Page 97 of No Vow Broken

I chuckled. “Ouch. I guess I deserve that. Regardless, remind me to never try to outthink or outplay the pope or the Father Armando again.”

“Deal,” she said. “Might as well add me to that list, too.”

That made me laugh aloud. “Are you kidding? And deprive me of one of life’s greatest pleasures?”

She rolled her eyes and stood, pulling me to my feet. “Well, it was worth a try.”

“It certainly was,cara. It certainly was.”

FIFTY-ONE

Lexi

Saturday—Wedding Day

My wedding day had finally arrived. Today, I would marry Slash in the church—if we weren’t attacked, killed, or otherwise incapacitated.

There was a strong possibility of one of the three happening.

We were told that those of us staying at the hotel would be taken to the parking lot of another local church where specialized equipment and personnel had been set up to screen us before we were bused to St. Michael’s. Anyone coming to the wedding in a private car would also be detoured to this parking lot and then taken to the church by a specially chartered bus. This was due to the space requirement needed for the Marine One helicopter to land, and because of the recent security threats to the first family.

Since Slash and I were considered VIPs, we got our own Secret Service–chauffeured SUV to drive to St. Michaels instead of having to take the bus. My bridal gown and Slash’s tuxedo were already safely tucked away in garment bags in the back. My mom and Amanda were invited to join us, and the four of us had just gone through security, so we all piled into the car.

Amanda sat up front in the passenger seat. I knew Slash would have preferred to sit there, but given the fact that Amanda was still raw from her boyfriend’s betrayal, he sat in the back with Mom and me without complaint. While we waited for our friends and family to finish going through security and get onto the bus, I glanced at Slash to see if he was nervous. I didn’t expect to see any visible signs, but I was becoming familiar enough with his patterns that I could detect if he was uncomfortable.

He kept an eye on the Secret Service screening of the other members of the wedding party out the right-side window of the car. Though I was looking mostly at the back of his head, he seemed alert but calm. I envied his confidence, especially since he was marrying the world’s biggest klutz with a determined black cloud.

Maybe Slash sincerely believed nothing would go wrong today, but that didn’t sit right with me. It was more like he believed nothing would go wrong that we couldn’t handle. Looking at it that way, I could feel my anxiety ebb a little, although it hardly vanished.

Mom and Amanda kept up a constant stream of conversation, discussing the schedule of events and potential problem areas such as seating, protocol, the reception, and so on. I was glad someone who was qualified was handling those types of problems. More importantly, I hadn’t heard any mention of disaster plans. Amanda seemed to have recovered mostly from the treachery of her boyfriend. If not, she was hiding it well, reflecting what a true professional she was. It felt strange not to be panicked about the upcoming ceremony, which is where I totally expected my head to be. Recent events had far eclipsed that anxiety, I supposed, at least for the time being. Still, not being paralyzed about the wedding when it was imminent would have surprised me several months ago. I guess I’d changed a lot more than I’d thought, although I figured my nerves would show up once I saw the crowd at the church. But I also believed seeing our friends and family in the church, and knowing they’d taken the time—as well as risked their lives—to share that moment with us, would steady me.

Right now, my anxiety focused on my little black cloud. It made me appear capable of exceeding all the best disaster planning my family and friends could come up with. Maybe I could use that line on a future résumé.

I’d also become increasingly concerned about the media and paparazzi craze. Our wedding, once perhaps of mild interest to society people who cared about that kind of thing, had now been elevated to a frenzied international sensation after the assassination attempts. The news of our wedding was now fodder for the entire freaking world. Everyone wanted to know who we were, what was going on, and why we had the president, first lady, and pope at our wedding. Amanda reported that she and her team had been fielding hundreds of calls asking about the mystery couple and whether there was any connection to the attempts to assassinate the first lady. Even Mom was uncomfortable with the level of media craziness. Knowing how much she enjoyed the limelight, that was saying a lot. Whatever the buzz, I was determined to ignore it in the hopes it would go away as soon the media raced off to chase the next shiny topic.

To top it off, Slash reported that the FBI was unable to locate Sokholov. They had distributed his description to all the police and security personnel, but that was the best they could do. He was out there somewhere watching us, I was sure.

Sighing, I turned my head to look out Mom’s window. She was engaged in a deep conversation with Amanda about the flower arrangements at the church. I looked across the screening parking lot we were in and saw several county sheriffs’ cars keeping numerous cars and media trucks with satellites away. Numerous officers were working overtime to keep dozens of shouting reporters and paparazzi from crossing the road. To the left of that circus, I spotted a quaint, old-style gas station with four pumps and a small grocery that sold live bait, old beer, and chicken feed. I did a double take, assuming the sign meant to saycoldbeer, but theCon the sign had long ago weathered away.

Currently filling up at the pumps were a white box truck, a media van, and a sleek red sports car pumping gas at the station’s four pumps. The sports car’s license plate read FUZZBAIT in an obvious challenge to the local law enforcement.

A police officer wandered out of the store holding a cup of coffee and almost collided with several camera operators lounging by the door. The police officer turned and said something to them, clearly expressing his annoyance. Unsurprisingly, they displayed great indifference. My gaze shifted to the white truck, where its driver had raised the rolling door on the back of the vehicle and climbed in. On the right side were two large tanks of a compressed gas, each one at least as tall as a man. Since they were painted green, I assumed they were oxygen tanks. Across from the tanks, hanging on a hook, was a bulky suit with a helmet that looked like a round hatbox with a clear plastic visor. A dive suit? That was weird.

The driver reappeared from inside the truck. Before stepping down, he stopped and stared over at our operation. I knew it was impossible to see through the heavily tinted SUV windows, but it felt like our eyes met for a moment. I jolted with sudden surety that I’d seen him before and somehow, it was important. I struggled to place him as he closed the back of the truck and finished filling his tank. I wondered if I should say something, but I only had vague suspicions I worried would be attributed to nothing more than wedding jitters.

I was debating whether to tell Slash when our driver’s door opened and he climbed in, interrupting my concentration. “Hello, I’m Agent Steve Jolly. If everyone’s ready, let’s get the stars of this show to the church.” He shifted in his seat and gave us a wide smile.

Slash glanced at the driver and then me, with a raised eyebrow. When the agent turned to start the SUV, Slash mouthed at me with a grin, “Jolly?”

I shrugged, but as we drove, Agent Jolly certainly lived up to his namesake. I was under the impression that Secret Service selection criteria included a quiet, observant, and serious nature. If true, this agent must have had a personality transplant after joining. He was chattering and laughing nonstop as we dodged cars and pulled out on the road. He even outtalked Mom and Amanda, who seemed charmed instead of surprised by his unusual demeanor.

At some point, Slash leaned over and whispered, “Definitely not your typical Secret Service agent. Makes you wonder if they stuck him with us so they didn’t have to listen to him.”

Grinning, I looked out the window, noticing the white box truck I’d spotted at the gas station just a couple of cars ahead of us. Unfortunately, traffic was slow due to all the news vans and other interested spectators lining the road. I was close enough now to see its rear bumper was dented oddly, as if it had backed into a pole. That further reinforced my conviction I’d seen the truck and driver somewhere. But where?

The SUV soon arrived at the checkpoint guarding the road to the church and stopped. As we got closer, I could see there were even more cars and news vans parked on the side of the road and people everywhere. The cameras flashed like crazy as we stopped, and I was grateful for the tinted windows protecting us from view. Never had I ever imagined that Slash and I would become a white-hot international media sensation.

Agent Jolly, noting all the hoopla, shook his head. “Just so you know, the boss warned us we’re to have no Princess Di moments today.”

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