his frown. “Don’t suppose it would hurt to do some digging?”
“I guess,” Tag said, mopping his streaming face again.
With a quick glance over his left shoulder to check for oncoming traffic, Tram pulled onto the road. “Where would she go?”
“No clue.”
Tram shot him a frustrated glance. “You know her best.”
Not anymore.
But Tag gave it some thought.
“Try her house.” Tag reeled off the directions.
“Her car’s at the Wedding Knot,” Tram reminded him.
True.
Tag frowned, listening as his heavy breathing filled the air. Thanks to his half marathon, his heart was still pounding like a motherfucker. “Langley must have flown in. Maybe she rented a car. Maybe they took that.”
“Langley?”
“The bridesmaid,” Tag answered absently.
Except Sarah would have picked up her friend at the airport, and they would have gone to the wedding center together. Langley wouldn’t need to rent a car. If Sarah’s car was still at the center and Langley didn’t have a car, who the fuck had they driven off with?
Mitch? Why the hell would they take off with him before the wedding?
The unease spread up his spine, chilling the hot, damp skin.
Yeah…something was wrong here. Fucking wrong.
They arrived at Sarah’s house to find another problem. Or four big problems dressed in jeans, t-shirts, and blazers. When a gust of wind flapped one of the dudes’ jackets open, Tag caught sight of a holster.
Make that four big, armed, problems.
“Do you recognize them?” Tag asked as Tram pulled up to the curb and killed the Renegade’s engine.
Maybe they’d been at the wedding. Maybe they were some of Mitch’s buddies come to check on the skittish bride.
“No.”
Son-of-a-bitch.
Four armed strangers showing up at Sarah’s home out of nowhere? Yeah, this couldn’t be good. Without taking his eyes off the men, Tag pushed the passenger door open. Damn it, they should have stopped by the condo so he could weapon up before heading over.
The sound of the glove compartment dropping told him at least one of them was prepared. They wouldn’t be confronting those bastards trespassing on Sarah’s property unarmed. Or at least one of them wouldn’t. He glanced through the open passenger door at the Sig P226 Tram pulled from the glove box.
“I don’t suppose you have your Glock in there too?” The disadvantage of running in shorts and a t-shirt was the lack of places to stash a conceal carry.
“Afraid not.”
Tram’s voice sounded as grim as Tag felt.
Fuck.
He had his sheath and blade strapped to his lower calf, beneath his sock. But these bastards were carrying. You didn’t bring a blade to a firefight. Or at least not only a blade.
The four men were clustered in pairs. Two on the porch—one facing the door. One facing the street. The other two had stationed themselves in front of the stairs, about twelve feet apart. As he watched, one of the men on the porch said something, and the other dude turned, his gaze locking on Tag.
Tag knew a team when confronted with one. And this was a fucking team. Likely ex-spec ops, judging by that innate air of menace they wore like body armor. Well that, along with the acuity in their eyes and the constant scanning of their surroundings. Question was…were they the good guys or the bad guys? Hell, even the mafia employed teams these days.
“Can I help you gentlemen?” Tag called out as he closed the passenger door.
Without pausing, he stepped onto the curb. He heard Tram’s door slam behind him and knew his buddy was rounding the Jeep’s hood, watching his six.
The guy next to the door stepped up to the porch rail. “Who are you?”
“I’m the guy who belongs here. You aren’t.” Tag raised his voice but kept his tone flat. In his peripheral vision he saw Tram move up beside him. They stepped onto the brick path leading to the porch in tandem.
“You’re Sarah’s fiancé?” the guy called back after a momentary silence, his gaze raking Tag’s shorts and shirt.
So, this guy knew enough about Sarah to know she had a fiancé. But not enough to know when the wedding was, otherwise he’d have questioned the shorts and sweat-soaked t-shirt. Hell, Tram in his prissy dress clothes looked more like a groom than Tag did.
“What do you want?” Tag asked, ignoring the way the shaggy-headed guy’s eyes narrowed.
There was something about the dude that reminded him of his buddy Rio. Maybe it was the swarthy skin of his face shadowed by stubble, or maybe it was the dark hair. He scanned the guy again. His hair was borderline