by Leslie Jones
He followed her down to the lobby.
“Starbucks!” Lark crowed in triumph. The small coffee bar had been tucked into a corner. She cut across the reception area. “Thank Christ.”
Three people waited in front of her. “Come on come on come on,” she said, moaning a little.
Mace’s lips twitched as he tried to control his grin. He’d been in situations where caffeine had been the only thing keeping him going, but apparently Lark needed the jolt just to function. He dug out his wallet as they approached the counter.
“What can I start for . . .”
“Venti quad shot cinnamon dolce latte, please,” she hollered. “Extra hot, no foam, light whip.”
“Short Caffè Americano for me, please,” he said, sharing a quick grin with the barista.
“Wuss. And two breakfast sandwiches, please.”
Mace handed the barista his credit card, then followed Lark to the pickup counter. She rocked from foot to foot until her coffee came, then took a long swallow. “Ow. Ahh.”
Why did she order the drink extra hot, if it burned her throat?
She passed his drink and the sandwiches to him, then took another slug of her coffee before she walked away. “So. These buddies you called while I was asleep. Who are they?”
Chapter 13
Saturday, February 18. 9:40 a.m.
Hyatt Regency. Cambridge, Massachusetts.
The burn of the too-hot coffee jumpstarted Lark’s brain. She should have asked the question before leaving the room, but her sleep-muddled state hadn’t leant itself to coherent thought.
Mace looked unsurprised at the question. “Couple of my teammates. They’ve agreed to help keep you safe while we figure this out.”
“Your swim team?” Maybe she needed more coffee. She upended the cup and drained it. “You said you swim.”
“I work with these guys,” Mace said. “Gabe’s pretty handy with a computer. Tag and Alex are useful in other ways.”
Her brows wrinkled as she absorbed this. “Unless he’s Zane Quimby, I should probably use my laptop. I’m a little more than ‘handy’ with computers.”
“Is this Zane a friend of yours?”
She laughed. “Kind of. He’s only one of the best hackers of all time. Now he’s a white hat. Went from being one of the FBI’s most wanted to consulting for them. He’s actually a pretty cool guy.”
“You work for the FBI?”
The ultra-casual question didn’t fool her for an instant. Still, it wouldn’t hurt anything to tell him. “Yeah, I do. Not as an agent or anything. I’m a computer scientist.”
“Sounds pretty technical.”
“Yeah, but it’s interesting, though. Right now I’m analyzing some malware to figure out what it does. Like reverse-engineering it, which is wicked cool.”
Mace tilted his head down to look at her. “So how did you wind up reverse-engineering malware for the FBI? Seems pretty specialized.”
Self-preservation made her skip over her years in the hacking community. “Uh, got a degree in cybersecurity and digital forensics. Purdue. My bullshit degree was in computer science from CalTech.”
“Bullshit degree?”
She smiled, heading back to the elevators. “Bachelor of Science. BS.”
His eyes twinkled with amusement. “Nice. So this project you’re working on. How far have you gotten?”
“Why should I tell you that? Don’t think for one second I actually trust you. Much. How about instead of interrogating me, you answer some questions?” She stopped in front of the elevators, but didn’t push the button.
“Why not? Fire away.”
“Well, how long have you been a soldier?”
He answered without hesitation. “Eight years.”
“Do you like it? Did you get sent to Afghanistan? Are you married? Wait, don’t answer that last one.”
Mace chuckled. “Yes, yes, and no.”
She wrinkled her nose up to hide her embarrassment. Why had she let her curiosity get personal? “Details, Staff Sergeant Thomas Beckett. I want details. How long were you stationed in Afghanistan? People get stationed there, right?”
“They do, but I generally only go when I’m needed. I couldn’t give you a firm count unless I thought hard about it. But yeah, I love what I do.”
“You said before you, like, supplied beans and bullets? What does that even mean?” A picture formed in her mind of a uniformed Mace standing between a tripod holding a huge swinging pot and a waist-high bucket of bullets, ladling oatmeal with one hand and spoonsful of shotgun shells with the other. The absurdity made her laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
She shook her head. “I couldn’t even begin to explain. Just tell me what logistics people in the Army do.”
