Colt whirled and, maybe from habit, maybe from adrenaline, pointed the bear gun at him. Because hello, who was this guy?

“Pete Sutton,” the man said, his hands going up as he dropped the semiautomatic to hang from the strap around his neck. “Noemi’s father.”

The words didn’t land. And not just for Colt. Dodge, too, it seemed, just stared at the man. Blond, blue eyes, built like a tractor, and . . .

“Noemi’s father is dead,” Tae said. She stepped up next to Colt. “So, try again.”

Colt put the man in his fifties, lines around his eyes, a bit of white to the scruff on his chin. But he had a stance about him that spoke military. In fact, if Colt remembered correctly, her father had been a SEAL.

A SEAL lost in a training accident.

“He’s telling the truth.”

A different voice, this time from a man who stepped out from behind their Bell 429 chopper. Lean, tall, dark brown hair, dressed in a pair of jeans and a suit jacket. He too carried a gun, but now tucked it into his side holster and raised his hands. “My name is Logan Thorne, and we’re here because . . . well, it’s a long story, but mostly because Pete here needs to talk to his daughter.”

Colt let those words settle. And then, “Okay. If you’re Pete Sutton, tell me how my brother met your daughter. Where, and when—”

“Four years ago. In Key West. I was fixing a crack in the hull of my sailboat. He nearly died in the free-diving tower.”

Colt put down his gun. “Seriously. You’re not dead.”

“On paper . . .” He lifted a shoulder, even as he lowered his hands. Glanced toward his cohort. “She wasn’t supposed to find out. Not this way, at least, but we didn’t see her getting kidnapped in Nigeria either so . . .” He sighed. “You’re Colt?”

He narrowed his eyes.

“I know about your capture. And I know what you did for my daughter.” Pete’s mouth made a line. “Thank you.”

Yeah, well, Colt didn’t know what to do with that. He nodded.

“What are you doing here now?” Dodge said. “And who is inside our house?”

“A couple of local hires. Russians, but they probably have ties back home,” Logan said.

“Bratva?” Colt asked.

“That’s our guess.” Logan unsheathed his gun and checked his ammo clip. “We heard about the attempted hit on Noemi. Should have gotten here sooner. Sorry.”

“Sorry? That’s what you’ve got for us?” Dodge had paced to the door, glanced outside. The shooters had gone quiet.

“Hey!” Pete’s voice sharpened. “My daughter is in there, and from what we can tell, someone has been shot.”

That sent a cold shard through Colt, and maybe Dodge too because his jaw tightened. “How do you know that?”