Bait (10 page)

Christina's brows pulled in. “They were trying to stop the limousine. Not blow it up. Not kill the princess.”

“Yeah,” Tag said. “But they were trigger happy, quick enough.” He glanced pointedly at the limo's shattered window and the bullet holes. “And they had to know we'd check for incendiaries.”

“How could they have set this up so quickly?” Christina asked.

“They reconnoitered the routes,” Gabe said at once. “It's the only explanation. Once we hit this stretch of road, the car following us must have signaled to the Renault. Alex, you didn't make a tail?”

“There wasn't one.” Alex said, a faint defensiveness in his voice. “I'd've spotted it.”

Gabe gave him a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. “I know, kid. I shouldn't even have asked. They must have come from one of the other roads once they knew which way we were headed.”

Gavin wriggled out from under the vehicle. The GPS device was no more than four inches tall and barely an inch thick. He wrapped his hand around it and squeezed, as though he could crumble it into dust. “Tucked in behind the exhaust manifold. Clever.”

Christina grimaced. “So one of the Household Guards took a bribe and let someone in, or someone the Guard trusted went in.”

“It could have been someone from my office.” Deni looked more shaken at that prospect than from the attack. “Perhaps I inadvertently revealed something?”

“I doubt it,” Gabe said. “You didn't know our route. The most your office could have let slip is that we were making the trip to Grasvlakten instead of canceling it. Besides, there are only a handful of ways to get there. For all we know, they had an ambush set up on each one.” He pulled his phone from his front pocket and hit a button.

“Carswell.”

“It's Gabe.”

“Afternoon. All right?”

“Yeah, good. You're on speaker. We had visitors.”

“Was anyone hurt?”

“No. Anything unusual at your end?” Gabe kneaded the back of his neck.

“Not a thing. What happened?”

Gabe filled him in. “Any updates on Ronnie's list?”

“It's a long list, but we're making progress. So far, nothing stands out. I did identify your mystery man from the protest, however. Ronnie knows him. His name is Émile Bonnet. He's heavy into agriculture and the preservation of natural resources, particularly of endangered species found only in the mountains. Influential, but not a groundbreaker. He got the scar on his cheek in the field artillery during Operation Granby in the Persian Gulf. What you Yanks call Operation Desert Storm.”

Gabe frowned. “So he opposes Ronnie on oil drilling.”

“He's an activist.” Trevor sounded apologetic. “He has no history of violence. I don't see him as the shooter. I'll dig deeper, though.”

“Good,” Gabe said. “All right. Let's check in again tomorrow before the party.”

“Cheers then.” Trevor hung up.

“All right. Let's mount up and head straight to Grasvlakten. Secrecy didn't work. Now let's have a show of force.” Gabe curled his lip at the limousine. “Starting by replacing that piece of shit with a vehicle with some actual security protection.”

Christina didn't point out that Concordia probably didn't have Euros in the budget for new, expensive limousines with bulletproof glass and heavy armor. In all their long history, there had been very few violent attempts against any monarch or member of the royal family. The country was peaceful. Still, maybe Véronique's fiancé, Trevor's cousin, could persuade the British government to make a gift of it.

Gavin used an Asp tactical baton to clear the rest of the glass from the shot-­out window. On cursory glance, it simply looked as though the window was open. There wasn't anything they could do about the bullet holes, however. Mace appeared behind them, carrying a rifle case. Gabe circled his finger near his shoulder, and his team dispersed to their cars. Christina and Deni once again slid into the rear of the limo. In moments, their four-­car convoy was on the highway, the gas station receding behind them.

I
T
NEARED
SEVEN
o'clock when they pulled up to the wide, circular drive, past a comparatively simple single-­level fountain with nine spouts shooting water skyward. The estate house loomed, venerable and pitted, and Gabe groaned. Mace echoed the sound.

“Gawd damn,” he said. “Dat moodee goan make de misere.”

“English, Cajun,” Gabe said. “I don't speak gibberish.”

Mace cursed. “Where the hell am I supposed to find overwatch in
that
?”

