“Huh?”

“Proper manners and speech.” He adjusted his tie. “You might not think it, but I can put on a posh act when I need to. Just… try to act like well-bred young ladies, eh?”

“Certainly, sir!” Loup sat ramrod straight.

“Oh, go on!” He laughed. “Be yourselves, but mind your manners. Be polite and professional. Remember you’re representing Global Security.”

“What happens if we screw up?” Pilar asked.

“Depends on how bad of a cock-up it is,” Clive said cheerfully. “You’re bound to slip up here and there. But if we end up with an unhappy client…” He made a throat-slitting gesture. “Could end your career before it starts, sunshine.”

“Oh.” She turned on her Dataphone. “Think maybe I’ll study that dossier on this Vincenzo guy some more. Um… Mr. Picco, that is.”

“Good girl,” he said in approval.

Loup put in her earpiece and listened to Italian lessons, watching the Scottish countryside pass outside her window.

They arrived in London at dusk and took a cab to the hotel, a luxurious place overlooking a green park.

“All righty,” Clive said after they checked in. “The rest of the team’s already here. We’re on our own until we pick up the client at Heathrow tomorrow morning. Let’s meet for dinner in the Grill Room in an hour and you can meet the others.”

“Okay,” Loup agreed.

“Yes sir, sir!”

“Enough!” he said to Pilar. “You’re not in the army, sunshine.”

In the hotel room, Pilar explored the amenities while Loup unpacked. “Oh, cute!” She showed Loup a miniature sewing kit. “Hey, you gonna wear one of those new white dress shirts tomorrow, baby?”

“Yeah, Clive said to. White shirt, black pants. Why?”

“I’d like to take the seams in a little.” Pilar pulled a white button-down shirt out of the closet and examined it. “It’s a cute cut, but it’s not tailored quite perfectly for zee toned phee-zeek.”

Loup smiled. “I like when you get all domestic.”

“For you and you alone. Remember the boxing robe?” She put the shirt back and tossed the sewing kit in her purse. “Probably take too long to do by hand. Maybe I’ll try it when we get back. Addie’s got a sewing machine.”

“Okay.” Loup’s smile turned wistful. “I loved that robe. I wish I hadn’t had to leave it behind.”

“That’s okay.” Pilar kissed her cheek. “All part of the mystery, Santa Olivia. It’s probably in a shrine somewhere. I wish I’d had the nerve to watch the fight. Watch you walk out wearing that robe in front of all of Outpost, then kick that guy’s ass.” She paused. “You know, it’s funny. I think if it were happening today, I would. And I don’t think I ever would have left you in the first place, even knowing I was gonna lose you. I think I would have stayed no matter how much it hurt.”

“You were always stronger than you thought, Pilar.”

“Maybe. I think a lot of it’s being with you.” She shook her head. “Anyway, enough being all serious.”

“You started it!”

“I know, I know.”

In an hour’s time, they found their way to the restaurant, where Clive was waiting with three tall, good-looking youngish men in suits and ties. Their gazes flicked back and forth between the two girls as Clive made introductions, settling on Loup.

“So you’re the geemo,” said the leader, Henry Kensington. He shook her hand with a slight flinch. “Welcome to the team.”

“Thanks. It’s not official yet.”

“Sounds like it’s just a matter of time.” His tone was neutral.

Throughout the dinner, Henry quizzed them intensively about the itinerary, his demeanor easing only when he was satisfied that both of them had memorized it fairly well. But it wasn’t until Loup ordered a second entree that he left off talking shop.

“Working the expense account, eh?” he said without malice.

“No.” She took a bite of salmon. “Not on purpose, anyway. They serve small portions here.”

“Taz here eats like a horse,” Clive informed him. “It’s her metabolism.”

“Taz?”

He grinned. “Old-time cartoon. One of the classics. Tasmanian Devil. You never saw it?” He mimed a whirlwind with one hand. “You’ve gotta see the girl in action. Though, ah, I hope it’s not necessary.”

“Can’t imagine it would be,” one of the other bodyguards said laconically. “Not over a goddamn fashion designer.”

“Don’t get careless,” Henry warned him, eyeing Loup with curiosity. “I don’t suppose you’d like to offer a demonstration?”

