In A Faraway Land (Runaway Princess: Flicka, Book 3)

by Blair Babylon

  She pivoted and marched inside.

  At the front desk, she asked where the human resources office was, proud of herself that she remembered Indrani’s term for the hiring place.

  At the HR office, the man behind the desk looked Flicka up and down, from her long, slim legs, to her shirt tied beneath her rounded breasts, which she had stuffed with toilet paper in her bra to make sure they were plumping out of her shirt.

  He asked, “What’s wrong with you?”

  Flicka held out her resume. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Obviously, there’s something wrong with you. Illegal? Heroin addict?”

  “I assure you, I’m not addicted to heroin or anything else.” She lifted her chin. “And here is my passport and work authorization.”

  She held out Gretchen Mirabaud’s passport and green card.

  For the first time in her life, she was aware that her accent was too British. She should have cultivated an American accent. This hiring manager might not have even thought to ask her about her employment authorization if she had bamboozled him more thoroughly.

  The guy inspected her passport, staring at the photo and at her and then flipping to the green card she had tucked in there. His long, gray hair fell across his face, and she couldn’t see his eyes.

  He sighed a long, dramatic whoosh and entered her information into a computer on his desk with a scowl. He peered at that, craning his neck to get a better angle while Flicka waited. “Well, you’re authorized to work. Why did you move here from California?”

  The computer had told him that Gretchen was in California now. That was creepy.

  “I left my husband,” Flicka said. “He shot at me.”

  The guy swiveled around and stared at her. “Asshole.”

  “That’s what I told him,” she assured him.

  “I don’t like men who beat up women. Have you ever waited tables in a casino before?”

  “Not in a casino.” In addition to padding her bra, she had padded her resume with a few waitressing jobs at small, non-existent cafes. After all, how hard could it be to listen to what people wanted and bring them what they asked for?

  “Well, you’ll learn. All right, you’ll start tomorrow afternoon at three, assuming you pass the drug test.”

  “Is there any way I could begin today?” she asked, lowering her chin. She felt like she was begging, probably because she was.

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  Flicka usually demanded what she wanted, but she knew how normal women got what they needed.

  She leaned over the guy’s desk and braced her arms. Her boobs almost fell out of her half-unbuttoned shirt. “I would really appreciate it.”

  The hiring manager glanced at her and then stared at his computer screen. “Well, your work authorization checks out. We are short-handed. All right, fill out these application forms, and then go down to the costume department and pick up your costume.”

  “There’s a uniform?” she asked, standing up.

  “Not a uniform.” He looked back at her and enunciated very clearly at this next part. “It’s a costume because you’re a performer. That’s an important distinction. Otherwise, we’d have to hire the most qualified people instead of people like you.”

  Flicka almost shot back something like, That’s hardly fair, but she shut her mouth quickly. “Right. I’ll go pick up my costume.”

  The man picked up his cell phone. “I’ll text them that you’re coming. Welcome to the Monaco.”

  Flicka said, “I’m sure I’ll feel right at home.”

  He tossed a small, plastic jar to her. “And before you go, piss in this cup.”

  Change of Plans

  Dieter Schwarz

  I should have stayed.

  Dieter held the crappy phone that Flicka had so brilliantly bartered for with the pawn shop owner and glared at the screen.

  His text read, Are you all right?

  Flicka had texted back, Sure.

  He had tried to call her earlier, but she hadn’t picked up. Texting had been his last resort because he had wanted to hear her voice.

  What did you eat for lunch? he asked.

  Her words pinged his phone, I ordered one of everything off the room service menu and ate it all. Plus I drank three bottles of Dom champagne.

  Too much, and she wasn’t complaining about being locked up and alone nearly enough.

  She was hiding something.

  Unfortunately, he knew exactly what it was.

  He swiped his finger over the tiny screen. Dammit, Flicka. Go back to the hotel and lock yourself in.

  I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m in the hotel room, watching Ellen on TV.

