The Bodyguard's Bride-To-Be. Amelia Autin
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it?”
Marek exchanged a rueful glance with Angelina because he knew the answer was “Nothing.” The Zakharian Liberation Front had never popped up on anyone’s radar until yesterday. And while technically this wasn’t an indictment of Angelina or him because she was responsible for the queen’s security and he was responsible for the crown prince’s, any threat to national security could be a danger to the royals, and they both knew it.
The silence in the room was deafening. “I see,” said the colonel. His lips thinned. “Needless to say, the king is not pleased.”
His last five words were a lash against the pride of all his listeners, but especially Marek. Until he’d met Tahra, nothing had been more important to him than the king he was proud to serve. Keeping the queen safe—and subsequently the crown prince when the king had personally asked him to take over protection of his son—had been especially important to him because those things were of paramount importance to the king. The king had made it abundantly clear that in any life-and-death situation, the safety of the queen and the crown prince came first. Then the king. That had required an adjustment in thinking, but everyone on the three security details had eventually come to accept it.
But from the moment Marek had met Tahra, the royal family had slid one notch in his personal priority hierarchy. Had he somehow overlooked a threat to them because of that? He didn’t know, and the uncertainty ate at his gut. Because duty was everything to him. Or at least it had been...until Tahra.
Marek dragged his attention back to Colonel Marianescu with difficulty. The colonel was saying, “It is fairly obvious from the one-sentence credo stated in their press release that the Zakharian Liberation Front’s political agenda is in opposition to the refugees Zakhar has recently welcomed inside its borders. ‘Zakhar for Zakharians’ leaves no room for any other interpretation. And all the targets of yesterday’s bombings were—”
The door to the War Room opened, and King Andre Alexei IV strode in. Everyone scrambled to their feet, but the king said quickly, “As you were, gentlemen. I apologize for being late—I had intended to be here from the beginning, but I was detained by the Privy Council.” He spoke softly with his cousin, Colonel Marianescu, then nodded and faced the room again, standing. “What I have to say will not take long.”
Marek had rarely seen the king like this—cold anger was coming off him in palpable waves. “I will not speak the name of this organization because its very name is an affront to every decent Zakharian. Nor will I repeat their credo for the same reason. All I will say is that this organization’s actions are unacceptable. Unacceptable!” The king paused and clenched his jaw against the anger that obviously threatened to get away from him.
When he had himself under control again, the king continued. His voice was soft, but no one in the room took his words as anything other than a direct order. “I want three things. First, I want the refugees who are here at my invitation to be protected at all costs. Second, I want the individuals involved in these murderous and cowardly acts caught and brought to justice. Third, I want this organization rooted out and destroyed. It is one thing to espouse this credo—every man is entitled to his own thoughts. It is another thing entirely to take violent action to force that on others, and it will not be tolerated. Is that understood?”
A chorus of “Yes, Sire” echoed through the room.
The king nodded with satisfaction. “Very good, gentlemen. I will leave you and Colonel Marianescu to work out the details. Thank you.” He turned and spoke privately with his cousin for a moment, then they headed for the door together. As they had when the king had entered the room, everyone stood and remained at attention until he was gone.
Angelina caught Marek’s eye. “Have you ever seen him this angry?” she whispered as they took their seats again. “Not even the assassination attempt on his son generated this kind of reaction as I recall.”
“I did not witness it myself, you understand,” Marek replied in an undertone that couldn’t be heard by the others sitting around them. “But he nearly killed Prince Nikolai for attempting to kill the queen. That was before she was the queen,” he clarified. “The man who did witness it said the king’s anger was awesome to behold—similar to his reaction today, I would imagine. I do not know how the queen convinced the king otherwise, but somehow she did, and Prince Nikolai lived that night—he went on to stand his trial before being convicted.”
Angelina nodded her understanding. Prince Nikolai was dead now, which they both knew, but not at the king’s hand. Then quickly, as Colonel Marianescu returned to the head of the table, she asked, “What is the word on Tahra? Has she regained consciousness yet?”
Marek shook his head, fighting off his own surge of anger at what had nearly happened to her. “She is still in a medically induced coma. Until they bring her out of it, she will not... That is, she is still—”
“Shh,” whispered the man on Marek’s left. “Colonel Marianescu is speaking.”
“Suggestions?” the colonel was saying.
No one spoke, and once again Marek and Angelina exchanged speaking glances. They were the only two captains in the room, included in this high-level meeting because they headed the security details for the crown prince and the queen, and neither felt comfortable speaking up first. But when the silence dragged on, Marek asked, “Do forensics on all the bombs confirm it was the action of one group? Yes, the Zakharian Liberation Front has taken public credit, but before we rule anything else out...”
“Good point, Captain Zale.” The colonel’s gaze swept the room. “Forensic analysis is not complete, but yes, the preliminary assessment supports the theory that the bombs were all the work of one group. In fact, that they were all the work of one man.”
“That tells us something,” Angelina pointed out. “If all ten bombs were assembled by the same man, we may be looking at a relatively small organization.”
The colonel nodded. “Possible, of course. A good working theory.”
“Especially since the organization has managed to fly under the radar until now,” Marek added. His eyes sought out those of Major Stesha, the head of the secret intelligence service, who had sat himself at the far end of the conference table that could seat many more than the nine who had congregated there, and who—up until now—had avoided catching anyone’s eye. As if he felt the shame of failure more keenly than anyone else. “It is also probable the Zakharian Liberation Front has only recently come into existence,” Marek continued, welcoming the change his words wrought in the expression on Major Stesha’s face. “‘Zakhar for Zakharians’? As Colonel Marianescu said, that credo can only refer to opposition to the influx of refugees who have settled here over the past two years, and in even greater numbers in the past six months.”
“Confirmed by the targets of yesterday’s bombings, at least here in Drago,” Angelina threw in. “A train from the eastern border, carrying mostly émigrés. The refugee processing center in downtown Drago. The Zakharian National Forces facility where new recruits were training—almost seventy percent of whom were male refugees eighteen and older who had joined pursuant to Zakharian law.”
Marek, along with every other man in the room, knew what Angelina was referring to. All Zakharian men were required to join the military when they turned eighteen and serve for at least four years. Service in the military would be part of the émigrés’ path to Zakharian citizenship.
“And the preschool that was targeted but was miraculously spared due to one woman’s bravery?” Angelina reminded them all. “When the king decreed that as many refugee children as possible be placed in the same schools to keep friends together and ease their assimilation into Zakharian life, that preschool was one of the magnet schools chosen for placement. Nearly half the children in that yard yesterday were émigrés.”
Pain slashed through Marek as Angelina spoke, reminding him of how close Tahra had come to dying. But while he fought to retain his stoic demeanor, this time the pain was accompanied by an intense wave of pride. From the moment he’d heard the news about Tahra, all he’d focused