Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

P erfect . Shep had rescued London right into a royal prison cell. Or rather, ahem , a dungeon .

Nice . They sat in a small concrete room in the bowels of the palace, a gate across the rough opening, an electric light illuminating the corridor. Next to him, London shivered in her wet clothing. He wanted to put his arm around her but could only lean against her, shoulder to shoulder, his hands secured behind him.

“So, I guess I didn’t think this all the way through to the end. Sorry. When I saw the door in the rock?—”

“Stop, Shep. There was a shooter behind us. Don’t worry, Prince Luka will sort this out.” She glanced at him, her face half obscured by the shadows. Dirt streaked her face, her hair sodden under her wool hat, but she could still make his heart stop in his chest, sweep the breath from him. I hope that answers your question.

Maybe he’d been talking to himself, because he had been the one harboring questions. And maybe now wasn’t the time to think about a future, the life he’d hoped for them. Because the more he ventured into London’s world, the less he saw of the woman he’d known for the last year and the more . . . well, the more she became a mystery.

Maybe her father had been right—Shep might be in love with the version of London he’d created.

He’d known she was a woman of action, of purpose, known she was into something, well, questionable, given her presence at the meet in Zermatt. So, hello , someone had been in denial.

But yes. He was still on mission, and her father’s words back in the study yesterday reverberated through him. “Keep her alive. Bring her home.”

Alive in the king’s prison was at least better than dead in the rain on a mountain.

Except, “You don’t think they’ll draw and quarter us, do you?”

She laughed, looked at him. “It’ll probably be the boiling oil.”

“Nice. That’s a great mental picture.”

“Don’t worry, Prince Luka is a friend.”

He didn’t like that mental picture either.

Footsteps, the shudder of metal against stone, and then a guard appeared. Spoke in Italian.

She looked at Shep and translated. “Prince Luka will see us.”

“Hopefully not to chop off our heads.”

“Just our ears.”

“I think we should stop this game.”

London smiled as the guard opened the door. She addressed him in Italian. He shook his head, took her by the arm, and helped her up.

“What was that?”

“I asked for the cuffs to come off.”

Shep followed them out of the cell and down the hall. “Not for a second do I think you can’t get out of these zip ties.”

“Never hurts to try manners first.”

Interesting .

The guard opened the door at the end of the hall.

“Besides, my mother is the ambassador. No need to start a squabble.”

“We did break into the palace.”

The guard directed them to an elevator, pressed the button, and then invited them inside when the doors opened.

They rose a number of levels, and the door opened to a hallway with a deep-blue carpet and gilded walls, with ornate molding around the windows, and gold wall sconces that held faux candles. Chandeliers dripped from the ceiling, and through the leaded glass, the village was dark.

Weird. Shouldn’t lights be on in the village below?

They followed the guard down another hallway, then stopped at a door and knocked.

It opened, and another blue-uniformed guard looked at them, nodded, and stepped aside.

Shep glanced at the sword sheath hanging from the man’s belt. Talk about playing the part.

The office bore all the vestiges of a royal space, from the deep-blue velvet draperies that framed two tall windows that overlooked the city, to a painting of some ancient ruler dressed in the deep blues and gold of the royal colors that overlooked the domain from between the windows.

A bookcase held trinkets—probably gifts from visiting dignitaries. Silver bowls, an ivory statue of an elephant, an intricate filigreed wooden sailing vessel, what looked like a totem pole, a glass vase, a couple lion bookends, even a Russian samovar and a nephrite egg.

An exquisite polished-walnut desk sat in front of the windows. A gold carved crest of Montelena inlaid the desk’s paneled front, an elaborately carved trim twining along the top and sides. A couple tufted leather chairs faced the desk, and a matching executive chair pushed up behind it.

An office befitting a ruler.

And the ruler? Standing near the floor-to-ceiling bookcase, hands clasped, wearing a sweater, a pair of dress pants. He had a distinct Henry Cavillness about him—tall, broad-shouldered, a cleft chin, a chiseled jaw, dark eyes, a confidence in his expression, which now bore a slightly tweaked smile.

“Your Royal Highness,” London said, and Shep just stopped and stared as she curtsied.

Prince Luka raised an eyebrow at Shep, who tightened his lips, then bobbed his head. Whatever .

London stood up, and Prince Luka directed his attention to her, his smile widening. “Delaney, darling, if anyone is permitted to break into my palace, it’s you.” Then he walked forward, his hands out, leaned over, and kissed one cheek, then the other. He glanced at his guard. “Uncuff her.”

