“A goat.”
The statement was so flat, so devoid of artifice, that a laugh pressed at the back of my throat. “A goat. Was it an insurgent?”
“It was a boundary breach,” he said, though I caught the microscopic softening at the corner of his mouth. “Two boys from the local village. They clipped the wire to retrieve a stray. One goat, one pair of cheap pliers, and two very terrified children.”
“And you? Did you cross-examine them?”
“I walked them home.” He glanced at me then, a brief, searching look that bypassed my professional mask. “Not exactly the high-stakes breach you were hoping for, I imagine.”
“On the contrary. I find the logistics of livestock retrieval fascinating. Does the goat have a lawyer?”
“He’s considering his options.”
I laughed—a short, clean sound that seemed to startle the night.
“You use words,” I noted. “I was beginning to think your vocabulary was limited to ‘yes’ and ‘copy.’”
Nick grunted as if to prove my point. “Words are expensive,” he said. “I try to keep the overhead low.”
“A man after my own heart. Though I suspect your overhead involves a bit more ballistics than mine.”
The cruiser slowed as we approached the rise toward my suite. The tented structure emerged from the dark, canvas glowing softly beneath its peaked roof and dark timber frame. Nick killed the engine, but he didn't move to open the door.
“You seemed more interested in what I was doing than anything your CEO friends had to say,” he said, his voice lowering. “Most people in your position prefer the bubble. Sunset. Gin. Not the mechanics of the fence.”
“They’re not my friends,” I said.
He glanced at me.
“I don’t like bubbles,” I continued, shifting in the seat, silk whispering against the upholstery. “They’re fragile.”
“That so.”
“I’d rather know where the seams are.”
He studied me for a long beat. The silence stretched, taut as wire. Nick didn’t look away. He was calculating the cost of letting a civilian behind the curtain.
“The boys weren't the only thing on the ridge,” he said finally. “There was a vehicle at the gate. It wasn't a guest. It was a scout.”
“Like poachers?”
“Maybe. Or just testing the response time. The dangerous ones don’t start with shots fired. They start with a stopwatch.” He reached out, his hand hovering near the dashboard, then pulled it back. “You should be inside. Now.”
The muscle at his temple pulsed again. His eyes fixed on the dark beyond the glass.
“If they’re testing the response time,” I said, my hand on the door latch, “how did we do?”
“We’re still in the discovery phase,” he said, echoing my earlier words.
I stepped onto the gravel. The night air slid through the silk of my dress and settled at the base of my neck. I went still and waited until he looked up at me from the driver’s seat.
“Nick.”
He paused.
“Don’t let the goat represent itself. It’s a tactical error.”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips—sharp, fleeting, and entirely dangerous. “Inside, Juliette.”