From what Gabe could see in the front, six arched windows thrust toward them as they pulled up, connecting two enormous wings of the stately old mansion. Each wing sported gabled dormers and multiple chimneys. Mace was right; the roof was made up of hills and valleys as A-­frames butted up against one another and the chimneys. Footing would be treacherous, and finding a tactical position with good visibility would be difficult.

An army of footmen swarmed the cars, faces showing varying levels of shock and horror at the damage done to the limo. They muttered to one another as they lifted out suitcases and duffel bags, carrying them inside and forcing Gabe's team to hurry to catch up. One held the door for Christina, and she dipped her chin in gratitude, sailing past the servants as though she'd been born with the proverbial silver spoon in her mouth. An angular man dressed in formal livery met them just inside the entryway, his thin mustache giving him a vaguely sinister look. He bowed to Christina, but his eyes darted between the damaged vehicles and the Delta Force operators.

“
Welkom bij Stenen Huis
,” the man intoned, training overriding curiosity.

“It would please me if you speak English while we are here,” Christina replied, her gentle words nevertheless an order. “My bodyguards speak neither Dutch nor French. I do not wish them discomfited in any way.”

“Your Highness,” the man said, bowing again. “Yes, certainly. I will ensure the servants are made aware.” He turned to the small group of men, and raised his voice. “Welcome to Stone House,” he said, enunciating each word. “We are honored to have Her Royal Highness, and her guests, in attendance.” By the end, he was nearly shouting.

Gabe stopped himself from rolling his eyes, and caught Christina biting the inside of her lip. He grinned, sharing the joke, and her eyes twinkled back at him. Even severe Deni Van Praet was struggling not to smile.

Christina stepped forward and placed a hand on the man's forearm. He immediately shut up. “You are Meneer Hendrik Rietveld,
ja
?”

An almost worshipful expression transformed the man from villain to champion from one second to the next. “
Ja, mijn prinses
. I mean, yes, Your Royal Highness. I am honored and humbled that you would know who I am.”

“With respect, Meneer Rietveld,” Gabe said. Enough of this kissy-­ass shit. “Would you be so kind as to show the princess to her room? The journey has been . . . tiring.”

The butler immediately complied, turning to lead the way into the left-­hand wing. “Of course. But what in heaven happened to your automobiles? Was there another attack? My princess, shall I fetch a doctor?”

“No one is injured, Meneer Rietveld.” Before Gabe could motion her to zip her mouth, Christina continued smoothly, “We did have an unfortunate incident with a truckload of chickens. I am happy to say that we fared better.”

Clever girl. Put just the right amount of truth into your lies. They probably taught her that at Langley. His lip curled at the thought of that den of liars and thieves. And she was part of it, he reminded himself. They all lied for a living. He'd learned that lesson the hard way.

He found himself hesitating. She'd been up front with him about her mission in Baghdad. She hadn't shied away from taking blame, or calling him out when she thought he was wrong. He respected those traits.

His mother certainly had no respect or regard for her family. She'd traveled constantly, often gone for months at a time. Never there for his Little League or football games, or when he won State in track-­and-­field. His father had used her absence as an excuse to drink and throw Gabe and his brother around. Around the time he became a young teenager, he'd become convinced that she was having an affair, that she even had another family in a different city. The truth had been so much worse.

The butler pulled his face in doubtful lines. “I understand, Your Royal Highness. But . . . those holes . . .”

“The garage will have to be off limits to everybody. Drivers, staff, friends, everyone,” Gabe said. “I'm very sorry, but starting now. If you need transport, you'll have to park it outside.”

“Outside?” Rietveld drew himself up and widened his eyes. “I have never heard of such a thing. Lord Nabourg's driver will not be happy.”

“I'm concerned about someone tampering with the limousine. We're here to keep the princess safe. I know you want that, too. I'm counting on your help, Mr. Rietveld.” Gabe's patience was wearing thin. The butler stopped gaping at him, thank God, and moved farther into the building. They went up a set of stairs to an open balcony.

