Chapter 3

3

Hank

Words failed me.

I was stunned. I'd never met a woman with bigger balls than…

Well…

Kelso and Gabby were leaning against the front of their SUV, enjoying the show.

The princess stopped by the SUV that brought them here. "That might have a tracker on it too."

"Yes." I warily approached her. "I'm parked behind that hill." She was already picking up the man I shot and attempting to heave him into the back seat.

"Give me a hand," she ordered. I could feel the amusement behind me, so I glanced at the detectives. "You guys better get moving."

I walked over to the princess and nudged her aside. "I got this."

Without another word, she got into the passenger seat. Thank fuck I didn't have to argue with her about driving too, although I wondered if she knew how to drive or was used to being driven around.

The detectives' SUV screeched away. It was a signal that we better get moving. No telling how far the blast radius was going to be, but what I could make out of the explosive device and factoring in the jet fuel, we needed more distance. I gunned the engine and followed them. I glanced over at my passenger. It was dark in the SUV, but I could discern the trail of blood down her arm. So the princess wasn't squeamish. "I'll look at that when I get a chance."

"I'm fine. Just a scratch."

"You often do that?"

"What? Dig out trackers from under my skin?"

"Well, yeah."

"Every six months."

She was kidding, of course, but I played along. "For real?"

"Listen…"

"I'm Hank, by the way."

"Listen, Hank. I appreciate your help, but I'm not fond of small talk."

"I thought this was the get-to-know-you stage."

She didn't answer me and stared out the window, reiterating her point that she didn't like small talk and her silence was her point of putting me in my place. She wasn't a head of state and I didn't know how much diplomatic immunity she could exercise.

The blast wave shook the SUV. It went off early. Fuck. "They sure wanted you wiped off the face of the planet," I muttered.

I chanced a glance at her. She wasn't smiling. She didn't appear scared. She was pissed. Her chin was down and she was glaring at the windshield.

When we rendezvoused with the detectives, I said, "We're switching vehicles."

I turned off the engine, got out of the SUV, and tossed the keys to Kelso.

The princess didn't trust me. Fair is fair. I didn't trust her either. For now, I was just a bridge to finding out who wanted her dead.

"You guys are cleaning up here?" I asked.

"Man, we're really faking the princess's death?" Kelso asked.

"Yes," the princess said firmly. "As I said, there's a better chance of finding out who did this if they think they've succeeded."

Kelso thumbed behind him. "What are we going to do about them?"

"Give them to me," the princess commanded in that imperious voice that I was sure irritated the detectives. Operating in Hollywood for so long, my friends were accustomed to cases involving high-profile and arrogant characters.

"You're going to interrogate them?" Gabby asked in a humoring tone.

The princess stared down her nose. "Of course."

Kelso squared his stance and crossed his shoulders. "No can do. You're in America. We're not having Amazonian justice here."

"I was their target."

"I'm sorry…how do I address you?" Gabby asked. "Princess…Your Highness."

"I'm called General Targen in Venusstea, Princess outside of it." She shrugged. "Princess Thala works—"

"Got it," Gabby cut her off because, apparently, the sarcasm was lost on the princess. "We're short on time. That blast could be felt for miles and that plume of smoke could be seen even at night given the city lights. You've got exactly two minutes to get out of here."

"They have the answers to who wants to kill me," the princess argued.

"We'll get things started. We'll keep in touch."

"Come on, Princess," I cut in. "Let the detectives do their jobs. Besides, those guys may have trackers on them too." I tipped my chin. "Where's your phone?"

She walked over to the SUV she came in and grabbed a beaded purse, extracting her phone. "It's off, and I've taken out the sim."

"Good girl," I said. She wasn't a helpless damsel, that was for sure. "I have a shielded box in the Jeep. We could pop it in there."

"Where are you taking me?" Thala asked.

I wasn't used to women disliking me. I was a likable and affable guy but either the princess didn't appreciate me saving her life or she needed me to pull that stick out of her royal ass. She didn't argue when I told her to get into my Jeep, but she certainly wasn't pleased that she couldn't question those men.

"I'm taking you to one of our safe houses in LA."

"You trust this Kelso and Gabby?"

"With my life."

"I don't see why I can't question those men."

"Because you yourself are a suspect."

She huffed. "If you think I'm guilty of this, then why should I trust you?"

"Maybe because I saved your a—life?"

"Ass," she said it with an emphasis on the s so that it almost sounded like a z . "I'm not a prude, Hank. I've dealt with all kinds of egos and profanity. I've been called every derogatory name in the book."

"Yeah, how do you deal with them? It's kind of hard for them to talk back since you're a princess and a general."

"You think I use my titles to intimidate people?"

