After settling up the bill with Mr. Ernest and hugging Stephanie goodbye, Emma pulled Bronco through the mall to the portrait photography boutique, Glam-More.
Eying the purple neon sign, Bronco asked, “Is this the only place in town?”
“It’s the closest and the quickest for what we need.” She strolled over to the counter and told the teenager with the puce hair and sparkling nose ring they needed the wedding package.
“Of courth.” A flash of a steel ball confirmed the tongue piercing as the source of the girl’s lisp. “We have theveral.” Pointing to a tablet, she swiped left. “Thith is the hippie, flowerth in the hair package.” A woman in a rainbow sundress holding a posy of daisies looked adoringly at her beau, a bearded man in a matching T-shirt and bell-bottom trousers.
Emma quirked a brow at Bronco. He shook his head no.
“What else do you have?”
“Medieval Knighth.” A buxom lass with her breasts spilling out of a burgundy tasseled gown wearing an elaborate headdress gazed at a chubby fellow who wore a white shirt with billowing sleeves, a black cape and a sword. “Very popular.”
“Not my style,” Bronco said and rolled his eyes at Emma.
“Hunting?” Man and wife stood side by side, he in a classic camouflage deer hunter outfit, she in a camouflage wedding dress, each armed with what appeared to be authentic Weatherby deer hunting rifles. “They brought their own gunth.”
If there had been a dozen horses in the photo, the bride price would have been complete, Emma thought. “Very tempting, but not quite right.”
The girl kept swiping. “Cheerleader and team captain?” The teal and orange uniforms brought flashbacks of Johnny Blackwolf, her high school crush and that awful night. Jessica’s screams mingled with the bear’s roars. Emma shook her head so hard to dispel the sounds and images, she got dizzy.
Breathing deeply, she focused on the salesgirl who pointed to an image of a couple in black leather. The woman wore thigh high boots, fishnet stockings and a corset. She held a black flogger in her hand poised over a man’s exposed buttocks, as if about to strike him. “Dominatrix and thubmithive?”
Bronco covered his mouth with his elbow and coughed convulsively.
The teenager frowned, “You okay? Want a drink of water?”
He shook his head and wiped his eyes, “All choked up about the big day.”
Emma discreetly kicked his shin, “As you can see—” she lifted her helmet—“we’re really into bikes. Do you have a package for that? Say with Vegas wedding chapel backdrop?”
A huge grin creased the girl’s face. “Why didn’t you thay tho to begin with?” She waved them into the studio. “Come in back.” They stepped past dressing tables outlined in light-bulbs, make-up kits, a multicolor array of wigs on stands and rolling coat racks of one-size-fits all costumes with long cords dangling down in the back for easy on and off. She paused in front of a door, as if re-considering. “Did you want me to do your hair and make-up?”
Emma shook her head. “Nope. What you see is what you get with me.”
The girl nodded, flipped a light on in a darkened room, and pointed to a large green screen. “We’re going to do it with a computer. Go over there.”
Rummaging in a nearby plastic bin, she retrieved a silk nosegay and handed it to Emma. “Your flowerth.” Then she pinned a white carnation boutonniere on Bronco’s denim cut and maneuvered him into position. “Don’t move.” She placed Emma in front of him. Stepping back the young woman surveyed her subjects, then pointed at Emma. “Hold the flowerth up higher, like you’re thmelling them.”
The girl ran to the front of the room and picked up a digital camera.
Emma began to giggle, and Bronco chuckled. As the receptionist/stylist/photographer flashed her digital camera repeatedly and yelled, “Thmile! Be happy!” their chuckles turned to outright guffaws. Knees buckling, Emma could barely stay upright for the shoot.
“Done.” The girl grinned and gave them the thumbs up as she left the room. “Grab a water bottle while I work.”
Emma reached up to unpin the fake carnation, and he caught her hand. “You really should smile more. You’re quite beautiful when you do.”
A flush warmed her face and neck. “We’re not on camera now. You can stop faking.”
He stroked her cheek as if she were a quivering horse that needed calming. “Not pretending.”
