Wulf von Hannover
The concierge met Wulf and his team at the garage, escorted them up via the service entrance, and led them near the very doors of the Prince’s suite, muttering to hotel security on her headset the whole way. Evidently, whoever was watching from the cameras saw no problems ahead of them as the team moved through the corridors of the hotel.
The concierge stood aside and raised her arm, gesturing to the next corner.
Wulf and his men paused, moving silently into formation. He drew his handgun, a boxy Glock, from the holster under his arm. The dead weight of it pulled on his fingers and palm.
“How far?” Wulf whispered to the concierge.
“A few meters. Five, perhaps,” she said. “Suite 602.”
The men nodded to each other, each signaling readiness.
Friedhelm and Dieter took point, and they sprinted to the door.
Wulf turned the corner a few steps behind them.
Two men stood beside the door to the suite, leaning against the wall, their suit coats cut long and loose to conceal firearms. They glanced at Wulf and the team running toward them, raised their hands, and stood aside.
Yes, as Wulf had suspected, his father’s security team may have been ordered to kidnap Flicka, but no one could force them to diligently defend their crime.
They backed up another step as Wulf’s group advanced on the door. One of his father’s men leaned over and held a keycard above the door’s lock, ready to open it for them.
Certainly telling, ja?
The man pushed the door open and stepped back, raising his hands in the air. Dieter and Friedhelm ran inside, guns drawn.
Wulf slowed as the rest rushed in. He hated it, but Dieter was right. He had a pregnant wife who was having complications, and he had his own paramilitary force. This time, he should command from the rear.
Through his earpiece, Wulf heard Dieter announce, “Clear!”
That was quick, and the silence inside precluded any scuffle or gunshots.
Wulf walked into the room, flanked by more of his men.
Dieter held Flicka behind him, gun pointed at the one last security man, who stood beside an older man seated in a chair, Wulf’s father. Flicka was holding onto Dieter’s shoulder and pressed her face to his back. His arm shielded her while he aimed his gun at the men.
Good. Wulf had known that he could trust Dieter.
The Monégasque security men held their guns at the ready, pointing toward Wulf’s father and his lone, remaining security guy, who stood with his hands in the air and stared at the ceiling.
Wulf’s father, His Serene Highness, The Hereditary Prince of Hannover, Philipp Augustus, crossed his legs and smirked.
Wulf held up his hand. “Everyone out.”
Dieter said, “You’re not staying in here alone.”
“Everyone out,” Wulf repeated. Anger simmered under his skin. He said to Dieter, “Take Flicka back to the hotel. Leave a few men outside the door for my transport.”
Dieter paused, watching the one security guy who was making sure that he looked like absolutely no threat, standing with his hands raised, and then Dieter edged out of the room, still shielding Flicka with his body. Most of the other security guys fell into formation around Dieter and Flicka.
Friedhelm escorted the last of Phillipp’s security men out with them at gunpoint.
Wulf watched them until they walked through the door, leaving him alone with his father.
The door clicked shut.
Wulf turned back. He lowered his weapon but kept it ready. He didn’t think his father would try to jump him or brandish a weapon, but he might have more security personnel in the small suite.
He pried the earpiece out of his ear and pressed the button to turn it off, sighing, “What am I going to do with you?”
“I’ve given you an opportunity,” his father said, staring straight at him. “You can call off the ceremony today.”
A chair had been placed opposite his father. Flicka had probably been seated there, talking to him. A low coffee table sat between the chairs.
Wulf sat down. “I’m not calling off the wedding.”
“I’ve given you the perfect opportunity,” Phillipp insisted, staring at Wulf with eyes the same dark blue as his own.
They had spent little time together, even when Wulf had been a child, and seeing the man who looked so like himself, only nearly forty years older, was a small shock like the snap of static. Even though Wulf knew that Phillipp was still considered handsome—silver hair, deep blue eyes, and the remnants of an athlete’s build—he seemed like a dark omen of everything that could go wrong in Wulf’s life. He had no relationships with a woman or his own children, and he pursued a death wish with fast cars because his body would no longer allow him to try to kill himself with horse jumping or alpine skiing.
“We married legally months ago,” Wulf said. “We are married. We have been married. I have included her on every important legal document. If I were to die today, she and our child would inherit everything. This wedding is a social event.”
“And thus the more important symbol,” Phillipp said. “Can’t you get that through your thick head?”
“The ceremony will take place today. You, however, will not attend. When people remark upon your absence, I’ll tell them that even though the sovereign head of the house of Welf approved the marriage, you did not.”
“Good,” his father sneered. “I’ll make sure everyone knows.”
“Of course, you will.” Wulf shook his head. “Your security staff will be replaced with mine. They’re no longer your security. They will be your jailers. They will answer to me and my administration. Your communications will be monitored.”
“That’s outrageous,” his father said, his jaw tight.
“If you do not comply, I will entirely cut off your funds. Even your personal fortune, such that it is called, is at the discretion of the house. I will literally throw you out on the street with the clothes on your back, and I will have men around you to ensure that you don’t receive help from anyone.”
“That’s disrespectful,” his father said, but he didn’t seem outraged.
Perhaps he didn’t mean to try Wulf’s displeasure any further. Perhaps this was the last attack in a war that, Wulf was quite sure, had begun when a madman had killed the wrong nine-year-old.
A door from farther inside the suite opened.
Wulf was on his feet, gun at eye level, before the door was even half-open.
Over the gun—the dot of the front sight neatly seated in the notch of the rear—a slim woman entered, carrying a tray with a silver coffee service. A few strands of iron gray highlighted her dark hair, pulled back in a tidy bun. Her dark eyes widened, and her mouth was opening.
There was something very familiar about her.