"I don't know you or your culture enough to pass judgment. Let's just say I'm curious. A princess and a general. You don't fit the—"

"The stereotype?"

"—the mold." Damn, she was prickly. I guess I would be too if someone attempted to blow me up to kingdom come. Assuming she didn't set it up herself.

"I don't use my position to prove anything," she continued and let out another exasperated exhale. "I've been trained to command the royal guard since I was fourteen. We settle our differences in the arena."

I glanced over at her. We were on Sunset Boulevard on our way to Assassin's Hill. A term the CIA used to refer to the cluster of safe houses on top of the Hollywood Hills. Garrison kept me updated. He was trying to go through the back channels to get the pilot and the driver out of LAPD custody.

I suppressed a chuckle that might have ended up a snort. Trying to keep the amusement out of my tone, I asked, "So like gladiators?"

A chill blasted me from the side. Why couldn't I have come up with a less smartass reply? Because I couldn't help myself. Princess Thala was an enigma I wanted to decipher.

Women liked me. I was an easygoing guy, and they were comfortable with me. I wasn't as arrogant as Garrison or as grumpy as Levi.

"You expect me to tolerate your amusement at my expense?"

"I'm sorry. I… My friend's daughter was at your premiere and she said you did reenactments. So naturally my brain went to ancient times."

"We're more modern than that. It's my sister—the queen—who wants to cling to Venusstean romanticism."

"Still, I gotta say, I'm impressed you used a stiletto as a weapon. I take it you're good at knife-throwing."

"The battle ax is my favorite."

I cleared my throat. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Where's this safe house?"

"The exit is coming up," I told her.

"I want to call my brother, but I know that's not a good idea." She fidgeted beside me. We had been driving for twenty minutes, but from the looks of it, she was a woman of action. She wanted to grill those men. She understood patience, but it didn't mean she had to be patient with me.

"My friends' jobs are on the line by faking your death," I told her. "This might cause an international incident that could be beyond the LAPD's jurisdiction and could risk their badges."

"Then why not arrest me and not lie about my death?"

"Because they're after the truth. And we've already gone over the why a dozen times."

"That's admirable," she said shortly.

The SUV made a turn on Blue Heights Drive. "We're almost there."

"Hela's hell, I need to get out of these clothes."

An unexpected image of a tall, naked, and tanned body flashed before me. Fuck. Bad idea, Bristow. Besides the princess not being my type—I preferred more sweetness than vinegar—she'd probably stab me with my knife for real this time if she had an inkling of where my thoughts went.

"Yeah, I could get you a change of clothes."

Thala

Interesting character this Hank. Take-charge and decisive. It put my mind at ease because I didn't want to worry about navigating LA while trying to figure out who wanted me dead. On the other hand, I was concerned he might not be easily swayed when I needed him to follow my lead.

Ramsay was at the top of my suspect list because he was the one who wanted me on that plane. The Jeep pulled into a red-gated house. I was impatient to check the news, but Hank appeared not to trust me with his phone or any of his devices.

Fair enough.

When we got out of the Jeep, I stood at the passenger side, not moving, surveying the large house that looked to have been built during the disco era. The outside seemed well-maintained. "I didn't catch who you worked for."

"I didn't say." He shut his door, went to the back to grab a duffel and the box where he stowed my phone. "You just have to trust me."

"That's asking a lot."

"And yet you came with me."

"I had little choice right then."

He looked at the gate. "If you're thinking of making a break for it, it's not a good idea."

"Seems like a friendly neighborhood."

"This is LA, Princess. I wouldn't advise you to walk barefoot and chance stepping on a needle." He shut the back of the Jeep and proceeded toward a staircase. He went for the jugular, not mincing words about how little I knew about the city. What we saw on television was a highly sanitized version of Los Angeles. The soles of my feet were starting to hurt. Not that I was used to walking barefoot, but it was certainly more comfortable than wearing those ridiculous heels the royal fashion adviser paired with this dress. In the end, those stilettos were useful.

After a few seconds, I followed Hank down the steps. The parking level abutted the second floor of the house, and the entrance was at the foot of the staircase.

The door was open, and Hank had already disappeared into it. He wasn't waiting to welcome me into his abode. I certainly wasn't getting any princess treatment. That gave me relief. I'd proven I wasn't a helpless damsel. We trained just as hard, if not harder, than men.

We were natural athletes and warriors. That was part of our genetics. Survival of the fittest was ingrained in our culture. But since we stopped having enemies trying to invade our realm, the legend of the Amazonians was what fueled our economy.

I wanted to change that. And that was where my sister and I clashed. My brother, as the prime minister, was on my side. We were sitting on a basin of stean ore. Stea meant "star" in Romanian. Its mineral properties rivaled coltan as the leading metal used in consumer electronics.