“Why, Mr. Bronco, whatever shall I do with you?” She gazed into his eyes, half-worried he’d morph into the monster with the flat affect, the one that scared the bejeezus out of her in the truck. Instead, to her surprise, he regarded her with a mixture of sorrow and longing—which almost frightened her more than his killer persona—almost, but not quite. If she’d been a teenager, she would have said she heard her heart melting. She swallowed hard to push the confusing emotions down, the words away from her lips, away from an untimely confession that maybe, perhaps, perchance, she fancied something more than a professional relationship.
“Here we are.” The girl reappeared with her ever-present tablet. “Check it out.”
There they were, indeed. She had placed the couple in front of an Elvis impersonator decked out in a white jump suit covered in rhinestones. Two big metal choppers covered in white flowers flanked them on either side. And the expressions on their faces? Either Bronco and she were the best actors in Montana, or the girl with the pierced nose had sniffed out a chemical signal that alerted her and her camera to record the non-verbal communication between the two. For all intents and purposes, the couple in the photo getting hitched in the chapel of love by the King was truly, madly, deeply in love. And just looking at the photos made Emma’s eyes well up. Too bad it was all a sham.
****
Bronco paid cash for the digital collection on a DVD, thanked the girl for her time, and slid her a fifty-dollar tip when Emma wasn’t watching. He’d had so much fun today, it should be illegal. As they exited the mall, he whistled Wagner’s Bridal Chorus.
Emma shot him a cutting look, “That’s enough.”
“Really? I thought you’d enjoy hearing your wedding music, maybe start practicing throwing the bouquet—” He dodged a fist aimed at his chin. “What did I do?”
“Nothing,” she grumbled. “Let’s just get this show on the road.”
Her mood had gone from sunny and happy to glum and annoyed. “What’s up with you?”
“I’m worried about getting out of town before Tommy has a chance to change his mind and starts trailing us again.”
“You have a point there.” He duck walked the bike backward, out of the parking spot. “When do you propose we leave?”
“You have to send those pix to Bert, right? Get whatever last minute info we can. We’re going to be off the grid.” She paused in the process of putting her helmet back on. “I wish we had a satellite phone.”
“Your wish is my command.” He grinned. “As soon as we started down this path, I asked Bert to have one over-nighted to the hotel. Should be there today, I hope.”
A look of relief crossed her face along with a tentative smile. “Great minds. We’ll also need to load your bike onto my pick-up truck. I have a ramp, a wheel chock, and tie downs. I’ll need your help taking the tail gate off, so we don’t fold my old truck like a taco—and break your bike.”
He kick started the engine and shouted over the noise. “You’ve been thinking about this a lot, haven’t you?”
“Marines don’t like to go into battle unprepared.” She hopped onto the passenger seat and wrapped her arms around his waist. He liked how Emma leaned against his back. A mental image of spooning in bed with her naked leaped into his mind and burned itself into his retinas. Good thing they were just pretending to be interested in each other, otherwise he could really get in over his head.
A short thirty-minute ride later, he pulled onto the driveway to the hotel. The felonious accountants’ vehicles still sat in the parking area, awaiting impounding by the sheriff’s department. T
he wheels of justice would grind their way out here—eventually. Parking alongside Emma’s truck, he flipped the kickstand down and removed his helmet.
“About time you got here,” Tallulah yelled. She stood on the porch, shielding her eyes from the sun. “Beautiful has been quite agitated.” She stepped to the side and pointed to an empty rocking chair swaying back and forth at a furious pace.
“Great,” Emma muttered. “As if we didn’t have enough to deal with, my dead ancestor is pissed off.”
Bronco led the way up the stairs, Emma one step behind.
“And the problem is?”
Tallulah looked at the chair and said, “I know, I know, hold on.” She latched onto Emma’s left hand and stared at her fingers. “Where is it?”
“Hold on.” Bronco reached into his pocket. “Got it right here.” He opened the black velvet case and held it toward the rocker. He couldn’t see anyone in the chair, but that didn’t mean he was a nonbeliever. “See. Wedding bands.”
The chair stopped moving, and an invisible iron grip clenched his wrist. His hand and the box turned this way and that, glinting in the fading light.
