Chapter Twenty

M arshal glared at the text from Donald and shoved his phone away. He had no time for the guy right now.

All he wanted was for Ryker to forgive him.

But that wasn't happening at the moment.

Giving himself and Ryker some much-needed space, Marshal pulled into the driveway of his home and shut off the engine.

Maybe he needed to bring in the big guns to neutralize the threat against Ryker—because he had no doubts that while the note had been directed at Robert Langston, the threat had been against Ryker. The young man's blood spoke volumes. Essentially, it meant that they could get to Ryker anytime and anywhere.

And if Winchester Armani was involved, then shit was about to get ugly.

He ran a hand down his face and tugged out his phone. Should he contact Brick? Tyler Brick owned the bodyguards and while Brick was one of the most powerful men on the West Coast, that fact might not be enough to handle what was coming.

Fuck it. Even if Winchester wasn't involved in the threat against Ryker, the man needed to be neutralized for Aspen's sake.

So he called someone who could shut Winchester Armani down.

"Marshal?" Real's voice sounded shocked, pleased, and sleep-filled.

He smiled at nothing when his friend fumbled with the phone and then cleared his throat.

"What's up?"

"Hey, Real."

"Fucking knock me over with a feather. How long has it been?"

"A year. You still in charge of…things?"

There was a slight pause as if Real were mulling the question over, but Marshal knew it was the man's way of assessing the situation. And even though Real didn't know why the fuck he'd called, the man had to know it was important.

The former Navy SEAL ran a top-secret government unit known only as Genesis and they answered to the Secretary of Defense. If anyone could rein Winchester Armani in, it would be Real and his team of military assassins.

"I need a favor," he began just as a text came in from Ryker.

Marshal, we are under attack.

Bring help.

"What do you need?" Real's voice came as if from far away when the room morphed in around him.

"I need help now," he choked into the phone.

Out the windshield, he spotted Aspen, Tristan, and Cohen walking down the front steps.

He rolled down the window. "Go back inside and call 911 and send them to Ryker's address," he told Cohen.

Tristan gave him a firm nod and wrapped an arm around Aspen to guide him back toward the house. Cohen followed, now on the phone.

Aspen's face had been filled with such terror that it had been hard to watch. But he couldn't stay and reassure them about anything.

Not when Ryker's life was at stake.

"Marshal?" Real snapped. "Talk to me."

He rammed the truck into reverse and peeled out of the driveway. "The home I'm protecting is under siege," he growled, his palms around the steering wheel grew slick from sweat.

"It's going to take me two and a half hours on the private jet to get there," Real told him, but Marshal heard the man on the move through the phone.

Over two hours…Which made sense because Real was currently in California.

"You want to sit tight until I call you?" Marshal took the corner fast, tires squealing.

"Fuck no, I'll be there," Real growled and ended the call.

Marshal punched in Ryker's address to Real's phone. He then pulled up an app on his phone that would show him the video feed inside the Langston estate.

He snapped the phone into the holder on the dashboard and ran the feed as he punched the gas and took the on-ramp to the freeway.

A cold sweat broke out as the scene unfolded on the video.

And he drove with his heart in his throat.

Real sat back down on the edge of the bed and reached for his pants on the floor.

"Leaving so soon?"

"Last night was…nice." He had to search for that word. Shoving his feet into his slacks, he stood to pull them up over his briefs.

The slender man in the bed scooted over and gripped his thigh. "Can we do it again sometime?"

Tugging his t-shirt over his head, Real pulled on his socks and combat boots.

Ah…that was a hard no.

He never went back for seconds from casual hookups. This one had tempted him and that was only because of his build, dark eyes, and equally dark hair.

"Maybe." He avoided the guy's searching gaze.

The man ran a hand through his own hair and sighed before getting up, naked, from the bed. "Here's my number." A piece of paper was pressed into the front pocket of his jeans.

Stepping out of the apartment door, he closed it and glanced around trying to get his bearings.

They'd taken an Uber to get there from the club last night because he'd been way too drunk to drive. Stepping around trash littered on the walkway, he reached the street and pulled his phone out.

It was blown up with missed messages.

The phone buzzed with an incoming call and he grimaced as he answered it.

"Where are you?" the young voice said tightly, filled with anger. Real sighed, glancing around as if caught in the act of something he shouldn't be doing. He caught sight of a street sign.

Fuck, was this East L.A.?

"Out." He clipped the word, fighting the churning guilt.

"Hey! You forgot your jacket," the hook-up from earlier said from behind him.

"Who is that?" Azrael hissed into his ear.

