt could have one, had lost himself somewhere along the way. And the man who showed up in his place?

Well…Britt barely recognized that guy.

A slight breeze blew an empty plastic bag down the street. He lifted his face to catch the notes on the wind: wet concrete, the faint fishy scent of the river, and the ever-present tinge of car exhaust.

Over the years, he’d grown to appreciate Chicago. Appreciate the hustle and bustle, the way Midwesterners were a no-nonsense bunch, and how seriously they took their deep-dish pizza and Italian beef sandwiches. But he’d never loved the City of Big Shoulders the way he loved his hometown.

Unlike Chicago, there was very little hustle and bustle in Charleston, South Carolina. Southerners didn’t do much of anything quickly, and he figured that was because they spent eight months out of the year trying not to sweat their asses off. Whereas a Midwesterner would come right to the point, a Southerner preferred to meander around a bit, believing part of the fun was in the conversational journey.

The people living in the two cities had one thing in common, though. They both took their local cuisine seriously. Except in Charleston it was all about the she crab soup and the shrimp and grits.

It’d been a little over five years since Britt had been home. Five years since he’d walked along the battery or heard the bells chime at the Cathedral of St. John the Baptist. Five years since he’d sat in a courtroom to hear a judge sentence his brother to hard time.

Taking another sip of hot chocolate, he wondered how long it’d be before he was sitting in another courtroom, listening to another judge tell his brother he was going in for the long-haul.

Manus had turned down the volume on his radio, but a particularly discordant clash of cymbals brought Britt’s mind back to the present. He frowned at the redheaded behemoth. “You know, I’ve always prided myself on being polyjamorous.”

Manus lifted one bushy orange eyebrow. “I’m not here to kink shame anyone.”

“Poly-jam-orous,” Britt emphasized. “Meaning I listen to almost all music. Rock, pop, country, blues. But I have never understood the appeal of jazz. It sounds like a bunch of noise and?—”

“Hold that thought,” Manus cut him off. “We have company.”

Britt pushed away from the window’s ledge and watched a large, black SUV slink up the empty street like a stalking cougar. Government plates were pinned to the front bumper and a telltale tint filmed the windows.

Bulletproof,he thought. Then he clarified. Well, bullet resistant.There’s no such thing as true bulletproof glass.

“Possible they’re just passing through?” Manus asked when the SUV pulled past the guardhouse and the driveway that led into the compound.

“Unlikely seeing as how blondie there in the driver’s seat is the one who came to the hospital to interview Eliza.”

“Middle of the night visits from the feds can only mean one thing,” Manus muttered. “Bad news,” the two of them said in unison.

Manus chuckled. “Pinch, poke, you owe me a Coke.”

Britt shot him a flat-mouthed look. “What are you? Seven?”

“Nope.” Manus shook his head. “But that’s how old the twins are. Just celebrated their birthday last weekend. And their throw-back witticisms are contagious.”

Britt harrumphed. “And here I was giving you credit for being the cleverest of all the Connelly brothers.”

“You were? When?”

“On my walk out here.”

“Well, at least you were right about one thing.” Manus gestured with his chin toward the SUV. It had pulled a uey and was headed back their way.

When the vehicle rolled to a stop beside the curb, tension crackled along Britt’s nerve endings like static on a dry day. Anticipation sharpened his senses when the engine shut off.

It was an understatement to say the little female agent was easy on the eyes. There was no mistaking the pert perfection of her nose, the generous proportions of her mouth, or the way she filled out her utilitarian pantsuit like a dream.

Add that to what seemed to be a razor-sharp mind and a charming sense of humor—he’d been so caught off guard by her Star Wars reference, he’d completely whiffed it—and it was safe to say he was intrigued by her.

Then there’d been the moment when he’d literally felt sparks as they touched.

Seriously, is she wearing wool socks with those lug-soled duty shoes?

It didn’t seem likely in July. But it was the only explanation he could think of.

When the SUV’s front doors opened, he gulped down the last of his hot chocolate in hopes it would settle his jittery stomach.

I can disarm an assailant in two moves, fast-rope out of helicopters into enemy territory, and hump forty pounds of C4 through the desert without breaking a sweat. But put a smart, sexy blond in my path and I’m completely knocked off my game.

He blamed part of his edginess on his natural aversion to authority figures. From the first time the local five-oh had knocked on his front door looking for his brother to this moment right here where he worked for an off-the-books defense firm, having to deal with anyone who worked forces—as the incomparable Rage Against the Machine once sang—made his asshole pucker.

