Shifting quickly into gear, he tore out of the driveway, checking the rearview mirror just long enough to see her racing into the house.

“Call Sam.” He activated the Bluetooth calling option built into the powerful vehicle.

“Detective Bryce,” responded the strong, feminine voice that came over the line.

“Sam, could you check the house for me?” Graham kept his tone casual, pleasant. “I’m going to be late getting back and Kye’s phone is acting up on me.”

Sam would know exactly what the request meant—that Kye might need protection and to get her out of the house.

“Sure, Graham,” she answered, her own voice never changing, though he knew she was moving, prepping. “I was heading that way anyway to visit with a few friends.”

“I appreciate it,” he drawled. “On your way back, stop by the Mackays’ and ask Zoey if she’ll make a reservation for you tomorrow night. She’s still pissed at me for running off that hoodlum last week who was flirting with her. But let’s not let her family know I butted in. Dawg gets cranky over that shit and he’ll just piss her off when he questions her about it.”

What he said wasn’t important. The fact that he said it and the name he gave was all the detective needed. They’d worked together long enough that she was well versed in reading between the lines.

He didn’t want anyone alerted to the fact that Lyrica was in trouble until he figured out what the trouble was and the danger she was facing. The fact that Kye’s phone was being monitored and jammed each time she attempted to call Lyrica was warning enough that any information going to Lyrica’s phone, or her family’s phones, would be overheard.

“Yeah, we try to keep Dawg calm,” Sam laughed, the ease of the sound assuring him that anyone listening would be none the wiser that Graham was on his way to London. “Talk to you soon, then.”

Disconnecting the call, Graham pushed the little sports car harder, taking the curves at a breakneck speed as he raced for the interstate.

London was forty-five minutes away. In the Viper, he could cut that time to less than twenty. He didn’t worry about being stopped or trailed. Once his tag number was called in, law enforcement would let him go. He made certain he used the privilege often enough that he was rarely questioned over it. It shouldn’t so much as blip anyone’s radar. At least not until he collected Lyrica, and only then if he was seen.

Tightening his hands on the steering wheel as his teeth clenched furiously, he hoped he came face-to-face with the bastard who had the delicate, too damned fragile Lyrica hiding behind a Dumpster, terrified for her life.

They’d made a mistake. Whoever had dared to strike out at her for whatever reason had made a costly error. Because he’d make sure they paid. They should have done their homework better, should have checked closer into the fact that Kye was a friend. The very fact that Kyleene Brock kept Lyrica’s number on her main contact list should have been a clue.

She was important to Graham.

He’d encouraged Kye in that particular friendship. Had gently pushed his sister in the other woman’s direction to ensure Lyrica stayed on the periphery of his life, at least.

He had no intention of becoming involved with her. He wouldn’t have become involved with her because of the simple fact that he hadn’t wanted to hurt her.

He didn’t want to break her tender heart.

Now that might not even be an option.

He’d make damned sure that he broke the bastard, ensuring the dynamics in his and Lyrica’s relationship would change, though. Whoever it was, he was a dead man walking.

As he sped toward the interstate, the Viper taking the curves with a roar of power as it easily gripped the pavement, he was aware of a pickup that he passed, as well as the man most likely driving it.

The highway entrance was just ahead, and, calculating his intended speed and that of the man behind him, he quickly revised the plan he’d been considering to rescue Lyrica.

“Incoming call. Secured. Encrypted,” the computerized voice announced.

“Accept,” he ordered tersely.

“Need help?” Elijah Grant, formerly with the Federal Protective Service and now part of the small team Graham headed in the county, asked as the headlights in Graham’s rearview mirror assured him the other man had turned around and was attempting to follow him.

With the motor Jed Booker had put in that truck, Elijah might just be able to keep up if Graham cooperated.

“I don’t have time to stop,” Graham stated. “If you can stay on my ass until we’re close, then I could use some cover.”

“You have to slow sometime,” Elijah told him. “I’ll be there and can slide in fast.”

“I’ll need the passenger seat. You’ll have to be able to keep up.” Hitting the interstate, Graham pushed the Viper faster. “If you can stay close, we’re not going far.”

“As long as we’re on the interstate I can keep up,” Elijah assured him as they roared up the ramp onto the all but deserted highway. “We hit more county roads and I’ll fall behind.”

The truck’s motor was strong as hell and the speeds the vehicle had been logged at amazed even Graham. It wasn’t nearly as steady on mountain curves as the low-built Viper, though, nor did it have the Viper’s full speed. But Elijah could at least keep him in sight on the interstate if Graham stayed at the speed he intended.

“You’ll be fine, then,” Graham promised. “Just follow me and keep my ass covered when I collect my package.”

“Got it,” Elijah promised. “Is there any chance of compromise?”

“Not short term.” The short call was safe, the security on the line still showing green rather than the yellow that would indicate possible encryption weakness. “Long term is iffy.”

“I’m on your ass, then, and prepped to cover.”

The line went silent, the call well within the limited parameter outside of which anyone could compromise it.

God, he hoped Lyrica was still safely tucked away at the last GPS pinpoint he had.

Glancing at the monitor, he tracked the destination and knew he was only minutes away from the exit leading to London.

She was only a few miles from the turn, on a little backstreet just behind one of the older, remodeled hotels that had been popular decades before. He knew the area and was fairly certain she’d found a way to push her slight body into one of the chimney alcoves that had mostly been boarded or bricked up once the fireplaces were removed.

She would be well hidden as long as no one managed to GPS her phone. Though tracking it and jamming it at the same time would be difficult. And tracking would be impossible once the battery was pulled.

Unless it was bugged.

But why bug it if they already had it jammed? And if it was bugged, they would have found Lyrica before Kye contacted her.

What the hell was going on?

Silently, he went over every piece of intel from the past few months and couldn’t find so much as a hint as to why Lyrica would be targeted. There were no current operations in the area. Graham and his team hadn’t been called out in months to provide backup or to cover any current investigations. And the Mackays weren’t even in the country . . .

The Mackays were on vacation overseas, out of reach of two of the young women who were well-known to be important to them and to Timothy Cranston. Could someone have decided to make a vengeance strike against Dawg Mackay while he was gone?

Hell, even that didn’t make sense. Dawg would return the second he knew one of his sisters was hurt or in trouble. If something happened to one of them, then he and his cousins would blow back into town like a vicious wind. There would be no hiding once Dawg began tracking the perpetrators. And once they were found, Natches Mackay would make sure a bullet found their brains, if Dawg didn’t beat him to it.

It didn’t make sense yet, but it would, soon.