The man took out a clipper and relieved her of her cuffs.

Shep stood there watching as London ran her hands around her wrists, over the cuff marks. “Thanks. And sorry. We weren’t trying to break in—someone tried to shoot us.”

“What?” Prince Luka took her hand. “Are you okay?” He spoke fluent English, maybe because London had addressed him in English. Manners .

“Yes. Shep saw the door in the rock, and he—we—got it open and used the tunnel to escape.”

Shep kept his gaze on Luka. Um, cuffs, buddy?

Apparently His Highness wasn’t keen on freeing him. Still, the prince glanced at the guard and nodded.

A clip, and Shep was rubbing his wrists too.

“Now, again, someone was shooting at you?” The prince had a distinctly highbrow, almost British accent, perhaps with a small amount of eastern European thrown in, which only added to his royalness. “ Ma chérie, that is disturbing.” He took her hand and directed her to a chair.

Oh, and of course he spoke French.

Shep folded his arms, remained standing.

“Are you sure?”

“We’re sure,” Shep said, and Prince Luka looked at him.

“And this is?”

“Shep Watson, my . . . he’s with me.”

What happened to boyfriend? Whatever . He met Luka’s gaze. “Where she goes, I go.”

“Oh, I see,” the prince said. “Very good. I will ask my security to look into it. In the meantime, let’s get you out of those wet clothes.”

Shep held up a hand. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“Nonsense.” Luka snapped his fingers, and the guard opened the door, spoke to someone in the hallway.

“Really, Your Highness?—”

“Luka. We’ve played this game before, Delaney, and I won.”

He did? Shep stilled. Especially when Luka’s smile felt a little, hello , too warm. Too genuine. At least, when directed at London. Oh, wait —maybe he meant the first name, not the clothing change. Sheesh, calm down .

Still, Shep didn’t like the man.

“Okay—Luka,” London said. “I’m so sorry to have disturbed your security services, especially right in the middle of your gala preparations.”

He waved a hand. “Oh, that is my mother’s domain. I’m more undone by the fact that you are here, back in my country, without a word of warning. I need time to brace my heart for the possibility that you will break it again.”

Shep rolled his eyes.

London smiled. “Yes, well, it was an impromptu trip. I have an appointment at Cryptex tomorrow to replace my bio card.”

“Tomorrow?”

“The waiting period.”

“You should have called me. You know I would do anything in my power for you.” The door behind them opened, and in walked a steward holding two thick robes. Prince Luka reached out and took one, held it open for London.

She turned, slipping into it, pulling it around her and belting it.

Shep looked at the steward as he handed him the robe. Sheesh, he wasn’t that cold. But, okay, fine, especially when London gave him a side-eye.

He felt like the Pillsbury Doughboy.

“Come with me, and we’ll get your bio card taken care of. No reason for you to wait.” Luka reached over and picked up the landline phone on his desk. “But only on one condition.”

“No more sneaking into the palace?”

He smiled. “Perhaps. But I was thinking more of a request—that you’ll attend the ball tomorrow night.” He glanced at Shep. “With your guest, of course.”

He’d sort of hoped London had been kidding about the ball.

“Yes. Of course. My mother has already purchased dresses.”

“Very good.” His Highness turned to the phone and spoke Italian, waited a moment, then nodded and hung up. “You’re all sorted. My guards will escort you to Cryptex. I’ll make sure you have your card by tomorrow night at the ball.”

A knock at the door. The guard opened it, and a man stuck his head in. Spoke again in Montelenan.

Shep should really pick up a few words, ASAP.

The prince nodded, and the man left.

“The electricity went out?” London said.

“With the storm, the entire city grid went out.” And even as he spoke, lights flickered on in the darkness behind him, the city turning magical in the valley below.

“Does this happen a lot?” Shep asked.

Prince Luka glanced at him. Lifted a shoulder. “Occasionally. We’re on an old grid. The palace has been updated, of course, but the earthquake of 2004 shook through eastern Europe. It even hit us here and destroyed much of our infrastructure. We’re slowly replacing it, but our primary focus was rebuilding and fortifying Cryptex and the palace security. It appears we forgot the postern gate.” He gave Shep a nod, almost a thank-you.

Hmm .

“My guards are waiting to take you to Cryptex. And then I will see you tomorrow night at the gala?” He walked to the door, held it open. “Please let me know if the palace can assist you in anything else.” He lowered his voice. “Preferably not something criminal.” Then he winked. At London. Who curtsied again.