Agent Douglas was the first to exit the vehicle and Britt noted the man’s perfect haircut and expensive suit. He was good at reading people, and he pegged Douglas for an arrogant sonofabitch who enjoyed the power and prestige of his position more than he enjoyed the actual job.

Then there was Agent O’Toole…Julia.As she rounded the front of the vehicle and stepped onto the curb, he noticed she looked a little worse for wear. Her blond ponytail had slipped down to the nape of her neck. There was a stain on her white button-down shirt. Coffee? And deep lines had carved themselves into the skin beside her mouth. Yet…

The keen, almost zealous light in her eyes told him she loved being a fed. Loved it for the intellectual challenge of solving a mystery. Loved it for the satisfaction that came from putting the guilty behind bars. Loved it for the all the right reasons and none of the wrong ones.

If all authorities were like her, he’d probably be less likely to curl his lip in disgust anytime he saw a badge.

“You’re out late,” he observed blandly.

“We’re on a case.” Julia mirrored his expression. “What’s your excuse?”

He shrugged noncommittally. “Night owl.”

“Now why doesn’t that surprise me?”

Britt hooked his thumb in a belt loop. “Probably because not much does.” When she frowned, he clarified. “Surprise you, I mean. You strike me as the observant sort, not prone to being caught off guard.”

She feigned a put-upon sigh. “Blame it on being raised by blue-collar Southsiders. I think observant gets stamped on our foreheads the minute we exit the birth canal. Well, that and the White Sox logo.”

Damnit. He liked her.

He didn’t want to, but he did.

“So what brings you here this time of night? Or…morning?”

She squinted toward the east where the sun would rise over the cerulean waters of Lake Michigan in a couple hours. “I’m tired. I’d like to say what I’ve come to say only once. And that’s going to require Miss Meadows’s presence. Can we come inside?”

Britt heard Manus grumble his disapproval. It was the man’s job to protect Black Knights Inc. and all its secrets. It stood to reason he didn’t much like the idea of the FBI breaching the sanctity of the walls.

Britt didn’t like it either. But making the agents stand on the curb while he ran upstairs to fetch Eliza would be even more suspicious than taking them inside and letting them get a gander at the setup.

“Follow me.” He waved and felt the moment Agent O’Toole fell into step behind him. He sensed her in a way he couldn’t explain. It was as if the electricity he’d felt in the hospital had followed her here.

As if on cue, the hairs on his arms lifted. If the thunderstorm had still been raging overhead, he’d have blamed it on that. Instead, he had to admit the real culprit was the woman herself.

Does she moonlight as Ms. Marvel? Sheesh.

As they neared the door, Agent Douglas whistled. “You guys sure have a lot of security.”

“Most of Becky’s bikes sell for six figures,” Britt was quick to explain. “And some of the truly custom jobs go for a cool half mil. Then there’s all the money in equipment and tools. So…yeah. We have a lot of security.”

“And Becky is?” Agent O’Toole’s warm, husky voice traveled up his spine like tickling fingers.

“She’s our crackerjack designer. We wouldn’t be in business if it weren’t for her.” He turned slightly to hook a thumb toward his chest. “The rest of us who work here? We’re just grease monkeys. Becky’s the one with the talent and the vision.”

His cell buzzed in his pocket. He didn’t need to pull it out to know it was Knox.

He should answer.

He didn’t want to. He didn’t want to hear that frenetic excitement again. And he certainly didn’t want to hear any more lies.

No one ever talked about how love could be a blade that twists inside a person. How it can make a guy bleed out in places nobody can see.

“You’re not the only night owl, I see.” Agent O’Toole’s voice pulled at the knots in his tangled mind.

When he frowned in confusion, she hitched her chin toward his noisy pocket. “When someone phones me at four o’clock in the morning, I figure they’re either a night owl or there’s an emergency. You need to get that?”

“It can wait,” he assured her and opened the large front door.

The shop floor was dark. But he remedied that by throwing on the four switches that had the huge overhead lights mounted three stories above blazing to life.

Agent Douglas whistled again as the row of custom choppers blazed into sight. Paint glistened. Chrome gleamed. Hand-tooled leather seats glinted dully.

“Wow.” Agent O’Toole walked over to the last bike in the row. It was Britt’s ride. But she couldn’t know that. “Now I understand the need for the razor wire and all the security cameras. These aren’t motorcycles. These are works of art.”

