long, which didn’t mean much these days when it came to spec-ops. Fuck, half of ST7 looked like hippies.
The two on the porch conferred quietly. And then— “We’re looking for Langley Canfield. Her father sent us.” A pause as those light, sharp eyes scanned Tag before moving onto Tram. “You with HQ1?”
“ST7,” Tag offered slowly, as the guy’s words sank in. The earlier unease swelled to a flash point.
Sarah had told him her friend was an ambassador’s daughter. Had someone targeted Langley to get at her father? Had Sarah been caught in the sweep? Was that why they were missing?
His stride turned urgent as he closed on Langley’s bodyguards, because that’s what they were. A protection detail. Which meant there was a threat directed at Langley, and since the woman was staying with Sarah, that threat encompassed her too.
The sudden disappearance of the two women took on an ominous portent.
“Fill me in,” Tag snapped as he joined the shaggy-haired guy on the porch.
The guy turned flat eyes toward the house. “Where’s Langley?”
He was going to blow him off. Understandable, since any operator worth his title would know better than offering sensitive information to a stranger. But God damn it, Sarah had been sucked up in whatever was going on.
“She’s missing. So is Sarah. Now tell me what the fuck’s going on.”
That caught the bastard’s attention. He froze and for an instant something close to panic flashed across the hard face. But he shut the emotion down fast. His gaze went flat. His expression blank.
“You’re the fiancé?” the guy asked again, his gaze scanning Tag’s sweaty shorts and shirt.
“That’s right.” Tag lied without hesitation. It was the fastest route to the information he needed.
“Name?” The bastard’s eyes narrowed slightly. He looked Tag over again as though comparing the man who stood before him with the one he’d seen in a picture, or the one who’d been described to him.
Smart. He’d done his research and wasn’t taking chances.
“Mitch Armstrong,” Tag offered without hesitation.
Luckily, he and Mitch were of a similar height, and they both had brown hair and blue eyes. Apparently, Sarah had a type. His grimace was sour.
He held the guy’s cold gaze and hoped like hell whatever intel he’d received on Mitch had been fuzzy and distant. If the picture wasn’t a closeup, they could pass for each other.
He must have passed the test, because the guy nodded slightly. “Aren’t your clothes a little casual for a wedding, even by California standards?”
Tag kept his face still, unconcerned. Before he could respond, Tram was Johnny on the spot.
“He was working off pre-wedding jitters.”
Which was a fine explanation if these bastards didn’t know when the wedding was scheduled or that it should have been over with by now, which meant Tag—in his sweaty exercise clothes—could not be the groom.
“What do you mean, she’s missing?”
And apparently Langley’s babysitters didn’t know much of anything since they left the clothes conversation behind and moved right into the crux of the matter.
Something flashed again in the guy’s eyes, but it was gone too soon to identify.
“They were at the wedding center, checking out the bridal suite. Nobody’s seen them since.” Which wasn’t a lie, they had vanished from the bridal suite.
“When?” The question was tight, controlled, and filled with tension.
“A little over an hour ago.” Oh yeah, Langley Canfield was a hell of a lot more than a job to this dude. “Your names?”
He’d have Rio check them out. As a detective with the San Diego Police Department, Rio had access to both military and law enforcement databases. He’d come up with dossiers on these two quicker than Tag could.
The two strangers exchanged glances. And Tag’s temper spiked. Fuck them. There wasn’t time for secrets and evasion. And these bozos weren’t going to tell him anything he didn’t already know or couldn’t find out on his own a hell of a lot quicker than this cat and mouse game of questions.
He turned, taking the stairs in a quick leap.
Sarah wasn’t here. She would have been out on the porch enjoying the theatrics if she’d returned home. Which meant the last time anyone had seen her—the women, he corrected himself with a scowl—was at the Wedding Knot. Time to bring Rio in on this.
Rio could pull video of the surrounding area. He could round up witnesses. He could put out a BOLO for Mitch’s truck.
Someone must have seen something.
Someone must know something.
He ignored the sound of boots thudding down the porch steps behind him and the harsh