Happily Ever After (Runaway Princess: Flicka, Book 5)

by Blair Babylon

  They hadn’t been followed.

  They were practically home free.

  Raphael slowed to a walk and caught her eye for a quick grin.

  Flicka was the slightest bit out of breath from the quick exit and nerves. “That was anti-climactic.”

  He tucked his gun in its holster and led her farther down the bright hallway. “The best covert operations are exceedingly quiet. They’re planned that way.”

  “I was hoping for at least a little running or jumping or something,” she laughed.

  Down at the other end the corridor, five men wearing suits turned the corner. “There she is!”

  Raphael grabbed his gun. “Shit. Go back. Go back.”

  Magnus and the other guys ran past Flicka and Raphael as they reversed course, running back in the direction they had come from.

  Gunshots banged behind her, popping like firecrackers right in her ears.

  This time, she knew better than to look back and ran as hard as she could with Raphael. Welfenlegion men ran behind them.

  Raphael looped one arm around her waist, supporting her as they sprinted so she could run faster in those damned heels, and they darted down another passage. Flicka hadn’t known a maze of corridors tunneled behind the palace walls.

  Men jumped into the corner of the hallway ahead of them.

  Flicka’s feet slid out from under her as she tried to stop, but Raphael caught her against his side before she crashed to the tile floor. Flicka hung onto his slim waist and hard shoulder, panting.

  Behind them, Welfenlegion operators caught up to Raphael and Flicka.

  Luca and Julien spread themselves over Flicka, brandishing their guns at the Secret Service agents clustered at both ends of the hallway.

  Romain Belmont stood in front of them, his hands locked around his pistol in a fist as he aimed at the Monegasques closest to them.

  “Put down your weapons!”

  “Get down! Get on the floor!”

  “Drop your guns or we’ll shoot!”

  “Halt! Stop! Drop your weapons!”

  “Throw your guns away from you! Hands behind your heads!”

  “Get down! Get down! Get down!”

  Everyone was breathing hard from running. Adrenaline scalded through Flicka, and it felt like everyone was pointing guns and waving them and shouting at each other.

  Raphael whispered just loud enough for the guys surrounding them to hear, “We need to get to the third door on the right. That’s the exit.”

  Flicka grabbed Raphael’s leg because she didn’t want to impede his hands. What had happened to Magnus? Was he dead? Was he lying somewhere, bleeding? And the other Welfenlegion guys who had run out after them, were they okay or dead?

  They might be dying somewhere because of her.

  A man down the hallway to their left yelled, “Drop your weapons and put your hands up! Right now! On your heads or we’ll shoot you all!”

  From the other end of the corridor: “You are all under arrest! Drop your guns and raise your hands! Get them where I can see them now!”

  “Get down! Get down on the ground!”

  “Hands up!”

  “Drop your weapons!”

  Yelling and screaming bounced off the walls of the hallway.

  “Hands on your heads!”

  “I said get down on the ground!”

  Raphael said, his voice calm, “We’re breaking for the third door on the right. Get ready.”

  “Get the hell down on the ground right now!”

  “Get your hands up! Get your hands where I can see them!”

  “Get down! Get down!”

  Flicka’s hands were shaking so hard, and she looked around, trying to see who was there.

  Julien, Romain, and Luca’s black-clothed bodies blocked her view. One of them said to the Monegasques, “We won’t shoot if you don’t. Lower your weapons, and no one will get hurt.”

  “Get down on the ground!”

  “Drop your weapons! Throw them away!”

  “Hands on your heads!”

  “Lay your guns down on the ground!”

  “Get down now or we’ll shoot!”

  A man from down the hallway yelled, “We won’t let you kidnap our princess! We will die for her!”

  That was an opportunity.

  Flicka bounced to her feet and yelled back at the Secret Service agent, “I want to leave with them! I divorced Pierre because he beat me and raped me. I will never go back to him, never. If you have any loyalty to me, let me go with them. I’m not being kidnapped. I’m escaping!”

  The yelling stopped.

  The Secret Service men glanced at each other, still pointing their weapons at Flicka, Raphael, and the Welfenlegion men.