When she ran her hand over the leather seat, Britt felt like she was touching him. Chills skipped up his spine.

His voice was gruff when he said, “Y’all feel free to look at our stock while I go wake everyone.”

“Everyone?” Agent O’Toole lifted one eyebrow.

“We’re more like family than coworkers,” he explained. “We’ll all want to hear what you have to say.”

He didn’t wait for a response before heading upstairs. Five minutes later, he was leading the crew—who sported various degrees of dishabille—back down to the shop floor.

Introductions were made and Julia blinked myopically at the gathered group of men.

Of the six active-duty Knights, only Hunter was missing. He and his wife, Grace, had recently moved out of the old factory building and into a small condo in the Streeterville neighborhood. But everyone else was present and accounted for.

There was Sam Harwood, whose SpongeBob SquarePants pajama bottoms had been a Christmas gift from Hannah, his purple-haired girlfriend. Fisher, who’d been naked as a jaybird when Britt slipped through the open door into his dark bedroom, had thankfully redonned his jeans and T-shirt from the day before. Hewitt Birch wore plaid Joe Boxer briefs and a white tank top. But it was Graham Colburn who caught Agent O’Toole’s eye.

Not that Britt could blame her for gaping.

For one thing, Graham was six-and-a-half feet tall. For another thing, Graham hadn’t bothered to throw a shirt on top of his gray sweatpants, so his John Cena muscles bulged and gleamed in the overhead light. And lastly, Graham wore an expression that said he ate small children and puppies for breakfast.

Inexplicably, Britt felt a frisson of jealousy. He had to bite his tongue to keep from telling Graham to go put a shirt on.

“Well.” Agent O’Toole cleared her throat. “Seems the gang’s all here.”

“The gang’s always here,” Fisher informed her. “It’s one of the perks of livin’ and workin’ in the same buildin’.”

The little agent’s brow furrowed. “Not too many jobs offer onsite living quarters nowadays.”

Fisher shrugged. “It’s either let us live here or double our salaries. And since this place has the space.” He gestured around the cavernous shop. “It’s pretty much a no-brainer which one Boss and Becky chose.”

“Boss and Becky are the owners?” Agent O’Toole hadn’t taken out her phone to record their conversation, but Britt knew she was filing away information, nonetheless.

“That’d be them,” he told her and felt the instant her eyes landed on him.

He hadn’t been able to discern their exact color in the hospital. But the bright glow of the shop lights showed they were the warmest brown that melted into gold near her pupils.

Fox eyes,he thought. And something tells me she’s just as cunning.

She gestured to an empty bike lift and the various stools scattered around the shop. “Mind if we head over to that table thingie and grab some seats? I’ve been on my feet since eight AM yesterday, and my dogs are barking.”

He gestured for everyone to pull up a seat around the stainless-steel bike lift.

The way the little blond dropped onto her stool told him she hadn’t been joking about her dogs. He felt his mouth twitch at the same time he resisted the urge to pull up a stool behind her so he could massage her tense shoulders.

The smell of grease guns, metal shavings, and fresh paint was strong. And beneath all that was the ever-present aroma of the high-octane coffee the crew lived on.

Agent O’Toole looked like she could use a cup. But this wasn’t a social call, so no one made the offer.

Once everyone was situated, Eliza asked the question that was on all their minds. “What brings you out here so early in the morning? Have you made progress on the case?”

“Is it early?” Agent O’Toole rubbed her brow. “It feels awfully late to me.”

“Poe-tay-toe, poe-tah-toe,” Sam said gruffly.

Sam had been in a foul mood ever since the D.O.D had asked Hannah to work on a two-week project in Washington. Britt was anxious for Sam’s better half to return so maybe they’d have their good-natured sharpshooter back.

“I suppose that’s true,” Agent O’Toole conceded. Then she asked Eliza how she was “holding up.”

“Still in shock if I’m being honest,” their girl Friday admitted with a watery sniff. “I keep having to tell myself that Senator McClean and all his lovely guests are dead. That Charlie’s dead. That it wasn’t all some terrible nightmare I can’t seem to wake up from.”

Fisher, who’d placed his stool next to Eliza’s, lifted his hand like he wanted to offer comfort. Then he hesitated as if he wasn’t sure he should. Finally, he reached over and grabbed her hand. When her fingers curled around his tight enough to make her knuckles turn white, Fisher’s shoulders slumped in relief.

