The hours he’d spent waiting for the sun to set had been filled with brainstorming sessions with his team. It had been decided that their best course of action was to get Knox and Sabrina out of Dodge, squirrel them away somewhere safe and secure and far from the prying eyes of the feds.
Hunter had offered the use of his off-grid cabin outside Traverse City, Michigan. It had all the amenities of home while remaining completely untraceable. Knox and Sabrina should be comfortable there while Ozzie did what Ozzie did best: use his wunderkind hacking skills to pinpoint the true traitor.
After Ozziehadfound the guy—or gal, Britt wasn’t sexist—thenKnox and Julia could take their proof to the folks in the bureau. That, along with Sabrina Greenlee’s testimony, should be enough to clear Knox’s name.
Easy peasy lemon squeezy.
Except, Britt couldn’t shake a growing sense of foreboding that somehow, in some way, this whole thing was going to go tits up.
His track record as a soldier was top-tier. He’d led his Ranger unit on dozens of successful missions without losing a man. And he was proud to say the same was true since he’d become a Black Knight. But his track record as a civilian? Particularly once his family was involved?
That was an entirely different story. And it wasthoseodds that made him feel like someone had tied his knickers in a knot.
He paced the length of the shop twice and only stopped because Eliza suddenly appeared in his path.
“What’s with you?” She canted her head and frowned at him.
“What do you mean?” He could feel his eyebrows pull toward the center of his nose.
“You mainline adrenaline like it’s ice water running through your veins. Mr. Cool, Calm, and Collected no matter what sort of shit is hitting the fan. But look at you now. Someone might think you have ants in your pants.”
The truth was his lazy, devil-may-care coolness only applied to situations wherehe felt in complete control. Where he had a plan and parameters and every procedure memorized backwards and forwards. And this? This wasn’t a base jump off a cliff that he’d studied six ways from Sunday or a mission he’d poured over for hours so he knew all the ins and outs. There were a lot of what-ifs and unknowns here.
Too many what-ifs and unknowns.He shifted uncomfortably.
Instead of answering her question, he posed one of his own. “What’s the holdup? Why aren’t we on the road already?”
“Your brother is brushing his teeth, and Sabrina is getting dressed. My feet are bigger than hers, so I made her double up on socks to fit my boots. As long as she doesn’t have to do any running, I think she’ll be fine.”
“If she’s running from something, that means we’ve got much bigger problems than boots that are too big.”
She made a face and then handed over a small bag. “I put a few changes of clothes in here for her. Nothing fancy. Jeans, socks, and a couple extra flannel shirts.”
Britt shot her a side-long glance as he added the small duffel to his saddlebags. “When doyouever wear flannel?”
She sniffed in feigned offense. “I can do rustic.”
He glanced over the expensive tailoring of her shirt and the intricate weave on the material of her slacks. His expression called bullshit, even if he was smart enough to keep his trap shut.
“Fine.” She crossed her arms. “The flannels were a gift from Becky two Christmases ago. I’ve never taken them out of the package.” She scrunched up her elegant nose. “I think she envisioned I’d wear them on the nights we sit around the firepit. But why would anyone choose a scratchy flannel shirt when there are Merino wool sweaters to be had?”
Britt took a peek down at the flannel shirt he’d slipped over his tee, then looked back up at her and grinned. “Peasants, am I right?”
“Pfft.” She flapped a hand, and he took that as his cue to secure the buckle on his saddlebag.
Stepping back, he admired his ride.
Each Black Knight had their own custom Harley. It was one of the perks of working for BKI. They’d consulted with Ozzie and Becky on the design for each bike. And then they’d gotten a crash course in mechanics by building their own pieces of rolling, roaring, road-eating art.
Haint was named after the paint color used on porch ceilings down South. The Gullah—a subgroup of African Americans who lived in the coastal regions of Florida, Georgia, South Carolina, and North Carolina—believed haints, or ghosts, couldn’t cross water. So they painted their porch ceilings a pale, oceany blue-green to repel any spirits who approached their homes to haunt them.
The tradition had spread past the Gullah community and had been adopted by just about every self-respecting Southerner. It was one of the quaint, everyday things he missed about his hometown.
Well, that and okra soup, he thought with a longing sigh.
He could fry up green tomatoes with the best of them, brew up a mean pitcher of sweet sun tea, and devil crabs like nobody’s business. But he hadnotmade a decent pot of okra soup since moving to Chicago.
He blamed it on being unable to find fresh okra and dealing with the frozen stuff.