“My Lord and Lady Nabourg will receive you for dinner at eight-­thirty,” Rietveld said to Christina and Deni. He stopped at the second door and opened it with something of a flourish. When Christina would have walked in, Gabe put an arm out in front of her, shooting a warning glance over his shoulder. He motioned Gavin and Alex inside. As they cleared the room, he turned to the butler.

“I'm afraid Princess Véronique will eat in her quarters this evening.”

“Certainly.” The butler's voice and face fell. “They will be disappointed. Not many visit anymore.”

Gabe ignored him. They'd have plenty of guests tomorrow night, at the party. “As we discussed yesterday, sir, we're going to need full access to the villa.”

“Of course. I'm happy to show you around.”

According to his research, one nurse aide, the butler, and the driver lived here full time. Three others came in daily; two maids and a cook. “Thank you. We'll need to verify what you've already shared; where everyone sleeps and works, daily routines, and so forth. One of us will always be with the princess.”

The butler kept his face expressionless. “Yes, sir.”

Gavin returned to his side. “All clear.”

“Where do you have my team, Mr. Rietveld?”

The butler motioned to the room to the right of Christina's. “Your man was quite specific when we spoke last week,” he said, nodding toward Mace. “You are to surround the princess at all times.” He drew himself to his full height, nearly eye-­to-­eye with Gabe. “You must not do so when you are in the presence of the Nabourgs, however. It would be improper.”

Gabe didn't give two shits about offending some semi-­important has-­beens. Christina, however, inclined her head sagely.

“Of course. I will not insult my grandaunt in such a way, you can be assured.”

The man's eyes widened, and he practically hopped from foot to foot. “Princess Véronique, I meant no disrespect. I have only the highest regard for the royal family, and for you. I would never—­”

“Meneer Rietveld, please relax. I took no offense.” Christina's hand rose, then dropped. Gabe recognized the gesture. She'd been about to ruffle her hair.

Christina ended the awkward conversation by entering her room. Deni Van Praet went into the room to the left, footmen following her with what seemed like a mountain of suitcases.

Gabe turned to Rietveld. “Mr. Rietveld, I need to know if there are any last-­minute changes to the guest list.”

“Of course.” The butler's lip curled ever so slightly as he met Gabe's eyes, in sharp contrast with his conversation with Christina. Guess the royal treatment didn't extend to the bodyguards. “There have been three changes. Mrs. Hawrelak is ill, so her husband will attend on his own. Lord Bonnet had originally declined, but found himself free to accept as of this morning. The third is Emma Van Beveren, the Lady Nabourg's great-­granddaughter.”

Something in the butler's voice alerted Gabe. “Coming or going?”

“Not attending. She has refused to come to an anniversary honoring a man who, erm, has not honored his wife.”

“He had an affair?” Gabe choked out a laugh. “What is he, ninety?”

The butler allowed himself a small smile. “Well, he is rather elderly. How do you Americans put it? There is snow on the mountain, but a fire in the hearth?”

Close enough. Gabe whistled. “I'd take being that randy when I'm his age.” Not that he condoned the infidelity. He gave his head a quick shake and got back to business. “What about the new arrival? Tell me about him.”

Rietveld's face turned respectful. “He is Émile Denis Javier Bonnet, Second Earl Bonnet. He is one of the Prime Minister's most trusted advisors. It is a great honor that he's attending the Nabourg's soirée.”

Gabe's instincts went on full alert. “He wasn't expected?”

“No. The king and queen were invited, naturally. Perhaps he is acting in their stead, as . . . as stand-­up?”

“Stand in.” Gabe nodded a dismissal. “Thank you, Mr. Rietveld. I know the princess appreciates both your help and your discretion.”

The butler inclined his torso. “Both are my pleasure.”

He stepped into Christina's room. The guest quarters, though spacious, were much smaller than their rooms at the palace. The main area was decorated in muted shades of green and gold, tasteful and modern. The furniture had clean, simple lines. A bookcase unit dominated one wall, with a large flat-­screen television mounted inside. Rectangular end tables gave the room a distinctly twenty-­first century look, as opposed to Ronnie's baroque style. An overstuffed leather sofa and love seat nestled together in the center of the room.