Norma nodded. “Of course. I’ll be inside making sure things run smoothly.”
Without a word, Kingston took the other side of the doors and crossed one hand over the other.
“Are you ready for this?” Nyssa asked.
He cleared his throat and stared straight ahead.
“Me neither,” she muttered.
Chapter Four
“How’s the arm?”
Tatum Scott steered the rental through DC traffic as he spoke to his business partner and best friend on speakerphone. “I can lift it over my head now.” Tatum had followed his physical therapist’s instructions as if the guy were his drill sergeant and he a fresh recruit. “I’ve got strength back—just not full rotation. That could take another six months.”
His surgeon, Dr. Peterson, told him to enjoy the time off—spend a little of the money he’d made with his private security company. “If I had your money, I’d buy an island and never leave,” the good doctor joked at his last appointment. Tatum shook his head, still embarrassed by how freely he’d talked under anesthesia about his personal finances.
The island life didn’t sound so bad, but he and Nelson Baker weren’t the type to just lie around on the beach. If they bought an island, he had the sinking suspicion it would become the test site for half a dozen missiles. They’d ticked off their fair share of small countries and wealthy families. Their best bet for retirement was to set up life on a non-deserted island where the royal family hadn’t ticked anyone off. They’d heard through the grapevine that the Zimrada was shopping for a new security company, and as luck would have it, Tatum had just the experience, the knowledge, and the organization for the job—not to mention the motivation to lie low in paradise for thirty years or so. After that, they could come get him. Who wanted to get old?
Besides, staying in the business would keep him sharp. He could attend all the conferences, keep up on gadgetry—a definite bonus in the cloak-and-dagger world—and stay in shape. With the number of people who wanted him dead, he couldn’t afford to slack off.
Thinking about life on a beach was much more pleasing than thinking about the other things Dr. Peterson had mentioned. Like how he may not get the full range of motion back in his left arm. And how the scar tissue could build up, causing chronic pain. Just because he knew the billion-dollar balance in Tatum’s checking account didn’t mean the man knew Tatum all that well. Tatum would will his muscles to heal. If they didn’t, he was gonna be really ticked off.
A cab darted into traffic in front of him and Tatum tapped the brakes, his bumper within inches of the yellow vehicle.
Nelson’s voice came through the speaker. “Glad to hear you’re making progress. If you can lift your arm, then you can dance.”
“Dance?” The cab driver flipped him off. Tatum smiled in return. It wasn’t a normal day unless someone was angry with him.
“You’re going to need those skills if you want to win over the queen at the ball tonight.”
Tatum blew out a breath as he checked his reflection in the rearview mirror. The majority of their clients did business in the Middle East. In order to blend in, he’d grown his hair to his chin and sported a full beard. Over there, he was considered stylish, but in downtown DC, he looked like a backwoods hillbilly sure to make the wrong impression on her royal highness the queen. A quick trip to the barber earlier had revealed his ears and took his beard from unruly to GQ. The man staring back at him looked a lot more like the Wyoming cowboy he used to be—the one whose mama could cook the most tender roast in five states—than the grizzled Navy SEAL he’d come to know and love. He was a fish out of water. “How did I ever let you talk me into this?”
“I think the bullet through your shoulder did most of the talking.”
“It spoke to me, all right.” Tatum adjusted in his seat while he waited for the light to change. “But my mama would wash my mouth out with soap if I repeated the words it used.”
He wasn’t exaggerating. The bullet was foul-mouthed. Tatum had thrown himself in front of his client, the bullet missing his protective vest and blasting through his shoulder. As he lay there in the street, bleeding and pleading with his Maker to spare his life, he finally agreed with Nelson—they needed to get out while they still could.
Of course, he hadn’t told Nelson that until after his skin had been stitched back together. No sense letting the guy think he was scared.
Nelson chuckled. “The Jobassits’ contract with ProtectMoore is up in three weeks. They’ve taken bids, but we missed the deadline thanks to your extended vacation.”
Tatum snorted. His extended vacation was spent in a hospital bed. “A ball, seriously?”
“We need an in with the family and this is your shot. We’re lucky she made the trip. Word is she’s never left the island.”
“What do we do if the navy steps in?”
“They won’t. I called a buddy of mine. There are a half dozen sovereign nations near the Bermuda Triangle and the navy doesn’t have the budget to protect them all. They can’t help one without a host of other kings showing up on their doorstep looking for the same.”
“That’s where we come in.”
“Yes, it is.” Nelson’s smile cruised right through the line. “So get in there, waltz with the queen, and we’ll be drinking coconut milk by the end of the week.”
“You’re putting a lot of faith in my dancing.” Tatum gripped the steering wheel. He hated dancing. Hand him a rifle and a knife and he’d take out a room of mercenaries without breaking a sweat. Make him keep count to music while maintaining his end of a conversation and he became two left boots.
“I’d trust you with
