Julie Walker - Hell for Leather

“He got away,” he informed her, panting as he placed his hands on his hips and bent at the waist. “Fucker disappeared into the labyrinth of alleys around here, and I didn’t dare follow in case he was packing. Didn’t want to find myself stuck in a fatal funnel.”

Huh? “What’s a—”

That’s all she managed to get out before Mac reappeared on the stairway. “Fatal funnels are hallways and alleys,” he answered the question she’d been in the middle of asking. “And they’re the last place a guy wants to be when the bullets start flyin’.”

“Oh.” She nodded. “Makes sense.” And that was about the only thing in this entire weird-ass day that did .

“Who was he?” Zoelner asked, and Delilah’s chin jerked back when she realized he was looking directly at her.

“You’re asking me?” Unconsciously, she used the pistol as a pointer and aimed it at her own chest. When she looked down and realized what she was doing, she gulped and carefully set the weapon atop one of the sawhorses. “I…I have n-no idea. I didn’t get a chance to see his f-face, and I certainly didn’t recognize his v-voice.”

Oh, good grief. Why in the world were her teeth ch-ch-chattering like she was standing in the bar’s walk-in refrigerator? She’d been in worse situations than the one upstairs. For heaven’s sake, she’d actually taken part in a bona fide shoot-out!

Okay, and that was the dead-last thing she wanted to remember at this particular moment. Because anytime she opened the mental door to that terrible afternoon, the entire sad scene would inexplicably flash before her eyes. And, yup, right on cue, she saw it all again. Buzzard, her wiliest and most loyal patron slumped on a barstool, blood pouring from him in a thick, ghastly river, his eyes glassy and vacant and… dead .

Her chest suddenly felt like it was supporting the weight of an elephant. And from out of nowhere came the thought that perhaps her uncle was somewhere in the same condition. Sitting or lying or crumpled in a heap, covered in blood and lifeless…

Oh, God!

“He spoke to you?” Mac queried, dragging her from her wild speculations. Thank goodness. She’d just about played the part of a nuclear reactor and had herself a good ol’-fashioned meltdown. “What did he say?”

And the memory of that voice, not to mention the feel of the assailant’s hot breath brushing against her ear, caused her to shudder. Crossing her arms, she chafed her biceps, inexplicably cold despite the warmth of the late spring evening. “Well, he called me a bitch for starters,” she recalled, trying to play down the fear she’d felt in that moment by rolling her eyes and making a face. “And then he said if I behaved he wouldn’t have to hurt me.”

“Lord almighty,” Mac growled, his wide jaw sawing back and forth as he crossed the room to retrieve the pistol she’d abandoned. Bending with a graceful fluidity that was incongruent when compared to his large physique, he resecured it in his ankle holster. “What the hell was he doin’ here? Do you suppose it has somethin’ to do with your uncle’s disappearance? Or is it possible he was simply taking advantage of your uncle’s absence to break in and steal stuff?” He straightened and glanced around the room. “There’s got to be thousands of dollars’ worth of tools in this place.”

“But he wasn’t down here loading up the tools,” Zoelner said, a hard look of contemplation knitting his brow. “He was upstairs in Theo’s office.”

“But that’s where Uncle Theo keeps his safe,” Delilah offered. “Maybe the guy thought there was a bigger payday to be had up there.”

She shuddered at the memory of the man’s arms around her, his words in her ear. When Mac saw her continuing to chafe her arms, his frown turned so severe she feared his eyebrows might slide right down the middle of his nose. He reached for her wrist and dragged her next to him. Then he threw a heavy arm around her shoulders. See , Bizarro-Land. And as she absorbed some of his warmth, she admitted she was beginning to like it here.

“I don’t believe in coincidences,” Zoelner declared.

“Neither do I,” Mac agreed, lifting his free arm to rub a wide palm over the back of his neck.

“Is your Spidey sense acting up?” Zoelner asked.

Delilah frowned. Spidey sense? What the —

“Sure as shit,” Mac said. “But that could be because we just witnessed some dude in Timberlands take a header out of a two-story window.”

“Yeah.” Zoelner shrugged. “Or it could be because Mr. Timberlands is somehow mixed up with Theo’s disappearance.” Just the thought had another chill snaking down her spine. She shivered, and Mac absently chafed her arm. “And speaking of,” Zoelner turned to her, “I don’t suppose you found your uncle’s old address book?”

“No.” She shook her head. “No address book. No files. Nothing that would tell us who Charlie is or where he lives.”

“All the more reason to find out just who the hell Mr. Timberlands is.”

“No argument here,” Mac agreed. “We can hack into the city surveillance cams back at headquarters. Maybe we got lucky and they caught an image that Ozzie can run against his facial recognition software. We can do that while we’re simultaneously searching phone records, military records, and anything else we can think of to find out just who this Charlie guy is and if it’s possible he has any connection to Mr. Timberlands. Is that all right with you?” Mac dipped his chin again, and there was that damn, tempting dimple.

For a moment, she was too distracted with having to curl her hands into fists lest she reach up to press the pad of her finger against the thing—something she’d been daydreaming about doing for years, and, oh, for heaven’s sake, Delilah, now’s not the time —to realize what he was asking. Then it sank in.

“You mean am I willing to let super-secret agents with contacts at the top tier of government take the lead on the investigation to find my uncle?” She made sure her expression adequately matched her scoffing tone. And, okay, so she couldn’t completely dispense with the sarcasm. “Uh, yeah. I think that’ll be all right with me.”

“Good then.” Mac nodded. “It’s a plan.”

A plan. She should feel elated. Unfortunately, she was too terrified for elation. Stepping out from under the comforting weight of his arm, a sticky warmth against her side had her glancing down. Pulling aside the edge of her lightweight riding jacket, she gasped when she saw bright red blood staining the bottom of her neon pink T-shirt.

“What?” She gulped, pressing her hand against the blood. Had her assailant somehow wounded her? Had the adrenaline kept her from feeling it? “What?” she croaked again, staring at the smear of red on her fingertips when she pulled her hand away.

“Don’t worry,” Mac told her. “It’s not yours.”

“Not my—?” She blinked at him uncomprehendingly.

“It’s mine.”

“Y-yours?” Her gaze shot down to his side.

Sure enough. A circle about the size of a Frisbee stained the black cotton of his T-shirt, making it appear shiny. And then she remembered.

The letter opener…

“Jesus Christ, Mac!” she yelped, rushing forward to lift his shirt. A deep gash about three inches long sliced through the perfection of his tan flank and leaked blood sluggishly.

“It’s nothing,” he told her, dragging down the hem of his shirt. “It’s only about half an inch deep. Not something to worry about.”

“It’s not nothing,” she insisted, all her anxiety and terror suddenly joined by twin helpings of dismay and guilt. She wasn’t usually a wilting lily when it came to the sight of blood, but knowing she’d wounded a man who’d only been trying to help her made her sick to her stomach. Literally. The stupid organ turned upside down and proceeded to disgorge acid up into her throat. “I-I stabbed you!”