Chapter 26
Black Knights Inc.
Eliza’s heart felt like it would explode from anticipation as she watched the TV screen mounted beside the front door. The real-time footage showed the outer gate sliding open and a familiar black SUV prowling onto the grounds.
“They’re here!” she called over her shoulder and heard various acknowledgements from the Black Knights.
None of the original crew had made it into work. Not after Eliza had called Becky to tell her what was going down at BKI. For one, the OGs might be full-on civilians now, but they still avoided the authorities any chance they got. For another, it wasn’t like any bikes could have been built in all the confusion. But mostly, the original crew often brought in their wives and children, and thanks to the threat to Eliza, Black Knights Inc. was no longer safe.
That was something she would struggle with for a long time to come. That she was the reason the people she’d grown to know and love were in danger if they stepped foot on BKI’s grounds.
“We’ll be right down!”
It was Sam who called from the second floor. He and the rest of the onsite crew had been going over BKI’s security footage to see if any of the cameras had gotten a good picture of the shooter. She heard their heavy footsteps as they traipsed down the stairs to join her.
From the moment she’d emerged from the pantry to find Fisher had gone after the gunman on Mardi Gras, she’d been nothing but a bundle of nerves. Of course, it hadn’t helped that soon after his departure, pandemonium had ensued.
The FBI had blazed onto the scene with tires screeching and sirens wailing, having responded to Agent O’Toole’s call for backup. The paramedics hadn’t been far behind, arriving in a flurry of flapping stethoscopes and a rattling gurney. They’d quickly carted away Agent Douglas, who’d been barely conscious at that point. And not two minutes after the ambulance disappeared past the gates to take the tall, handsome agent to the hospital, the press had appeared on the scene.
Like the reporters in most big cities, Chicago’s newshounds kept their ears tuned to the police channels so they could be the first on site when it came to local stories. And if it hadn’t been for Manus Connelly keeping the gate closed, the swarm of journalists would’ve busted down the front door.
Somewhere in the middle of all that, O’Toole had gotten a call from her superior informing her that Fisher had been arrested at O’Hare International Airport for trespassing, for destruction of property, and for discharging his firearm at a private jet as it had taxied down the runway. He was insisting to the local boys he was acting on FBI orders.
Which, according to O’Toole, wasn’t entirely true. Apparently he’d taken it upon himself to give chase before the lady agent could green-light or red-light his plan.
“You have to tell them to let him out,” Eliza had demanded of the little blond agent. “You have to say he was working with you.”
“I’ll take care of it,” O’Toole had promised, although she’d appeared annoyed by the task. “As soon as I talk to my director, make a statement to the press, check on my partner, and decide what the hell I’m supposed to do with you now.”
Eliza had wanted to argue. Heck, she’d wanted to demand the fed drop everything and go get Fisher immediately. But she’d known better.
For one thing, she wanted to stay in O’Toole’s good graces. So far, the lady agent had been terribly accommodating, and she hoped to keep it that way until this thing was over. For another, if Fisher was in police custody, he was safe from doing something foolish like…oh…say…renting his own private jet and flying off to intercept the bagel shop shooter.
Honestly, what was he thinking taking off after the gunman on his own?
By the time O’Toole had dispatched the reporters and been informed her partner was in serious but not critical condition, hours had passed. Hours during which Eliza had been made to stay inside the windowless pantry with nothing to do but twiddle her thumbs and worry herself into a tizzy. Hours during which the Knights had worked to cover all the windows with tarps, aluminum foil and, in some cases, printer paper because Agent O’Toole had insisted it was the only way she would allow Eliza to stay at BKI—which Eliza was demanding because the one and only time she’d ever felt in danger since the night at Senator McClean’s house was when she’d tried to leave.
Yes, the rooftop gunman might be 35,000 feet in the air. But that didn’t mean there wasn’t another assassin hiding around the corner, biding his time until her head lined up in his crosshairs.
Better to stay here at BKI where I’m surrounded by brick walls and my guys.
It was only after the final window had been covered, the busted garage door had been manually rolled down and locked, and after the remaining Knights had promised Agent O’Toole they would look after her, that Eliza had been allowed out of the pantry and O’Toole had finally gone to spring Fisher from CPD custody.
“I’ll bring him home,” the lady agent had vowed.
That had been…what?
Eliza checked her watch.
Two hours ago.
Since then, a million what-ifs had drifted through her head.
What if the police refuse to drop the charges?
What if Fisher ran into some sort of trouble while in custody?
What if another assassin took out Agent O’Toole before she could even get to Fisher?
