Out in the hall go right, toward the back stairs.” He retreated until his shoulders were against the wall. “I’m a fucking good shot. Scream and I’ll shoot you both. If you try to run, I’ll shoot you.”
Langley couldn’t run anyway. Crap, she might not even be able to make it down the back stairs. Not with those five-inch stilettos and the restrictive fit of her mermaid style bridesmaid dress.
“Maybe we could stay here? I can call Mitch. Have him come up?”
“Sure—”
Sarah allowed herself a moment of hope.
“And he can bring all those SEALs up with him. Good thinking.” His snort was pure derision. “Get real, lady. We’re going down the back stairs to the car I have stashed below. Your bridesmaid is going to drive, while you and I ride in the backseat with my buddy, Mr. Sig Sauer.” He waved the gun slightly. “After we’re holed up all nice and friendly, I’ll call your husband-to-be, tell him the wedding’s been postponed. If he wants you back, he’ll bring me my half of the cut. Now move.”
Sarah caught Langley’s hand as they shuffled forward in unison, squeezing the cold fingers. When Langley squeezed back, Sarah eased out a relieved breath. At least she was responsive instead of locked in terrifying memories of what had happened the previous year.
But she was moving way too slowly, thanks to the shoes and dress. There was no way Langley could flee if an opportunity presented itself. Which meant Sarah was hamstrung as well. While her shoes were sensible pumps and her dress fell boxy and loose to her ankles, she couldn’t leave Langley behind.
When they passed the coat rack where their purses were hanging, Sarah paused to reach for hers.
“Leave it.” A hard shove jolted her forward. Langley stumbled along beside her.
Suddenly, it occurred to her that the wedding had been postponed. Again. Only without her manipulation this time. And Mitch couldn’t even punish her for it. In a way, this latest delay was his fault.
She choked back a frantic laugh, caught between dark humor and terror.
Looked like she’d gotten the reprieve she’d been praying for. Now she just had to pray that they survived this kidnapping.
Chapter Three
The sun was bright. The sky blue. It was a balmy seventy-two degrees. A perfect day for a wedding.
Tag grimaced and increased his pace, until the pounding of his shoes against the pavement merged with the thud of his heart in his ears. Sweat streamed down his face, stinging and blurring his eyes. His sweatband must be soaked again.
He was thirteen miles into his attempt at total muscle and memory annihilation, but so far, the PT wasn’t working. The look in Sarah’s eyes as she slammed the door in his face was a constant, itchy memory.
When the text message hit his phone, he didn’t hear the chime thanks to the thudding in his ears. The vibration of his cell against his hip was what alerted him to the incoming message. Which reminded him that his phone was tucked into the pocket of his shorts. His soaked shorts. What were the odds his dick was in danger of electrocution? He tried to muscle up an iota of concern but couldn’t quite manage it.
Since the text could be from HQ—or The Call—he slowed his pace and fished the phone from his pocket. Going wheels up would be sweet. Nothing would take his mind off Sarah like the prep and planning of a mission, followed by the actual insertion into hostile territory. A go call would save his muscles the wear and tear of street abuse.
But the text was from Lucas Trammel, his best friend, who was attending Mitch’s fucking wedding.
Call me.
He glanced at the time stamp on the message. Eleven a.m. Sarah would be married by now. The last thing he needed was a glowing description of the blushing bride. Tag dropped the phone back into his pocket and returned to beating his feet and legs into bloody stumps against the pavement.
The next text vibrated against his hip a couple minutes later. He calculated the odds the message had come from HQ.
Not likely—probably Tram again. He kept running.
Three more texts hit. This time in rapid succession. He frowned, slowing to a walk. Tram wouldn’t call that many times, or that close together, unless something was wrong. As he fished his phone from his pocket again, he wiped his streaming face with the bottom of his t-shirt.
The texts migrated from the succinct call me, to an insistent call me