Her Last Protector

And in that instant, she glimpsed the priest flying through the open gate, and a military transport helicopter riding low just above the treetops, armed men bulging from the open sides.

Powerful engines reverberated through the gorge, the rhythmic swoop-swoop-swoop of the blades, the grumbling heartbeat of a conveyance that carried death. The sound was deafening, yet not loud enough to drown out the eruption of gunfire that stunned the morning.

Drei dragged her inside and pulled the door shut, but not before Mirie heard the familiar thuds of bullets pounding flesh.

No warning bells would sound the alarm in Alba Luncă today.

CHAPTER TWO

“IS HER ROYAL HIGHNESS to safety?” General Bogdanovich demanded over the audio device. “Secure her. Repeat. Secure her. We’ve eliminated three of the enemy on the road, but a team of six has entered the churchyard. We’re surrounding the perimeter, but we’re drawing fire from the copter.”

Drew could not respond. The doors of the church slammed open as if on cue, and footsteps pounded over stone.

Mirie stared up from beneath her hat, features drawn and eyes wide. She had pulled on her courage as she might her coat, but he saw the fear in her tight expression, in the dilation of pupils turning blue-gray eyes almost black.

He questioned her without words, and she inclined her head, confirming she was unharmed and functioning. She knew the drill, and she was no longer a terrified eight-year-old.

Drew reevaluated, unsure if they could make the escape route undetected. Their pursuers appeared to be well-funded paramilitaries, seizing the opportunity to eliminate the last royal of the House of Selskala, who had made herself an easy target for the first time in six years.

Raising his pistol, he cased the stairwell before leading Mirie down the steps to the crypt. There were no windows down here, only the dank cold of frozen ground. They moved quickly, sound buffered by stone. But the impenetrable dark finally forced him to lower his pistol and feel his way with a hand along the wall.

Their attackers would break into pairs. One team would head into the loft that ran along the back of the church and the bell tower. Another team would make its way to the sacristy and vesting room, which would lead them here to the crypt entry. The remaining team would canvass the nave with the rows of pews and alcoves of small side altars.

“Major Timko,” General Bogdanovich demanded in his ear. “Sit-rep. Is Her Royal Highness alive?”

The general wouldn’t be getting a situation report any time soon, so Drew tapped once against the audio device.

Affirmative.

She was alive for the moment, anyway.

Mirie pressed against his back, following the drill they had practiced time and again to prepare for this emergency situation.

She needed to pace her breathing, but he could risk no warning. Their feet echoed, the sound amplified by the quiet.

Doors led to mausoleums and a chapel, and an escape route that had been excavated during World War I. Drew could make out the faint glow of the sanctuary lamp in the distance, coming from the second door on the right.

His pistol scratched stone, a noise that made Mirie gasp. He pressed his fingers against her lips, and her soft mouth yielded beneath his touch. Her eyes widened, a flash of white in the darkness. Drew wasn’t sure if he had surprised her, or if she was reacting to the low exchange of conversation that filtered down the stairs, but his fingers tingled as he drew his hand away.

Drew pulled her through the second doorway as the voices erupted again, louder this time, nearer. Luck was with them, though. The sanctuary lamp illuminated the obstacle course of furnishings. Chairs. Candle stands. Icons.

The entrance to the tunnel was concealed behind the tabernacle, recessed into the wall behind the altar. But Drew couldn’t enter the passage yet, couldn’t risk any noise that would jeopardize the only escape route they had. They needed to hide until he had a lock on the enemy’s location.

He considered whether they should make a run for the mausoleums. Then Mirie motioned him to the altar, and he learned there were more secrets to this chapel than even he’d known.

The marble altar had a decoration of inlaid mosaic tiles, which turned out to conceal a panel to a hideaway.

Slipping the pistol into his waistband, Drew helped Mirie inside, ensuring that every inch of white fur was hidden. He backed away to shut the panel, but Mirie grasped at his coat, urging him down beside her. The last thing he saw was light slicing beyond the door, and then he was on his knees, curling around her.

