In Shining Armor

by Blair Babylon

  The clothes that Dieter had purchased for her were dowdy and scratchy, but the high-necked, long-sleeved shirt covered up the bruises on her throat and arms. The pants were loose around her waist and hips. Just how big did he think her butt was, anyway?

  A baseball hat and sunglasses rattled around in the bottom of the bag, the uniform of incognito celebrities everywhere.

  The canvas flats he’d picked out fit her wide feet really well, a small miracle. Her toes could actually move in the padded, slide-on shoes. Dang, she was going to take Dieter shoe-shopping with her from now on.

  Dieter’s low voice whispered through the door, “Are you ready?”

  She opened the door. “Are we leaving right now?”

  He looked her up and down. “You look different.”

  “It’s makeup.”

  “Okay. I’ve got a few guys from Rogue clearing the way for us through the hallway and parking garage. We’ll be out of here and to the train station in minutes.”

  She clasped her hands together to stop them from shaking. “A train. At least this is an adventure, right?”

  “Yes, Durchlauchtig.”

  “I’m used to having a phalanx of bodyguards around me, you know? There are always at least four guys surrounding me, ready to keep me from getting hurt or keep any jackals from getting too close. I know how other women live their lives, the constant worry, the never-ending vigilance. Everybody tells you to hold your keys in your fist like a mace, or watch shadows to see if anyone is walking behind you, or check the back seat of your car to make sure no one is hiding there. They tell you to leave a relationship if the guy shows any signs of violence. And if something does happen, they blame you for not doing all that better.”

  “It’s magical thinking. You know that, right?”

  Flicka drew in a shuddering breath while her hands cramped from clenching. “I don’t know what that means.”

  “Those things that they tell women to do are like magic spells. People tell women to perform the rituals—don’t turn your back on your drink, carry pepper spray on your keychain, always go to the bathroom in groups, dress like a damned nun—but they don’t work. Then, when a woman is the victim of a crime, other women can feel smug and safe because they would have done all those magic spells better. It blames the victim, and other people think it won’t happen to them. It wards off the fear, but it does nothing to stop men from assaulting women.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest, trying to quell the shaking in her hands and lungs. “I’ve never had to do the magic spells before.”

  Dieter stepped toward her. His hands twitched at his sides, but he didn’t reach out. “I will keep you safe. Let’s go to Paris and see what the lawyers have to say.”

  Escape

  Flicka von Hannover

  First,

  we had to escape from the hotel.

  Flicka hung back in the living room, trying not to tremble. The cool wall behind her back was rough on her palms. Her small evening bag, holding the pieces of her phone and a few sundries, swung from her wrist.

  Dieter stood with his hand on the doorknob, staring at his phone. A light backpack strapped to his broad shoulders held the Laurel Tiara, a priceless heirloom set with millions of dollars’ worth of diamonds, and an impressive number of weapons that Dieter had removed from a false bottom of his suitcase.

  Her glittering purse swung from her wrist, a light weight due to her disassembled phone, the loose battery, lip gloss, and a flash drive with all the photos of Flicka’s husband, his real wife Abigai, and their children.

  He said, “One more signal, and we’ll go.”

  Bright sunlight shone on the back of his neck, picking out the deep gold in his short hair. The right angle of his jaw worked as he clenched his teeth, and his dove gray eyes narrowed as he watched his phone’s screen.

  He was wearing a tee shirt with the name of some band on it that Flicka didn’t know. The short sleeves bared his arms. His heavy biceps bulged as he held the phone in front of his heart, and the light cotton clung to the round muscles on his chest and shoulders. He wore denim jeans, which shaped to his long legs and slim hips.

  She was so used to him wearing suits that these casual clothes were almost a disguise. If she had been looking for professional security personnel escorting a princess, she wouldn’t have looked twice at him, which was probably exactly the point.