But the most profound and agonizing what-ifs had been…What if I lost him? What if he’d been killed trying to stop the man who came for me?
The instant he’d thrown himself atop her at the bottom of the stairs, she’d been hurtled back in time to the cocktail party and the feel of Charlie knocking her to the ground. All she’d been able to think was…No! Not Fisher too! Never Fisher!
“We don’t want you visible when they come in. Stand against the wall,” Sam instructed now when the cameras showed the SUV coming to a stop outside the front door.
Eliza forced herself to blow out a calming breath. It did her little good. Her heart continued to race out of control, making her feel lightheaded.
Pressing her back against the rough bricks, she welcomed their solid presence.
Britt, Graham, and Hewitt arranged themselves in front of her. Human shields. Just in case. But that was the last thing she wanted. The thought of one more person sacrificing themselves for her was enough to?—
All thoughts fell out of her when Sam grabbed the doorknob and peeked cautiously outside before moving back to hold the door wide.
She craned her head to see around Hewitt’s broad shoulder and was disappointed when it wasn’t Fisher, but Agent O’Toole who stepped into the building.
The poor woman looked like Eliza felt. Bedraggled, bone-tired, and surviving on adrenaline, caffeine, and stubbornness.
Of course, every ounce of tiredness weighing Eliza down melted away the instant Fisher walked into the shop.
He looked like he’d been through hell and back. His already ratty shirt was ripped at the collar. A result of him chasing the shooter or a result of what was likely a not-so-gentle arrest? His black jeans were smeared with something that looked like mud or blood—she wasn’t sure which. And the cut on his cheek had been crudely closed with butterfly bandages.
Despite the weariness etched on his face, he cut an imposing figure when he turned to close the door behind him. Thanks to his military background, his mile-wide shoulders remained straight and true. His square jaw was held at a determined angle. And there was an impatient glint in his eyes when he swung back to let his gaze dart over the faces staring back at him.
Sam whistled. “Damn, man. Bet you took one helluva mugshot.”
Always quick on the draw, Fisher quipped back, “GQ has already hit me up for the rights.”
Sam shook his head. “You’re proof that God has favorites, that’s for sure.”
“If I was his favorite, one of those shots I managed to squeeze off would’ve hit that sorry sonofabitch. Instead he’s on his way to who knows where.”
“Somewhere in East Asia say my sources in the bureau,” O’Toole spoke up and all heads turned toward her.
“No way to intercept the plane before it touches down?” This from Britt.
O’Toole’s expression was one of disgust. “Not in international airspace. And once that sorry sonofabitch is in sovereign airspace, we have no jurisdiction. He’s lost to us.”
“Any idea who the shooter was?” Britt asked.
Again, the tired-looking agent shook her head. Her blond ponytail got stuck over her shoulder. A few strands tangled with the top buttons on her white shirt.
“Not so far. But we’re combing all the security footage and CCTV camera footage to try to get a good picture of him.” She turned to Fisher then. “You sure you didn’t see any identifying marks? Like a tattoo or a mole?”
Fisher made a face of regret. “Like I said, there wasn’t a lot of time to be jottin’ down notes. He was on the shorter side. Probably no taller than 5’8”. He had improbable red hair and a long, hawkish nose that didn’t match the shape of his eyes.”
“You think he was in disguise.”
Fisher nodded.
“Yeah.” O’Toole absently brushed her ponytail over her shoulder. “That’s what the techies back at headquarters are saying too. We finally got our hands on the hospital’s ICU security footage. And in the minutes before Professor Chastain’s vitals tanked, someone dressed as a doctor with reddish-orange hair can be seen entering his room. But the guy was good. He was careful to keep his face oriented away from the cameras. Plus, he was wearing a surgical mask. So there’s no clear footage.”
“And what about the hack on Senator Chastain’s pacemaker?” Britt asked. “Any luck finding out where it originated?”
O’Toole shook her head. “It was well done, apparently. The closest the bureau has gotten to a point of origin is somewhere in East Asia.”
“Where’s Liza?” Fisher demanded, glancing around the shop.
“Here.” She lifted her hand and waved it over Hewitt’s shoulder.
Graham and Hewitt parted like the Red Sea—together they were about that big. And she sucked in a ragged breath when Fisher’s eyes found her and remained fixed.
“Hey, darlin’,” he breathed, his voice rough with relief at the sight of her. “Y’okay?”
“Thanks to you and your quick actions this morning.”
Tension left his shoulders. “C’mere, then. Let me get my arms around ya so I can reassure myself you’re all in one piece.”