“At least, not officially.”

He chuckled, deep and resonant, and Shep had the crazy and completely inappropriate urge to deck him.

What. Ever.

They walked through the halls in their silly polar-bear robes, took an elevator down a couple levels, walked down a concrete tunnel, passed through a series of secure doors, then took another lift up to a main floor and into a marbled entryway with an inlaid travertine floor and a tall door with two large circular locks.

“Those locks are just for show,” said London as the guard beside her keyed in numbers on a digital panel. The door slid to the side, and lights bloomed in another corridor. “You can access Cryptex through an external entry also.” She pointed to a door on the other side of the entryway as they entered the tunnel. “But you still have to go through the same amount of security.”

At the far end, a view through bars revealed a lobby. A guard stood sentry by the inner entrance, and a receptionist sat at the desk. “It’s guarded twenty-four seven but is only open daylight hours. My guess is that Prince Luka asked someone to stay.”

“He likes you,” he said softly.

She glanced back at him. Smiled. “I’m taken.”

Oh. Yes. Okay, see, calm down . But she did this spy thing a little too well.

The guard keyed in a long code, the gate opened, and they went inside. A simple white-oak built-in reception desk sat in front of a black granite wall, the words Cryptex Bank hanging in gold letters. The guard spoke to a receptionist—a slim woman, midforties, her blonde hair pulled back, wearing a blue uniform with a gold emblem on the jacket breast. Looked like a filigreed C, for Cryptex.

“Wait here. I’ll be right back,” said London.

“Not on your life.”

She turned. “This is the most secure building in Europe. I’ll be fine.”

“I’m starting to think that my definition of secure and yours might be different.”

But then she squeezed his hand and followed the woman to a nearby room, also unlocked with a thumbprint and a code, and there he stood, an idiot in his puffy white bathrobe, like he was on walkabout in a spa.

He shucked off the robe, his clothing now reasonably warm, although still soggy, and scanned the place. On the other side, a wall of vertical black wooden strips sat against glass, and beyond that, an array of slick-looking computer towers filled the room.

Could be the crypto-mining banks.

Another door led to an area beyond the granite wall, but it was also locked with the same lock system.

The sooner they dumped this virus and headed back to Alaska, the better. He didn’t know the lay of this land, couldn’t see around the corners of London’s life to know what to expect next.

And then there was the ball. Sheesh, if his father could see him now. And of course, the old man walked into his head. “Now all glory to God, who is able, through his mighty power at work within us, to accomplish infinitely more than we might ask or think.”

Huh. So maybe the old man would be a little impressed with him.

Although, the man had never been impressed with wealth or power, so maybe not. “People look at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart.”

Behind him, the barred gate buzzed open, and he turned to see a man walk in, dressed in a similar Cryptex uniform. He stood in the lobby, glanced at Shep.

Shep had never been so glad to be out of a bathrobe.

The door opened, and London came out, blinking hard. She closed her eyes as she came toward him. Her thumb pressed a piece of cotton against her middle finger. “They need blood for the DNA in the card and shoot air into your eye to dry it out.” She blinked a few more times. “That’s better.”

The receptionist took her place behind the desk, and when the man flashed a bio card, she reached under her desk and buzzed him into the secure area, through the other door.

Meanwhile, London looked at the guard, spoke in Montelenan, and they exited the lobby, back to the tunnel. Shep had picked up his robe, and after another elevator ride and another walk down a corridor, they gave them to the guard, who escorted them out of a side entrance, to a courtyard outside the palace. Light sprayed down onto the cobblestones. A driveway led into the mountain, probably to the entrance of Cryptex. Stairs descended from the area, down the mountainside to the village.

Commoners once again.

At least it had stopped raining. He started for the stairs, but a horn beeped from a nearby parking area. An embassy SUV sat in the lot, and a door opened, the light shining from an inside dome. “Your ride, ma’am.”

Oh .

“Prince Luka must have called the embassy,” London said, a hint of chagrin in her voice.

It was better than the hike down the mountain, although he felt like a child being collected from the principal’s office as he climbed inside the SUV.

They drove down the mountain, into the city, through the pools of light that splashed on the wettened streets, and finally through the embassy gates.

As they climbed out, Shep held out his hand to her. She took it.

“Prince Luka has nothing on you.”

His mouth tightened at the edges. Yeah, well, it wasn’t a competition.

Really.

They went inside and then upstairs and stopped by the private living area where Mitch and Ambassador Sofia sat on the sofas. The smell of dinner came from the nearby kitchen.