She began to shake. Drew could feel her against him, as she struggled to control her chattering teeth. Tightening his arms around her, he held her close until he could almost feel the slim outline of her body through the outerwear already making him sweat.

This was when normal people came unglued, lost their heads and did something stupid that led them to get caught. People who weren’t trained to handle the time-bomb pressure of managing fear and waiting to see if luck was with them or if life would get ugly.

Mirie had already witnessed more ugliness than most people. Her family had been slain in military-style executions while she had hidden beneath mock flooring. She had been spared one horror, only to live another, with her nanny’s hands pressed over her face to contain her screams and spare her the brutality of her family’s last minutes of life.

Boots scuffed over rough stone so close that Mirie inhaled an audible breath. Drew tightened his arms around her and maneuvered his face until he could press his cheek against hers, share the warmth of his skin, use their nearness as distraction.

His heart throbbed dully in his chest, his entire body an insane tangle of nerves and awareness. For two people who had spent every minute of every day together for so many years, for two people who knew so much about each other’s lives and intimate habits, they really knew nothing about each other.

Mirie didn’t know his true identity.

And Drew had no idea she would feel as if she belonged in his arms.

“Hovno!” A gravelly voice spat out the curse.

A Czech or Slovak curse, and a clue to the identity of their enemy.

The footsteps marked the perimeter of the room. Drew could make out the path, hear the intruder searching behind the chairs that ran the periphery of the chapel beneath the icons adorning the walls in all their Orthodox glory.

The resurrection of Christ.

The Blessed Mother.

Michael the archangel.

A buffet of saints, all of whom Drew sincerely hoped were praying for their escape right now.

Mirie shuddered, but Drew pressed his lips to her cool cheek, the only reassurance he could offer as seconds ticked by, each one stretching into another, protracted and tense. He inhaled fur from her ushanka until he was forced to knock the hat from her head with his chin before he sneezed.

Then he was treated to the full impact of her hair, a crisp, clean scent that filtered through his consciousness, made him aware of each strand against his skin.

“Any luck?” the Slovak speaker asked.

Definitely Slovak. They were near the gate.

“Bah!” another voice ground out, sounding like cigarette smoke over gravel. “They did not come down here.”

“You break that news to Ratko.”

A gruff snort, and the sound of retreating footsteps. Drew filed away that name and hoped the NRPG might neutralize the threat so they could ride out the danger in this hideaway. Could they be so lucky?

But one exchange over the audio transmitter reminded him that Ninsele’s resources were no match for well-funded paramilitaries. The effects of a decade-long civil war would be felt for a long time.

“Incoming, General.”

“Secure the village gate,” General Bogdanovich shot back.

“Roger that.”

Then silence.

Drew was out of choices. He couldn’t lie in wait until the church was surrounded or a villager tortured into revealing the church’s escape route. He had to protect Mirie until the NRPG had a lock on this situation or could spirit her to safety. He could make no other choice, take no chances with Mirie’s life.

* * *

THE METAL DOOR snapped into place with a gunshot crack that echoed forever. Mirie’s heart pounded in time with the sound, so hard that her chest ached from the rapid-fire beat and her ears throbbed with a steady tat-tat-tat-tat-tat like automatic gunfire. She couldn’t tell if the sound was real or some adrenaline-fueled trick of her imagination.

The memory of gunfire from long ago.

Sinking against the wall, she felt every muscle turn to liquid and her strength drain away.

Drei’s attention was on sealing the door, so their pursuers wouldn’t follow. From inside the chapel, the decorated metal panel was a showcase for the gold tabernacle with its locked door and keyhole concealed in an apostle’s pocket.

The panel concealed a spring-hinged door.

By the time he turned around, Mirie had gotten a hold of herself. With a hand on her arm, he led her into the narrow tunnel, barely high enough for her to stand upright. Drei was forced to hunch over, and kept a step ahead of her as the passage wasn’t wide enough to walk abreast.

Only after they had traveled a distance did he dare switch on a light. The red beam gleamed on rough-hewn walls as he whispered, “Talk to me, Your Royal Highness. How are you holding up?”