Well,Britt thought. What have we here? Have these two finally called a truce?

It appeared so. And all it’d taken was a concussion, a mass murder, and one dead fiancé.

“I’m so sorry for everything you’ve endured tonight,” Agent O’Toole said. And they weren’t just pretty words. Britt could tell she actually meant them. “And I’m especially sorry that Agent Douglas and I dragged you out of bed when you’re recovering from a head injury.” The pretty agent cocked her head and asked, “How is your head, by the way?”

Eliza wiped away a tear that had escaped down her cheek. “Feels like every city worker in Chicago is operating a jackhammer inside my skull. But other than that?” She flapped a hand. “I’ll live.”

Even though Eliza was slender, Britt had never thought of her as a small woman. She was taller than average. And she often emphasized her height by donning heels. But she looked tiny wrapped up in her fluffy, terry-cloth robe with her bare toes curled around the middle rung of her stool.

“That’s good to hear.” O’Toole nodded. “And we’d like to make sure that continues, so we’re suggesting you come with us to a safe house.”

Every eye in the room was suddenly glued to the little FBI agent’s face.

A lesser person might have shied away from all that attention. Especially considering that attention came from men who towered over her and had miens that’d made many an enemy quake in their combat boots. But Julia O’Toole appeared unfazed.

“What’s happened?” Fisher asked. He’d scooted—perhaps unconsciously?—closer to Eliza, and he dropped her hand so he could put an arm around her shoulders.

Huh. Will wonders never cease?

Fisher hadn’t exactly kept it a secret he found Eliza attractive. How many times had Britt heard Fish proposition the poor woman? He’d lost count. But Britt had never taken Fish seriously.

In a group of men who never suffered from lack of female companionship, Fisher was the playboy amongst playboys. The guy propositioned every eligible woman he met. And quite a few of them took him up on his offers because he looked like one of those dudes from the high-end cologne commercials.

Maybe Britt should have taken Fish’s invitations seriously though. Maybe all this time Fish had been harboring a little thing for Eliza.

As Fisher’s anointed wingman for life, Britt approved.

He hadn’t considered it before, but the two made a good match. Eliza tended to be too serious, and Fisher was playful and flippant. Eliza liked to cook, and Fish would likely die of starvation if left to his own devices. They both liked Taylor Swift and while Eliza watched medical dramas and Fisher preferred streaming Canadian sitcoms like Trailer Park Boys and Letterkenny, Britt had walked past the TV room plenty of times to find them sharing a giant bowl of popcorn and enjoying each other’s shows.

This could be good, he thought. This could be really good.

“Senator Chastain and Professor Chastain are both dead,” Agent O’Toole announced and Britt was yanked back to the topic at hand hard enough to suffer mental whiplash.

“How’d the senator die?” Fisher asked, and Agent O’Toole cocked her head, having homed in on how Fisher didn’t ask after how the professor died because he already knew.

Sharp,Britt thought admiringly. Nothing gets by her.

“Eliza’s father called and told us about the professor, but this is the first we’re hearin’ of the senator,” Fish explained.

“Ah.” Agent O’Toole nodded. “Having the chief of staff as a father has its perks.”

“Dad’s worried about me,” Eliza was quick to clarify. “That’s why he told us about the professor. He wants me to come to D.C. so he can look after me until you get to the bottom of…” She trailed off and then shrugged helplessly. “Well, whatever this is.”

“Might not be such a bad idea,” Agent O’Toole allowed. “The Secret Service can probably offer you as much protection as we can. And no doubt you’d like to be with your father at a time like this.”

“You suspect foul play.” This from Hewitt.

The man rarely spoke. He was usually too preoccupied with whatever book he held in his hands. But when he did open his mouth, it was almost always with a definitive.

“I never discount anything.” O’Toole wore a troubled look. “And given two of the three surviving witnesses to tonight’s massacre ended up dead within hours of the event, we thought it better to be safe than sorry.”

“You thought it better to be safe than sorry,” her partner declared, shooting O’Toole an exasperated look. “I think they were both septuagenarians who suffered injury and trauma and their deaths were a natural consequence of those things.”

Only because Britt was watching closely did he catch the flicker of irritation in the little agent’s eyes. Her tone was completely professional when she told the gathered group, “My partner might be right. He probably is right. But I tend to get itchy when there are one too many coincidences. And Senator Chastain’s untimely end was the one that did it for me.”