Mitch put down the paper he was reading. “Get caught in the storm?”

“Something like that,” London said. “But I did get my Cryptex appointment, so you can cancel it. Oh, and we’re going to the ball, Mother, so yes, I’ll need one of those dresses.”

Her mother smiled. “I knew you’d come around.”

He waited for a retort from London, but she nodded and walked down the hall to her room.

He followed her. “You okay?”

She turned around. “Perfect. I was trying to figure out when and how to get into Cryptex to upload the virus. I caught the code the guard entered as he let us in, and it looks like you just need to press the buzzer under the desk to get into the inner rooms. Tomorrow night, after I get the bio card, we’ll sneak in and upload the virus and be gone, and all this will be over.”

“What about”—his voice lowered—“that assassin?”

She held up a finger. “Working on that.” She smiled at him. “I can’t wait to see what you look like in a tux.”

“Wait, London—I don’t dance.”

“There’s a time for everything.” Then she rose up on her toes and kissed him. Quick but sweet and, okay, fine . Maybe he didn’t need to worry about the stupid prince. As if he’d been worried. Which he definitely hadn’t.

“I’m going to take a shower and warm up. See you at dinner?”

He nodded, then headed to his room. A chill clung to it, so he started the fire in the hearth, then headed to the bathroom, filled it with steam from the hot shower, and started to feel the ends of his fingers and toes again as he stood under the spray.

He came out of the bathroom dressed in a towel around his waist, the steam following him out, the bedroom warming.

And there, in one of the chairs, sat York. He wore black jeans and a dress shirt and now stood up.

“Um, maybe I’m confused. This is my room, right?”

“Sorry, mate. Of course, but . . . I need a word with you.”

“Yeah, me too, mate . Did you know we were shot at out there in the woods? Your assassin group or whatever still has a hit out on London.” And he couldn’t believe he’d entered a world where those words not only emerged from his mouth but were comprehended and maybe even normal, because York just nodded.

Whatever . “They’re going to keep coming, aren’t they? Until you guys stop them.”

“I don’t know. I’m working on that.”

Shep walked over to the wardrobe and grabbed fresh clothes, brought them to the bathroom. “If you’re not here about the hit, what couldn’t wait until dinner?” He dressed, then came out in a pair of jeans and his last clean shirt.

“I don’t want to speak about this in front of London,” said York, who had gotten up and paced to the window, keeping his voice low. Now he turned. “We’re going to need your help delivering the virus into Cryptex.”

Shep cocked his head. “I thought Tomas was going to do that.”

“Yes, well, first—the virus Tomas created just might be a decoy. Our hacker, Coco, has tested it and is pretty sure it’s actually an access device that allows a back-door entry into the crypto wallet of any account that touches London’s wallet.”

“Like the CIA?”

“Or any other group. If she were to send money into the exchange, it could be disseminated to all other accounts.”

“They could hack into every other account.”

“It seems that way.”

“London said she didn’t trust him. Clearly for good reason.” His stomach growled. “So, what virus do you need uploaded?”

York pulled out a jump drive. “This one. We’ve been developing our own virus, and this one will follow the money too, but right back into the account of the Petrovs and then slowly corrupt it . . . and like the other, corrupt every organization that they touch.”

“Not taking out just their terrorist money but the money of every terrorist network.”

“Yes.”

“Brilliant.”

“So we’ll actually defund them instead of just causing factions. Better, right?”

“Why don’t you just switch it out, Tomas none the wiser.”

York looked out the window, his hands in his pockets. Shep’s gut tightened at the look on York’s face.

“Because during the blackout, Tomas escaped.”

Shep wanted to punch something. For a man who hated violence, his recent impulses irked him. Still. Escaped. “How?”

“The locks on the doors lost power. When the lights came back on, he was gone.”

Shep shook his head. “London needs to know this.”

“Of course. And we’ll tell her of the new plan, but . . . just in case something happens, I’m giving you the virus.”

“Something . . . happens ? Could you be clearer?” He took the jump drive that York held out, closed it in his palm.

“Yes. Like . . . I don’t know. Tomas waiting to apprehend her or?—”

“Kill her?”

“We don’t know his plan, so . . .” York shrugged.

“In that case, the last thing I’ll be doing is uploading a virus. My job is to keep London alive and bring her home.” And suddenly, he was very, very glad for that job description, thank you. “I am not a spy. I’m a rescue tech.”

“And you were a soldier.”

His mouth opened, closed. “I was a medic . I didn’t even carry a weapon.”

