“Is he hot?”

His intimidating, icy gaze floats before me in my mind’s eye joined by his ultra-serious countenance. All business. The broad, massive shoulders, slick dark hair, and powerful jawline.

“He’s attractive, but he’s older.”

“How old?”

“I did not ask.”

“Is he single?”

“I definitely did not ask that.” I’ll be working with the man. I do not need to think of him in a sexy way. Asking his dating status would be a professional blunder. “Sloane, do you need anything? Because right now I’m lost. And I’m in danger of being late.”

“Oh, I wanted to see if you need me to dog sit.”

“Seriously?” The notion tugs at my heart. “That’s so thoughtful.”

“Well, Timothy said it was last minute.”

“It is. I banged on my neighbor’s door and begged her. But—”

“Next time, call me.”

“You are such a love. Let me go… I don’t want to be late.”

“Late for a date.”

“It’s not a date. This is work.” I love the girl, but she’s about to take the biscuit. “I’ll call you later.”

One wrong turn leads to multiple wrong turns. Maps continually tells me to turn after I’ve passed a turn, then she re-routes. My palmy hands grip the wheel as I tear down the narrow street. This place is off the beaten path. There’s no shoulder. Just dirt and a distressing absence of road signs.

Maps announces, “At the next intersection, make a U-turn.”

I follow the directions.

Maps announces, “At the next intersection, make a U-turn.”

“What the frick is wrong with you?”

I turn off into a private dirt drive. Pull up a different map source. I study the road names, find my turnoff, and slam on the accelerator. The back wheel lurches downward, and the whole car bounces up. But it’s okay. I regroup, evening out on the asphalt. I smash the accelerator. The horizon angles from left down to right. No, that’s my blessed vehicle angling.

A flat tire.

My British grandmother would say something mild, like, “Fiddlesticks.” But, no, a flat tire when I’m running late warrants a full-out guttural, “Fuck!”

CHAPTER 3

18 Hours Missing

Ryan

“Did you get the update on Syria?”

Trevor enters my office as my laptop powers down.

“I read it. What’s your take?” We have a security detail in Syria watching a CIA officer’s wife and daughter. It’s an unusual situation, as the man hired us privately. If his identity has been compromised, the CIA will remove him and his family. He clearly fears this is the case, but he won’t be the first man to prioritize career. Life in the field differs from a life at Langley.

Trevor rests his hands on the back of my office guest chair, leaning forward, his expression thoughtful.

“You think we need to increase security?” I prompt.

“Karsyn said someone is tailing the wife. And he saw their gardener talking to the kid’s tutor.”

Staff talking to each other might seem benign, but in countries plagued with the kidnapping industry, it’s something we watch out for. A general rule of thumb is to not let people who work with you interact. They can piece together your schedule. It’s the advice we give our clients in such countries, and it’s something we monitor to ensure safety. Of course, the vast majority of our clients work for corporations and are targets because their company has an insurance policy to pay the ransom.