“She’s seems to like them,” Tallulah said in a soft voice. “You happy now?”
All eyes focused on the space in front of Bronco, waiting for some sign of satisfaction. His hand fell without warning, and he nearly dropped the rings. “Now what?”
Tallulah laughed. “She wants to know where the horses and rifles are.”
“I’ll get right on that,” Bronco said with a shake of his head. “Tell her she drives a hard bargain.”
“She can hear you just fine,” Tallulah said. “She said you’re getting a valuable woman. Emma’s worth a case of rifles and a herd of horses.”
He glanced at the woman in question. Despite her attempts to duck her head and shield her face with her long hair, he could see a blush bloom on her cheeks.
Husky voiced, she finally spoke, “Tell my ancestor she’s embarrassing me in front of my man. He has given me more than the required bride price. He makes me happy.”
Stunned into silence, he mulled over the words she’d just uttered. Was it part of her act to keep the peace with Beautiful? Or did she really mean them? When was the last time he had made someone happy? He’d bedded a lot of women, and they all seemed to enjoy their time with him. Some hung around longer, especially when he’d been undercover. Over time, each of the fender bunnies had wandered off to find a better ride, or a man with fewer secrets. The last time a woman had told him he had made her happy, he’d almost killed someone.
He’d been deep undercover for the ATFE. After surviving his prospective member time, a miracle in and of itself, he’d been made a full member by one of the baddest clubs of all time. With his cover as a debt collector who worked as an enforcer for a Vegas crime boss, the club had decided he’d make a great bodyguard and enforcer. Most of the time, all he had to do was show up with a snarl, a bad attitude, and his metal baseball bat, and the transgressor in question gave up anything of value—drugs, guns, money—and in the last case he worked humans. Nearly wetting his pants when Bronco appeared at his door flanked by two of his club brothers, the meth dealer in question had quickly offered up his trafficked wares.
Unlocking a dark closet that reeked of human waste, the sweating chemist dragged out a terrified woman and twin girls. Clearly under the influence of his own brew, the meth cooker chortled, “Lookie here, I’ve got you a three-fer. I was gonna sell the little girls, save the mother for me and my crew. But, I’m feeling generous today. They’re all yours—” The maggot never finished his sentence. Bronco’s bat hit a home run into the man’s teeth—and head.
His brothers at arms tried to peel Bronco off the crumpled piece of excrement, but he was not having it. Sirens shrieked in the distance, and the men at his side went up in smoke. Panting, he looked down at his blood-spattered pants. As if coming out of a fugue state, he realized the woman was sobbing and shielding her screaming children with her body. She was afraid of him. No, not afraid, terrified.
He dropped the dented aluminum rod and put his hands up in the air. “Not gonna hurt you. Tranquila, no voy a hacerte daño,” he said in a low voice. “Va a estar bien. It’s going to be okay.”
“Está muerto?” Tears streamed down her face.
Bronco placed his fingertips on the dealer’s neck and searched for a pulse. “No. No está muerto.”
Her face twisted in rage, the woman grabbed the bat and before he could stop her, slammed it down on the meth head twice. Just as he yanked the instrument out of her hand, she smiled.
“Ahora el bastardo está muerto.”
He grunted. Yes, now the bastard was dead. What the hell was he going to do when the cops showed up—which judging from the sirens would be any minute now.
She wiped her hands on her filthy jeans, knelt on the floor and pulled her twins in for a tight hug. Looking past their shoulders, she stared straight into his eyes and said in heavily accented English, “You make me happy.”
From a distance, a woman called his name. “Bronco? Are you okay?”
He blinked, “Yeah, I’m good.”
“Where’d you go?” Emma put her hand on his cheek. “You weren’t here with me. I called your name three times before you heard me. Did you slip into remote viewing mode?”
Only if you counted flashbacks as remote viewing, he thought.
“No. I’m good, honest.” Laughing, he kissed the back of her hand and then her palm. He was delighted to see her blush—again. This is fun. “Did Beautiful like everything?”
“You could say that.” Tallulah snickered. “She wants a baby. Thinks you two should go work on it now.”
