Chapter 3

Ryder scowled. Fucking SoCal traffic. Didn't these damn people have homes or jobs or somewhere else they could be other than the roads? Okay, so he'd been aggravated before they'd left Florida and his mood had only soured since landing in California. Over ninety minutes ago, his gut had started churning, and he'd known Langley was in trouble. She needed him and where was he? Stuck behind some shitting cement truck.

Mako stopped when a traffic light turned yellow, and Ryder shifted impatiently in his seat. His teammates had refused to let him behind the wheel of the Explorer they'd rented, and Mako drove more like an old woman than his namesake, the fastest shark in the ocean. "For fuck's sake, yellow doesn't mean stop," he muttered. More loudly he asked, "How is it that we can deploy a twelve-man team halfway around the world faster than the four of us can reach the other side of the United States?"

"Because when we head to the Middle East or South America," Rowland said with annoying calm from the backseat, "we have the logistical support of the US Army behind us."

They were hours later than he'd planned. Hours. He thought they'd land in San Diego late Friday night. Instead, it was Saturday, according to the dashboard clock it was closing in on 1130, and he hadn't reached Langley yet. Everything had taken a thousand times longer than he'd expected. Hell, there'd been a delay just rounding up the other three members of his team because damn Griff had picked up some woman at Big Joe's and disappeared.

"Relax, Ski," Mako said. "We're almost there."

Ryder caught the sidelong look Bryce gave him as he accelerated through the intersection. He needed to take it down a few notches because if they walked into a hot situation with his emotions out of control, he'd jeopardize Langley and his teammates. They were here as a favor to him, he realized that, and he owed them. "Sorry," he apologized gruffly. "I'm worried about Langley."

"We know," Griff said. He was seated behind Mako. "We got your back. We're the four musketeers, remember?"

"Thanks," Ryder said and took another deep breath.

They turned onto a less-busy street and Ryder straightened. They must be getting close now. He studied the neighborhood. The houses looked as if they'd been built in the 1970s, and while the lawns were cut and everything was neatly trimmed, most had big trees and lots of shrubs. The bushes would be good cover if they needed it, but they could also conceal a threat. From the beginning, his plan had been to get Langley out of here quickly, but now he moved up that timeframe to ASAP.

It only took a few more minutes for Mako to pull to a stop at the curb. "That's it," he said. "The blue one a few doors up."

Ryder studied the home. It was small, one story with a white picket fence and a large tree in the tiny yard. More bushes, and the neighbor on the right had a privacy fence—additional concealment. There were no vehicles parked in front, and the home appeared quiet. Too quiet. 11:27 on the SUV's clock. The churning in his gut became more insistent. "Stony, you come with me to the door. Griff, Mako, watch our flank."

He opened the vehicle's door and was greeted by low humidity and mild temperatures. Nothing like Tampa in August. The leather jacket he wore over his jeans and T-shirt was unnecessary, but it hid the pistol holstered at his shoulder. Odds were the feds were right and he wouldn't need it, but fuck that. He wasn't taking any chances with Langley's life.

When they reached the front porch, he rang the bell. He could hear it echo in the house, but there was no other sound from inside. Rowland stood behind him, facing the street, and Griff and Mako were positioned at the foot of the stairs, one on either side, keeping watch. Ryder rang the bell again with the same results. He tried knocking, but no one stirred.

"What time's the wedding?" Stony asked.

"I don't know."

"Langley didn't tell you?"

"No, and the ambassador didn't know when or where it was taking place." Which was damn inconvenient. Ryder knocked again, louder this time. He hoped the women were ignoring him.

Their intelligence sergeant, Ford Pruitt, had researched for them while they'd been outfitting themselves. He'd discovered pictures of Sarah Gillespie and Mitch Armstrong, although the picture of Armstrong had been at a distance, and he'd verified Sarah's address. But Pruitt had been unable to come up with the wedding location or time, which meant that intel was unfindable. No one was better at scooping up data than that guy.