  One of the other agents yelled, “What if that guy told you to say that?”

  “He didn’t tell me to say anything, I swear,” Flicka called back and leaned out from behind Julien Bodilsen. “I ran away, and Pierre kidnapped me back. I want to leave. They’re rescuing me. If you have any personal loyalty to me as the Princess of Monaco, help us.”

  “But those pictures, and what you said—”

  “Lies,” Flicka told him. “Pierre coerced me. These men are rescuing me. Help me leave Monaco.”

  The Secret Service men’s guns wavered.

  Beside her, Raphael whispered, “Good. Keep talking.”

  One guy said to another, “I didn’t sign up to keep someone prisoner who doesn’t want to be here.”

  “Yes!” Flicka called to him. “I want to leave with these men. Please lower your guns and allow us to leave. As the Princess of Monaco, I demand you let us pass.”

  “Oh,” one of the guys said to another. “She hasn’t been crowned as the princess. It’s not official yet.”

  Beside her, Raphael straightened. He still held his gun in his hand. Julien, Romain, and Luca still held their guns at the ready position.

  Flicka yelled, “As a Monegasque citizen, I’ve done nothing wrong, I’ve committed no crime, and thus you can’t hold me!”

  Another one of the Secret Service guys nodded. “Now, that’s true.”

  Two guys lowered their weapons to point just beyond their toes.

  She continued, “As a princess of Monaco—and that’s official for months and you heard it announced at the Winter Ball—I order you to allow us to leave.”

  More of the Secret Service guys nodded.

  One said, “She is a princess, so she has some authority. Prince Pierre isn’t here to countermand it.”

  As if on goddamn cue, another group of Secret Service agents rounded the corner at full tilt, weapons drawn and ready.

  Prince Pierre Grimaldi stood in their midst, though some of them tried to crowd him back when they saw the armed Welfenlegion men standing in the hallway.

  She recognized quite a few of the Monegasque agents: Claude Brousseau, Mathys Vitale, and Jordan Defrancesco. All had defended Pierre and her from threats.

  Pierre didn’t step back, however. He yelled, “What are you waiting for? Shoot them! Try not to hit the princess.”

  If Pierre were a widower, his problem with being divorced wouldn’t matter.

  Flicka yelled, “No! Stop! Don’t shoot! I command you to stand down! I am not being kidnapped. I want to leave with these men.”

  The Secret Service men shuffled on their feet, trying to decide which set of orders to follow, but all of them had raised their guns to aim at Flicka and Raphael again. The guys around Pierre followed, their guns hovering in the air.

  So many guns were locked on them.

  Flicka yelled, “No! Stop!”

  Pierre shouted, “I said, fire!”

  Raphael spun, gathering Flicka under his arms, and crouched over her, blocking any bullets with his own body, like Dieter always had.

  Wait, no, Raphael.

  It didn’t matter anymore. She clung to Dieter and murmured “Lieblingwächter.”

  In her ear, she heard him say, “Durchlauchtig,” as she pe
eked out from under his arm.

  Quentin Sault, who stood beside Pierre and had moved half in front of the prince, holstered his weapon. “Men, stand down.”

  Pierre yelled, “No! I said, shoot them!”

  Quentin explained to Pierre, “It’s an enclosed space. We’re standing across from each other. Our men will be casualties or fatalities in the crossfire. This is an indefensible position.”

  “They’re surrounded!”

  “It’s a circular firing squad, Pierre. We’re shooting across them and into each other, and the rounds will ricochet, too. It’s not going to work.”

  The Secret Service agents all lowered their guns, looking confused and guilty. Yeah, they should have noticed that earlier.

  Raphael looked around, over her head, and slowly stood.

  Flicka straightened her beaded skirt. “All right, we’re going to leave now, slowly, and no one will shoot anyone.”

  Pierre turned and shouted, “Julien, do something!”

  Flicka stepped back from the Welfenlegion soldier, Julien Bodilsen, horrified.

  Raphael asked, “Julien?”

