The Bodyguard's Bride-to-Be

by Amelia Autin

  Then two other men entered the room, similarly dressed, and they arranged themselves on either side of the queen. And for the first time Tahra realized just how dangerous was the life the queen lived...merely from being married to the king. The threat of assassination was always there. Not just for the king, but for herself.

  And her son.

  The thought popped unbidden into Tahra’s head, and she couldn’t fathom living like that day in and day out. How does the queen do it? she wondered. How does she bear knowing her husband or her son could be assassinated in the blink of an eye? Or that she might be a target herself? How does she do it and still manage to be happy?

  She watched as the king took the queen’s hand and tucked it securely in the crook of his arm. Then he murmured something to her in Zakharan, and the radiant smile that accompanied her response took Tahra’s breath away.

  Then it came to her. They live each day as if it were their last. They must. That’s the only way they can bear knowing what might happen.

  She turned her gaze to Marek, who was affixing something in his ear that matched the four bodyguards’—something she recognized as a wireless earpiece—and she realized once again how precarious his hold on life was, too. Because he would always interpose his body between danger and whoever he was guarding.

  She also realized something else. The relationship the queen has with the king...that’s the kind of relationship I want with Marek.

  The job he did—he could be dead any minute. And she vowed then and there she would never weep bitter tears over lost chances, would never send Marek off to work not knowing he was loved more than anything in the world. And if he never came home, she would have no cause for regret. She would grieve...but she wouldn’t regret.

  * * *

  Marek and Tahra stood just behind the king and queen at the top of the Grand Staircase leading into the Great Hall. They were silently joined by Colonel Marianescu, who took his place on Tahra’s left, and Marek’s eyes met the colonel’s over her head. The two men didn’t nod or acknowledge in any way what was about to take place, but the shared knowledge was in their eyes.

  A hush had descended on the crowd assembled below when the king and queen appeared. Now the band, which had been playing soft background music, moved immediately into the Zakharian national anthem, and the Zakharians in the Great Hall began singing the stirring lyrics that accompanied the well-known music.

  The five of them, especially the king, stood immobile at the top of the stairs while the anthem played. They were flanked by the royals’ four bodyguards, but Marek knew if someone opened fire from below, they wouldn’t stand a chance—no bodyguard alive was as fast as a bullet.

  All they could hope for was that the highly publicized metal detectors had done their job, preventing anyone from smuggling a gun or guns into the reception. And if the Zakharian Liberation Front knew it couldn’t accomplish its goal of assassinating the king, the queen and Colonel Marianescu that way...

  It had gone against the grain for the king to absent himself from public appearances. The queen, too, for that matter. But they’d done it. They’d cancelled everything that might take them outside the palace this past week, and for the next three weeks, as a way of forcing the Zakharian Liberation Front to make a tough choice—attempt to storm the palace in order to carry out the assassinations. All three of their primary targets would be together in one room. And there was an added bonus from their perspective—Tahra would also be there. The woman who could identify one of the initial bombers and possibly bring down the whole organization like a house of cards.

  The entire Privy Council had—as a matter of course—received an invitation to tonight’s reception. And every councillor had accepted the invitation, including Colonel Lermontov. He is down there somewhere, Marek told himself. He would not dare be absent—too suspicious otherwise.

  The band reached the end of the national anthem, and a huge cheer rose from the assemblage, which the king acknowledged with his faint smile and an upraised hand. Then the tight little group of nine began descending the Grand Staircase.

  * * *

  Two maintenance men approached one of the palace service doors, genially grumbling to the guard on duty about having to go outside to smoke. The first had already passed through the door when the second dropped his pack of cigarettes right at the guard’s feet. He cursed and bent down to retrieve it, then came up swinging.

  The guard never knew what hit him.

  The two men had the guard bound and gagged in no time, and they dragged his body down the hallway to a closet containing cleaning supplies and other maintenance gear.

  Then they exited the service door. Six minutes later five men entered through the same door. All were dressed as part of the maintenance crew—the three new ones indistinguishable from the first two—and their hands were bare.

  The five paused and listened, but heard nothing to indicate anyone was aware the palace had been invaded. Then they moved purposefully down the hallway.

  As soon as they were out of sight a man dressed as a waiter stepped out of the shadows. He touched his earpiece and said in an undertone, “Jay-three to Dee-two and Dee-one. One man down. Five men disguised as members of the maintenance crew are heading your way. If they are armed, it can only be light assault weapons hidden under their coveralls—no heavy firepower. Repeat, no heavy firepower. It has begun.”

  Chapter 20

  Marek heard the warning, but it wasn’t the one he was expecting. Five men? Only five to take down three primary targets and a secondary target? And no assault weapons? It didn’t make sense. If his theory was correct, the Zakharian Liberation Front needed the king, the queen and Colonel Marianescu dead, not merely wounded. Yes, a man shot in the head or through the heart with a pistol was just as dead as a man shot with an assault rifle or a submachine gun. But a pistol would require closer range, something the Zakharian Liberation Front had to know was less likely with the bodyguards surrounding the royal family.

  No, it didn’t make sense...unless the five were a decoy of some kind.