Stony became more alert, but he didn't say anything, so Ryder didn't worry about it. He rang the bell again and followed it up with a knock. He didn't want to admit the house was empty, but while Langley might not want to talk to him, her friend, Sarah, would have answered the door to tell him to go to hell, if nothing else.

Now what? Camp out here till Langley returned? Even if his instincts were misfiring and she was fine, he didn't want to sit around doing nothing. The problem was that there had to be at least a thousand places to get married in San Diego alone.

"We have company," Rowland reported quietly. A pause, then, "Two men, one armed."

Ryder turned immediately.

"Can I help you gentlemen?" the man on the passenger side of the Jeep Renegade called out as he closed the door and stepped onto the curb. The driver joined him.

Ryder moved to the rail, assessing the situation in a glance. The passenger wore running clothes and was drenched in sweat, but the other was dressed up—black slacks that looked freshly pressed, dress shoes, and a crisp white shirt underneath a conservative blazer. It didn't take skill to know who was carrying .

Both men were tall, over six feet, muscular, with brown hair and a vibe that suggested Special Forces. Or ex-Special Forces. The FBI didn't know where the threat had come from, and if a foreign government was behind it, high-end contractors were a possibility. Of course, the groom was a Navy SEAL, and the most likely scenario was that these guys were his friends.

Despite the suit being the one with the weapon, it was the runner who seemed the most dangerous at the moment, and Ryder focused his attention on him. "Who are you?"

"I'm the guy who belongs here. You aren't."

There was only one person Ryder thought might make that claim. "You're Sarah's fiancé?" he asked, voice flat.

"What do you want?" the runner asked.

His eyes narrowed. He didn't like the fact that the dude hadn't answered him.

"Ski," Rowland said softly, "the odds are they know when and where the wedding is, information we don't have. It won't hurt to give some info."

Yeah, his buddy was right. "We're looking for Langley Canfield. Her father sent us." He paused briefly, then asked, "You with HQ1?"

"ST7," the runner offered slowly, but in the next instant, he was moving urgently toward the door. "Fill me in," he ordered as soon as he reached the porch.

Fuck that. "Where's Langley?"

"She's missing. So is Sarah. Now tell me what the fuck's going on."

Ryder felt panic shoot through him. The FBI had been wrong, the threat was legit, and while they'd been wasting time trying to get out of Tampa, the author of the letter had grabbed her. His gut had been on the money—Langley was in trouble. In the next instant, he thrust down his emotions and battle calm descended. He wouldn't be able to help her if gave in to his fears. "You're the fiancé?" he asked again, determined to get an answer this time.

"That's right."

Something felt off. "Name?" He took a closer look at the runner, compared him to the inadequate image Pruitt had found. It could be the same man.

"Mitch Armstrong," he said immediately.

"Aren't your clothes a little casual for a wedding, even by California standards?" Ryder asked, tone carefully bland to hide his suspicions.

"He was working off pre-wedding jitters," the suit said.

Plausible, but Ryder couldn't trust the guy. Langley read people with uncanny accuracy and she hadn't liked Armstrong. He'd go with her instincts until proven different. "What do you mean she's missing?"

"They were at the wedding center, checking out the bridal suite. Nobody's seen them since."

"When?" The word emerged more tightly than he'd intended, but fear threatened to overwhelm him again. If anything happened to Langley…

"An hour and a half ago," Armstrong said. "Your names?" It was more of a demand than a question.

Ryder didn't want to share that information. Names meant, with the right contacts, they could be checked out, and he couldn't afford that until he knew this guy wasn't a danger. He looked over at Stony. His buddy shook his head almost imperceptibly, telling Ryder they were on the same page.

Without another word, the runner pivoted and headed back to the Jeep.

Ryder hurried down the stairs, Rowland right behind him, and beelined for the Explorer. Mako knocked him aside before he could get behind the wheel and Ryder rounded the hood, headed for the passenger seat. Closing the SUV's door, he pulled the seatbelt down and said, "When they take off, stick on their ass. Don't drive like a pussy this time."