  Dressed so normally like everyone else on the street, Dieter almost looked like someone else, someone new, an attractive blond man with stormy gray eyes and ripped physique.

  Flicka looked away.

  Outside the hotel room’s windows, the sun was high in the sky, almost noon. The sun’s rays sparkled on the pristine blue water of Lake Geneva and made the hotel’s lawns glow as if life emitted green light.

  For an instant, Flicka wondered if this were the last time she might see Lake Geneva and Montreux. If Pierre caught her, he might lock her up in the Prince’s Palace in Monaco, or he might kill her.

  Her pulse pounded in her ears.

  The Swiss summer light drenching the verdant mountains and trees seemed unbearably beautiful, and she stared at it, trying to memorize the riot of green park grounds, blue water and sky, and bright white sunshine.

  Dieter said, “Let’s go.”

  He opened the door, and Flicka followed him through. Dieter stayed right by her side, his head twisting as he watched and listened around them.

  As they’d discussed, an elevator was open and waiting for them. One of Rogue Security’s technical support personnel, Blaise Lyon, had electronically commandeered this particular elevator and diverted the security cameras along their route. Blaise had an unusual background and even more unusual hobbies.

  They walked into the elevator. The doors slid closed, and it descended, making Flicka light-headed.

  They fell through the hotel, past where Pierre’s men were undoubtedly searching the halls and past the lobby where his Secret Service must be stationed, hiding behind potted plants and skulking behind the marble staircase, watching for her.

  The doors parted.

  Cars clattered over the concrete of the underground parking garage, spewing exhaust fumes through the air.

  Dieter strode out of the elevator.

  Flicka couldn’t make her legs work.

  She stood with her back against the wall of the elevator, her hands clasped in front of herself, while the doors gaped.

  Out there, Pierre’s Secret Service men might be waiting. Of course, she would have to go through the parking garage to get out of the hotel. They would be standing right there. Quentin Sault would be waiting for her just out of view, and when she emerged, he would grab her arms and shove her back into the elevator or into a car, where Pierre would be angry with her, and he would grab her by the neck and force her down and drag her back to Monaco where she would never get away from him. He would force her at night until she swelled with babies and could never get away.

  Her legs trembled and couldn’t move.

  Her eyes jittered, but she couldn’t see.

  Warmth enveloped her hand.

  In front of her, Dieter’s strong face and dove gray eyes swam through the fog. He touched her face, cradling her jaw.

  In her ear, she heard his low voice, “Durchlauchtig, come with me.”

  Her hand drifted forward, pulling her.

  She stumbled, trying to help Dieter, trying to walk, trying not to be a stupid target. Wulfram hated it when she froze like a stupid target. He’d spent her childhood making sure that, if something happened, she would run, not freeze.

  As she walked, with Dieter’s hand holding hers, the parking garage took shape.

  A black SUV waited at the curb a few feet away. A man—a tall, white guy with dark hair—exited the driver’s side, leaving it running. Flicka had seen him hanging around Wulf’s wedding reception the night before, watching the guests and doors. He didn’t look back as he walked toward the bright exit that led to the street out
side.

  Dieter walked around the SUV and climbed into the driver’s open side door.

  Flicka slid into the back seat and rolled to the floor, covering herself with a black blanket left there.

  The SUV lurched forward. She huddled on the floor, breathing shallowly under the blanket. It was only an hour to the train station in Geneva. They’d decided to drive there instead of taking the train from the Montreux station because the Monegasque Secret Service agents were more likely to be watching that one.

  But Geneva was an hour away.

  The heavy, black blanket lay over her, pressing.

  Flicka tried not to think about suffocating under the scratchy wool in the darkness of her own breath. The air moistened with each breath she exhaled, and the smell of formaldehyde from her new clothes intensified.

  From the front seat, Dieter said, “All clear. You can get up.”

  Flicka threw off the blanket and sucked in cool, fresh air. “Oh, thank goodness.”

