"Dane, I'll look ridiculous. I won't be able to move?—"
"You'll wear it." I hold it out to her. "This isn't negotiable."
Her eyes narrow. "What are you, my father?"
For a moment I think she's trying to be insulting, pointing out my age, but her face softens and she grimaces.
"No. I'm not your father." I step closer and I'm still holding the vest. "I'm the man you promised to come home to. You get hit without this and you die. That's not happening."
Her defiance wavers and she takes the vest from me, running her fingers over the Kevlar. "You're wearing one too?"
"I am."
"Fine." She pulls off her hoodie and lifts her arms. "Help me with it."
I fasten the Velcro straps, adjusting them so the vest sits flush against her torso. It's bulky under her coat, but not as obvious as she feared. When she moves, testing her range of motion, the restriction is minimal.
"Better?" I ask.
"Better." She meets my eyes, and something in her expression softens. "Thank you. For caring this much."
I cup her face and kiss her gently . "Always."
We finish gearing up in silence. I holster my primary weapon at my hip, slide a backup into my ankle holster, and tuck a knife into my boot. Sloane watches me arm myself, and I can see her studying me, understanding for the first time exactly what I am. What I've always been.
I've never let anyone in on this. It's almost a ritual to prep for a kill, and today, there will be more than one dead body on those cobbled stones in the town square. But I don't mind letting Sloane watch as I go through the paces, tightening my vest,double-checking my guns, and calming my body with several deep breaths.
And when we're both caffeinated and ready, we head out to take our places among the town locals in the highly detailed plan.
The town square glows with festive lights strung between buildings and the lights seem brighter with all the snow reflecting their glow. The cobblestones are dusted with powder that crunches underfoot. A massive pine tree dominates the center, decorated with ornaments and tinsel, carols play on the PA system quietly under the din of conversation.
But the crowd is wrong.
The families who came out are couples without kids or parents who sent their children away for the night. The atmosphere should be joyful, chaotic with young voices and laughter. But it's more muted and tense, and I know one look at this bland sight and Maddox is gonna know he's been set up. But there's nothing I can do about it now.
I scan faces as we walk. Varen stands near the tree, talking to an older couple, his coat open enough that I can see the bulge of his service weapon. Travis lingers by the cider stand with a casual posture but his eyes tracking every person who enters the square. Mira's behind the makeshift bar set up outside her tavern, serving mulled wine, but even she has a vest on. I can see the outline of it under her woolen trench coat, and I know she has a shotgun under the bar.
Everyone's armed. Everyone's waiting.
Sloane's hand finds mine, her gloved fingers threading through my own. "It's weird," she murmurs, "all these people pretending everything's normal."
"Yeah, well they know what's coming." I haven't seen a trace of Cal's men, but the intel Jason gave me points to his coming at me tonight. There's no doubt in my mind that he was right because he's never wrong. Still, the waiting is agonizing.
We drift through the square, accepting cups of hot cider from Gideon, who mans a booth selling hand-carved ornaments. And near the far end of the square, a Santa setup occupies a small raised dais—red velvet chair, fake snow scattered around under a light layer of fresh real snow, and a backdrop painted with reindeer and sleighs. Eamon Holt sits in full costume, but his white beard is slightly crooked. And there's a line of adults snaking out toward the fountain as they play along with the novelty.
"Come on," Sloane says, tugging me toward the platform.
"Absolutely not." I plant my feet, but it's no use.
"Yes." She's already pulling me forward with a wide, genuine grin on her face. "When's the next time you're going to get a picture with Santa?"
"Never, hopefully." It's humiliating but she doesn't let go, and Eamon waves us over, clearly delighted to have participants. Sloane perches on the arm of the chair, and I stand beside her with my arms crossed, doing my best to look anywhere but at the camera Eamon's "head elf" is wielding.
"Smile, Strouse!" the elf calls.
No way in hell they're ever getting me to smile for something so juvenile, but Sloane is happy. She bubbles off Eamon's lap and grabs me by my lapels, slapping a kiss on my lips in front of everyone.
"Perfect," the elf says, laughing, but I hope that picture never sees the light of day.
