“That bugger. We need to rotate the home guard position. Married people should be given priority.”
Friedhelm laughed. “Most of the married people are the first on the plane. I haven’t noticed you trying to trade shifts to stay home.”
Dieter mused on this. He hadn’t. He had many failings in his marriage. “Maybe I should have.”
“You’re the chief of security,” Friedhelm said, his voice light as if he were not talking about the fact that Dieter did not like to stay home with his wife. “You have to travel. TheWelfenlegionwould unravel into one long pub night without your steady hand.”
Dieter laughed at that. “Surely we have better training than that.”
“I don’t know. Some of the guys might declare a tactical divorce.”
He frowned. “Surely not.”
“Not everyone is as stalwart as you, Dieter.”
This conversation had gone a bit far afield, considering they had civilians in the back seat who might speak Alemannic. Operational security dictated that you never knew who was listening.
Dieter wrenched himself around on the back of the seat. “We will be at the hotel soon.”
The blonde was staring out the window at Paris in the springtime.
The brunette was hunched and glaring at her computer screen on her lap. She nodded but didn’t look up.
Dieter glanced at his phone. The text icon was on the top row.
Gretchen’s text read:When the hell are you coming home? Alina has a snotty nose and won’t go to sleep again! She was up all damn night. I can’t believe this is my life.
Maybe Dieter shouldn’t invite Friedhelm and his girlfriend over to their house for supper. There was no way it would end well.
At The Wedding: Flicka
Flicka von Hannover
He’s actually marrying the girl.
What the hell is going on?
Flicka watched her brother Prince Wulfram von Hannover marry the commoner Rae Stone.
This marriage was just the legal ceremony, some vows and signatures on the marriage license, not the religious ceremony where therealwedding took place. The office smelled like lemon air freshener was covering up faint, old cigarette smoke. Spring sunshine fell through the skyscraper glass on one side of the room.
Some friends had flown in to stand up with Rae. Wulfie had Dieter, Yoshi, and his cousin William standing with him in the small office of the mayor of Paris.
Flicka’s pale blue dress and fake smile covered up her total shock and dismay that this wedding was taking place.
She would have laid odds that Wulfie would never, ever marry, let alone to someone who would, indeed, bedestroyedwhen that fateful assassin stepped out of the crowd in a day, a week, or a year.
The way that Rae gazed at Wulf, almost star-struck, was almost as distressing as the way he was head-over-heels infatuated with her.
This couldn’t end well.
Flicka’s husband, Pierre, had shown up to Wulf’s wedding exactly on time and mostly sober, delivered by his chief of security, Quentin Sault. Flicka had alerted Alcide of this sudden addition to Pierre’s schedule, and Alcide had ensured that he showed up, just like always.
Wulf seemed genuinely, magnificently happy as he said his vows and slid a plain gold band onto Rae’s finger.
Flicka’s hands cramped from squeezing the life out of her little clutch purse.
Dieter stood behind Wulf, his face as grim as she felt.