  He checked the television schedule in Las Vegas. Ellen didn’t come on for another hour. He typed, You’ve gone on one of your walkabouts.

  No I haven’t.

  I told you not to leave the room!

  You don’t know I left.

  Please, for the love of God, go back to the hotel and lock the door.

  The set-up with Wulf was due to start in minutes. He was in an office in Theo’s house, sitting at an expansive desk and ready to scrutinize the Welfenlegion on a bank of computer monitors.

  Meanwhile, Her Serene Highness Friederike Augusta, Prinzessin von Hannover, was wandering around Las Vegas while Monaco’s Secret Service agents were probably manning security cameras and hunting through the crowds for her with facial recognition software.

  He could see it in his head: Flicka’s bright blond hair and lithe form slipping through the crowds, the lights of the Strip flashing around her, the fountains squirting water in the background, and a squad of black-clad operators dragging her into a van to take her back to Monaco where that damned asshole Pierre Grimaldi would lay his hands on her again.

  A window popped open on the computer screen.

  Theo’s head said, “Noah is ready to go. If you talk, Noah and I will be able to hear you, but the guys in Wulfram’s house won’t. Go ahead and talk it out, and tell us anything you want to ask them. Got it?”

  “Sure,” Dieter said, thinking about where Flicka must be.

  “Here we go.”

  Jesus, she was probably wandering around in one of the casinos, and he knew the casinos had facial recognition software running. If Pierre had enlisted the help of Interpol, the casino’s private security might send a hit on a wanted person to the local police who would invariably pass it along. As a member of Monaco’s royal family, Pierre probably had the contacts and the right to do that.

  The computer monitor lit up.

  On the monitor, a room full of Dieter’s closest friends from the last few years with the Welfenlegion swam into view. The men were seated in mismatched chairs or leaning against the walls, all staring out of the screen at him. The webcam distorted their faces and the room slightly, widening everything like a fisheye lens.

  Pierre’s Secret Service might have already found Flicka in Las Vegas. They might be following her. They might have already taken her.

  Over the computer’s speakers, another man’s voice said, “Hello. I’ll be your primary operations coordinator for Sin Nombre Security.” His voice was pitched low, and the rhythm sounded like a monotonous military march.

  That must be Theo’s guy, Noah.

  Noah continued, “We’ll be lending intelligence and operational support to find your missing primary, Friederike von Hannover. I have your reports in front of me, but I’d like each one of you to repeat what happened that night, in detail, taking as long as necessary, to ensure we haven’t missed anything.”

  Dieter stood, knocking the office chair over behind him. He ran his hand over his short hair and paced.

  This was going to take hours.

  He couldn’t breathe, knowing that Flicka was out there somewhere, alone.

  One of the Welfenlegion guys asked something, but the speaker volume was too low to hear properly.

  Noah said, “That’s an affirmative. We will star
t with Julien Bodilsen.”

  Dieter paced behind the desk. Julien was solid. He had been in ARD-10 with him and Wulf. There was no way Julien was involved with the Grimaldis or Quentin Sault, and Julien would never allow anyone to get close to Wulfram and Rae. He wouldn’t take a bribe or betray anyone.

  Dieter leaned over to the microphone. “Theo? Let’s move on. Julien is as loyal as they come. It’s not him.”

  As Dieter was saying that and watching the monitor, Julien licked his lips.

  Lip-licking was an enormous red flag for deception. It was a huge, snapping, waving scarlet banner that wrapped around the entire room. It meant the guy was nervous as hell and probably lying his ass off.

  Dieter fell into the chair heavily. It creaked under him. “Never mind. Continue with Julien Bodilsen.”

  Lip-licking could also be due to the fact that Julien Bodilsen currently resided in the middle of the damn Sonoran Desert, where the relative humidity was absolute zero, give or take. Dieter smeared some more camphor goop on his lips as he peered at the monitor. The fumes stung his dry nose.

  Even though Julien had moved to the front of the Welfenlegion room and his face filled the huge computer screen, Dieter squinted at him.