Eliza nodded as the information set in. Then she shook her head. “But wait. How did the senator die?”

“Heart attack,” Douglas declared. “Happened right in front of us.”

Eliza frowned. “If you witnessed her death and know it was natural, why are you worried?—”

“We’ll know more after both bodies are autopsied,” O’Toole insisted in that quintessential, no-nonsense way Britt had described earlier. “In the meantime, I want to make sure you’re safe. So which would you prefer? A safe house with us?” She waggled a thumb between herself and her partner. “Or the White House with your father?”

Eliza blew out a blustery breath. “I’ll tell you what I told Dad. I’m safe here.” She gestured around the shop. “The place has enough security to be a supermax.”

O’Toole glanced around and Britt followed her gaze, gritting his teeth when he saw the rolling Craftsman toolbox—the one that usually hid the large red button on the wall which activated the opening to the Bat Cave—had been shoved to the side. The red button was in full fucking view, and it might as well have been a blinking neon sign that said, This opens the super-secret doorway to the tunnel that’s dug under the Chicago River.

Why would a bunch of greasy motorcycle mechanics need a super-secret entrance/exit to their compound?

That was a great question. One none of them were ready to answer.

He breathed a covert sigh of relief when the blond finished her perusal without seeming to focus on the button. And he was suddenly glad for the long hours she’d pulled because he suspected she wouldn’t have missed that detail if she hadn’t been running on fumes.

“You’re right,” O’Toole said. “This place might as well be Fort Knox.” Hearing her speak his brother’s name, even though she hadn’t meant it that way, had Britt jumping. He covered up his reaction by coughing covertly into his closed fist. “But if you’re going to stay here, my advice would be to confine yourself within the compound walls until Agent Douglas and I can figure out what’s happened.”

Eliza nodded and looked relieved. “I’ll stay here until you tell me it’s safe to leave. But, if you don’t mind me asking, how long do you think that’ll be?” She made a face. “Not that I’m super social as a general rule. And given everything that’s happened, I certainly have no desire to be out and about. Then, of course, there’s this.” She pointed to her bruised and swollen face. “But are we talking days? Weeks? Months?”

“Hopefully it’ll only be a couple of days. The coroner has promised she’s moved the senator and Professor Chastain to the top of her list. We should know very soon whether they died of natural causes or…” O’Toole frowned before finishing, “Or not.”

“That’s good news.” Eliza nodded. Then she grunted like someone had punched her in the stomach.

He realized why when Peanut’s head appeared above the edge of the bike lift. The cat hopped up on the tabletop and proceeded to bump his head beneath Eliza’s chin while his crooked tail cut a sinuous path through the air.

“Oh, look at the pretty kitty,” Agent O’Toole cooed.

“This is Peanut,” Eliza announced.

Upon hearing another female voice, Peanut had looked across the lift. With a slow blink and an even slower strut—truly, the furry little fuck was putting on his best show—he made his way over to Agent O’Toole and then set about seducing her by flopping onto his side so she could pet his rotund little belly while he made biscuits in the air.

The blond agent praised him for being a good boy and a handsome boy. And, for the first time in his life, Britt found himself jealous of a cat.

“You might need to go see your optometrist,” he told the pretty fed, watching her slim fingers run through the cat’s fur and imagining what it would feel like for her to touch him like that. “Peanut is far from handsome. Note the notched ear, crooked tail, and battle scars from when he fancied himself a badass alley cat.”

“In case no one ever told you, Sergeant Rollins, scars are very handsome. They give a face character.” She bent down to rub her nose against Peanut’s and continued in a baby voice, “Don’t they, big guy? Yes, they do.”

Britt had to fist his hands in his lap to keep from reaching up to trace the jagged scar that zigzagged across his temple.

Had she meant that comment for him? Or was that simply what he wanted to think?

“Careful,” Agent Douglas said to the group. “She’ll steal him away from you and add him to her menagerie.” He crossed his arms and regarded his partner with a superior-looking smirk. Britt decided the tall, well-built agent had a very punchable face. “How many rescues are you up to now, O’Toole?”

When the blond sat up, Peanut chirped his disappointment. “Two dogs, one cat, and a foulmouthed African grey parrot,” she admitted with a self-deprecating shrug that Britt found absolutely charming.

Despite himself, he felt his mouth pulling into a grin. “Foulmouthed?” he asked.

