“Right,” Sam agreed. “We need to find another way to figure out what the hell is going on and why the hell the FBI is so sure Hannah is involved in this plot.”
“Hannah said you all have—” Cesar was cut off mid-sentence when Peanut, the alley-cat-turned-rotund-indoor-fluffball, landed on his lap. “Well, hello there,” he cooed at the notch-eared devil.
Sam had to hide a grin when Peanut’s yellow eyes slitted at the sound of Cesar’s voice. Peanut loved women. Men he only tolerated. And it was clear the cat couldn’t decide which he was dealing with when it came to Cesar.
The instant Cesar scratched Peanut’s cheeks with his long, red fingernails, however, the cat leaned into the caress and started purring.
Since Peanut had a motor big enough to give Pale Horse’s supped-up V-twin a run for the money, Cesar had to raise his voice to be heard over the racket. “Don’t you guys have government contacts? I mean, from what little Hannah told me about the job she helped you with a few months back, I thought for sure you’d be able to make a call and get her out so we could see what’s what.”
If only it were that simple.
Since Madam President wanted to keep it on the DL that she employed a group of highly trained, highly skilled commandos to sometimes circumvent traditional military pursuits, it wasn’t like the Knights had the freedom to drop the president’s name and spring Hannah from FBI custody.
Quite the opposite, they did their best toavoidgetting on anyone’s radar. Especially the radars of people whose very job it was to investigate anyone or anything they found suspicious.
“Unfortunately, we don’t have that kind of clout.” Ozzie ran a hand through his unruly head of sandy-blond hair. He was wearing one of his countlessStar TrekT-shirts. This one was printed with a picture of Spok’s favorite hand gesture. Stamped beneath the picture were the words: Stay Weird.
Ozzie’s words had Cesar visibly deflating. In his dejection, he absently stopped scratching Peanut. This gave the cat time to turn his head and get an eyeful of the long black wig piled atop the table.
Sam saw what would happen before Peanut even batted his crooked tail. But he wasn’t fast enough to grab the cat before Peanut jumped on the wig with an ungodlyyowl.
What followed would’ve garnered a million views on social media had anyone thought to whip out their camera and start recording.
Peanut attacked the hair by falling to his side and sinking his teeth into the strands, kicking his back legs along the long tresses as he continued to howl and hiss so loudly Sam’s back teeth began to itch. It eventually became clear to the tom, however, that the hairy black mass wasn’t a rival, that it wasn’t evenalive. At which point Peanut stopped his attack and glanced around at the shocked faces staring back at him with various expressions of humor and horror.
Looking embarrassed by his mistake, Peanut righted himself. Unfortunately, a hank of hair had gotten caught in the metal bell attached to his collar. When he took a step away from the wig, the wig went with him.
That’s when all hellreallybroke loose.
With a hiss of terror, Peanut proceeded to dart around the conference table, knocking over coffee mugs and the bottle of creamer along the way and dragging the wig through the mess. Everyone hopped from their seats with yelps of surprise.
Cesar yelled, “Oh, my god! My favorite wig!” at the exact moment Sam caught Peanut by the scruff and stopped the carnage.
With a quick twist of his wrist, he pulled the wig free. But the damage had been done.
Holding out the tangled, coffee-and-creamer-drenched hair toward Cesar, he winced. “Can you, uh, shampoo it? Does it work that way?”
Cesar gingerly caught the wig between two fingers. His expression was a mixture of dismay and resignation. “It does. But it’ll take me three hours to restyle it.”
Sam winced again and then turned to scowl at Peanut. Instead of being grateful Sam had saved him from the wig, the bastard cat turned his head and sank his needle-like teeth directly in Sam’s wrist.
“Ow!” Sam tore his arm free, dropping the tom onto the table with athud. Peanut didn’t hesitate to launch himself onto the floor, landing with enough force to rattle Sam’s chair.
As Peanut scurried toward the stairs leading to the third floor, Sam understood how the phrase “more than one way to skin a cat” might have become part of the human lexicon. Because it took every ounce of self-control he possessed not to give chase.
Instead, he satisfied himself with shaking a fist at Peanut’s wide, retreating backend. “Stupidity and bad tempers aren’t crimes, you little shit! So I guess you’re free to go!”
When he turned back to the table, rubbing his wrist—which sported four tiny holes beading with blood—he saw Ozzie trying his best to hide his grin. “Uh. You okay, bruh?”
“Sure.” Sam walked over the bank of computers that was the beating heart and firing brain of BKI’s clandestine endeavors. He snagged a tissue from a metal holder atop the desk. “Just living the dream,” he added sarcastically, followed by, “Someday I might have to kill that cat.”
Ozzie grimaced. “Which would break Becky’s heart. Which, in turn, would make Boss killyou.”
Ozzie was right, of course.
Becky—the lead mechanic and wunderkind designer of the badass bikes that gave the civilian side of their operation legitimacy—lovedPeanut. Her love was evidenced by the cat’s size. Because even though she swore she fed Peanut vet-prescribed diet kitty chow, for the last three-plus years, Sam had witnessed her slipping the fat feline treats on the daily. And Boss? Well, Boss was the head of the original crew of operators. But, more importantly, he was Becky’s husband.
The man became six-and-a-half feet of bulk, buzzcut, and bad temper when anything so much as made Becky’s eyebrows knit together.