  Watching on the computer monitor was a poor substitute for being in the same room with a person. When he was sitting next to people at the Silver Horseshoe poker tables, he swore he could feel the vibrations of nerves or excitement rolling off their skin. His own flesh tingled when they were so earnestly bluffing or concealing their joy at the straight flush in their hands.

  Now?

  Nothing.

  Dieter couldn’t feel them through the monitor. It was like trying to smell deceit.

  Hell, he could smell fear hormones better than he could see their effects over a low-res webcam. Fear had a sour smell. When adrenaline kicks in and the body leaps into fight-or-flight mode, the skin secretes slippery oils in sweat to help squirm out of a pursuer’s grasp, and sugar metabolism kicks into high gear for a burst of energy. He had attacked men during covert ops and smelled the tang of their terror and aggression as he fought them hand-to-hand and took them down.

  Now? Nothing. Electrified dust burned in the back of the monitor.

  On the computer screen, Julien leaned toward one side, shifting in his seat.

  Might be nerves because he had been bought by the Grimaldi operation.

  Might be a sore ass from squats and running.

  Dieter couldn’t tell.

  But he knew that Julien never skipped leg day.

  And that was a totally useless piece of information.

  Dieter glared at the screen, his fists clenching.

  Julien gave his account of being on duty at Wulf and Rae’s wedding that night, but he had been pinned to Wulf all night. He hadn’t noticed Flicka after the Alexandre Grimaldi incident except for a quick good-bye when Wulf and Rae retired for the night. At that point, Julien left with Wulf and Rae, while Flicka stayed to close the party down in the wee hours.

  Julien licked his lips twice more during the recitation.

  Should Dieter destroy a man’s career for having chapped lips in the desert?

  His mind twitched back to Flicka, as it had so many times during Julien’s interview.

  He grabbed his phone but didn’t know what to text. If he demanded her location, she would lie.

  He wanted to goddamn bite something.

  The next few Welfenlegion guys told their stories.

  Matthias Williams was a newer hire after Dieter and Wulf had mustered out of the military. He came with excellent references from friends on SEAL Team Six, but he had no intrinsic, personal loyalty to Wulfram von Hannover.

  Dieter stared at the man, looking for any twitch or calming gesture like running his hand through his short, dark hair, but found none.

  Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence. Dieter couldn’t feel shit through the computer monitor. He might be a sell-out, and Dieter would never know it. This charade was a waste of his time.

  Romain Belmont was another newcomer, hired within the last few years, and Dieter examined every twitch as Romain drummed his fingers on the table, every flick of his dark eyes as he watched something in the background of the monitor he saw and anything that moved around the room. He didn’t look anxious so much as hyper-alert and suspicious of this set-up.

  Dieter would have been suspicious, too.

  Wulf’s sister was missing. Wulf should have called in Rogue Security, not some new and unknown operation. Sin Nombre Security didn’t even exist. Its name literally meant “Without A Name” in Spanish. If Dieter had been there, he would have been all over this situation and demanded answers.

  If Dieter had been in Las Vegas, he would be tracking Flicka and then hiding her away from Pierre Goddamn Grimaldi.

  His hands were practically shaking with anger that she would leave the hotel room and expose herself to being kidnapped or actually murdered. If Prince Rainier had tried to have her killed once, her murder might be his primary plan.

  Dieter said to Theo, “I don’t think this is working. I can’t tell a damn thing about these guys. I need to be in the room with them.”

  Theo popped into a chat window on the screen. “Come on. You have to be able to see something.”

  “Run them through faster,” he said. “I don’t think I can tell a damn thing. I can’t feel their energy. I can’t smell them.”

  Theo bobbled his head to the side. “Yeah, it is harder to detect deception without those clues.” He turned his head. “Noah, step it up. We’re just looking for red flags.”

  They ran through the rest of the Welfenlegion. For every single person, Dieter could give you a hundred reasons why they were absolutely loyal, perfectly trustworthy, and definitely the weak link that Monaco might have exploited.