Her staccato heartbeat and the stale air suffocated her. She swallowed back a cry when her fingers sank into some sticky substance on the wall.

A spider’s web? Sweet Lord. If only the remnants of a web and the creature within were the worst of her troubles....

“I’m okay.” A lie.

She was bone-cold and shaking. Retrieving the glove in her pocket, she slipped her fingers inside and willed away thoughts of the men with rounds of ammunition strapped to their vests and the sound of gunfire outside.

Tat-tat-tat-tat-tat.

Drei didn’t reply. She could barely see his face, only the pinpoint beam of light that sliced through the endless darkness.

“Frightened,” she finally admitted. “Worried about the villagers.” And so, so guilty because she had been advised not to make this trip.

“The general has secured the gate and called for reinforcements.” Drei’s deep whisper embraced the dark, soothed with its tone. He liked this answer much better than the first one she had given. “He and his unit will capture these thugs.”

“You think they’re criminals?” That surprised her. Why would criminals bother with an attack when they could all too easily cross Ninsele’s borders—one more problem that hadn’t yet been solved?

“They’re thugs no matter who finances them.”

Ah, Mirie understood. Of course they were after her. Why else would anyone bother this sleepy village? And Drei would take any attempt against her personally.

She should never have risked leaving Briere, no matter how much she had wanted to be here for Bunică. Her selfish decision would impact everyone now because the NRPG could not deploy aircraft to pursue their attackers. The nearest air base was at the country’s western border and it belonged to Hungary. And Ninsele didn’t need the bad press. Not now. Not so close to the arrival of the European Commission’s representatives. Would they call off the talks, fearing for their safety? Had she just sabotaged all the progress they’d made toward the stabilization plan?

Was it any wonder she was struggling to breathe?

“The people expected a meal with a princess,” she said. “A celebration of a life lived with love.”

Was it really so much to ask for the princess they had treated as their own to speak at a funeral?

“They’ll have tales to tell their kids,” Drei said. “And they will celebrate life. Geta’s memorial and their own escape. The meal is already prepared.”

If they escaped. Mirie prayed he was right, appreciated his effort to reassure her.

But words and kindness couldn’t take away the guilt. She was responsible for her selfish choice to leave the safety of the royal compound. Now people were running for safety and fleeing armed paramilitaries.

How many would be killed like the priest?

“The general will make inquiries,” Drei continued, clearly determined to reassure her. “We’ll know by the time we get back to Briere. Who knows? Maybe some group will claim responsibility and save us the trouble of a search.”

“You hope.”

That made his gaze soften just a bit.

“I do.”

They both knew the trouble with assassins and revolutionaries was that they usually didn’t want to be identified. Secrecy gave them power. A terrorist cell would claim responsibility immediately and whip the media into a frenzy to frighten people.

“Let’s keep moving.” Drei locked his fingers around her wrist and guided her hand around his waist. His touch was solid, a reminder against worrying about things they could not control. Drawing her close, he pointed the red beam of his flashlight into the darkness.

Mirie kept pace beside him, concealed by his broad chest, chiding herself for her weakness. She had known the risks when deciding to make this journey. Yet she had hoped for the best, had felt she deserved to make this trip. She had survived when her family had not. She had a purpose to fulfill, an obligation. And she asked nothing in return. Only a chance to bury the woman who had loved her like a grandmother.

“How did you know about the altar?” Drei asked.

“Bunică was always afraid I would be discovered and instructed me how to escape.”

“She was wise.” He wanted to distract her. Her protector in body and spirit. Always.

But he couldn’t protect her from the truth.

“Has the general confirmed any casualties?” Innocent people had become targets. People guilty of no more than burying their dead, of lingering to get close to a princess.

Anyone who came near her was at risk.

She was poison.

Mirie could imagine the funeral procession in the wake of her escape, people frantic and screaming for their lives as they raced down the road for the gate, some whose steps would have been slowed by age or infirmity.

Had they stood any chance of reaching safety?

“Your Royal Highness.” Drei stretched out the syllables, a stern warning. “The general knows his duty. And the potential risks. He brought only his best men. They will secure the situation. Trust that much, at least.”