  Julien turned, his dark eyes wide on his face. He stepped backward a few paces, out of reach, and brought his gun around to point at Flicka. “I’m sorry, Your Highness. You need to go with Prince Pierre.”

  Raphael said to him, “We were in ARD-10 together. Alpine ice is thicker than water.”

  “No, it’s not.” Lines crimped between Julien’s eyes and on his forehead.

  “Was it money?” Raphael demanded. “Or did they threaten you? We can take care of that, permanently.”

  Julien said, his voice oddly constricted, “It doesn’t matter now. Flicka, Your Highness, please walk over to Prince Pierre Grimaldi.”

  Flicka stood up to him. “Lower your weapon. If Pierre was paying you, then Monaco was paying you. I’m a princess of Monaco and his equal in every way. I have every bit as much right to command you as he does. Don’t do this.”

  Julien shook his head. “I picked my master, and now I have to pay for it.” He swung his gun to point at Raphael’s forehead, and his finger moved from the side of the gun to the trigger. “Your Gracious Highness, Flicka, please move slowly toward the Secret Service agents. I don’t want to do this.”

  She inched sideways, preparing to walk toward the Monegasque men at the end of the hallway. “Don’t hurt him. I’ll stay in Monaco.”

  “No! Don’t go with them!” Raphael yelled, and then, “Jordan!” though his gray eyes didn’t move from the gun pointing at his forehead.

  At the end of the corridor, Quentin Sault looked behind himself.

  Jordan Defrancesco was standing behind Prince Pierre Grimaldi.

  An angry energy seized his body, and he yelled, “Jesus Christ! Fine!”

  Flicka held her breath.

  Jordan Defrancesco yanked his gun from its holster and pointed it straight at the back of Pierre’s head. “Let them go. Let them go now!”

  Quentin told him, “Stand down. Don’t do this.”

  Jordan Defrancesco moved sideways, still pointing the gun at Pierre. “You punched Lorenzo in the mouth and fired all those guys, all those men who were loyal to you, who were just following orders in Paris! They didn’t deserve it. They all had families to support. They were willing to die for you, and you treated them like trash.”

  Quentin told Jordan, “Put the gun down. You can’t raise a weapon in the presence of your prince.”

  “He’s not my prince anymore,” Jordan Defrancesco said. “He was never loyal to us, and I don’t know why any of the rest of you are still loyal to him. He’s going to fire you all for not executing the princess and these guys, even though you would be firing into each other and killing each other.”

  More of the Secret Service men grumbled and glanced at one another.

  Quentin Sault rolled his eyes. “Gentlemen, do your jobs. At this point, stand down. That means you, too, Jordan and Julien. Both of you, lower your weapons, and then we’ll take these people into custody, calmly.”

  “No,” Jordan Defrancesco said, walking backward over to where Raphael and Flicka were standing. “No, I won’t.”

  Quentin said, “Drop your gun now, and we won’t charge you.”

  “I won’t,” Jordan Defrancesco said. “Julien, you drop your gun. Loyalty runs both ways. Pierre Grimaldi won’t be loyal to you or any of you, any more than he was to the rest of us. Walk out of here with Raphael and the rest of them,” he squinted at them a little, obviously not knowing Luca’s name, “and I will, too. We’ll all get out of here alive. Come on. This is the right thing to do. Be on the right side of this one.”

  Julien’s gun wavered in the air, but he took a tighter grip of it before he turned the gun toward Jordan Defrancesco.

  Raphael yelled, “Go!”

  Luca leaped and swung his weapon sideways, catching Julien under the jaw with the butt of the pistol. He slammed sideways into the wall.

  Raphael and Romain Belmont grabbed Flicka’s elbows and propelled her toward the door Raphael had said was their exit. She ran, pumping her legs hard those few steps to make it before all hell broke loose. Raphael aimed backward and fired as they ran, forcing Pierre and the Secret Service to dive for cover instead of pursuing them.

  Jordan Defrancesco ran with them, aiming his pistol at the men behind them.

  The Secret Service agents pointed their weapons.

  A shot cracked through the air.

  Flicka ran harder, gasping for breath.

