Wed In Wyoming. Allison Leigh

beard, his profile as he peered through the deluged windshield could have been chiseled from the mountains around them. “Do you ever wonder about the messages you’re asked to dispatch?”

      “No.”

      “Never.” He gave her another one of those mind reader looks.

      Sometimes, honesty was a darned nuisance.

      “Yes. Of course I am curious sometimes,” she admitted. “But I don’t make any attempt to satisfy that curiosity. That’s not my role. I’m just the messenger. And what does that have to do with the Stanleys?”

      He raised one eyebrow. “When I gave you that intel back in November, you didn’t wonder about it?” He didn’t quite sound disbelieving, but the implication was there.

      “There are lots of things I wonder about, but I don’t have the kind of clearance to know more. Maybe I prefer it that way.” The tidbits of information that she dispatched were not enough to give her real knowledge of the issues that Hollins-Winword handled. It was a tried-and-true safety measure, not only for her personal safety, but for those around her, the agency’s work and the agency itself.

      She knew that. Understood that. Welcomed it, even.

      She believed in her involvement with Hollins-Winword. But that didn’t mean she was anxious to risk her neck over four sentences, which was generally the size of the puzzle pieces of information with which she was entrusted. Brody’s message for her that night at Leandra and Evan’s wedding reception had been even briefer.

      Stanley experimenting. Sandoval MIA.

      She’d memorized the information—hardly difficult in this case—and shortly after she’d returned to Atlanta, she’d relayed the brief missive to the impossibly young-looking boy who’d spilled his backpack on the floor next to her table at a local coffee shop.

      She’d knelt down beside him and helped as he’d packed up his textbooks, papers and pens, and three minutes later, he was heading out the door with his cappuccino and the message, and she was sitting back down at her table with her paperback book and her latte.

      “You didn’t look twice at the name Sandoval.”

      Somehow, cold water had snuck beneath the neck of her poncho and was dripping down the back of her spine. She tugged the hood of her poncho farther over her forehead but it was about as effective as closing the barn door after the horse was already out, considering the fact that she was already soaked. “Does it matter? Sandoval’s not that unusual of a name.”

      His lips twisted. “How old were you when you left Santo Marguerite?”

      The kernel inside her suddenly exploded, turning tense curiosity into a sickening fear that she didn’t want to acknowledge. “Four.” Old enough to remember that the name of the man who’d destroyed the Central American village where she’d been born, along with nearly everyone else who’d lived there, had been Sandoval.

      She reached out and closed her hand over his slick, wet forearm. “I’m no good at guessing games, Brody. Just tell me what you want me to know. Is Sandoval involved with the kidnapping?”

      His gaze flicked downward, as if surprised by the contact, and she hastily drew back, curling her cold hands together.

      “We haven’t been able to prove it, but we believe that he is the money behind the Santina Group. On the other hand, we know Santina funds at least two different black market organizations running everything from drugs and weapons to human trafficking. According to the pharmaceutical company Hewitt works for, he was on to something huge. Has to do with some little red frog about the size of my fingernail.”

      He shook his head, as if the entire matter was unfathomable to him. “Anyway, the pharmacy folks will try to replicate synthetically the properties of this frog spit, or whatever the hell it is.” His voice went terse. “And in the right hands, that’s fine. But those properties are also the kind of properties that in the wrong hands, could bring a whole new meaning to what profit is in the drug trade.”

      “They’ve got the parents and now they’re after the kids, too. Sandoval or Santina or whoever,” she surmised, feeling even more appalled.

      “We’re working on that theory. One of Santina’s top men—Rico Fuentes—was spotted in Caracas yesterday morning. Sophia Stanley’s parents were Venezuelan, and she inherited a small apartment there when they died. The place was tossed yesterday afternoon.”

      “How can you be sure the kids are even at the convent?”

      “Because I tossed the apartment yesterday morning and found Sophia’s notes she’d made about getting there, and packing clothes and stuff for the kids. I didn’t leave anything for ol’ Rico to find but who knows who Hewitt and Sophia may have told about their kids’ whereabouts. I’ve got my people talking to everyone at the pharmaceutical place, and so far none of them seems to know anything about the convent, but…” He shrugged and looked back at the road.

      “Hewitt obviously knew they were on to something that would be just as significant to the bad guys as to the good,” he told her. “Otherwise, why squirrel away their kids the way they did? They could have just hired a nanny to mind them while they went exploring in the tepuis.” He referred to the unearthly, flattop mountains located in the remote southeast portion of the country. She knew the region was inhabited by some extremely unusual life-forms.

      “Instead,” he went on, “they used the convent where Sophia’s mother once spent time as a girl.”

      “If this Rico person gets to the children, Santina could use them as leverage to make sure Hewitt cooperates.”

      “Bingo.”

      “What about Hewitt and Sophia, though? How will they even know their kids are still safe? Couldn’t these Santina group people lie?”

      “Hell yeah, they could lie. They will lie. But there’s another team working on their rescue. Right now, we need to make certain that whatever threats made concerning those kids are a lie.”

      She blew out a long breath. “Why not go to the authorities? Surely they’d be of more help.”

      “Which local authorities do you think we can implicitly trust?”

      She frowned. Miguel had often complained about the thriving black market and its rumored connection to the local police. “Brody, this kind of thing is way beyond me. I’m not a field agent. You know that better than anyone.” Her involvement with Hollins-Winword had only ever involved the transmittal of information!

      A deep crevice formed down his cheek as the corner of his lips lifted. “You are now, sweet cheeks.”

      “I do have a name,” she reminded.

      “Yeah. And until we get the kids outta this country, it’s Sophia Stanley.”

      “I beg your pardon?”

      “Beg all you want. There’s a packet in the glove box.”

      She fumbled with the rusting button and managed to open the box. It was stuffed with maps and an assortment of hand tools. The packet, she assumed, was the dingy envelope wedged between a long screwdriver and a bundle of nylon rope. She pulled it out and lifted the flap. Inside was a narrow gold ring with a distinctive pattern engraved on it and several snapshots.

      He took the envelope and turned the contents out into his hand. “Here.” He handed her the ring. “Put this on.”

      She gingerly took the ring from him and started to slide it on her right hand.

      He shook his head. “Left hand. It’s a wedding ring, baby cakes.”

      Feeling slightly sick to her stomach, she pushed the gold band over her cold wedding-ring finger. It was a little loose. She curled her fingers into her palm, holding it in place.

      She’d never put a ring on that particular finger