She glanced around the restaurant with its gilded fixtures and elegant diners, silverware clinking softly and the murmur of conversation. “Here? Um, no.”

“No, of course not.” He smiled ruefully. “Right, then. We’ll meet in the lobby at eight o’clock sharp.”

After dinner, they returned to the room.

Loup flung herself on the bed with a sigh. “Why do they always want a demonstration?”

Pilar picked up the remote and turned on the TV. “Because they do. They’re curious, that’s all. Does it bother you?”

“A little, I guess.” She watched the channels flip past. “I mean, I know, I get it. I just get a little tired of it, you know? It’s been going on since I was ten years old and C.C. tried to punch me in the face to see if it was true.”

“C.C. did? Our C.C.?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What’d you do?”

“Knocked the wind out of him,” Loup said absently. “Quickest way to shut people—hey.” She shot upright. “Pilar, go back, go back!”

“Where?”

She snatched the remote from her and flipped back to an international news channel. “Holy shit!”

“Oh my God.” Pilar stared at the screen. “It’s Miguel fucking Garza!”

They both stared, riveted.

Miguel was being interviewed in an undisclosed location by Senator Timothy Ballantine from Virginia. The camera cut back and forth between the two men. The senator was statesmanlike and grave, asking probing questions about Outpost 12, the town once known as Santa Olivia, Texas. Miguel Garza answered every question with blunt gravitas, his broad face filling the screen, his answers excoriating the American government.

“Holy shit!” Loup leaped to her feet. “Go, Mig!”

“He got out,” Pilar said, dazed. “He actually got out, and that senator guy found him like you told him to! And he’s… he’s…”

“He’s being a fuckin’ hero,” Loup said softly, splaying her fingers and touching the television screen. “Aw, Mig! I told you so.”

The coverage cut away.

“Shit,” Pilar murmured.

“It’s happening.” Loup whirled, eyes shining. “Things are moving, changing. And we made it happen!”

“You did, baby.”

“You and me, we’re a we.”

“Shit,” Pilar repeated, taking the remote back and flipping channels in the hope of finding more coverage. “God, I want to know more!”

They searched in vain for almost an hour before Loup yawned and suggested they give up. “We can check the news feeds tomorrow. Right now, I think we’d better get some sleep. Big day tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

In bed, Pilar curled against her back, warm and soft.

“Hey, Loup?”

“Hmm?”

“You don’t have a thing for Miguel, do you?”

“No!”

“You sure?”

Loup made an exasperated sound and rolled over. “Of course I’m sure! I like Miguel, yeah. I know he’s crude and a bully and an asshole sometimes, but he’s a decent guy under it all.” She was quiet a moment. “He didn’t help train me just to get a ticket north. In the end, I think he would have done it anyway. Like you said Floyd did, because it was the right thing to do. And he didn’t have any reason to feel guilty about Tommy’s death like Floyd did.” She touched Pilar’s cheek. “When Tommy died, it left a big hole in my heart.”

“I know,” Pilar whispered.

“Yeah, well, in his own grouchy, pervy way, Miguel helped fill it. Okay? I lost the best big brother in the world. Mig’s the big brother I never wanted, but kinda can’t help caring a lot about anyway. The only person I have a thing for is you.”

“Okay, okay! I was just asking.”

“Good.”

“The only person?” Pilar asked after a moment.

“Since I was fourteen years old,” Loup said drowsily. “Now go to sleep, okay?”

“Okay.”

SEVENTEEN

Vincenzo Picco arrived with an entourage, several rolling cargo crates of couture, and an outsized attitude.

They saw him from a distance as he swept into the baggage claim area—a tall, slender man with a flamboyant mane of gray hair, yellow-tinted sunglasses, and an immaculately tailored suit.

“Do you suppose—” Pilar began.

“Uh-huh.”

He spotted the sign that one of the other bodyguards was holding and swooped down upon them, trailing a handful of scurrying assistants.

“Mr. Picco?” Henry stepped forward. “Global Security. Welcome to London.”

Vincenzo Picco looked from one strapping bodyguard to another, then looked down his nose at Loup and sniffed. He snapped his fingers. A young woman hurried to his side. He uttered a rapid spate of Italian.

“Vincenzo Picco would like to know why his detail is not matched in appearance and height,” she said in harried English. “Vincenzo Picco very much likes symmetry.”