  Behind her, Quentin Sault yelled, “Cease fire! Cease fire, you idiots!”

  Raphael reached out and jerked the doorknob.

  Flicka prayed it was unlocked.

  The door opened in his hand, and they tumbled through.

  Escape

  Flicka von Hannover

  “All [war] takes place,

  so to speak,

  in a kind of twilight,

  which like a fog or moonlight,

  often tends to make things seem grotesque

  and larger than they really are.”

  ~~Carl von Clausewitz

  Another hallway opened in front of Flicka and Raphael as they ran. She slapped her high-heeled pumps on the floor and pushed off with her toes for every extra inch.

  Raphael, Jordan Defrancesco, and Luca ran beside her.

  Flicka bobbled sideways and pushed herself off the wall to regain her feet.

  Raphael grabbed her arm. “We’re almost out.”

  Romain Belmont slammed the door behind them and slapped a device over the knob that extended beyond the doorframe and latched it to the wall to slow down their pursuers.

  Flicka ran with Raphael.

  He said, “Just a few more turns, and we’ll be out and safe. Come on.”

  “How do you know how to get out of the palace?” she asked him.

  Raphael was watching the walls as they ran. “Aiden drew maps and showed me several exits when I sneaked in yesterday. Here, down these stairs.”

  He yanked open a stairwell door and whirled her in front of him.

  “Down,” he said. “Down two levels.”

  Flicka clutched her skirt and the banister and sprinted down the stairs.

  Romain, Jordan, and Luca thundered down them behind her.

  They slid and sprinted down two floors.

  Above them, a door slapped open. More gunshots clapped through the air.

  The Secret Service held a better position now: the high ground and with none of their people behind Flicka and Raphael.

  Now, they could shoot.

  Flicka counted two floors down as she pattered down the stairs. A green door was on the next landing. She glanced at Raphael right behind her, who was nodding.

  She grabbed the handle and pulled, stumbling out into another hallway, one that was dustier and smelled like mildew and mice.

  Raphael whisper-yelled, “Go left!”

  She turned. Raphael sprinted beside her.

  Flicka
fretted that Magnus and some of the other Rogue Security guys might have been hurt, maybe killed, in the gun battle to free her.

  The best way to make sure no one else had to endanger themselves for her was to get the hell out of Monaco if she could, so she ran through the hallway, her tall shoes slipping on the dirt and gravel, until Raphael pulled open one of the doors they were passing and snagged her arm, twirling her through.

  Pebbles skittered under Flicka’s shoes on the dirty floor, and they emerged into a utility tunnel with pipes on the walls and tube lights overhead. She grabbed the railing so she wouldn’t fall flat on her face.

  Raphael was right there and wrapped his hand around her waist and whipped her up in his arms, carrying her a few steps.

  She said, “Put me down! I can run!”

  He dropped her legs, and they ran together.

  Luca and Jordan ran behind them, throwing looks over their shoulders as they ran.

  She asked, “Where’s Romain?”

  Luca snarled, “They hit him.”

  “No!”

  “He’ll be treated better than most situations we’ve been in together,” Luca said as they ran.

  “Here!” Raphael yanked open another door.

  They ran through it.

  On the other side, a narrow sidewalk and flimsy railing separated them from speeding traffic that barreled past, headlights waving into the darkness of the tunnel and horns screaming over the roar of engines.

  “Jesus!” Flicka wheeled around on the railing and stopped herself from plunging headlong into the road and becoming splatter on someone’s speeding car. Freezing air rushed over her bare arms and shoulders as each car whizzed by.

  Reflections from the cars’ bright white and blue headlights and scarlet taillights glowed on the polished ceiling and walls like a cave full of bioluminescence, streaking the tops of the cars with colorful lines.

  They must have emerged in the Tunnel Rocher Fontvieille, an underground highway running right below the palace. Flicka’d had no idea that the palace corridors connected into the tunnel, but it would be a good escape hatch if anything really bad were to happen in the Prince’s Palace.

  Raphael had his phone in his hand and yelled into it, “Blaise! Do it now!”

  The overhead lights died.