York considered him. “Just . . . hang on to the jump drive. And where London goes, you go. She can upload the virus. Leave finding Tomas to us.”

He nodded, but as York let himself out of the room, and as Shep stared out through the dark pane of glass, he heard his father’s voice, quoting some obscure psalm that seemed to live in his bones. “The wicked draw their swords and string their bows to kill the poor and the oppressed, to slaughter those who do right.

His hand closed around the jump drive.

So, he guessed he was going to a ball.

* * *

London didn’t recognize herself.

Again.

Which probably boded well for tonight’s events, but still . . . the woman who stood in the mirror’s image seemed too . . . confidant. Too regal.

And not even a little fragmented and confused and at odds with the life she’d thought she loved. Because as she’d planned out tonight’s heist, a terrible, familiar, and intoxicating buzz had started to simmer under her skin.

Laney Steele, rising like a Phoenix.

She blamed York, who’d pulled her aside after dinner last night with the news of Tomas’s escape. York would attend the ball, on the alert for Tomas, then, when she was ready, help her break into Cryptex and upload the new and improved virus before she transferred the money back to the Petrov Bratva.

“I can ask Coco to hack into the electrical grid to the palace and temporarily shut it down. She’s already mapped the route to Cryptex. The entire mountain is a Faraday cage and supported by generators powered by the water that runs through the mountain, so there’s no way to break the lock, but she can disrupt power to the palace and distract the guards so you can get in. The hiccup can only last five minutes tops, which means we need to create another reason for the palace guards to leave their post to give you more time.”

Shep had been a part of that conversation, listening, arms folded as if he hadn’t liked any of it. “Just pull a fire alarm, right?” he’d said.

York had looked at him. “Brilliant.”

Shep had raised an eyebrow as if he hadn’t expected York’s agreement.

“And while everyone is managing the alarm, you get into Cryptex, log into your account, and upload the virus.”

“Just like that,” London had said, and that’s when the simmer had lit.

And hadn’t left. Worse, it had grown as she’d picked a dress for tonight’s ball, then let her mother’s stylist do up her hair in a loose French twist. She’d applied some makeup—hadn’t worn that in over two years—and a hint of lipstick, then slid into the gown. The neckline dropped in a steep V in front and back, the sleeves long and loose and gathered at the wrist in a satin cuff. No slit up the leg, and the tight bodice had no give, but the looser skirt meant she could hide a plastic night-vision scope.

She’d wanted to take that KA-BAR that Shep had joked about, but on the off chance that she’d be wanded, she didn’t want to risk it.

She had tucked the jump drive with the virus into a pocket at the apex of the front V, right under the pendant of her necklace, which had just enough metal to alert the wand, but not so much as to stop her, and wow, now she felt like a Swan.

An unpredictable, unexpected Black Swan.

She slipped into a pair of peep-toe mesh heels, sturdy enough to run in, added her gold pendant necklace and teardrop earrings, grabbed her purse with her cell phone and the speed dial straight to Ziggy, and stepped out into the hallway.

Shep was outside his room, standing at ease, his hands clasped in front of him, watching her door, dressed in a tuxedo that perfectly, devastatingly, outlined his wide mountain-man shoulders, those lumberjack arms, the jacket tailored to his trim waist, the pants fitting his strong skier’s legs. He’d shaved, of course, and his dark hair appeared freshly trimmed.

“Are you wearing hair gel?”

“I do not want to talk about it.” His gaze travelled down her, back up, and he offered a wry smile. “The only thing good about tonight is seeing you in that dress. However, I feel like I need to hand you my jacket.”

“You’re just used to seeing me in my red jumpsuit.”

“Don’t tell anyone, but I might like this better.” He held out his elbow. “You look . . . breathtaking.”

She slipped her hand through the crook of his arm. “And you’re very princely.”

“I’m a peasant in a monkey suit. This night can’t end fast enough. And I did mention I can’t dance, right?”

“Preacher’s kid?”

“Two left feet.”

“We’ll see.”

They took the elevator down to the embassy lobby, where her parents waited along with York. Her mother wore a long cream A-line dress with sleeves that dripped lace to the floor. Diamonds sparkled at her neck. She met her daughter with an air kiss. “You look like you did at the Lauchtenland Rosengala when you were eighteen.”

“Oh, for the love, Mother, really? That’s the memory you bring up?”

“Sorry.” A moment of strained silence, and Shep frowned at her.

Maybe she didn’t need to always jump to defense.

