I begged the grand commander to let me leave her there. She deserved to be someone else’s problem now. He promised me all in good time.
—The journal of Isaac Ryland
Nobody cared about Ian’s absence, not even his daughter or public wife. Grant wondered if any of the wives he kept in private would mourn his loss. Not that it mattered. Grant was alone in his room. He examined himself in his closet mirror. He wore black pants and a black dress shirt. He straightened his gold tie and vest before putting on a crimson velvet jacket. Grant admired himself. His wedding attire was worth more than most people’s homes.
Grant moved his arms and the small flecks of gold stitching showed off subtly in the mirror. He was the all-American male and looked the part. But one thing was off. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the American flag pin Ian had worn. He stuck it on his lapel and had to admit it gave him a certain look of glamour.
Grant leaned into the mirror and examined the bruise on the side of his face. It was starting to show through the makeup. He couldn’t have that.
Even though he found the process degrading, Grant had little option but to summon Greg Finnegan’s makeup artist again. When a knock on the door came, Grant went to greet the helper. It was the same man from yesterday. He carried a kit and a light-up mirror.
“You might be the most distinguished-looking groom I have ever seen,” the man said.
Grant didn’t need another person to tell him that. He was aware of that fact himself. Grant held his arm out and motioned for the man to enter. He went for Grant’s desk and started setting up his supplies. Grant took a seat and the man started rubbing the makeup on his skin.
“Less than an hour left,” the man said. “How are those butterflies?”
“Excuse me?” Grant asked.
“Stomach nerves? I mean, you’re getting married on national television, that has to increase the adrenaline.”
Grant didn’t bother with a response.
“On my wedding day I was throwing up in a bucket,” he said. “It was out of happiness though.”
Grant wished the man would shut up.
“My outfit wasn’t nearly as grand as yours,” he said. “I wore my old service uniform . . . not even the fancy one because I didn’t move up in rank that much.”
“You got here fast,” Grant said.
He wasn’t in a mood to bloody his knuckles and thought if the man continued with his story Grant would be forced to deck him in the jaw out of annoyance.
“I was sitting downstairs waiting,” he said.
“I assumed Greg would be having his makeup done.”
“Greg went to pick up his date.”
“His partner?” Grant asked.
“No,” the man said. “Poor Nicholas isn’t feeling well. A friend is letting him take his wife as an escort. Strange if you ask me, but boy, was she beautiful. One of the most beautiful girls I’ve ever seen. I did her makeup earlier today. She had big blue eyes, shorter hair but long enough for me to give the illusion of length.”
This struck Grant as wrong. No man would lend his wife out for the evening. If she was beautiful that meant her husband had a lot of money, and that rule went double for wealthy men.
“The rumor is Nicholas and Greg are splitting up anyway,” the makeup man said. “We don’t like to gossip too much but the last time I saw Nicholas was at your old wife’s funeral. Funny, I almost forgot you were married before. Sorry if I’m opening up old wounds, I sometimes—”
“This conversation is very boring,” Grant said. “Why don’t we play a game where you don’t open your mouth?”
No, Grant thought to himself. Amelia was dead; that description could have fit a number of women. For all of Greg Finnegan’s faults, he was a proud American. Grant wasn’t about to let paranoia overtake him. Another knock came on the door. Grant was happy for the distraction. The man in charge of audio walked into the room.
“Are you ready for your microphone?”
“Yes,” Grant said.
He stood up from his chair and the man walked over with the small black box he would hide under Grant’s clothing.
“Are you planning on taking the jacket off tonight?”
“Possibly,” Grant said.
“Lift your arms and untuck your shirt. I’ll hide the box in the back of your waistband and run the mic up to the front of your shirt. Hide it under your tie.”
Grant did as instructed, happy that this would be his last microphone fitting. Once the man was done he went to the controller he carried and put headphones over his ears.
“I’m going to turn this on,” he said. “Give me a few test words.”
“Let me know when you’re ready,” Grant said.
The man flipped the switch and then winced in pain. He flung the headphones off his ears and they hit the ground. Grant wasn’t expecting that response.
“Ahh,” the man said, wincing.
“Are you all right?” the makeup artist asked.
“That is the second time this has happened to me this month,” he said. “There’s something giving feedback close to the microphone.”
“What do you mean?” Grant asked.
“Another electronic device,” the man said. “It happened with the grand commander a few weeks ago. He insisted he didn’t have anything on him. We scanned the whole place for additional electronics and couldn’t find anything. It took me thirty minutes to get the mic set to a frequency that didn’t cause that noise.”
“Maybe your equipment is faulty?” the makeup artist suggested.
Of all the foolish things Grant had done, this was the one he was the most embarrassed about. The one thing he had in common with Ian was sitting on the lapel of his jacket. Grant ripped off the pin.
“Try again,” Grant said.
“You don’t know how bad that hurts,” the man said. “Let me get a scan set up first.”
“No,” Grant said. “Right now.”
The tone of Grant’s voice was threatening enough. The man picked up his headphones and nervously switched them back on.
“Oh,” he said. “Must have been a fluke. You’re fine now.”
The pin. It wasn’t a pin at all, but a bug sent to record the grand commander. Grant didn’t know if it was a camera or only an audio recorder, but either way whoever had access to its information now had the key to the master Registry. Amelia’s existence didn’t seem so important anymore.
Grant rushed out of the room, dropping the pin in the process. He ran down the stairs, ignoring the glares of the guests who had just entered his home.
“You look fabulous,” one said.
Grant kept moving toward the back. He made it to the head of security for the event.
“Has anyone noticed anything suspicious?” Grant asked.
“Everything is running smooth,” the guard answered. “Why, did you hear something?”
“Shhh,” Grant said.
He needed the quiet to think. Most of the important people in America were heading to his house. That left the Mission very vulnerable. If he brought in an entire team to help him it might create too many questions. Whoever the people who bugged the pin were, they were armed with the knowledge that Grant had killed Ian. This information would give any American the right to kill him and strip him of the grand commander title he deserved. He pictured the redheaded assassin, the bumbling Alex, and whoever else had been helping Amelia. It could be them trying to destroy his country. Tonight would be the perfect night to attack.
He went back through the hall, pushing past the guests who were heading toward the site of his ceremony until he was out the front door.
Grant ran down the length of his driveway, blocking out the greetings people were giving him. He made it toward the valet who was parking people’s cars. Grant grabbed the set of keys a new guest was handing over and ran toward the driver’s side of their sporty red car.
As soon as he started the car he hit the gas pedal.