Janine, the bride, had been annoying bordering on bridezilla about the whole shindig, and they hadn’t been able to resist an urge to poke that beast. She’d been anal-retentive about planning the wedding down to the last detail. Well, not the very last detail. She’d forgotten to tell the groom’s brothers on SEAL Team Reaper to behave themselves.

Wait till she climbed in Leo’s car and got a whiff of the vanilla extract they’d poured into the car’s air-conditioning system. Every time the car ran for the next month or so, it would smell overwhelmingly like chocolate chip cookies. Or till she got her groom naked later and discovered that, after he’d passed out at his bachelor party, they’d doused his entire body with blue shoe dye. Only his face and hands had been spared. Poor bastard looked like a Smurf and would for a couple of weeks.

Chuckling, Grif raised his champagne glass to Leo, who scowled back from the head table, obviously worried at what else they had in store for him. Smart man.

A vibration in Griffin’s pants pocket made him rock his front chair legs down to the floor and dig out his cell phone. His work cell phone. The other guys at the table were abruptly reaching for phones, too.

Crap. They were supposed to be off duty tonight.

He looked at the caller ID. Their boss, Commander Calvin Kettering.

Either the old man was doing Leo a solid and pulling them out of the wedding reception before they could raise more hell, or the world was coming to an end. Off-duty SEALs were, well, off duty, except in the direst of emergencies.

“Aww, man,” Ken Singleton complained from across the table. “I was just about ready to bust out with a new song.”

Ken was a wannabe country singer-songwriter and actually had a decent voice. But the guy’s talent for lyrics, that was another matter. Griffin grinned. “Let’s hear the chorus.”

Kenny drummed a snappy rhythm on the table and sang, “Run, Leo, run. Look what you have done. Don’t mean to be rude, but dude, you’re screwed. Janine’s knocked up, and her daddy’s got a shotgun.”

The team’s baby, Sam Dorsey—barely into his twenties and straight off the gullible boat—gasped. “Is that why Leo married Janine?”

Grif guffawed, registering with amusement the glares from guests around them. His cell phone vibrated again. Insistently.

“Party pooper,” Axel complained, glaring at his own phone, housed in a black leather case with a chrome skull mounted on it. “Reaper Team’s on leave.”