“At its core, it’s basically just receiving equipment and materials and making sure it all gets where it’s needed.” He fiddled with his coffee, sounding bored.
She had a few minutes before she really, truly needed to be up in Kaley’s suite. Leading the way to a padded bench, she tucked a leg under her and settled back. “Like putting boxes of food and medical supplies onto trucks, like the Red Cross did last month for that town in Syria?”
“Sure, dat.” Mace joined her. “But also delivering tools, furniture, gasoline. Bombs. Tanks. The stuff an army needs to operate. And paperclips. Lots and lots of paperclips for the brass.”
“If it’s boring, why do you like it?”
He stayed silent long enough that she glanced at him in surprise. “Did I hit a nerve? I’m sorry if I did. It’s just you don’t sound like you love it. And even just listening to it is making me yawn.”
“Because I also get to swim with my buddies.”
His evasive answer raised her brows and the hairs on the back of her neck. Why prevaricate about such a mundane job? Was he embarrassed about what he did?
His phone buzzed, and he glanced at it and relaxed. “My buddies are here.”
“Okay. Here.” She handed him her room key. “Go get changed. I’m heading up to the Presidential Suite.”
“All right. I’ll meet you up there?”
“No, the wedding is in a church a few blocks over. Big, fancy, room for all the guests and paparazzi. You can meet us there.”
He caught her by the arm, skimming his hand down to her wrist. “Wait a minute.”
She tossed him an impatient look. What now? “Kaley’s going to be freaking out.”
“I need you to promise me you won’t go anywhere without me. I can’t protect you if we’re not together.”
Remembering how he’d disabled one of her attackers and then finessed his way out without further violence, Lark found herself nodding. “But you’re not coming in with me if I have to tinkle.”
“Agreed.” He grinned, letting her wrist slip free as she skipped into the elevator, turning to watch him as the doors closed. He raised a hand in farewell; she found herself grinning foolishly.
The elevator rose smoothly, depositing her at the top of the hotel. Kaley’s room door stood open, excited chattering emanating from it. As soon as she entered, Kaley leaped at her.
“You’re here! Finally,” she squealed, silk and satin rustling as she dashed to Lark. “Where have you been?”
Her mother scooped up the train, holding it out of the way as Kaley enveloped her sister in a perfume-scented hug.
“You’re late, as usual,” her mother said. “Hurry up, now.”
Lark felt the familiar weight of her mother’s disapproval. Today, though, she refused to let it spoil her good mood. Despite the lack of sleep, she felt great. Better than great. Her gorgeous baby sister was about to marry the love of her life. Plus, she could dance again with Mace, who had rescued her outside the nightclub and wasn’t trying to kill her. Two points in his favor. And she could probably resolve this case of mistaken identity easily enough. Maybe she could just contact Palachka the Mobster and explain she wasn’t the one they wanted. Could it be that easy? Or Palachka
would figure it out all on his own. Even better.
She suffered in silence for an hour as the makeup and hair stylist fussed and brushed and squirted and gelled, then dressed under her mother’s impatiently tapping foot.
“Everyone ready?” Isla asked. “Let’s head downstairs.”
Chapter 14
Saturday, February 18. 12:30 p.m.
Hyatt Regency. Cambridge, Massachusetts.
The bridal party minced across the lobby like royalty, led by an older woman who could only be Lark’s mother. He nearly swallowed his tongue at the sight of Lark; she looked magnificent, graceful from head to toe. She glanced to where he waited near the doors at the far end, hesitated, then came toward him, aping the mincing steps of the older woman, amusement curling her lips. Mace nearly laughed aloud. No, the Lark he’d seen to date did not fit in with these primping ladies—and yet, she did. He met her in the middle, offering his arm and ignoring the curious looks.
Lark tightened her fingers around his forearm. “Mother, this is Thomas Beckett.”
No mention of the attack, nor of the danger she could be facing. The look she shot him, though, held warning. Nothing would interfere with Kaley’s wedding.
