Page 34 of The Prince (Spy Girl 1)
Ari is yelling against his gag, trying to tell her something. She gets the cotton out of their mouths, and he yells, "Ophelia!"
"Did they take her, too? Where is she? Where's Clarice?"
"What the hell?" asks a female voice.
Spy Girl turns. Ophelia is rushing into the room, looking around and trying to figure out what's going on.
"Ophelia, I'm here to help. Stay down while I clear the rest of the building."
"Clear the building?" She laughs as she surveys the bodies on the floor. "It looks as if you have already cleared the building. But no matter, I can hire more where they came from."
Spy Girl swings into a tactical position. "You did this? I thought it was Clarice."
"Clarice? You think my sister could have done all this? Oh no. My sister is clueless. She's probably at home, jumping the bones of that idiot boy she thinks she's in love with."
"Where is Viktor?"
"He got a tranquilizer dart to the neck like the others. He'll wake up and assume he had one hell of a night. And then he will become King. With his father's world wide connections, there is nothing I won't have," she says, pulling a gun from her jacket and pressing it against the Prince's temple. "Drop your weapons, or I kill him now. Although, he will die soon enough. You all will."
Spy Girl has no choice. Although she's a good shot, the chance of Ophelia shooting the Prince before a bullet could kill her is too great.
She reluctantly places the guns on the floor in front of her and holds up her hands.
"You ruined your dress," Ophelia comments. "Which is fitting and slightly poetic. I can hear the account in the papers. A torn ball gown covers the dead, would-be Princess on the night the Montrovian monarchy dies."
"How will you end the monarchy, Ophelia?" She knows the longer she keeps her talking the more time she has to figure out how to kill her.
"We get rid of this worthless excuse for a prince, for starters. Sorry about that. You seem to really like him. And you're nice and surprisingly good with a gun. Something that would be valuable in the new world order of Montrovia."
"If you kill the Prince, then you could be Queen."
"Absolutely. Allowing me to do whatever the hell I want. And what I want is to systematically dismantle this farce of a monarchy, starting by selling the Strait of Montrovia to the highest bidder. Once that's done, we close down our borders to these wretched tourists, shut down our port, sink all the yachts, and abolish gambling. We will ruin the country that shunned us all because--"
"All this because Daddy didn't love you?"
The Prince winces as Ophelia digs the barrel of the gun into the side of his head. "Shut up!" she says, becoming agitated. She turns her gun away from the Prince and waves it in the other direction. Exactly what Spy Girl wants.
"You don't know anything," Ophelia rants, taking a few steps toward her. "You don't know what it's like to be treated like a nobody in France when your blood is royal. If it weren't for my father's philandering ways, my mother wouldn't have taken us away to live like paupers."
While Ophelia is ranting, Spy Girl puts her hand to her chest--suddenly remembering what she tucked into her bra earlier.
"You've hardly been living like paupers here. I overheard you telling Allie that your custom dress for the Queen's Ball cost a half million euros."
"Pocket change, now. I will soon be the richest woman on the planet. The Saudis appear to be determined to own the Strait and keep upping the ante."
"You can't do that!" the Prince yells.
"Actually, I just changed my mind, the first thing I will do is tear down the castle. Dismantle it brick by brick just like I will the monarchy." She waves the gun in his direction again, her focus back on the Prince.
That's all it takes.
Spy Girl leaps forward, first knocking Ophelia's gun to the ground and then slapping a pore strip on her forehead.
"What the hell is that?" Ophelia says, looking up, cross-eyed.
"Put your heads down!" Spy Girl yells to the captives as she jumps up to the ceiling, grabs the exposed metal pipe above her and swings her body toward Ophelia. Her feet connect with Ophelia's chest, kicking her across the room as the strip explodes and blows her back into the nearby window.
When the dust settles, Spy Girl picks herself up off the ground and dusts herself off.
"What the hell was that?" the Prince says. "How could you even--the way you shot--where did you learn all that?"
"Finishing school," she replies as Gallagher comes running into the building with his gun drawn.
He surveys the carnage, then looks at her in astonishment. "Did you do all this?"
She gives him a noncommittal shrug as sirens sound in the distance, causing her to rethink the situation. "Actually, I didn't. You did all of this. I was kidnapped along with the Prince and Ari. You saved us."
Gallagher studies her. Her gown is ripped and torn. Her feet are shoeless and bloody, but her hair is still perfectly coiffed and priceless jewels glitter from her neck and wrist. "I don't know what kind of look you were going for here, but it's bloody gorgeous."