"Are you hungry?" Hank walked over and handed me a bottled water.

"I could eat."

He headed to the living room and switched on the television. "You're on the news. You're big news."

"Hela's hell." I sat, transfixed by the screen. The vantage point was the news helicopter circling over the burnt-out plane. Fire trucks and police vehicles surrounded it.

The caption read, "Princess Thala assassinated."

"It certainly eclipsed the news of the attack at the premiere," Hank told me. "Look, it's hardly been forty-five minutes since the plane blew up and barely two hours since the incident at the theater."

"Incident," I scoffed. "Someone tried to kill the queen."

"And hide their tracks by coming after you. Unless you call your brother or sister, which…you won't…there'll be no other new information."

"The pilot and the driver?"

"The detectives have them on gag order. No one is talking to them and they have the sign-off from the police chief."

"That quick?"

"Well, Garrison might have had a hand in that."

"Who the hell are you working for?"

"Can't tell ya."

I glared at him. "And I'm supposed to just trust you?"

"You've trusted me this far."

"Because I have no choice," I repeated my earlier argument. After I'd gotten over my initial relief that I'd survived an assassination attempt, I questioned my sanity of blindly following this man. The thing was, it didn't look like he was hiding anything from me and only wanted to help. His cop friends didn't give off untrustworthy vibes; what do they call them here—dirty cops? How did they quickly show up at the airfield?

"You obviously followed me from the theater," I said. "Why not my sister? She was the target at the theater."

He shrugged. "You looked like the better lead."

"I call bullshit."

He raised a brow. "You've got a mouth on you, Princess."

"And I told you, I'm used to dealing with men."

"And their bullshit?"

"I'm not a man-hater either if that's what you think."

"But culturally, you don't trust men."

This man was trying my patience with his ignorance. "That's exactly why I want to change the preconceived notions of our country. Amadea is perpetuating the Amazonian myth. Ten percent of what's real has been exaggerated and has defined Venusstean culture to the outside world. And fifty percent of the movie earlier? Didn't happen. That's all Hollywood, which my sister approved."

Hank's eyes narrowed, and I knew exactly where his thoughts went. "And no, not enough for me to call a hit on my sister. Someone is trying to destroy the monarchy. I intend to find out who. Now, I want to clean up and get out of this restrictive attire."

As if jolted from deep thought, he shot me a grin that should have annoyed me. Hank smiled easily. I didn't trust men who smiled easily, especially during serious discussions, but with him, it felt different. His smile put me at ease. It reached his eyes.

He had kind eyes.

"Right," he muttered. "Follow me."

He led the way up a narrow flight of steps. There was a landing before it turned to the second floor. Pistachio-colored walls and white trim paneled the hallway. My nose twitched at the strong musty smell. "You don't use this place frequently."

"I crash here occasionally."

"You're not from LA."

"I get around."

Evasive.

"You're a spy."

He gave a quick snort of laughter and glanced back at me while we moved through the hallway. "Now, why would you say that?"

"Well, you shot a guy while wearing a tuxedo. Your Jeep is souped up with equipment that's more than typical of a person who lives in his vehicle. You have a shield box for my phone. You have people in law enforcement at your beck and call."

"Gabby and Kelso are hardly at my beck and call. One would say, I'm at their beck and call."

"So what do you do?"

"I like to think of myself as a jack-of-all-trades…for the greater good."

"Like Batman?"

"I assure you, Princess, I'm not a billionaire." He opened a door. "You can use this room." This time he let me in first. Hank followed me and threw open the closet. "We have sweats here and shoes. Never used. We have different sizes. This should get you through the night." His gaze zeroed in on my bloody arm. "I want to clean that. Make sure it doesn't get infected."

"You're a nurse too?"

He barked a laugh. "You wouldn't believe me if I said yes."

I didn't laugh along with him. His chipper attitude was supposed to get me comfortable with him, but I was too wired up and on the edge.

His laughter grated on me.

His humor subsided and his mouth clamped shut. It still twitched at the corners. He cleared his throat. "Do you have everything you need?"

"Yes."

"You sure you don't want to check the bathroom?"

"What? For shampoo and soap? Water is fine." I stared at him pointedly. He got the message and backed out of the room.

"I'll leave you to it."

"Thanks." I shut the door in his face.

I didn't linger in the shower. I started bleeding again so applied pressure to the wound with a towel. The cut might've been too deep. I selected a heather-gray tracksuit and found slip-on sneakers in my size. It was a relief to be out of this stupid gown. And because I wanted to have options, I snooped around. The place seemed stocked up with utilitarian amenities, but maybe they had burner phones hidden somewhere. So, in case I found out that Hank was a good actor and was a backup assassin, I was out of luck. I didn't think I would survive in LA's jungle without a phone and money, and I couldn't risk using my phone right now.