Got it.
Did that mean she trusted him to keep her safe? Lark had courage in spades, but she was so far out of her depth she might as well be a kitten in a cage full of leopards.
“It’s nice to mee’ you, Mrs. Larkspur,” he said, stepping forward and extending his hand.
“A pleasure.” She gave him one of those limp fish handshakes he despised, then looked around and briskly clapped her hands. “The limousines are waiting, ladies. Dana and Evelyn, you’ll ride with Kaley and myself. The rest of you, and Mr. Beckett, will travel in the second limousine.”
“I’m Yvette, one of the bridesmaids,” the lady across from him said, once they’d settled into their seats. “That’s Grace.”
“A pleasure, ladies.”
“This trip will take like five minutes,” Yvette said. “The church is really close. What kind of name is Mace? English? Norse?”
He chuckled. “It’s jus’ a nickname.”
Lark seemed disappointed by his lack of an answer. Well, what could it hurt to tell them?
“I’m pretty good with improvised weapons,” he said. “I was in a fight once, a long time ago, and I was losing. I picked up a piece of fencepost with a chunk of wood a’ the top. It kind of looked like a cross. I won the fight. Someone said it looked like I was swinging a mace from God. The name stuck.”
“Who were you fighting?”
“Where were you?”
“Was it a bar fight?”
He answered Lark’s question. “No, it wasn’t a bar fight. Just something that happened.” A something that had happened in a mountain jungle in Columbia, but he wouldn’t tell her that.
“You want to hear a Lark story?” Yvette asked, wiggling her eyebrows.
“No,” Lark said. “Please no.”
“Yes, absolutely.” He grinned at her as she groaned and closed her eyes.
“Okay,” Yvette said with relish. “This is a funny one. Once upon a time, Lark rode dressage. She made it to states, but instead of riding into the ring in proper attire—a top hat and tails, mind you—she comes out wearing a jockey’s outfit and proceeds to do trick riding acts around the ring like she’s in a circus or something.”
Mace burst out laughing. Yes, that sounded like something Lark would do. “What happened?”
“The judges tossed me out of the competition,” Lark said in satisfaction.
“How old were you?” he asked.
“Twelve.” Color rose in her cheeks. “I wanted to be a jockey.”
“That would definitely make a point,” he agreed. “Did you get to be a jockey?”
Lark scowled. “No. I got grounded for a month instead. But at least I never had to ride dressage again.”
Grace peered out the window as the limousine slowed. “We’re here.”
The driver turned onto the long drive of a shining silver church. He bypassed the main parking lot, which was choked with cars, more arriving every minute. Couples and groups chatted as they moved inside. Reporters clogged the drive, snapping photos of the guests and doing quick interviews with the presumably important ones. Apparently, Peter and Kaley’s wedding was big news. For the first time, Mace wondered just how wealthy Lark’s family was.
How far did her rebellion go, now that she was an adult? She drove a used Jeep rather than a fancy car, so she seemed pretty determined to make it on her own.
The driver maneuvered through a police barricade to a side entrance, pulling in behind the other limo. Mace exited first, turning to offer a hand to the ladies.
“You’ll need to join the others in the pews,” Mrs. Larkspur told him, not unkindly. “Obviously you’re not part of the bridal party.”
“Of course,” he said, shifting his shoulders to stretch them. His suit weighed in at seven pounds. It, and the undershirt he wore against his skin, had been custom made for him. Both were bullet resistant, lined with special lightweight ballistic material that would also keep him safe from knife attacks. The undershirt, with its concealed gun pocket, kept his Browning Hi-Power snugged under his arm. His right front pants pocket had been torn open to allow easy access to the Asp baton strapped to this thigh. Even his dress shoes had been fitted with special soles for grip. Every member of his team who worked executive protection details possessed the same specialized attire.
The truth was, he loved weddings. Watching two people dedicating themselves to one another warmed his insides. Sure, fifty percent of them would hire lawyers and split their belongings later on, but here, now, at the beginning, the future seemed bright and hopeful. He felt the familiar tug in his gut, the sense of aloneness weddings also evoked.
