Marie was made of stronger stuff than he’d thought.

Malcolm had seen her go down, and for one weird instant, he’d had a funny, regretful feeling in his gut. It hadn’t lasted, but…it had reminded him to keep his guard up around her.

She’d earned respect, standing up for John’s Emily.

But he still had his reservations.

She peeled the bulletproof vest off, slowly and cautiously, and winced when John examined her. He lifted her shirt to see her ribs.

Malcolm scowled and turned away. The feeling of jealousy was humiliating. What the fuck was wrong with him? He was a fucking dick. Hating her and lusting after her. If Hawk knew, he’d probably fire him.

He grabbed a cup of coffee from the sidebar of the conference room, stirred in three packets of sugar, and took a sip before turning back. He took a seat, not too close, but not too far away either.

“She called him Tim.”

John’s hands stilled and then continued their exam of her side, pressing against her flesh. Hadn’t he done enough by now? Fucker. Malcolm closed his eyes.

“Tim? As in Tim Roche? As in the man who died in Brussels with his fiancée, Sandra French?”

“I don’t know. She called him Tim and said, ‘You’re dead.’”

Malcolm’s ears perked up, and he gulped some coffee before setting it aside.

It was his turn.

He pulled his computer from his bag and set it on the table.

The search began. And it didn’t take long. “Dr. Timothy Roche, killed in the attack in Belgium,” he said. John came over, and a glance behind showed Marie lowering her shirt. The bruising covered her side, making Malcolm feel even more like an ass than he already did for being jealous of Father John.

He paged through a few more screens, pulling more information from the databases he’d created over the years. “Funny, though. He’s still got accounts in three different countries, including the United States. The only one that’s sitting inactive is the one in the States. He’s acquired quite a nest egg. He’s got one sister in Paris, which is where he and Sandra were living at the time of the attack, who owns a little art gallery.”

Malcolm opened his tracking program and tapped in Emily’s phone number.

“Why Emily? She’s done nothing but grieve for him and Sandra. She’s risked her life to get justice for those two.” John gripped the back of Malcolm’s chair. “Where is she? And where the fuck is Hassan?”

Malcolm did a search first, using Marcus’ phone number. “He’s on the move.”

“His phone is…because Hassan wanted him dead. He used him to get Emily, and then Marcus used Hassan to bring in Tim Roche. Both of those men would have seen the footage out of Raleigh. Marcus was the weak link.”

“Why? How?”

Marie cleared her throat. “I might know.”

“Figures.” Malcolm turned in his seat, lifted a brow at the pretty woman standing behind them, and felt that resentment build.

“I didn’t, um…well, I didn’t know.”

John checked his watch and wagged his finger. “Today.”

“I kind of grew up around people who liked to gamble, so I saw some signs…and, well, one night, after we’d all been at the pub for a bit, Marcus started talking.”

“Marie,” John said sharply.

Malcolm held up a hand. He wasn’t sure why he wanted to protect her, but the instinct was there. John relaxed a little, and she hurried to finish. “He’s got money problems, and he needed a large amount of money, quickly. He told me he was fine, that he had an ace up his sleeve.”

Silence filled the room.

“I’m sorry,” Marie said.

“Craig, I want you, Ranger, and Malcolm on your way to the airport now,” Hawk said.

“Sir—” John started.

“You can wait, John,” Hawk said, inviting no argument. “You’ll slow them down in your state.”

The man still had blood streaming down his face and neck. He looked like he’d crawled out of a war zone, because he had.

Malcolm picked up his computer, snatched the keys of the little Jeep they’d been using, and tossed them to Craig.

It had been—maybe—eight minutes since they all converged on the TOC.

Malcolm only hoped it wasn’t too late to catch Emily before she was on a plane to only the devil knew where.

* * *

Hassan followed the weasel of a friend—disloyal to anything but himself, typical westerner—through the crowds at the airport. He’d unloaded the girl somewhere before Hassan had caught up to him. And since the girl was his goal, he was going to have to capture the man and find out where he put her.

He was on his own now. The men at the house had been small losses.

When he got too close to the man, he paused to give them a little distance.

Perhaps the man would get her on a plane. He’d have to have his own plane, a flight plan.

But the man with the curly hair bypassed the check-in counters, crossed to an employee-only door, and went through. Hassan hurried and slipped through an instant before the door clicked shut. Then he stopped.

The guy had disappeared like a fart in the wind.

Orange-and-yellow-vested workers moved around in the baggage area, sorting and moving bags onto the motorized baggage tugs. No one noticed him. Not one person paid any attention to him…

He couldn’t believe he’d lost his target, lost the woman.

He took one step. A breath of air touched his ear, and he stopped.

The barrel of a gun pressed to his spine. “Mr. Hassan. Just the man I’m looking for.” The accent was European, rich with French and Scandinavian tones. “Come with me.”

The push of the gun against his back had him moving forward, guided by the man’s hand on his arm. “Where’s the girl?”

“Ah, yes. You want the girl. You paid for the girl, didn’t you? Poor Marcus. He thought he was dealing with the devil. Probably assumed you’d be dead when Hawk Elite finished with you. And then I found him. It wasn’t hard to follow his tracks to you. I wanted Emily…” The man shoved Hassan into the baggage tug. He hit his head on the upper shelf where baggage had been piled. The man kicked Hassan in the head. He curled into a fetal position and turned away from his attacker. He stopped short when he found himself facing her. Emily. The missing woman. The blonde who had killed his son. The woman he was to kill. Her eyes went wide, fear draining the color from her face as she scooted back further into the baggage carrier until the canvas cover stopped her.

The man ducked his head in. “Oh, good. You’ve officially met. I have to tell you, Hassan. I wanted Emily for bringing my Sandra to Belgium for her security conference, trying to bring peace with their destruction, their guns—hypocrites, all of them, don’t you think?”

Hassan grunted when he felt the pressure of an injection in his neck.

“But I wanted you even more. And there was only one way to get you. And that was to follow her. Now I have Hassan and Emily. And you will both pay for killing the one person in the world who should have lived.”

* * *

They all had their communication units back in working order.

John paced as the team hit the airport, a mere ten-minute ride, and then began the search.

Malcolm continued his quiet stream of consciousness, talking about the red dot on his screen then describing the surroundings. “We’re through the guards and beyond the terminal where the ground support equipment is docked. I lost her signal.”

John held his breath.

“Fuck,” Malcolm said over the comm. “We’re going to have to do a search. Hawk, any word from the airlines or from the local police?”

“They’ve got men in the terminal looking for this Tim Roche. But no one’s purchased any tickets in the last twenty-four hours, not even with cash. If he’s leaving on a plane, it’s not from a terminal.”

John turned to Hawk. “Let us go. We can help with a search.”

When he saw leniency and compassion in Stacy’s gaze, he pressed a little harder.

“They can use the backup. We can cover more ground in a search.”

“Go,” Hawk said.

John was already moving, and he didn’t care if Marie had to run to catch up.

“John.”

He stopped.

“Don’t be a dumbass.”

“Yes, sir.” He had no intention of being a dumbass or getting himself killed.

He was going to find her, and he was going to bring her home.