O’Toole rolled her eyes. “For fifteen years Gunpowder’s cage was in the office of a weapons dealer. So you can imagine the language he grew up hearing. His favorite phrases are sugar tits and dick breath.” Her sigh was put-upon, but he could tell by the twinkle in her eyes she secretly delighted in the humor of the situation. “My older brothers have banned my nieces and nephews from coming to my house because they claim the kids come home with curse words hot enough to blister their ears. Considering my brothers are firefighters and not known for having very clean mouths, that’s saying something.”

“Gunpowder? Weapons dealer?” He bit the inside of his cheek, loving that he was getting a glimpse past the badge to the woman herself. “That’s a little on-the-nose, don’t you think?”

“I do think,” she agreed with a nod. “I would’ve gone with Long John Silver since he’s grey. Or Marty McFly since he’s a bird. Which are still on-the-nose, but far superior choices. But his previous owner named him Gunpowder, and who am I to come along and change it after fifteen years?”

Damnit! He liked her. Like really liked her.

“Anyway…” She pushed up from the table but sat down heavily again when Eliza said, “Did Senator Chastain tell you her suspicions before she died?”

Britt remained expressionless but his gaze—and every gaze in the room, for that matter—landed hard on Eliza.

Their girl Friday rubbed at her head. “She called me before she died. She told me to be careful who I trust and—” She dropped her hand to snap her fingers. “And I’m just now remembering what she said to me after I regained consciousness and found her and Professor Chastain hiding behind an overturned table.”

The only thing that kept Agent O’Toole from scooting forward eagerly was the bike lift. Even still, she leaned toward Eliza while continuing to absently pet Peanut. “And what’s that?”

“She said, ‘John was right.’”

“Right about what?”

“I don’t know.” Eliza shook her head. “I didn’t ask. I had to go find my phone to call help. But I have to think it means Senator McClean was right about all the people…” She shook her head and rephrased. “I mean, all the politicians he called out for being crooked. Do you think all of this was politically motivated? Like, was he killed to shut him up and everyone else was collateral damage?”

“We’re certainly looking into anyone and everyone who might have considered themselves an…enemy…of the senator’s,” O’Toole assured her.

“But what do you think Senator Chastain meant when she told me to be careful who I trust?”

Agent O’Toole shrugged. “Either she was simply paranoid, or John McClean found out something about someone high in the government and Bethany Chastain was worried this person, whoever they are, had enough clout to do her harm and maybe you too because of your relationship to your father.” She made a face of disgust. “If you want the truth, I think this whole case stinks to high heaven. And even though I haven’t pinpointed where the stench is coming from, believe me, I will.”

“Those aren’t just fine words.” This from Agent Douglas. “O’Toole is like a dog with a bone once she’s on the trail of something big.”

Agent O’Toole shot her partner a surprised look.

“What?” He gave her a laconic shrug. “I never said you’re a bad agent. I’ve just always said I’m a better one.”

“And that’s our cue to leave you good folks to get some rest.” O’Toole pushed up from her stool.

Peanut tried to entice her back by rolling onto his back and meowing at her. But she simply rubbed his potbelly one last time and complimented him again on being such a handsome boy.

Hands were shaken. Goodbyes were said. Two minutes later, Britt found himself escorting the feds across the grounds toward their waiting vehicle. As they made their way over the asphalt, the sounds of a waking city met their ears.

Early-morning commuter trains rumbled in the distance. Taxi cabs idled on corners, waiting for executives to come down out of their condos and hail a ride to work. And streetsweepers hissed and growled as they finished up their shifts.

It would be an hour before the sun was up. But the sky to the east was no longer as black as pitch. It had lightened to a faint, muddy-looking gray.

“So what’s the red button for?”

Holy shit!

Julia O’Toole had a way of blurting out her questions that made Britt’s ass clench. He had a shooting pain at the base of his spine to prove it.

To give himself time to think, he played dumb. “Pardon?”

“In the shop there’s this red button on the brick wall. What’s it do?”

He nearly shot a victorious fist in the air when a plausible explanation came to him. “It starts the fire mitigation system. When we’re working, we use blowtorches and metal grinders and all manner of machines that employ immense amounts of heat or throw off sparks. And there’s a lot of flammable shit…uh…stuff in the shop. There are situations where if we had to wait for smoke to set off the sprinkler system, it’d be too late and the whole building would go up.”

She grunted. “Who knew building motorcycles could be so dangerous?”