Someday.
The image of Lark, dressed to kill at the nightclub, flashed through his mind. The feel of her in his arms as they danced. The taste of her mouth as he kissed her. He suppressed the soppy grin that threatened.
Isla Larkspur entered the building, gesturing for the others to follow before disappearing inside. Mace trotted to the nearest corner, angling himself so he had maximum range of vision.
A blue panel van eased around the news vans and crawled toward the barricade. One of the off duty cops stepped forward, arm raised in a clear order to stop. Instead, the driver stomped on the gas pedal. The van jumped forward, ramming the barricade. The cop dove out of the way, no doubt eating gravel as he rolled several times.
Mace drew his Asp baton and launched into an all-out run. What the hell? No way was this just some overzealous news crew. The van careened close to the entrance, screeching to a halt near the bridesmaids, who had all stopped to stare in astonishment.
“Scatter,” he shouted. “Get inside!”
Clearly they didn’t hear him as three men piled out of the van, because they cried out in fear and clustered together as one of the men shouted and waved a MAC-10. The other two cut Lark out of the herd and dragged her, kicking and screaming, to the blue van.
Mace kicked it harder. Goddammit! He’d moved too far away from her. His stupid, amateur mistake would cost her.
The driver saw Mace barreling closer and yelled, pointing his way. The one with the machine pistol turned and fired, spraying rounds indiscriminately in his direction. He flung himself past the shrubs fronting the church, bounced against the wall, and used his own momentum to push off and get back on the sidewalk.
One of the two who had grabbed Lark climbed into the back of the van, holding her wrists and trying to pull her bodily inside. The second tried unsuccessfully to grab her legs, but, brave woman that she was, she kicked and shouted and twisted. Kaley darted forward, clawing and scratching, trying to pull him away from Lark. He raised the back of his hand and slapped her across the face. She stumbled and fell to her hands and knees, tearing her wedding gown. Dana cried out and ran to her side, helping her up and away.
<
br /> “Let her go,” Kaley screamed, holding her bleeding cheek. “You let her go right now!”
He’d nearly closed the distance. Without hesitation, Mace hurled the closed baton at the shooter’s head. The man flinched as the baton ricocheted off his shoulder and clattered to the sidewalk. With a snarl, he swung the MAC-10 back toward Mace and fired it full auto. Mace dove sideways, bouncing on the concrete. The shooter sprayed another burst of rounds. The first bullet slammed into his upper right chest, pushing him onto his back. The second shot skidded along his ribs. He ignored the instant burn, turning his head to search for Lark.
The men had succeeded in wrestling her into the back of the van, but she continued to punch and kick, trying to crawl to the doors. The driver stomped on the gas pedal, causing the van to slew around on the gravel before it gained purchase. The doors swung crazily.
Ordering his body to move, he struggled to his hands and knees as liquid fire seared along his scalp. But blood obscured his vision, and he fell as the darkness pulled him under.
Chapter 15
Saturday, February 18. 12:30 p.m.
Rooftop Bar, Ebony Point Hotel. Boston, Massachusetts.
The lure of the ocean drew Fatianova to the floor-to-ceiling windows. Most of the boats in the harbor rested in their slips, but a three-story yacht cruised in lazily. She could make out a group of people milling around on the ship’s roof, shivering in the bitter February cold, watching the guests on her rooftop bar, just as she watched them.
An amber glow bathed the entire enclosed bar area. Lighting had been carefully planned to reflect off the eggshell tiles and brass railings. Guests filled almost every seat, every table, every lounging area, and lined the bar two deep. She drained her fancy crystal goblet as she admired the sun shimmering off the buildings of downtown Boston.
The yacht gave her an idea.
A tanned wrist settled onto the window sill. She glanced over. The man leaning beside her wore a soft cashmere coat that had easily cost him three thousand dollars. The suit underneath had been custom-tailored, she felt certain. The man himself looked distinguished, from his full head of gray hair, assessing eyes, and strong chin. She smiled.