She didn’t hesitate. And she didn’t care who was watching or what they might think. With a cry of relief, she pushed past Hewitt and jumped directly into Fisher’s embrace. Wrapping her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, she hugged him tighter than she’d ever hugged anyone.
He grunted in surprise at her exuberance. But a second later, his arms came around her like a vice and they were as close as two people could get while still clothed.
“You fool,” she breathed into his ear, loving the smell of him. Open road. Good, clean sweat. And that ineffable smoky aftershave that drove her wild. “Why did you go after him?”
“I want this thing over.” His words came out slowly. Perfectly enunciated. As if he held onto his emotions by a thread. “If one more person aims a weapon your way, by god I’ll?—”
He didn’t finish.
She didn’t let him.
Instead, she framed his face with her hands—careful to avoid the cut and the butterfly bandages—and pressed her lips to his, kissing him unsparingly. Kissing him like nobody was watching.
He grunted in surprise again. But it quickly turned into a groan that had time standing still. When he canted her head so he could slide his thick, hot tongue into her mouth, the world faded away. There was nothing left but the taste of his luscious lips and feel of him against her, so tall and strong.
Reality returned in the form of Sam’s voice. “Get a room, why doncha?”
Eliza reluctantly released Fisher’s lips and pressed her forehead to his. “I’m glad you’re home,” she told him before loosening her hold.
Once she was on her feet, she expected him to step back, reclaim his space. He didn’t. He kept an arm around her waist, his fingers firmly gripping her hip.
The fed’s eyes were flinty as she glanced around the shop with a furrowed brow. When she turned back, she pinned each Knight with a hard gaze. “Now, you all have the dubious duty of making sure Miss Meadows stays safe. Although, something tells me you’re all up to the task. But let me remind you that, despite your military backgrounds, you are now civilians. I can only vouch for any armed actions so many times before my ass will be on the line. So do me a favor, huh? Stow your weapons. And if you run into trouble or see anything suspicious, call me before you go sniping anyone from a rooftop or chasing them to the airport.”
Fisher had the good graces to look chagrined. Sam only shrugged and said, “You can take the man outta the military, but you can’t take the military outta the man.”
O’Toole didn’t look amused. But neither did she rise to the bait and respond. Instead, she said, “As for me? I have an assassin to track and hopefully identify, a mass murder to solve, and I’m down one partner for who knows how long.” She touched a finger to her brow. “So I’ll bid you all a good day.”
O’Toole reached for the door handle, but Britt stopped her with, “Before you go, we have some footage that might be helpful.” He waved her toward the stairs leading to the second floor. “Follow me.”
Eliza and Fisher remained rooted to the spot as the rest of the crew marched up to the War Room. Once they were alone, Fisher cupped her chin. “How are ya really holdin’ up, darlin’?”
She refused to rub at the ache behind her eyes. She didn’t want him to know just how close she was to tears.
She had spent most of the day safely squirreled away while he had avoided taking a bullet to the face by mere inches, had participated in a highspeed chase, and had been arrested and confined to custody. If anyone deserved a good emotional breakdown, it was him. Not her.
“I’m tired,” she admitted with a self-deprecating twist of her lips.
“Me too if I’m bein’ honest,” he admitted with a heavy sigh. “And my achin’ bones are beggin’ for a shower.” The grin he shot her then was positively devilish. “I’d ask ya to join me. But part of my achin’ bones can be blamed on you shovin’ me off the bed. So I’ll save myself the pain and misery.”
She opened her mouth. But before she could say anything, Sam called down from the second floor. “Hey, Eliza? Mind bringing the coffeepot with you when you head this way?”
“Be right there!” she called and then made a face at Fisher. “All work and no play.”
He chucked her under the chin. “That’s what ya get for spoilin’ us like ya do. We’ve come to expect it.”
“I don’t mind. I like feeling needed.”
Something moved in his eyes. “We couldn’t do what we do without ya, Liza. Ya know that, right? You’re what makes this place a home.”
Home. Family. Love.
It’s what she’d yearned for since the day her mother died. And she might have lost it all today if that assassin’s bullet had found its mark.
The tears she’d managed to hold at bay threatened to overcome her control. Before he could see, she turned away, throwing back over her shoulder, “Forget about me and go get that shower that’s calling your name. You’ve earned it.”
“Forget about ya?” he called to her back. “Not likely. If I had a flower for every time I thought of ya, I could walk in my garden forever.”
She stopped and gave him her profile. “Alfred Lord Tennyson?”
He chuckled. “Woman, that settles it. You’ve been hangin’ around me too much.”
“Never,” she whispered and then quickly resumed her trip to the kitchen because there was no more stopping the tears.