  “We’ll be at the Gare de Genève-Cornavin railway station in about forty minutes.”

  High-Speed Train to Paris

  Dieter Schwarz

  Flicka has no idea

  how risky it is

  to get her out of Switzerland.

  Dieter stopped the SUV in a vacant lot behind a row of shops in Geneva.

  In the rearview mirror, he could see Flicka sitting in the back seat, quieter than he had ever seen her. She had her arms wrapped around her knees, almost crunched into a fetal position.

  He wrenched himself around in the seat. “Time to go.”

  She nodded and uncurled herself, reaching for the SUV’s door handle.

  Dieter stepped out of the car and jogged around the side before she finished closing the door. She stumbled sideways as gravel slid out from under her feet, and he grabbed her arm.

  Another black SUV careened into the small lot.

  Flicka stared at the enclosing buildings around them wildly, and her breath was instantly gasping.

  “It’s okay,” he told her. “They’re Rogue Security.”

  The SUV stopped beside him.

  “Are you sure?” She stepped closer to him, ready to dodge behind his back as they had practiced many times and used more often than he cared to remember.

  Dieter turned toward the vehicle and reached back, shielding Flicka and ready to fight. His other hand hovered near his waist where he had hidden a small handgun.

  Aiden Grier, the ginger Scot who was everyone’s best friend and drinking companion but especially for people with interesting information, climbed out of the passenger side, didn’t look at either Dieter or Flicka, and walked toward the driver’s side door of the SUV that Dieter had driven.

  “Yeah, I’m sure,” Dieter said. “You’ll ride in back again.”

  He climbed into the shotgun seat, while Flicka clambered in the back. As soon as she had fastened the seat belt, her legs curled up again, and she buried her face between her knees.

  Dieter wished to high Heaven that wrapping his arms around her would make her feel better, but he suspected for so many reasons that it would make the situation worse.

  Magnus Jensen was driving. He glanced in the rearview mirror at Flicka, and his steel blue eyes slid toward Dieter for just a second before he jammed the SUV in reverse and sprayed gravel leaving the parking lot. “I didn’t even know that yard was back there.”

  Dieter nodded. “During Oktoberfest, the couple who own the Greek restaurant on the corner turn it into a beer garden.”

  “I’ll have to check that out.”

  Magnus drove them to the train station, paused at the front while Dieter and Flicka climbed out, and drove away into the traffic.

  The sun glared on the back windshield as Dieter turned Flicka to go into the railway station. He bought two tickets from a machine, feeding Swiss francs into the slot, and they walked directly to a high-speed, maglev train waiting at the track.

  Because Switzerland had joined the Schengen agreement allowing free passage over borders with neighboring countries, they didn’t need passports, immigration visas, or rigorous customs inspections. All of those were good reasons that Dieter had chosen the train over an airport and a plane flight.

  The Gare de Genève-Cornavin railway station was one of the more beautiful in Europe, Dieter thought. Swiss sunlight—not glaring like in the south of France but not wan like the Scandinavian countries—poured through the glass panes that layered the walls and ceiling. Even the blond marble and light wood glowed like honey-colored sunshine.

  He led Flicka to the first-class compartment and handed her into the row. Her small purse thumped on the floor when she sat down. He took the seat next to the aisle.

  The seats were placed so there were two on one side of the aisle and one on the other, much like the wide, recliner-like seats in the first-class area of an airplane. He’d considered getting a compartment, but that might draw too much attention. Pierre’s Secret Service people might be looking for people purchasing compartments.

  Flicka settled in the seat with her legs curled up again, and she hugged her knees to herself.

  Dieter sat beside her. “What can I do to help?”

  She sucked in a shuddering breath and whispered, “I would like a small gun.”

  The train coasted under their feet, nudging them back in the chairs as it accelerated. “I don’t like my principals to be armed. If there is an attack at some point, I don’t want you to become a target because you’re returning fire. I can rescue a live hostage.”

