Black Knights Inc., Goose Island
Remember that thing Britt said about finding a home at Black Knights Inc. and feeling like those who worked there were family?
He took it back.
They weren’t family. Quite the contrary. He wanted to run upstairs, grab his trusty sidearm, and start shooting them all…in the legs—they needed maiming, not killing. Besides, if they were busy staunching blood and gritting their teeth against pain, they wouldn’t have time to give him any more shit.
And boy howdy, nobody was better at dishing out shit than the Black Knights.
On the train ride back to their side of town, Britt had repeatedly threatened Hewitt with great bodily harm should Hew decide to out him and his current…um…preoccupationwith one Agent Julia O’Toole. But no matter how precise and inventive Britt’s threats had been, Hew hadn’t agreed to keep quiet.
In fact, Hew hadn’t agreed to anything.
He’d simply popped his AirPods into his ears, pulled a tattered paperback copy of Paulo Coelho’sThe Alchemistfrom his back pocket, and ignored Britt for the entirety of the ride.
Britt had considered snatching the book from Hew’s hands and tossing it out the window. But he quite liked his nose the way it was—namely,notbroken—and so he’d been forced to sit back and hope beyond hope Hew would have mercy.
He should have known better.
He was pretty sureHewandmercywere listed as antonyms in the thesaurus.
The minute the two of them walked through BKI’s front door, Hew had hooked a thumb over his shoulder toward Britt and announced, “You’ll never guess what I found this sonofabitch up to!”
“Did you wake up and take an asshole pill this morning?” Britt had demanded, his hands curling into fists.
Hew had wiggled his eyebrows. “No need for supplements. I come by it naturally.” And then Hew had filled everyone in on how he’d caught Britt, to use Hew’s word, “mid-stalk.”
Now, Britt found himself seated at the large island in the kitchen while everyone who’d been onsite during Hew’s big announcement took turns asking him questions and relentlessly teasing him.
He wanted to crawl under the tall, metal bistro table in the corner or disappear into the brick walls. But there was nowhere to hide from his colleagues.
“You’re stalking an FBI agent?” Ozzie, an original Knight and their current tech guru, stared at him wide-eyed. Britt couldn’t tell if Ozzie was impressed or appalled. “Damn, bro. The balls on you would shame a rhino.”
Okay, so he’s impressed.
Too bad it wasn’t the kind of admiration Britt wanted.
“I take exception to Hew describing it asstalking.” His jaw was clenched so hard he marveled he could speak at all.
“And what name would you give to the action of a man following a woman around, unbeknownst to her, and watching her with a look in his eye that says he’d like to club her over the head caveman-style and drag her by her hair back to his lair?” Hew countered while happily breaking a freshly baked blueberry muffin in half and smearing each side with a generous portion of butter.
The old menthol cigarette factory was a wonderful mix of homey and industrial. Out in the shop, the smell of grease, fresh auto paint, and metal shavings permeated the air. But inside the kitchen, the scents were familiar and comforting. The earthy kick of too-strong coffee mixed with the sweeter aromas of warm pastries.
Eliza Meadows—soon to be Eliza Wakefield because she’d said yes when Fisher Wakefield had popped the question—could put together mission parameters, give them a dissertation-worthy lecture on global politics, and hobnob with D.C.’s glitterati without batting a lash. But it was a well-known fact her favorite pastime was puttering around the kitchen, cooking up tasty delights worthy of the blue ribbon at any county fair.
“Of all the times you could have chosen to pull your nose out of a book and string more than twelve words together, why’d you pick today?” Britt glared at Hew.
“Ah, ah, ah.” Hew wagged a finger. “Nice try. But answering a question with a question is the oldest trick in the book.” He thickened his accent. “And I ain’t falling for it.”
“I’mobservingher,” Britt declared with a sniff. Then he attempted to succor his sorrows by shoving a strawberry tart between his lips.
The taste was so divine his eyes tried to roll back in his head.
Unfortunately, despite the comfort of the pastry, his sorrows were still happily ensconced in their front-row seats. Mostly thanks to Boss, who, as his nickname suggested, had been the brains and brawn behind the birth of Black Knights Inc. Frank “Boss” Knight had handpicked the original twelve members, had taken over running the civilian side of things once the former president no longer needed the OG crew, and still helped Britt and his teammates out whenever the occasion arose. In short, he had been and ostensibly still was…theboss.
“Observing her implies you have some professional or scientific curiosity.” Boss’s low, guttural voice was made for radio. FYI, the man had a face made for radio, too. His features were as blunt as a closed fist. Considering the unnatural flatness across the bridge of his nose, Britt assumed many closed fists had made them that way. “So tell us, what is it about Agent O’Toole that you find professionally or scientifically curious?”
“Is it the way her bottom fills out those slacks she wears?” This from Sam Harwood, the former Marine Raider and current target of Britt’s heated stare. “Or is it ’cause you like waxing your axe while fantasizing ’bout her putting her cuffs on you?”