  He moved a little away from the receiving line—he wasn’t there to shake hands, he was only there to watch over Tahra—and tapped his earpiece. “Say again, Jay-three. How many men?”

  “Five men. Repeat, five total.”

  He barely waited for the response before saying, “Dee-two, can you confirm?”

  “Confirm. Five men dressed as maintenance crew just entered the chapel. No, wait. One has peeled off, heading north. Repeat, four men entering the chapel.”

  “Dee-one here,” said a low voice, almost in a whisper. “I am in the chapel and I have eyes on four targets. Repeat, I have eyes on four targets.”

  The chapel, in the older part of the palace. Not the Great Hall, where the reception was taking place. Marek tapped his earpiece again. “This is Captain Zale. Stay alert. This could be a decoy, not the main thrust of the attack. Repeat. Stay alert. Who has eyes on the fifth man?”

  “This is Bee-five. The lone maintenance man has entered the kitchen. Repeat, one target has entered the kitchen.”

  “Marek.” His name was spoken in a hushed undertone behind him. He swung around and saw Angelina, who, since she was also wearing an earpiece, had obviously heard everything that had just been broadcast.

  “It makes no sense,” he told her in a tight voice. “An all-out assassination attempt with only five men armed with just light weapons?”

  “Agreed. But what if we are wrong? We dangled the bait, but what if they are not biting? What if they do not intend assassination tonight?”

  Then it came to him. “The crown prince,” he whispered. He whirled for the door, then halted abruptly, turning and gazing at Tahra standing beside the king and queen in the receiving line, torn by his competing duties.

  “Go! I will guard Tahra!” Angel
ina ordered.

  “You are guarding the queen.”

  “Not officially. Now go!”

  He went. Not by way of the Grand Staircase, which would be obvious to everyone, but by the back stairs, the shortcut he usually took from his office to the second floor, where the crown prince’s suite was located, next to his mother’s. Marek was just about to announce the possible target to the security forces arrayed throughout the palace, when he heard Angelina’s calm voice in his ear.

  “All security units. This is Captain Mateja-Jones. The crown prince may be the target. Repeat, the crown prince may be the target. Captain Zale is on his way to the crown prince’s suite. Units five and six move in to cover him. All other units remain in place. Repeat. All units except five and six remain in place. This could be a decoy or the leading edge of a two-pronged attack. All security units copy my orders.”

  Warmth speared through Marek as he heard nothing but “Unit one, copy, unit two, copy” and right down the line. Five years ago, a female officer giving orders to men would have occasioned at least a slight hesitation. But not anymore.

  “Dee-one,” Angelina continued. “Do you still have eyes on the targets in the chapel?”

  “Yes, sir,” came the somewhat hushed voice. “They appear to be waiting for something.”

  “Bee-five? Same question. Eyes on the target?”

  “I do not have eyes on the target, sir, but he has not yet emerged from the kitchen.”

  Marek was almost to the crown prince’s suite, and he could see units five and six converging on him, but he tapped his earpiece and said, “Bee-five, can you enter the kitchen unnoticed?”

  “Negative, sir.”

  “Jay-three? You are disguised as a waiter.”

  “I’m on it, sir. ETA thirty seconds.” They were the longest thirty seconds of Marek’s life. Then he heard, “Jay-three in the kitchen. There is no maintenance man here. Repeat, no target here. But the service elevator appears to have gone to the fourth floor.”

  Marek cursed under his breath, and he knew Angelina would be doing the same. He pounded on the door to the crown prince’s suite, knowing better than to just barge in—he had no intention of being shot by his own men. “It is Captain Zale,” he barked. “Today’s code word is eucalyptus. Open up.”

  * * *

  Tahra was exhausted by the time the receiving line was finished. Her feet hurt, her left hand—which she’d been forced to substitute for the right one she couldn’t use to shake hands with while her wrist was in a cast—was practically numb, and her smile felt glued to her face and just as fake.

  “How do you do it?” she murmured to the queen at her side.

  Juliana sighed softly. “I think about something else, if I can.”

  Tahra glanced around. She’d noticed when Marek had left her side, but she’d expected him to return eventually. He hadn’t. And now she wondered where he was. Then Angelina was there, drawing Tahra a little to one side for a private word.

  “Marek had to check on the crown prince,” she said softly. “I promised him I would watch over you in his absence.”

  Tahra frowned. “Watch over me? Why does anyone need to watch over me?”

  Angelina looked as if she’d like to say more...but couldn’t. “That you will have to ask him. Suffice it to say it is necessary.”

  Tahra didn’t like it. More secrets, she thought. And after he promised me...

  Then she remembered her vow earlier this evening. She wasn’t going to sweat the small stuff—and compared to what she and Marek shared, this was small stuff. If he was keeping a secret from her, he had a damned good reason; he’d given her his word and she was going to believe him.

  “Well,” she told Angelina, “if you’re going to watch over me, I guess that means when I go to the ladies’ room, you go. Which means you’re going now because I have to go now.”

  Angelina looked torn. “I cannot leave the queen.”