He breathed a covert sigh of relief when he didn’t detect any skepticism in her voice.

If being a clandestine operative teaches a guy anything, it’s how to lie with a straight face.

Although, he wasn’t sure that was a good thing.

“It’s not chasing down bad guys, but it has its moments,” he told her with a friendly wink that, in retrospect, wasn’t all that friendly. More like flirty.

A soft blush stole into her cheeks. She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear and quickly turned her gaze toward the gate as it rattled open on its track.

Well…how about that?

Fisher might be the playboy amongst playboys, but Britt had been with his fair share of women—more than his fair share, some might say—and so he recognized the signs. The flushing skin, the nervous grooming, the inability to maintain eye contact.

Little Miss Federal Agent wasn’t immune to his charms.

Now the question was, what did he want to do about that?

Nothing, he staunchly told himself. Because one, he couldn’t tell her the true nature of his job, and so was there any point in starting something that would be based on a lie? And two, with his convict brother looking like he was about to dive headfirst into something undoubtedly illegal, did Britt really want to be involved with someone who carried a badge?

No.To both questions.

When they were past the gate and standing on the sidewalk next to the SUV, he offered his hand to Agent Douglas before tentatively doing the same to Agent O’Toole.

Tentatively because he was expecting another jolt of electricity.

When their hands met this time, however, all he felt was the softness of her palm, the delicateness of her fingers, and the firmness of her handshake.

“What’s the eagle feather for?” she asked after dropping his hand. He curled his fingers, trying to hold on to the feel of her.

“Huh?” Her ability to switch conversational gears was truly astonishing.

She pointed to his tattoo. “You all have identical tattoos. In the hospital, I thought maybe it was a symbol of your unit or something. But I did some digging on you and your coworkers. You’re all former military. But none of you served together.”

Of course she did some digging. And probably ran into enough black holes to be curious.

When he and the others had signed on to Black Knights Inc. their service records had been redacted out the wazoo. Anyone looking would know the basics. But the specifics had been edited until their military resumes looked like swiss cheese.

“Boss and Becky run a sort of halfway house for former spec-ops soldiers.” He waved a hand back at the three-story brick factory building. “Boss was a SEAL, you see. And he knows how difficult it can be for guys like us to reacclimate to civilian life. BKI is sort of a soft place to land. And this?” He rolled up his sleeve to reveal the entirety of the eagle feather. “This represents strength and the dualities of life. Those of us who’ve made a home here get the ink to pay homage to the men we were before and to celebrate the men we are now. It’s sort of a badge of honor to say, hey we made it; we’re still here.”

For long moments she studied him as the sun grew closer to the horizon and turned the sky to the east the softest, most delicate pink. Then she offered her hand again and he didn’t hesitate to shake it.

He eagerly shook it.

“I didn’t like you when I first met you,” she admitted with a teasing smirk. “But you’re growing on me.”

“Like a fungus,” he quipped and felt regret when she dropped his hand.

She said only, “Goodbye, Sergeant Rollins.”

He didn’t like the finality of those words. And found himself blurting, “Odds are this isn’t the last time we’ll be seeing each other.”

She made a face that looked slightly…mischievous?“Never tell me the odds.”

He blinked, momentarily taken aback. Then it hit him. “Right. Han Solo. I got it this time.” He tapped his temple.

“There’s hope for you yet.” She sent him an infectious grin before making her way around the vehicle.

He watched as she and her partner pulled down the road and told himself it was silly to be disappointed at her departure.

Manus poked his head out of the guardhouse window and, like a gunfighter, fired at him quick and from the hip. “You like her.” The man’s words found their mark.

Britt made sure to wipe the silly grin off his face as he turned back. “’Course I do.” He shrugged with a nonchalance he didn’t quite feel. “What’s not to like? You saw her.”

Manus shook his head. “To borrow one of your favorite phrases, don’t piss on my boots and tell me it’s raining. You like her like her. And not just because she’s got a sweet face and a heart-shaped ass.”

“Well, she’s also smart and funny and trying to rid the world of criminals, so…yeah. I reckon she’s pretty likable.”

“Careful, brother,” Manus warned. “Just because some feds are willing to keep their mouths shut when they find out what it is we really do here doesn’t mean that all feds are.”

The words crawled over Britt’s skin like a line of ants. He wasn’t offended by them. But neither were they welcome sounds in his ears.

Mostly because they were true.