Before he could understand what he was seeing, a trio of men oozed from the far tree line like deadly specters. Richie reached inside his suit jacket for the weapon he kept in a shoulder holster, but… Crack! Another shot rang out, and Richie was dead before he’d cleared leather.
With his heart thudding somewhere in the vicinity of his throat, Grafton watched Richie slide off the bonnet of the car. Like the other two, a dark hole was centered between his dead, sightless eyes.
Instinct had Grafton reaching for the weapon still tucked into Richie’s holster, but before he could do more than get a hand on the butt of the pistol, a slow, lazy drawl called out to him. “You pull that heater clear, and you’d best be prepared for my friend here to get inhospitable!”
Grafton slowly straightened, careful to keep his hands where the trio could see them. The man who’d shouted at him was tall and slim. Even from a distance, Grafton could see he wore faded jeans, a green baseball cap, and what appeared to be cowboy boots, of all things.
The “friend” he’d referred to was on his right, a tall, dark-haired bloke who aimed a sniper rifle in Grafton’s direction like he knew how to use it. Judging by the bull’s-eye head shots, he did.
Acid burned the back of Grafton’s esophagus as he watched the trio approach. Who the hell were they? What the hell were they doing here? And more importantly, why had they left him alive when they’d had no compunction about killing those with him?
He hoped beyond hope it was because, whoever they were, they knew who he truly was. If they knew who he truly was, then they also knew what he could offer them. He’d yet to meet a man who couldn’t be purchased. Everyone had a price. He simply needed to figure out what—or how much—these fellows wanted.
They stopped a good distance away, too far for him to make out their features. But it was impossible to miss the size of the third man in the group. He was a behemoth.
“Hello, Lord Grafton,” he said in a rumbling bass voice. “Or should I call you Spider?”
“And you are?” He donned his most lord-like tone.
“We’ll get to that in a moment.” The behemoth turned to the two men with him. “Gentlemen? Mind going and helping our friend?” He cocked his head toward the intermittent gunfire still sounding faintly from within the circular building. “Sounds like he could use it.”
“With pleasure, mon ami.” The guy in the cowboy boots was already turning on his heel and trotting across the car park before he’d finished speaking.
The marksman holding the sniper rifle on Grafton—Grafton noticed it had a suppressor attached—didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to. Even from a distance, his flashing black eyes said without speaking that he’d like nothing more than to finish what he started and send a piece of lead through the center of Grafton’s skull.
Luckily for Grafton, the marksman refrained from acting on impulse and, instead, nodded at the behemoth before setting off after Cowboy Boots.
After they’d gone, the behemoth started forward. Grafton watched him warily, taking in his massive shoulders and his huge thighs encased in a pair of jeans. His giant combat boots made crunch-crunch noises atop the cracked concrete. But the one thing that stood out the most in Grafton’s mind?
He’s unarmed!
Except for what looked to be a knife secured in a sheath on his belt, the behemoth wasn’t carrying any weapons. Grafton couldn’t believe his good luck. Likely, the brute wasn’t used to people thinking they could best him. No doubt he figured Grafton wouldn’t have the wherewithal or the bollocks to actually go for Richie’s gun again.
Without telegraphing his intent, Grafton bent, snagged Richie’s weapon, and—
OhmydearsweetJesus!
A snake jumped up and bit him. Or at least that’s what it felt like. The pain that sliced into his shoulder was white hot. He cried out. He couldn’t help himself.
Leaning heavily on the bonnet of the car, he looked down and was astonished to see the hilt of a knife protruding from the meaty part of his shoulder. Before he could do more than blink, a massive, scarred hand grabbed the hilt and yanked the blade free.
Grafton had never before heard the sound that issued from his throat. It was a high-pitched squeal like a pig at slaughter. The agony… Oh, the agony!
It was enough to make his world tilt. Head swimming, he looked up to see a face like a train wreck staring back at him. A thick scar sliced through the line of the behemoth’s eyebrow and another arced up from the corner of his mouth.
Fear wasn’t an emotion Grafton was familiar with, but he recognized its sharp teeth when they sank into him. He knew that train wreck of a face. Had studied it plenty of times when he’d been trying to learn more about the mysterious group in Chicago.
Frank “Boss” Knight. Head of Black Knights Inc.
“You…” he croaked, hot blood seeping between his fingers as he held his wounded shoulder.
That scarred eyebrow twitched. “Glad we can skip the introductions.”
Then it occurred to him what Boss had said to the others. Mind going and helping our friend? Friend!
“Angel is…” Grafton’s voice trailed off. For the first time in his life, he thought it was possible he wouldn’t be able to use money or his myriad contacts to finagle his way out of a bad situation.
“A member of Black Knights Inc.?” Boss nodded, the moonlight glinting off his shaggy brown hair. “You betcha.”
