After all that had happened, the answer was grimly clear, as plain as a fiery plume mushrooming into the Arctic sky.
We were not.
“Time’s up,” Monk announced.
Gray stirred back to the present. He gathered with the other men. There were some final congratulations and jokes as they departed the room and crossed the short hall to the front of the chapel.
Once there, Gray took a breath and stepped before the altar, where a priest clutched a book to his chest. The man nodded to him, as if checking to make sure he didn’t have cold feet.
Gray turned away. He had leaped through fire, been shot at countless times, stabbed even more, and faced down ferocious beasts, and now—he had survived a nuclear blast.
I can do this.
He faced the small gathering, forty or so of their closest friends and family. Monk and Kowalski stayed at his side. As the music started, his gaze fell upon his son, Jack. The boy fidgeted next to Jason, whose sole wedding duty was to keep the young boy out of trouble, likely one of the hardest chores.
Jason nodded back to Gray. Sigma’s tech expert had recovered after everything and had even put in a request with Painter for future field assignments.
The kid must be gunning for my position.
Gray returned Jason’s nod.
Fat chance.
Motion drew his eyes as the rear doors opened. The first through were two flower girls, the daughters of Monk and Kat. They cast petals from baskets and crossed with all the solemnity of priests at a high mass. But halfway down, the pair started throwing petals at each other, and much giggling ensued. Still, they made it to the front and were scooped up by an aunt and uncle.
The bridal party came next, floating in billows of crimson chiffon, with Kat trailing the last of the bridesmaids.
Monk whispered next to Gray. “I’m the luckiest man.”
“I might argue with you about that,” Gray said as Seichan stepped into the chapel.
Painter presented her, holding out an elbow.
Seichan rested a hand delicately on his forearm. She was dressed in dark crimson, her veil and train snow-white lace. Her bodice was snug, sculpted of oil-black leather that accentuated her every curve.
Gray gaped at her approach down the aisle, at her leonine grace. When they had first met, she had been dressed in motorcycle leathers. He appreciated this small nod to that moment, marking the anniversary of their first encounter, a meeting that ended in a fierce firefight.
He silently promised to never let that passion wane.
Upon reaching the end of the aisle, Painter stepped aside to let Seichan cross the last steps to the altar on her own. She turned and squeezed the director’s arm, not to hold him there, but to express her thanks.
Kowalski used this moment to lean and whisper to Gray, “Last chance, buddy. Getting married? Sure that’s wise?”
In the big man’s words, Gray heard an echo of his earlier ruminations.
As Seichan climbed toward him, he reached down and took her hand.
Wise or not...
Gray didn’t care and smiled with all his heart.
And to hell with being cautious.
He stared into her eyes, challenging her.
Let’s throw caution to the wind.
Epilogue
