Page 66 of Red Line

Here were the men that Red had been aware of all evening—the ones that Red had thought were probably on Elena’s team, possibly the ones she had alluded to in her chat with Joel Brighton.

But now that a benign understanding of the situation was off the table, Red had questions.

Tonight’s ball was tightly secured. The event security team had blocked the road in front of the venue.

Car keys were handed off to valets and guests had to approach on foot.

The tickets were sold out on the first night they were offered, and availability was a year in advance. It had taken a phone call from the United States Secretary of State to the ambassador to pry the tickets that Red and Grey were using from covetous fingers.

Elena was Joel’s plus-one.

Who was chasing after Elena if this wasn’t her security team?

And how did they have the wherewithal to get in?

By the time these thoughts passed through Red’s mind, she’d captured all four of their images both on her earring cams and in her memory and swung her focus back toward the mirror.

But Elena was gone.

Red took three backward steps up the staircase, out of the press of the crowd, to gain height and possibly a better view.

Elena’s tiara bobbed as she quickly wove through the crowd, a viper amongst the weeds.

And there was that Pied Piper guy, tall enough that he was easy to spot, moving in the same direction as Elena, lookingnonchalant. But there was purpose to his movement. He was caught by a crowd that formed in front of him, and there was no easy way for him to continue to follow without seeming extremely rude. He backtracked to find a different route.

Elena made it to the staircase, brushing past Red without a second glance. And behind her came the group of men. They had fanned out in the room, but now they drew together like a net capturing prey.

Red watched as Elena turned into the hallway, not to the left toward the ladies’ room but to the right, where the caterers staged the trays of hors d’oeuvres and drinks for the waitstaff to circulate. Beyond that was the kitchen.

Elena could probably find a way to escape out into the back alley.

Red was momentarily unsure what to do.

There was hidden security here at the ball. There had to be. These were the elite of the elite. Royalty, for Heaven’s sake. But that security blended into the evening so everyone could simply enjoy. It was one of the ball's calling cards. Freedom from their ubiquitous security detail was much coveted.

So, were these men part of the ball-sanctioned security?

No, Elena wouldn’t recognize them as a threat.

Possibly Interpol?

After all, Elena wasn’t just involved in selling conflict relics, but she’d been on the scene of five men’s deaths when they were sniped in Munich. Had someone besides Color Code and their CIA assets figured that out?

It would be unlikely that Interpol would send anyone that Elena might recognize.

If Red were to insert herself into a security scenario, the very least that would happen would be a blown cover.

What if the waitstaff were all members of elite forces? Could happen. Why not?

Red could be wrong about her interpretation of the unfolding scene, but she had over a decade of fieldwork under her belt. And she read people very well.

Reading Elena—she was afraid she would be killed, slowly, painfully, while giving up every piece of information she knew or made up just to make the pain stop. The fear Red saw wasn’t worry about a quick bullet to the brainstem. Uh-uh. No. It just wasn’t. She’d seen enough people in enough of these scenarios—there was a reactionary difference. When the person knew they lived in a dangerous world and played a dangerous game, death was often met with a sense of inevitability and resignation.

Play stupid games, win stupid prizes.

It was torture that turned someone into a wild animal.

And the men?

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