Hunter knew how to listen.
His first warning someone snuck up behind him were the fine hairs lifting on the back of his neck. His second warning was the subtle, nearly imperceptible shift of the air around him.
When a hand landed on his shoulder, he instinctively ducked and spun. His arm flew out in a semi-arc as he used his momentum to aim the hard edge of his hand at his assailant’s ribs. His attacker blocked his blow at the last second by chopping at his wrist.
Pain exploded in the joint. He barely noticed as his muscles coiled to take a second shot.
Of course, as soon as he saw it was only Samuel Harwood, he straightened from his fighting stance. “What the hell?” He plucked out his earbuds and pocketed them. AC/DC’s “Back in Black” was replaced by the lowhumof the overhead light and the quiet of the night. “You know better than to sneak up on a man programmed for extreme violence. I can’t just shut that shit off.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Bruh, there’s no one here but me, you, and Eliza. Who did you think would be coming at you sideways? This place”—Sam gestured around the cavernous space that used to be a menthol cigarette factory and now fronted as a custom chopper shop—“is Fort friggin’ Knox.”
“Sometimes muscle memory takes over,” Hunter explained with a careless shrug. “Especially this late and when I’m low on sleep.”
Sam shook his head. “You’re gonna make a therapist very wealthy someday.”
“You’re one to talk.”
“True,” Sam agreed easily. “The difference between you and me, though, is that my way of coping with trauma is to employ a little gallows humor. Totally normal. Totally healthy. Your way is to go full-on hermit for days at a time. Ted Kaczynski ring a bell? Should I check your room for pipe bombs and triggering devices?”
Hunter hated how clearly Sam saw him. Not about being Unabomber 2.0, but about having to squirrel himself away in order to keep himself together.
Blame it on his youth. When things had gotten too chaotic, his only means of self-preservation had been to hide away in the abandoned cabin perched on the edge of town. There’d been no electricity. No running water. And the hole in the roof had let the rain and snow drift in. Still, he’d felt better there than he had anywhere else.
Cut to the present and hestillonly felt truly at ease when he was removed from the rest of the world. Somewhere quiet where he could listen to his own thoughts instead of other people’s words. Somewhere hidden where he could be totally and completelyalone.
Of course, he said none of that aloud. Aloud he told Sam, “Fuck you.”
“Not even on your birthday,” Sam deadpanned. “Besides, I wouldn’t know what to do with your teeny, tiny Tic Tac testis and itty, bitty micro-peen. I mean, howdoyou manage to keep the ladies coming back for more? Do you always do it in the dark so they can’t see what they’re dealing with?”
The thing about men whose jobs required them to flirt with danger on the daily was that they tended to cut the tension by gleefully feeding each other heaping helpings of shit.
Hunter shook his head. “See, that would be funny except you know it’s not true. You’ve seen what I’m packing. That time in Karachi?”
Sam shuddered. “Don’t remind me. I dunno which was worse. That we had a deathstalker scorpion living under our bathroom sink? Or that when you found him, you ran out of there buck naked and screaming your head off? I still have nightmares.”
“About the scorpion?”
“About your candy stick and giggleberries bouncing six inches from my face.”
“Ah. I understand.” Hunter nodded solemnly. “There’s that old saying about comparison being the thief of joy, right?” He clapped a commiserating hand on Sam’s shoulder. “I hate that I burst your bubble of self-delusion. But if you’re really worried about it, I’ve heard there’s some surgical options. A silicone implant? Maybe a fat transfer? Or you could even—”
“Well, look at you,” Sam cut him off, “lowering yourself to aspersions about the size of my willy. What gives? When it comes to being a weapons-grade dingus, you usually leave that to me or Fisher.”
Hunter snorted.Weapons-grade dingus.Sam had a rare gift for words. Which was probably why he liked Coen Brothers movies so much. They were filled with snappy, fast-fire dialogue.
“Blame it on us being left behind,” Hunter admitted, taking a deep breath of air perfumed with the competing, and yet somehow complementary, scents of too-strong coffee and grease guns. “I hate having nothing to do. Makes my skin feel too tight for my body.” To emphasize his point, he hitched his shoulder blades together.
“You and me both, brother.” Sam nodded. “But I’m trying to focus on the bright side. We may hafta hold down the fort, but that’s a thousand times better’n playing babysitter to some politician’s spoiled spawn.”
Black Knights Inc. had been the brainchild of President Thompson and the last administration. And even though the players had changed right along with the leadership when Madam President took over the seat at 1600 Pennsylvania Ave, the concept was still the same.
Some jobs were too clandestine or too pressing to leave to the usual suspects. Despite most of the people working for the CIA, FBI, and NSA being good at their jobs, their hands were often tied by red tape. Which meant threats against the U.S. slipped through the cracks as solutions and actions were debated by committee. Throw in posse comitatus and the international resistance to certain types of government-backed exercises, and the bad guys were allowed to escape scot-free more often than anyone would like to admit.
This frustration had prompted President Thompson to form his ownfast action response team, for lack of a better phrase. He’d scoured military branches and government agencies for the best of the best when it came to spycraft and those gifted in reconnaissance, unconventional warfare tactics, and the ability to counter terrorism. Then he’d found a home for those highly trained individuals in the heart of Chicago. And when it’d been her turn in the hot seat, Madam President had done the same.
Behind the façade of a custom motorcycle shop worked the most elite, most covert group of spec-ops warriors the world had ever seen.
Warriors who didn’t have to run their mission parameters up the chain of command. Warriors who could fly into action at a moment’s notice and operate in complete secrecy without their actions being traced back to anyone inside the federal government. Warriors who sometimes got assigned bodyguarding jobs as a favor to Madam President herself.