Fine . She met her mother’s eyes with a don’t say a word and said, “I have definitely put on some curves since then.”

Her mother’s expression relaxed, and she winked. “Indeed.” Then she handed London a printed invitation, took her husband’s arm, and they headed outside.

London followed with Shep and whispered over her shoulder. “My mother would like to set up a back-alley-handshake arranged marriage between me and Prince Luka.”

“Of course she would,” he said, nonplussed. He held open the door.

Outside, the stars twinkled against a deep velvet sky, the mountains outlined by the glow of the city. And above them on the hill, the palace glittered. Beyond the courtyard of the embassy, storefronts had stayed open, and buskers sang with their violin cases open as street vendors cooked up local cuisines.

A party for all.

Her mother and father got into the first limousine, and it pulled away.

“Can’t we just stay here?” he said as the second limousine pulled up. “It smells amazing, like one of Moose’s barbecues.”

“That’s the grilled cevapi—minced meat sausages of lamb, beef, and pork served on flatbread. Watch the sauce, though. It’ll take off the roof of your mouth.” The footman had opened her door, and she got in.

“Spoken from experience?” He followed her in.

“Oh, yes. I couldn’t taste anything for two weeks.” She folded her hand into his. It still felt weird to have him this close, this intimate, but . . .

But maybe this was what trusting—really trusting someone—felt like.

“We’ll definitely have to get some pretzels later. They make them fresh every day, and they melt in your mouth.”

“Keep going and we won’t make it to the ball.”

She laughed, and he looked down at her with a smile. “That’s what I mourned the most.”

She frowned.

“Your laughter. The idea that I’d never hear it again.”

Her smile fell. “I really am sorry I put you through all that.”

He nodded. “I am starting to understand. I think I have a little PTSD from being shot at yesterday.”

Oh.

“Hey.” He turned and touched her face. “I was kidding. It’s not my first time being shot at. I think being arrested by the palace guards was more traumatizing. That was a first.”

“And last, hopefully.”

He met her eyes. “I know this mission is important. But I have my own mission, London. And that’s to keep you alive and get you home. That is my goal.”

Sweet. “Okay.”

And, aw, he probably deserved to know the reason behind the look that had passed between her and her mother. She glanced at the driver, but he stared straight ahead. Schooling her voice, she said, “When I was eighteen, I was invited to the Rosengala, the Rose Ball of Queen Katherine of Lauchtenland. I wanted a date, so I invited a boy—a man—I’d met in Russia during our time there. He and I had corresponded for years after we lived there, and I thought he liked me. His name was Ruslan, and he stayed in the embassy residence. He ended up trying to plant a bug in my mother’s office, so that ended our short romance pretty quickly.”

“Seriously.”

“He’d joined the KGB. Wanted to prove himself. I should have seen through it.”

“You were eighteen.”

“Yeah, well, when we found out, he tried to run and died in a shootout with one of the embassy guards, who was also fatally injured.” She looked at Shep. “The guard had a wife and two kids and had just brought them over from America, so that was . . .” She looked away, her throat suddenly tight. “I’ll never forget the way his wife looked at me. And no, she probably didn’t know the details, but I did. . . .” She looked back at him. “I vowed never to let someone betray me again.”

“Kind of a hard vow to keep.”

“You only get betrayed if you trust.” She looked up at him. “Don’t betray me.”

His mouth opened. Then it closed and his gaze met hers. “I would sooner lose my soul.”

Oh . And see, this was why she needed him, trusted him, loved . . .

She swallowed. Because oh, did she love him, and please let this night end well so they could go back home to their lives.

Ziggy’s words crawled into her head. “You won’t be happy until you are true to the person you were made to be.”

Tonight, she’d be Laney Steele for the last time.

They pulled up to a courtyard midway up the mountain, where the castle entrance road wound up and then under the first archway of the castle. It then rose to the next level and through another gate, then finally the third level and under a massive tower. Lights lined the path of the winding entrance, guards standing in full regalia outside each gate.

They entered the main courtyard, and the limo lined up behind her parents’, drawing alongside a magnificent cathedral, also lit up, the ornate stained-glass windows splashing color out into the night.

“Do you know why every castle has a chapel inside it?” London asked.

“So that the sovereign of the land can go to his sovereigns and pray for protection.”

She looked at him. “You did read a lot.”

