Julie Walker - Hell for Leather

Red Delilahs Biker Bar

Chicago, Illinois

Mac was drunk.

If the sight of the nearly empty bottle of Lagavulin sitting on the bar in front of him wasnt proof positive, then the feel of his eyelids scraping across his eyeballs like thirty-grit sandpaper was.

Shit.

Getting soused hadnt been his intention when he casually tailed Dagan Zoelner into their local watering hole. Hed simply been curious why Zoelner had run like a scalded dog out of the raucous barbeque that had been in full swing back at the shop. And he figured a couple of cold ones might loosen the guys tongue.

But it wasnt a bottle of Budweiser Zoelner ordered after plunking himself down on a stool at the long mahogany bar, hooking the heels of his biker boots over the brass foot rail. It was scotch. An entire bottle.

And Mac hadnt been able to sit by nursing a beer while Zoelner proceeded to get piss drunk. For one thing, sitting by and watching a friend and trusted teammate get piss drunk, well, it was justsad. And for another thing, he knew when men like them set about getting piss drunk, it was usually because something had triggered past demons to come out and play. Past demons in the form of dark memories of good men now dead, of missions or assignments or cases gone horribly wrong, or of bad calls that drove a guy crazy asking himself the sonofabitching question of what if.

What if Id done things differently?

What if Id moved just a little faster?

What if Id taken a second look at that last bit of Intel?

It was a useless endeavorasking what if. But that didnt mean all the operators at the privately run covert government defense firm known as Black Knights Inc. didnt indulge in it occasionally. Hell, more than occasionally. Asking what if seemed to come part and parcel with the job. And tonight it appeared Zoelner was doing just thatasking what if with gusto and single-minded determination all washed down with a healthy portion of twenty-year-old scotchhiccup. And Mac, sympathetic fool that he was, had voluntarily joined in for the ride.

The good Lord knew hed pay for it tomorrow with a headache big enough to drop a mule, followed by eight to ten hours of straight mainlining coffee in an attempt to combat the effects. But for right now, he felt pretty good. Except for the gritty eyes, his body was numb and tingly. His tongue particularly so. Which was why when he finally turned to Zoelner, breaking the were-men-so-we-drink-in-silence thing they had going, and asked, So, you gonna tell me why were sitting here gettin drunker than a betsy bug on a Tuesday night? the second to the last word came out sounding more like Tushday.

Zoelner, usually known for his smooth movements and strange bouts of statue-like stillness, turned unsteadily toward him. His slate gray irises were nearly obscured by the heavy lids hanging over them. The left lid appeared to have suffered the influence of the scotch more than the right because it drooped just a fraction lower.

First of all, Zoelner said, has anyone ever told you the big-hat-and-no-cattle Texan comes out in you when youre tipsy? He grinned lopsidedly. And secondly, his expression turned serious, dont go getting mushy on me.

Ill have you know I grew up with a hat and cattle. Mac frowned. And Im not gettin mushy on you. I just thought, you know, you might want to talk about, he made a rolling motion with his hand, whatever.

Zoelner glanced around the bar, squinting at the red vinyl booths, the burly clientele, and the roaring jukebox like hed never seen the place before. Where am I? He blinked owlishly. I couldve sworn I sat down in a badass biker bar, but at some point I mustve been transported into the middle of a chick flick.

When he turned back, Mac made sure his expression was bland.

Okay. Zoelner rolled his eyes. So, lets talk. Lets delve into the depths of my emotions, of how Im feeling. Then, after were done doing that, he batted his lashes like he was trying out for a Revlon commercial or something, we can ask the bartender to exchange our scotch for herbal tea and go find some Indigo Girls on the jukebox.

Mac snorted. His nose filled with the smells of stale beer, crushed peanut shells, and cowhide from the overabundance of leather being sported around the place. Except for the peanut shells, the scents reminded him of home, of The Lazy M ranch where hed been born and raised.

All hat and no cattle, my ass.

All right, shitheel, he grumbled. So maybe youre not too keen on hashing out whats jerked a knot in your tail tonight. Zoelners wide grin returned, and Mac realized with that last turn of phrase hed proved the guys point about the Texan coming out in him after hed had a few. But he couldnt help it. Nor, come to think of it, would he want to. Because like most Texans, he was good-and-goddamned proud to say he hailed from the Lone Star State. Yeehaw! And pray the creek dont rise! But I just gotta knowthis doesnt have anything to do with Agent Winterfield, does it?

Luke Winterfield was a rogue CIA agent who leaked information about the number and location of the U.S. governments black sites to the press. Some called Winterfield a whistleblower. Mac called him a traitor. And just this morning, splashed across the headlines, was news that the bastard had found a country to grant him asylum. It had to be a major blow for every CIA agent out thereeven an exCIA agent like Zoelner.

Pssshht. Zoelner made a face. I stopped caring about The Company and its shenanigans years ago. As for Winterfield, I never met the ashhole. Zoelner frowned and rolled in his lips before trying again. Asshole.

Then what on Gods green earth is tonight all about? Mac demanded. Because I gotta be honest. This whole sittin-here-in-silence-while-we-drink-ourselves-good-lookin thing has just about run its course with me.

Zoelner tipped his glass of scotch toward the opposite end of the bar. I dont want to talk about it, he said. Actually, I dont want to talk about anything other than that brunette over there, and the fact that shes been eyeing the two of us like were tall drinks of water and shes been lost in the desert for days.

Mac glanced down the polished length of mahogany andsure enough. There was a bird in a tight top and buttery-soft biker jacket sitting near the end. She looked like she mightve stepped off the cover of a motorcycle magazinehaving that whole sexy-without-being-overly-pretty thing going. And when she caught him staring, she licked her ruby-red lips and seductively lowered her thick, sooty lashes.

Can you say invitation, ladies and gents? Even in his scotch-addled state, Mac recognized the blatant come-and-get-me-big-boy look in her eyes.

Sorry, darlin. But youre barkin up the wrong tree.

No, thanks, he told Zoelner, sitting back and lifting his glass of scotch to his lips. Shes not my type.

Zoelner hooted with laughter, slamming down his empty tumbler. Type? Dear God, its not like youre looking for a blood donor or anything. Type hasnt got a damned thing to do with it. Shes hot. Shes obviously horny. And one of us should do something about that.