  “You’re not on duty,” Tahra began, and then things started falling into place. “You are, aren’t you? And so is Marek.” Her voice was hushed. “That’s why he had to leave, because something is going down.” She put two and two together. “The Zakharian Liberation Front. And it has nothing to do with the refugees. Which means...assassination? Kidnapping? What?”

  “I cannot tell you,” Angelina insisted. “I cannot.”

  “I’ll ask the queen,” Tahra said, turning to look for her.

  Angelina grabbed her arm. “She does not know, either.”

  A chill shivered through her. Whatever it was, it was bad. So bad not even the queen had been told. But that didn’t remove her immediate problem, it only exacerbated it. “Angelina,” she began, but then she spotted Marek wending his way toward her through the crowd. “Oh, thank God.”

  * * *

  When Marek reached the two women, Angelina pulled him a little to one side and asked quietly, “The prince?”

  He assured her just as quietly, “Safe. Units five and six arrived when I did. He has been moved to another location within the palace, and he has a dozen men surrounding him, with far more firepower than the five intruders we know are here.”

  “The four in the chapel are under observation, but—”

  “Yes,” he said. “One is unaccounted for. If we knew where he was...”

  “Yes, if we knew where he was, we could nullify them all. But I am concerned about the missing man. And there is still—”

  “Still the possibility this is a feint and the real attack will come when we least expect it,” he finished for her. He couldn’t keep the frustration out of his voice when he added, “I would give five years off my life to know.”

  Angelina’s wry smile held nothing but understanding. “I feel the same. But that reminds me, I must return to the queen now that you are here to guard Tahra.” She turned to where Tahra had been...but she was gone. “Where did she go? She was right here.”

  Marek swung around, then frantically scanned the crowded room, his heart clutching when he couldn’t spot her. “Tahra,” he mouthed as guilt swamped him. What kind of bodyguard was he, that he could let her out of his sight for even a moment?

  “The ladies’ room,” Angelina said quickly. “She said she had to go, but I told her I could not leave the queen for that long, and then you showed up, and...”

  “Stay with the queen,” Marek told her. “I will find Tahra.”

  “Wait,” Angelina cried after him. “You cannot go into the—” But he had already disappeared into the crowd.

  * * *

  Tahra had slipped away as soon as Marek and Angelina had begun talking. There was no way she was going to interfere with them doing their jobs, but her need was urgent. So she’d made her way through the packed room as best she could, heading for the nearest exit and what she hoped would be an obvious ladies’ room. She was stopped several times by people who recognized her as the recipient of Zakhar’s highest civilian honor—which the king had presented to her prior to the receiving line—but she thanked them shyly and quickly excused herself.

  When she finally exited the main entrance into the Great Hall, she saw a long line of women leading out of a discreetly recessed doorway and correctly interpreted that as her destination. But the line was too long. Then she muttered, “Duh!” under her breath and headed for the staircase and her suite, which wasn’t that far away.

  Once her mission was finally accomplished, Tahra took a moment to check her hair and makeup and was just adding a little lip gloss when the palace was rocked by a loud explosion, emanating from somewhere overhead.

  * * *

  Panicked screams from the women in line by the ladies’ room and the crowd inside the Great Hall didn’t block out the sudden spate of reports coming in on Marek’s earpiece.

  “This is Bee-five. Jay-three
is with me. We took the stairs to the fourth floor in pursuit of the target. We apprehended him, but not until he’d already set off a bomb in a small conference room. The bomb appears to have been a diversion tactic, because despite the noise there appears to be minimal damage. But we were too late to—”

  Another voice cut in. “This is Dee-one in the chapel. The four targets are on the move. Repeat, the four targets are on the move, heading out of the chapel. Destination unknown.”

  Marek took a moment to push his way through the screaming women and thrust his head into the ladies’ room. “Tahra?” he bellowed. When no answer was forthcoming, he quickly apologized to the women and made for the stairs. If she wasn’t in the ladies’ room, there was only one other place she could be.

  He tapped his earpiece. “This is Captain Zale, heading to the second floor. Status on the royals?”

  “The king is safe,” said a voice he recognized as belonging to Major Kostya.

  “So is the queen,” Angelina chimed in. “And Colonel Marianescu.”

  Marek figured all three were together somewhere, under bodyguard protection, and he gave Angelina bonus points for not stating that over an encrypted military channel they hoped was secure...but couldn’t be absolutely sure about.

  As he raced up the staircase, praying Tahra was safely inside her room and not wandering around unprotected somewhere, he heard the unmistakable chatter of machine gunfire outside the palace. I knew it! I knew the men inside the palace were just the leading edge of the attack.

  He frantically unbuttoned his dress uniform jacket and drew his SIG SAUER P320 from its shoulder holster. But he couldn’t stop to investigate what was happening outside. He had to trust that the forces arrayed against the Zakharian Liberation Front they’d hoped would strike tonight were sufficient to handle whatever was thrown against them. His job was to protect Tahra. Not just because the king had ordered it, and Marek would never again—not while breath remained in his body—fail his king. But because Tahra was his world. If the members of the Zakharian Liberation Front who’d already infiltrated the palace saw her, they would have to silence her. And he couldn’t let that happen.