“And my sister and I made up a game one summer about knights and armies and kingdoms. Every kingdom has a hierarchy of power—and it’s all about protection. From the serfs to the lords, to the barons or maybe earls who then pay tribute to the duke, who then owes homage to the prince or king of the land. The king has no one above him to seek protection from except God. Hence the chapel. The very wealthy kingdoms had a priest on staff, and if they were a large kingdom, they might even have a bishop on site, which could mean a visit from the Pope, but they’d need vineyards for that, to host a grand event. Usually gala events like this were used to keep an eye on all the other layers of nobility and remind them who was in charge.” The limo had pulled up to the door. “They were also very good places for a royal assassination.”

Seriously . “Homeschool pays off.”

He laughed. “Probably more information than you needed.”

Never . She just liked hearing his voice, really, the way he explained things. He was always so calm, so wise.

Yeah, Laney Steele for the last time.

He held out his hand as he slid out, and she took it. “For the record, we’ll have no assassinations tonight, thank you.”

“Perfect.” He slid her hand into the crook of his arm.

They followed her parents into the castle, past enormous pots of lilies at the doors—probably freshly flown in from Greece or Italy. From inside, chamber music spilled, and as they entered, a uniformed butler handed London a program with a map of the grounds and the areas accessible to the guests. She studied her little map as they stood in the receiving line.

“Cryptex isn’t on it,” Shep said, looking over her shoulder.

“Shame.”

He looked at her. “You’re doing it again.”

“What?”

He shook his head. “I’ll tell you later.” They’d come up to the entrance hall.

Shep gave their names to another steward, and London handed over their invitation, which the steward then handed to an aide. The receiving line led up to the line of royals, the entire Ribaldi family. Luka, the crown prince, stood next to his mother, looking every inch the royal catch.

And not even close to the man on her arm.

Shep leaned down, his voice in her ear. “Remind me who these people are.”

The royal people? “Prince Alrick—youngest. Age twenty. At uni.” He was the bookend to his oldest brother, his dark hair a little longer, but with that same confident, charming smile and a build that suggested he’d followed in Luka’s stead and started rowing. “The redhead is Princess Madeline, age twenty-two and just finishing up university. I heard she wants to go into the military.” They stepped up closer. “The next is Prince Rillian, who is a chopper pilot in the military.” Light-brown hair, cut short, he took after his mother’s side, the Austrian side, and always reminded her of a younger Maverick with his swagger, despite his European accent.

“I’d probably like him,” Shep said.

“Yes. Except he’s a bit of a headline maker with the ladies. And then there’s Princess Victoria—she’s a doctor.” And every inch the woman that, once upon a time, London might have wanted to be. Put together, smart, regal.

“And you’ve met Crown Prince Luka.”

His Highness might have heard her, because he glanced down the row between greetings and spotted her. She bowed her head.

Next to her, Shep drew in a breath and stiffened.

Her parents stepped up to their announcement and walked to the center for their greeting.

She tugged Shep down, spoke in his ear. “King Maximillian and Queen Isabella are at the end. Don’t forget to bow, and don’t go crazy—just nod your head. And it’s Your Highness for the princes and princesses and Your Majesty for the king. We stand in front of the entire crew—and here we go.”

She waited until they were announced, then walked to the center. She did a small curtsy and Shep bowed his head and King Maximillian smiled and then they were in.

“That wasn’t so hard.”

“I feel like I’m back in boot camp.”

“Calm down. Let’s get some food.”

They entered a grand reception area with the house of Ribaldi’s cursive R emblazoned on all of the tapestries that unfurled from the balconies’ balustrades, standards hanging from the soaring marble fireplace.

“There’s the buffet. I’m grabbing a shrimp crudités. Want one?”

“I’d rather eat my socks.”

Wow . She glanced at him. He did seem strung a little tight. “You okay?”

“When are we going to sneak away?”

She glanced around her. “Ix-nay on the eaking-snay.”

He frowned.

“Keep your voice down. After dinner, during the dance.”

“I might throw up before then.”

She patted his arm. “Try to find a plant.”

They wandered into the halls, the designated areas, and surveyed the art, read some historical facts. He filled her in on some stories, evidence of him having done some googling. Then they found their assigned chairs in the dining hall. In total, maybe two hundred people stood at the two long tables, waiting for the king to adjourn them to sit.

They settled onto the plush blue-velvet chairs. Gloved waiters removed the cloches from their plates. “What are these?” Shep asked.

“Game hens, I think,” she said, and yes, perfectly cooked, along with the lemon broccoli rabe. She dug in.

Shep hardly touched his food.

“It’s really good,” she said.

“I’ll get a pizza back at the embassy.”