Crimson-faced, Emma pulled her hand away. “Too much information, my friend.”
“I’m just the interpreter.” Tallulah laughed. “Oh, here comes the delivery man. I was wondering when he’d get here. I know you’re expecting a few things.”
The big white and green van pulled into the circle, and a man in navy shirt and shorts hopped out. “Howdy, Mrs. Stewart. I see that baby hasn’t come yet.” He pulled up the back door of his vehicle and began to ferry boxes, large and small to the porch. “I see you have some help, so I’m gonna leave this pile here, if you don’t mind. I’ve got about ten boxes for you.”
The truck pulled away, leaving a mountain of cardboard boxes, each addressed to Bronco. The return address was a PO Box in the Midwest. No one would ever find that address, a decoy for the Anomaly Defense Division.
Wiping his hands on a red-striped kitchen towel, Lucius appeared in the doorway and gave a low whistle. “Looks like Christmas has come early.”
“If I’m not mistaken, Bert has thought of everything. We’ll just need a place to do inventory and get this stuff packed up. I bet he even sent duffle bags.”
“You can do that after dinner. I’ve got some nice steaks on the grill to celebrate your engagement.” The pug yipped, and Gaucho chirped. “See? Even the animals say it’s time to get the feed bag on.”
Bronco placed Emma’s hand on his arm. “Well, my beautiful fiancée, shall we adjourn to the dining room and toast our nuptials?”
Emma smiled and batted her eyes. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure, my handsome warrior.” Her next words were whispered, “Academy Award performance. You’d better watch out, or someone’s going to believe you.”
Heart battering at his ribs, for that moment, he wished that someone was Emma.
Chapter Twelve
Later that evening, long after Tallulah said her good nights and good-byes, wiping her eyes and pleading, “Come home safe, please.”
Emma stood in the office behind the registration desk and watched as Bronco uploaded the photos from Glam-More onto the secure Homeland server. “How long before we begin popping up on the Internet as man and wife?”
“Based on past experience with the documents team, I’d say two hours, four hours at the most.”
“Wow. How is th
at even possible?” The thought that the world would see them as married by the time they got into the pick-up truck and headed north, if not before, was hard to believe.
“Our cyber hackers can clone these images and the marriage certificate will be placed in the Chapel of Love and Las Vegas Vital Statistics records. News outlets and social media sites will be fed short descriptions of our whirlwind romance and marriage. By tonight, each of us will have a fully filled out Facebook page that says “Married” to the other one. Of course, our pages, likes, dislikes, and newsfeeds will provide a rich source of Neo-Nazi propaganda, as well, to ensure when the geeks at the American SS looks us up, we look legit.”
She paced the small office, stomach roiling at the idea that her Crow cousins would be seeing this hateful spew. “Is that really necessary?”
“Absolutely, standard operating procedure. Spycraft one-oh-one. Build an airtight cover before you hit the field. No different from the Marines, just from an intelligence perspective.”
Emma glanced at her phone which was vibrating—probably with rage, based on what she heard. “You underestimated your team. Our Facebook accounts are alive and already under attack for our hate speak.” It buzzed again. “Seems we’re trending on Twitter with our rants about racial purity.”
He rubbed his hands with glee. “Excellent. The game’s afoot, my dear Watson.”
She glanced at her watch. “Sure you’re up for driving this late at night? We could wait until tomorrow?”
“Nope, nope, nope. We wish to make an entrance, my love.” He grinned. “It’s going to be fun.”
“We’re just a couple that wants to be part of the New World Order, remember?” She wanted to do this, but hoped to get out alive. His devil may care attitude concerned her. Undercover work drew adrenaline junkies like moths to a flame—that much she knew and understood. Who else would be crazy enough to take these risks? “If we go in, guns blazing, we won’t last a day.”
“We will arrive at dawn, a metaphor for a new beginning.” He tapped the tip of his nose. “These people can smell a lie. If I don’t believe it, they won’t. You’re going to have to get used to seeing this side of me. If I don’t appear to be arrogant and full of myself, they won’t believe I’m one of them.”
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