"Nobody," he growled and took the jacket from the man he couldn't remember the name of.

"Did you fuck him?" Azrael wasn't shouting and something churned in Real's gut.

"See you around, handsome," the man said and sauntered back up the apartment steps.

"That's none of your—" he began, but Azrael hung up on him.

"Shit! Fuck!" He punched in Stone's number instead of hitting the apartment building next to him.

"What's up?"

"I'm heading to Colorado to help out Cobalt Security. Can you keep a close eye on Azrael for me?"

"Why?"

"I may have…fucked up," he muttered.

"I don't care why you and Azrael are fighting. I want to know why you are going to help Cobalt."

"Marshal called, there's an attack going on at an estate that he's guarding."

"And he couldn't call the cops or Jaxon or Brick?"

"He did, asshole," Real growled. "Are you going to do what I asked?"

"Yeah, I got him," Stone grumbled.

Real hung up. He hoped to God that Stone could keep his promise because Azrael was a fucking handful.

The Uber he ordered rolled up and he slid into the back seat.

Rubbing a tired hand down his face, he grimaced and stared out the window.

He kept his mind blank.

Marshal called Ryker's phone for the fifth time as he tore through the streets of Denver towards the Langston estate, but he couldn't get through.

Giving up on reaching Ryker, he punched in Bishop's phone.

It went straight to voicemail and bile coated his tongue. Next, he tried Alexander, but it rang and rang and then went to voicemail.

He went down the list, calling everyone in the house including the Langstons, then the bodyguards.

Nobody was picking up their phones. Perhaps they had jammed the cell phones or worse. He suspected it was the latter because Ryker had been able to send him a text earlier.

Had the attackers gotten the jump on the team? How was that even possible?

This had to be an inside job.

Every law enforcement agency would be on the way if they hadn't already arrived, he silently assured himself. He knew that whoever the perps were, they would need to move in and out quickly.

And who was their target?

That would depend on who had infiltrated the estate.

If it was Winchester Armani, then he was looking for Aspen. If it was the perp from the blood-stained threat, it would be Ryker…he shuddered not wanting to think that way.

This could be something totally different.

He frowned.

If the people infiltrating the estate were sent by Robert Langston's boss, then all hell was about to break loose.

After a nearly forty-five-minute drive, he finally barreled through the open gates. He rolled up and parked behind a line of police cars and a SWAT vehicle. Lights flashed and heavily armed uniformed men stood at the ready.

Reaching over, Marshal pulled his Secret Service ID from the glove compartment and slid from his jeep.

Several officers turned on him with weapons drawn.

"Stop right fucking there," a big beefy SWAT officer snarled.

"Secret Service." Marshal held up his ID and the closest cop stepped up and took the ID. Nobody lowered their weapons and Marshal didn't blame them.

It was times like this when he wished he'd taken up the offer of going to work for Phoenix or Pegasus. They were both elite teams that helped law enforcement and while they were top secret from the public, every police chief in the Western United States was aware of their existence.

"What's the situation inside?" Marshal asked the growly man who seemed to be in charge.

"What's your business here?" The SWAT cop countered, squinting at him.

"I work for—" he was cut off when the cop with his ID slid back out of the patrol car.

"He's former Secret Service." The guy handed him back his ID. "And he works for Brick."

They all lowered their weapons at the same time.

"Well, why the fuck didn't you say you knew Brick?" the snarly SWAT cop grumbled, whose badge name displayed Captain Scott Zimmerman.

"He's my boss's boss." Marshal shrugged, his eyes locked on the front of the estate.

"So, you work for Jaxon West?"

"Yes." Marshal agreed even though he worked for both Jaxon West and Fighter Suwan. "Can I get in there now?"

"No," Scott said with a scowl. "Are they on their way?"

"Who?" He clenched his jaw.

"Cobalt?" Scott blinked.

"Fuck," Marshal snarled and yank out his phone to punch in Jaxon's number.

Hayden picked up. "What's up, Marshal."

"Gunmen have entered the Langston's estate."

"Are you trapped inside? How many are there?" Hayden snapped out orders and then Jaxon came on the line.

"We'll be there shortly," Jaxon growled.

"I'm not trapped inside. I don't know how many there are."

The silence was thick before Jaxon spoke. "I'll be there," his boss said again and hung up.

He'd fucked up.

He had left the Langstons vulnerable.

He'd left Ryker alone.

He'd almost lost Ryker in the car crash and now he may lose him again.

Their last words hung between them.

He hadn't meant them and he had his reasons for saying them to Bishop.

But Ryker didn't know his reasons.

The sudden hell Marshal found himself in was of his own doing.