“You wish,” she said, but she didn’t blame him. The first time she’d done a covert mission, she too had nearly thrown up. “Dessert—I think it’s crème br?lée—then a speech and this is over.”

He squeezed her hand under the table.

Right then, Prince Luka came over to her, his hand on her chair. “Delaney Brooks. You look ravishing tonight.” He set his hand over hers on the table, and she felt a keycard press upon it. She turned her hand and took the bio card, secreted it back to the table.

She loved it when a plan came together.

“Good to see you too, Mr. Watson,” Luka said.

“Your Highness,” Shep said stiffly.

London met Luka’s eyes. Yes, he was a handsome man, the kind a girl could fall for. If she weren’t already taken.

“Save me a dance, chérie?”

She nodded, and he left them.

“You got it?” Shep asked, his gaze following the prince.

“I got it.” She tucked the card into her dress.

Shep raised an eyebrow.

“Women have been hiding things in their cleavage for years.”

“I’m not going to search you.”

She stilled. “Did you just make a joke?”

He shook his head. “Not even a little.” But he took her hand again. And now she fought the simmer under her skin, growing hotter, brighter, as the king finished his speech. She’d text York the signal, and he’d send it to Coco from where he was holed up—probably near the outer door to Cryptex—and then the game would begin.

A thousand years later, or maybe just twenty minutes, the guests adjourned and headed to the dance floor, where a small orchestra played a waltz.

“Does anyone know how to dance to this stuff?” Shep said.

“My parents do.” She gestured to them on the dance floor. “But after the king and queen leave, they might drag out a DJ and play some real dance music for the young at heart.”

“I hope this heist is over by then, and I can’t believe that is coming out of my mouth.”

She laughed. “Yes. Okay, ready for this?”

He looked at her. “Ready to become a criminal? Oh yeah, can’t wait.”

“I’m going to go to the washroom. There’s a window in there that has good cell reception. I’ll send York the signal, then come back out.”

“I’ll give you one minute after the lights go out. You don’t come out, I’m coming in.”

“Thanks for the warning.”

His mouth pinched.

“You get a little uptight during missions.”

“You’re just now noticing that?”

“Calm down. This will be over before you can say?—”

“Just go to the stupid bathroom.”

He followed her down the hallway and then stood at the end of yet another hallway that led to the lavatories. The men’s room was across the hall from the ladies’ entrance.

She glanced at him, standing with his arms crossed, a fortress at the end of the hallway, a knight. Then he raised his chin and winked, and yes, see —everything was going to be just fine.

She slipped into the bathroom. A small antechamber with a bench formed a sort of lobby, and she walked through that to the expanse of the women’s lavatory. A long row of sinks extended from the far wall on both sides of a long mirror, and on either side, stalls jutted out.

She walked to the far stall near the outside of the building, beneath the window, locked herself inside, and then pulled her phone from her purse.

She keyed in a text.

London

Go for Coco

Sent it.

A moment later, a text came back.

York

Coco in two.

Two minutes .

And then another five to get down the back stairs and through the hallway and over to Cryptex, key in the code, push through the door, key in the next code, and by that time, if the lights were on, she’d be in.

And uploading the corrupt code that would have terrorist agencies on the run.

Bam . Not bad for a last mission.

She pulled the night-vision monocular from her leg strap and dropped it into her purse. Then she stepped out of the stall, washed her hands, grabbed a cotton towel to wipe them, and then deposited the towel into the linen basket.

Women were walking in and out of the bathroom. She headed out and spotted Shep at the end of the hall. Met his eyes. Nodded.

He gave her a tight smile.

See, big guy, nothing to worry about .

The palace went dark. And here in the hallway, no ambient light eked in from the starlight outside. In fact, the corridor turned instantly to pitch.

No problem . She’d memorized the layout, and she opened her purse to grab the monocular?—

A hand pressed against her mouth, a voice in her ear. “Don’t fight me.”

What?

Tomas.

She slung out an elbow, but he dodged her, and then a prick burned her neck.

That jerk—he’d?—

No — no.

The drug hit her fast and hard, and she couldn’t believe that this was happening right here, in front of Shep. She tried to call out, but people rushed by her, knocking her into the wall, women screaming in the darkness, and . . .

Tomas, you rat! She thrashed, trying to find purchase even as the darkness crept over her. No — Shep!

Tomas was moving her even as her limbs betrayed her, as the darkness closed in around her. Sirens sounded through the castle, blaring, reverberating off the rock and stone, brutal, and drowning her shouts?—

Shep!

And then everything went black.