After rummaging through drawers and digging around in the closet for a while, I'd determined that no burner phones were to be had.

I kept the hoodie off and simply wore a dark ribbed tank. I went in search of Hank and found him in the kitchen. He'd already changed out of his tux. He'd obviously taken a shower too because his hair was wet. So he trusted me enough not to snoop around the entire house.

We were allies for now, and I decided to take him up on his offer. "I can't stop the bleeding."

"You need stitches," he said. "You cut too deep."

And probably mangled the muscle in the process. "Seemed like a good idea at the time."

"Have a seat." He nodded to the chair beside him and flipped open a train case.

I quirked a brow. "That looks like more than a first aid kit."

"Would it make you feel better if I said I was a medic?"

"Medic. Military?"

"Former SEAL."

I gave a brief nod.

"Not impressed yet?" A side of his mouth tipped up.

"It takes a lot to impress me, but I'm glad you've had above-average training."

He sat back in his chair and gawked at me. Indignation lined every inch of his body. "Woman, have you ever seen what they put us through during Hell Week?"

I scoffed. "Of course. But how old were you then? Eighteen?"

"Oh, because you started earlier, that means you've gone through tougher training? And have you ever been in an actual war?"

He got me there.

"Touché. Now, are you going to fix the bleeding?"

He huffed and brought out a syringe.

"I don't need anesthesia."

"Stop being such a hard-ass," he grumbled. "This is more for me."

"What?"

"I don't like the idea of putting you through pain. It's already swelling around the cut."

I stared at my arm. It was looking nasty. "Fine."

"Thank you." He said it in a way that seemed I was doing him a favor rather than him doing one for me. I couldn't help liking him. A bit. Earlier, I just saw him as a means to an end, but maybe we could work together. I needed to find out what his role in this was first, because it didn't take a genius to discern that he wasn't involved just out of the goodness of his heart.

The needle pricked my skin.

"This should take a few minutes."

I didn't answer him but concentrated on the wide-screen TV. "Any more news?"

"No one from your side has made a statement yet."

"So my brother and sister think I'm dead?"

"For now."

I gave a grim smile. "Good."

"Your family must be as dysfunctional as mine."

My face didn't show any reaction. I was not interested in his family. Unfortunately, I was jaded enough to identify his tactic. He was trying to connect with me, lull me into complacency by showing we had something in common, so he could coax me to tell him what I know.

"Who is Hela?" Hank asked.

I gave him an irritated look because I didn't feel like explaining mythology to him.

"Google it."

"Damn, Princess." Color heightened his cheeks. I'd embarrassed him. I felt a twinge in my chest.

"I don't like small talk."

"Got it." He dropped his gaze and picked up the needle and suture. He was taking care of my wound, after all. I felt like I kicked a puppy. The least I could do was humor him.

I relented on a heavy exhale. "She's the goddess of the dead."

"Yeah, that's what I thought, but isn't that Norse?" Hank rumbled and pressed around my cut. "Feel anything?"

I shook my head. He began to suture. I was partly impressed he wasn't simply making small talk after all. "You like mythology?"

"Been reading it on and off since I was a kid," he said.

I kept my eyes away from where he was patching me up. As much as the sight of blood didn't faze me, the action of a needle going in and out of flesh made me queasy. I hated showing any signs of weakness.

"There wasn't much about Amazonian mythology that interested me," I said. "I found Greek and Roman more interesting."

"They're more mainstream," Hank said. "But weren't Amazonians a part of Greek mythology?"

"Yes. Both Roman and Greek have their counterparts." I murmured. "Makes you wonder if the gods roamed the earth once upon a time."

"Mount Olympus is Greek and physical though," Hank replied and snipped the thread. He sprayed antiseptic on the closed cut and sealed it with gauze.

"Yeah, it's a metaphorical place for the Romans," I said. "Thanks." I was unnerved that I wanted to talk more about mythology with him. It was one of my favorite subjects and not only in school, but also I read it for leisure. I walked over to the living room and stared at the constant replay of the footage of the burnt-out plane and the rush from the theater, but that soon became visual noise. I saw myself in our ancient castle, by the window of a stone staircase leading up to the turret. Hiding away from everyone, I would read an ancient tome of Greek or Roman or Norse mythology. Stories I reread over and over until I was eighteen, until my duties with the guard left me too tired to indulge in leisure reading.

Hank's curse broke through my musings.

My attention refocused on the screen at the breaking news.

"Call for the arrest of the queen's bodyguard."