He knew her so well. She forgot that most of the time.

“I do.” But the cost of even one life was one that could never be calculated.

There were no answers in the passage that curved tightly in upon itself. The footing was treacherous. Drei moved along awkwardly, using the wall to brace himself. He kept her locked against him, steadied her as the floor descended sharply.

Mirie had known of the passage, but had never traveled it. The exit was far from the village, a place one might be able to escape through gorges that sliced a path toward the northern border. The secret of the passage was held tightly by only a few on the elder council, passed down through generations to those trusted with the villagers’ safety.

“You knew of this passage but not the altar?” she asked.

“I’ve spent a lot of years formulating escape routes in case we needed them. I’m sure Geta wanted you to have escape options even from me.”

He was right. Bunică had witnessed the effects of trusting the wrong people. But Mirie had to trust Drei. Otherwise, how could she function?

“Then it’s good we work together,” she said calmly, when she felt anything but. “You know where this passage leads?”

“The general vicinity.”

“Think we’ll be able to escape?”

“Yes.”

“Would you tell me if the answer was no?” She felt the motion as he slanted his head, as though peering down at her.

“No.” He gave a short laugh.

Under normal circumstances, his answer would have annoyed her, but the sound of that one humorless laugh stuck, a thought to divert the other sounds in her head.

Tat-tat-tat-tat-tat.

He seemed not to feel the brutal cold while her adrenaline seeped away in slow degrees. She couldn’t be sure how long they walked, but not much time had passed since she’d said her farewell to Bunică. Forcing herself to focus, Mirie put one foot in front of the other despite her quaking knees and chattering teeth.

Drei must have noticed her struggle because he brought them to another stop. Handing her the light, he opened his coat to forage through his inner pockets.

He withdrew a thick square wrapped in crackling plastic. With a few quick gestures, he shook out a weather poncho made of thin waterproof canvas.

“Wear this.” His voice was gentle as he drew the white outerwear around her and pulled a hood up over her head, hat and all. “It’ll help with the cold.”

“You travel prepared.”

“That’s what you pay me to do.”

Such a simple reply, yet not so simple. He had known there might be danger because she had left her secured palace, a glittering shell that housed the golden egg.

“Any better?” he asked.

She nodded, appreciating his precautions and his concern.

The tunnel began an ascent. Gravity and ice conspired to make each step more difficult. There were no handholds, and she was finally forced to cling to Drei, who anchored himself against the rough wall, a bulwark always, shifting his balance to secure her, his arm locked tight, his grip strong yet gentle.

And when they finally reached the end of the passage, they found a half-rotted wooden portal shaped like a manhole cover. The exit had long ago been concealed beneath snow and forest debris, making an icy, dirty blotch that didn’t budge when Drei put his weight to it.

He shut off the light. “I need you to step back, Your Royal Highness. This mess may collapse. I don’t want you far, though.”

“I can hold the light.”

“I have to see what’s out there, and this wood is disintegrating. I start loosening this ice, and the mountain might fall in.”

Mirie retreated just far enough to watch Drei work.

He tested the wood, used a knife to coax away debris so he might see outside.

Mirie gasped when the crack of ice startled the quiet. Suddenly thin light penetrated the darkness. He slipped some sort of slim instrument through the hole—a mirror?—and must have been satisfied with what he had seen because he pulled out another weather poncho like her own, camouflage to blend in with the snow-covered terrain.

This man was such a blessing in her life. Had she ever even told him how grateful she was for all his careful attention?

Probably not. She barely noticed him at all. Took his presence for granted. An oversight she would have to change immediately.

“I’ll stay within earshot, but if you hear gunfire, you head back the way we came,” he said, businesslike. “Just stay inside the passage until the general makes contact.”

He withdrew his audio transmitter, then with calloused fingertips, he tilted her head to the side. She could feel the warmth of his skin as he slipped his hand beneath her hat and brushed aside her hair. He wedged the tiny device in her ear, his touch soft, warm, so alive.

