Tatum sighed. “Moving to the Atlantic is the goal and these smaller countries are all connected in some way. Riodan and Zimrada are close—their kings friendly. If we could get a reference from Marius, we’d have a better shot at getting the Zimradian contract.”
“You’re saying what I’m already thinking.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Thanks. I’ll email you the details. If you’re worried about the contract, then last night didn’t go well. What happened with the queen? Did you put your highbrow Wyoming education into play?”
Tatum checked his grin. He’d played, but not in the way Nelson was thinking. “She was a no-show. I’m meeting up with the princess in about an hour.” He checked his watch. “Where’d you get your intel? They had the wrong royal.”
Nelson scratched his head. “It came from the palace. I wonder why they sent out the wrong info.”
“They’re trying to throw someone off. So far, all I’ve heard about is the blockade in the harbor.”
Nelson cracked his knuckles. “That will be fun to break up.”
“Right?” Between the two of them, they had a dozen ideas on how to go about frightening off the radicals barricading the trade ships inside the breakwater. Tatum had experience with underwater explosives and Nelson preferred the direct approach—as in approaching directly with a large gun. They would try peaceful means first, but if negotiations went south, they would take care of making sure the king’s ships got through. “If there’s more to the situation than a trade embargo, then we may need to adjust our bid.”
“I’ll see what I can find out today.” Maybe Neese would know. He checked his watch again. “I’ve got to go or I’ll be late. Out.”
“’Kay. Out.”
Tatum crossed his small hotel room and stared out the window. He rubbed the spot just above his pectoral where the bullet had entered. The scar on his back was much larger, the bullet ripping through his flesh. The view faded from before him as he thought back to that moment when he’d jumped in front of his client. The street was dark and smelled of human feces and dead rats. They were sneaking the private executive, dressed as a laborer, into the corporate compound.
Tatum heard the mechanical sound of a bullet being loaded into the chamber. Even now he wondered how he’d picked up on the noise over the sound of the crying child at the end of the street and the barking guard dog. Without thinking, he’d thrown the exec onto the ground, took a knee, and prepared to return fire. The bullet hit just as his left hand took hold of his rifle. He got off two shots before his body registered that something was wrong. His mind figured it out first when his shots were low because his arm wasn’t able to hold up the end of his rifle. By the time he saw the blood, the assassin was gone and he fell next to the exec, who threw up when he saw the blood. Nelson was there, his face close and his mouth moving as if he were shouting, but Tatum couldn’t hear him over the sound of his blood pumping in his ears.
Tatum dropped his chin to his chest and scrubbed at his head.
The smells. The blood. The exec’s blubbering. It all faded back into the recesses of his memory.
He worked to think abstractly about that night. To analyze motives instead of reliving moments.
Putting his life on the line hadn’t been a problem for Tatum because death was a peripheral concept—something so far off in the distance that he couldn’t make it out.
That shot had erased his sense of invulnerability.
A bullet, weighing less than ten grams, made him think about what his death would do to his parents for the first time.
They would break. His mom would sob. They would call the pastor, pray, use their faith to get them through. Every trip home from college, his mom said goodbye as if it were their last, using long hugs and standing at the end of the drive until his truck was out of sight. After he enlisted, her hugs got longer.
His upbringing—a mix of hard labor and unconditional love—was his foundation, his shield against the evil he fought and faced on a daily basis. No matter how many bad guys he went up against, he knew there were a hundred and fifty-one acres in Wyoming where God’s goodness could be found.
Homesickness stabbed at his heart.
His phone signaled an email. He read the instructions from Nelson twice before setting the phone aside. He paced, hoping to shake off the blues.
His trip down memory lane was Neese’s fault. She had him talking about things he was better off keeping behind locked doors. Talking about his home. Sneaking out like a couple of kids headed to the swimming hole didn’t do his concentration any good.
A smile played at his lips.
Her sense of adventure was refreshing. He didn’t remember women being fun, like his buddies. She’d probably strap on a backpack and hike the Tetons with him. He brushed his hair off his forehead. He hadn’t thought about that bucket list item in a long time.
“Forget the girl and get to work,” he said. Checking his watch, he got dressed to meet the princess.
Even though he was making the contacts and on schedule for this trip, his mind was on Neese. She might be at the café, and because of that, he trimmed his beard, pressed his slacks, and used an extra dash of body spray.
Then he called himself an idiot and headed for the door.
Chapter Eight
Nyssa sipped her orange tea, grateful for the aroma of home that floated from her cup. She’d spent the morning combing through ebooks, looking for information she might use when talking with the Secretary of State the very next