  “It’s not for that.”

  “Then what?”

  She buried her face in her knees again, and her legs muffled her whisper. “What if Pierre finds us? What if he does something to you and then takes me to Monaco?”

  “And you’ll—what? Shoot it out with his highly trained Secret Service agents?”

  Flicka tucked her head between her knees and whispered, “No.”

  “Then why would you—” Horror formed in Dieter’s head. “Oh.”

  She nodded.

  “No,” he whispered, his voice hoarse with emotion. He wrapped his arms around her slim form, sheltering her from that terrible end. His fingers found her delicate jawline and silky hair. “Don’t do that. Don’t even think about that. If anything happens, if we get separated, you stay alive.”

  She shook her head.

  “Yes, you will. If he gets you, I’ll be there soon to take you out. It may take a few days to put together the operation, but I will. I’ll move Heaven and Earth, and I’ll swoop down out of the sky and take you out of there. You stay alive and wait for me.”

  “What if you can’t?” she asked. “What it he—then, what? Then I’m locked up there forever, breeding heirs for him.” She shuddered in his arms. “Which means that he’ll rape me until I’m pregnant over and over again, until I die.”

  “I’ve already set up a dead-man switch,” Dieter said. He’d hoped he wouldn’t have to mention this. “This morning, I wrote a series of emails. If I don’t sign into a certain account for two days running, emails will go out to my Rogue Security captains, and they will know exactly what has been happening. You will not be abandoned.” His intense whisper hissed with his promise. “If something happens to me, the whole operation continues exactly as planned, except that Magnus Jensen will be the one leading you out. He was our driver today. He’ll take you to Wulfram, and you’ll be safe with him. Understand?”

  Flicka laid her head on his shoulder, and her satiny cheek brushed his. “The Prince’s Palace is a medieval fortress. You can’t just barge in and haul someone out.”

  “It was built during medieval times, the Dark Ages. What year was it?”

  “In 1191, and it’s been standing ever since. It’s a fortress. It’s a stronghold. No one can get in there.”

  “It’s a medieval fortress, built during the medieval era to withstand medieval weapons and tactics. It can withstand horse-mounted swordsmen. It was built seven hundred ye
ars before Carl von Clausewitz wrote On War. It was built before helicopters, paratroopers, shaped charges, automatic weapons, flash-bang grenades, tear gas, or night-vision goggles. I can get in there and take you out in five minutes, but it might take a few days of operational planning.”

  “I’m scared,” she said, huddling closer to his chest. Her head was bowed and tucked under his chin.”

  “Our first priority is to keep him away from you. We’re going to Paris to consult with the prenup lawyer to figure out the most expedient way to divorce him or annul this marriage. It might be that simple, you know? Wulfram is a devious man. He might have an annulment agreement in there. If we can trigger it, all of this will go away. If Pierre tries to take you, it’s kidnapping. His royal immunity won’t matter because your brother has enough connections to make people care. While I’ve been standing at his back, I’ve heard several heads of state nervously ask him not to lose their number.”

  Flicka nodded, the silk of her skin sliding over his palm.

  Dieter lifted her jaw to look into her eyes. Tears lined her lower lids, and the green of her eyes glowed more brilliant. “And you’re a celebrity in your own right. You don’t have to protect Pierre Grimaldi’s reputation. If you vanish, people will ask where you are. Social media is the law, these days. If you have WiFi access for a few seconds, tweet or post that you’ve been kidnapped. Don’t be vague. Tell the world you’re a prisoner. Add some searchable hashtags. Burn him to the ground.”

  Flicka blinked her elven eyes, and he could see the gears turning in her head. She looked less frozen already. Good.

  Her arms slid up his shoulders and encircled his neck.

  He said, “I will come for you. Even if I’m dead, the Rogue Security machine will take over, and we will get you out. Stay alive.”

  She nodded, and her eyes looked less desperate.