  All of them displayed nervous traits that might indicate deception or might be a result of the dry desert air, the early afternoon time frame right after lunch, or the bottomless coffeepot in Wulf’s kitchen.

  Meanwhile, Flicka was walking around Vegas, not answering his frantic texts.

  After two hours, Theo asked, “Well?”

  “Nothing,” Dieter said. “Not a goddamn one of them stood out. I can’t give you a list of top three suspects. I can’t even rule out if Pierre was blowing smoke out of his ass. I can’t tell you if someone in there is a hired assassin and Wulf is in extreme danger, or if every one of the Welfenlegion is as loyal as the goddamn French Musketeers.” Flicka. Out there. Somewhere. In danger. “I have to go.”

  He shut off the computer and stood. The office chair fell over behind him.

  He had to pick up Alina before he went to the airport to catch the next goddamn flight back to Vegas.

  He texted to Flicka, I’m on my way back to Vegas. I’m going to the airport within an hour to catch the next flight. Tell me a code.

  While he drove to Alina’s babysitter’s house, his phone was silent for half an hour until Flicka finally replied: Fiddlesticks.

  He smiled at the phone, glad to see her code word that meant she was safe, under her own control, and all right. If she hadn’t been all right, she would have texted a different word, maybe limestone, which meant that she was generally not safe, or decorating, which meant she was in active danger, such as a kidnapping or other crime in progress.

  He texted, What are you really doing?

  Again, a half-hour pause elapsed while he picked up his toddler daughter, Alina, from her babysitter Suze Meier, a retired kindergarten teacher who doted on the child.

  Retrieving Alina was his last errand of the day. After that, he could finally board a plane to find Flicka and sit on her until the six weeks were over.

  The blond baby pouted but then giggled as Dieter slung her over one shoulder and listened while Suze briefed him on operations during his absence. Her tiny nails scratched his neck as she writhed in his hands like an insecure cat.

  Suze said, “She’s had applesauce, crackers
, roasted turkey, and cooked carrots for lunch. She could use more greens. I’m very concerned about her greens consumption.”

  “We’ll work on that,” Dieter said, dropping the child down his back, catching her at his waist, and spinning her so that she was dangling under his arm.

  “I’m serious, Mr. Schwarz. She had only four servings of greens last week. I made her an Indian ground spinach dish, which she tolerated, but she needs to expand her palate and learn to tolerate a greater diversity of greens.”

  “So noted,” Dieter said, shifting Alina to his other arm while flipping her around. She shrieked with giggles. Suze-mama might read stories better than anyone else, but no one rough-housed with his baby quite as well as Daddy.

  After a few more minutes’ discussion about his child’s digestive system and the benefits of green, leafy vegetables, Dieter installed Alina’s car seat in his rental car and made for the airport.

  Alina clutched the pink bear all the way, talking to it in a made-up language as Dieter drove. Her birth certificate and his custody agreement for her were in the file of important paperwork Suze Meier had handed back to him, so he wasn’t worried about flying with her.

  At the airport, his phone buzzed as he stood in line at the security checkpoint. He held Alina in one arm to read the text.

  Flicka’s text read, Are you really coming back?

  I’m at the airport right now, he thumbed into the phone. I’ll be in Las Vegas in two hours.

  Fine. Our new address is 952 Tam O Shanter. I’ll be at work when you get home.

  WHAT THE HELL DO YOU MEAN WORK GET BACK TO THAT HOTEL OR THAT HOUSE RIGHT NOW AND DON’T LEAVE

  Don’t you shouty all-caps at me, Dieter. I’ll see you when I get home.

  FLICKA!!!!!!1!!!1!1!1!!!

  Dieter watched the icon on his phone spin, but the message never delivered.

  Damn it, she must have turned off her phone.

  He stuck the phone back in his pocket and juggled Alina under one arm, making sure that she hadn’t dropped Sweetie Pinkie Bear and hoisting her diaper bag and his duffel to walk to where the Homeland Security agent was beckoning.