She looks down at herself and smiles. "Thank you."
"How'd I do that?" He takes a peek out the broken window, where what's left of Ophelia lies.
"Explosive band-aid to the head. After you took out her guards, she came out of the office with a gun, threatened the Prince, and made you give up the two you had."
"Fingerprints?"
She raises her hands. "I had on these gloves the whole time. Found them in the street."
"Weapons used?"
"A wire, a brick, their guns, the band-aid--actually, technically it was a pore cleansing strip."
"What's that?"
"You put it on your nose to clean out your pores."
"Impressive," Gallagher says.
"I'm really sorry I knocked you out," she says sincerely.
"It's okay," Gallagher says. "But next time we work together."
The Prince keeps looking from her to Gallagher and back again. "For God's sake, will someone untie us?"
Gallagher stares. "That all depends on you. Will you tell the same story? That I rescued the three of you?"
The Prince stares back, incredulously.
"I think Miss Von Allister would like to retain her cover, Prince Vallenta. My agency works closely with the Americans, and we had no idea she was an agent. Exactly who are you working for?" he asks, turning toward her.
"Black X," she whispers.
Ari shakes his head. "Don't lie to him, Huntley. Sir, we work for the CIA--we're undercover together. Our mission was to protect the Prince."
The Prince's eyes widen, and she can see the hurt in them. It guts her.
"I'm sorry," she says to him as the sirens get closer.
Gallagher stares at the Prince. "So, do I have your word?"
The Prince nods, silently.
Gallagher finds a rope and ties her to a chair. He waits until the police arrive to untie the Prince, who is quickly whisked back to the safety of his castle.
Ari and Huntley are briefly questioned and then driven home.
On the way there, the radio pauses for a moment of silence in honor of the passing of King Vallenta.
She knows the Prince probably hates her, but she texts him anyway, telling him she is sorry about his dad.
Then she cries.
MISSION:COMPLETE
The day that follows is full of news reports about the Prince's kidnapping by a rogue terror group, his rescue by an unnamed British agent, the official story of Ophelia's death claiming she was killed during the kidnapping, and the passing of the King.
Ari and I are besieged with interview requests from reporters wanting to know about us being kidnapped along with the Prince.
Needless to say, we haven't responded.
Ophelia's memorial service is held the following day at her church in France. Her sister left Montrovia, returning to France, after shockingly abdicating her right to the t
hrone. Viktor did not attend Ophelia's funeral and hasn't been seen since. It's rumored that he was picked up by the Montrovian government, questioned, and then was allowed to privately mourn the death of his fiancee at his father's summer home on Lake Como. Intelligence believes he had no clue what Ophelia was planning.
The country and the world mourn together on the third day as Montrovia lays their beloved King to rest. Ari and I are allowed to attend the funeral.
Daniel was taken to the American Embassy from the palace the night of the kidnapping, not to be heard from since.
On the fourth day, I alone receive an invitation to attend the coronation ceremony of the new King of Montrovia. The coronation is held in a massive old church on the castle grounds. While the King's funeral the day before was all black, this is a colorful affair with much pomp and circumstance. Richly hued robes worn by the bishops of the church, fully decorated military dress uniforms, banners displaying the country's flag and crest, and a choir in bright red robes. The rest of the guests are in formal attire--suits on the men, long demure gowns and hats on the women.
Although this ceremony is being televised around the world, the actual number in the church is limited. I'm shocked I was invited.
My heart swells with pride to see Lorenzo seated on the ornate gold throne. He stands and is draped in the Imperial Robe then sits back on the throne where he's handed the Royal Scepter and the Rod of Equity and Mercy. The crown is removed from a gilded platter and placed on his head.
"God save the King!" is shouted three times and then the bishop finishes the ceremony and pronounces Lorenzo as King of Montrovia.
Trumpets play, bells chime, gun salutes sound, and King Lorenzo Giovanni Baptiste Vallenta V of Montrovia walks proudly down the aisle with his mother and out to greet thousands of his countrymen outside the church.
After the processional, I find Juan standing next to me. "The King requests a word with you."
I'm escorted to the War Room and told to make myself comfortable. I give Juan back the royal jewels I wore to the Queen's Ball, then flip on the TV and watch the live footage of him greeting his fellow Montrovians. I take the fact that I'm here and not his residence as a bad sign.
An hour later, he strolls into the room. The crown, scepter, and cape are gone, but he's still in full royal military garb. It reminds me of dancing in his arms at the Queen's Ball.
"Your Highness," I say in greeting.