For the moment, anyway. They both knew if she heard gunfire, he was dead. That would be the only reason Drei wouldn’t return to her, and without him, her chances of making it out of this passage alive weren’t good.

“We’re out of range now. But if you make it back into the church, you’ll be in contact with the general. Got it?”

She nodded.

“Stay hidden.”

Then he crawled through the opening and vanished.

Mirie could hear the rustling of branches and tree limbs, his boots crunching through the snow. Then all sounds faded, leaving only silence to drown out the noise of her thoughts, solitude to distract her from the memory of the attackers in the helicopter, a fat-bellied fly skimming pristine white treetops and old Vlas running from automatic gunfire on creaky legs.

Tat-tat-tat-tat-tat.

When she could no longer resist the lure of the light, she eased toward the exit, listening for any sound from outside, adrenaline making each breath come hard in her chest. She peered through the broken slat and took in the surroundings.

From the village these trees sloped steeply up the mountain, always covered in snow, so beautiful, like a scene in a child’s globe. One turn of the wrist and glittery snowflakes sprinkled down upon a tiny village.

Ninsoare. Her country had been named for the snowy peaks that defined the land.

What Mirie saw now was more desolate than magical. Wind gusting so hard it whistled like an emergency siren. She had known the storm was coming, and here it was, recalling the last time she had been forced to flee into these mountains. So many years should have dimmed the memory, drowned out the sounds of screams and tears and murder.

Tat-tat-tat-tat-tat.

It had been snowing then, too.

CHAPTER THREE

“DAMN,” DREW SAID ALOUD, not bothering to rein in his frustration.

The tracks were fresh, and the snow came down so hard and fast, he had almost missed them. Inspecting the ruts, he followed the trail until determining that four snowmobiles had passed along this ridge. Probably not more than ten minutes ago.

Given the altitude and climate conditions, Drew was willing to bet no sports enthusiast would be up here snowmobiling for kicks. No, he was looking at a second group of thugs patrolling points of egress. The terrain was difficult, essentially ineffective for launching a surprise attack on a funeral procession. Most likely these snowmobiles had carried scouts searching for the missing princess.

Did they know about the tunnel? Would they be back?

These were the only questions that interested Drew right now. And who was behind these well-organized thugs? Were they Slovakian, too? Drew didn’t have a clue and knew General Bogdanovich likely wouldn’t, either.

“Damn, damn, damn.”

Gusting wind drowned out his frustration. Heading back to the tunnel, he used a branch to sweep away his tracks. Not that anything would be visible for long with this storm, but his boots were doing a helluva job marking his trail. He would have to assume the snowmobiles would be back, but with any luck the storm might slow them down a little.

It was certainly deterring him, and his options were narrowing by the second. He couldn’t use his two-way radio to contact the general. He would be lucky if he could transmit over a mile in these conditions, and couldn’t risk an intercepted transmission anywhere close to these snowmobile tracks.

As near as he could tell, the snowmobiles had headed in the most direct route back to civilization, which left him with the next problem—Mirie wouldn’t last long in this weather. They had dressed for a funeral, not for prolonged exposure to the elements, and she had already been fighting the effects of shock when he’d left her. He needed to get her safe and warm because he didn’t see any alternative but riding out the time it took the general to secure the area and retrieve them. Drew needed an alternate plan B.

Shoving up his coat sleeve, he glanced at his watch and made out the compass display. Visibility was getting crappier by the second. There was a place where they might hole up safely, but he would have to get Mirie there, and that wouldn’t be easy. The terrain was tough in good weather. Of course the storm would complicate travel for the enemy, too. That much was a plus.

Drew trudged back, unhappy with his choices. He hadn’t been gone five minutes total, but after crawling back inside the tunnel, he took in the sight of Mirie, safe, like a punch to the gut.

She still stood with her arms wrapped tightly across her chest, as if trying to fold in on herself to contain warmth. But Drew knew by one glimpse of her lovely face that she struggled. She would hide it. She would strap on her courage like Kevlar, but she was struggling hard right now. He could see it in the raw edges of her expression, the haunted eyes she lifted to his, the shuddering breath that echoed between them.