Prince Mohammad al Khalid bin Saud is making his way across the lobby, flanked by his security lead, Eshe, the pair of them surrounded by his entourage, all of them carrying the kind of nervous energy that, at any second, they might be called on for an important task, like fetching him a soda or getting on their hands and knees to serve as a footstool.
Except he doesn’t really give off that vibe, despite the fact that he is huge. Not heavy. Just…big. Enough of it is muscle that you wouldn’t want to say the wrong thing to him. But his hands are open, palms outward, calm and peaceful. He’s young, and handsome, and his smile is the kind of smile that comes with willful practice. Not like Teller’s, something you rush to learn at the last minute because someone told you to.
And he’s the one I would expect to be the most disagreeable of this bunch, considering how the Oil Wars a decade ago leveled half his country and wiped out a good portion of his people. If he’s holding a grudge it’s not against anyone in this room.
Davis said the two of them and Smith had dinner recently. It seems like they have very different recollections of how that dinner went. The prince reaches us and extends his hand. Teller takes it, begrudgingly, and the prince’s face falls—the dynamic is not what he expected. He turns to me and nods. “You must be the head of security Eshe told me about.” He offers his hand. “Salam alaykum.”
Ruby had briefed me on how to respond but now I don’t remember, and I can’t exactly ask as it hovers over my shoulder, so I respond with “January Cole. Good to meet you,” and the prince does not seem offended.
Of course, with so much net worth standing in one spot, Allyn and Nik are now jogging up to us, which I’m thankful for, because I feel something heavy and fragile is about to topple over.
And then it does.
“The Saudi government should not be given control over American land and technology, and it’s insane that he’s even been invited to participate,” Teller says, like he’s on a stage, projecting to the back of the room.
“I have to confess,” the prince says, “that I’m a little surprised by your reaction. The audience hasn’t assembled yet. You have nothing to gain by posturing.”
“It’s not posturing,” Teller says. “I’d say it’s something else.”
“What’s that?” the prince asks.
“Patriotism.” The way he says it, he means it to be dramatic and stirring. Really he sounds like a clown.
The prince, though, is game. His lip curls and he says, “From what I hear, there are questions about whether you can even afford to place an opening bid.”
Teller’s face scrunches up in fury, but before he can speak Drucker jumps in. “Okay, let’s all just settle…”
“If we could just…” Allyn says.
It’s Teller’s camp versus the prince’s, and while the prince has the numbers, Grayson is strapped, which I need to keep reminding myself. Voices rise and twist into a loud jumble. I step into the middle of the whole thing and shout, “Hey!”
Everyone shuts up and looks at me.
“This is not the time, nor is it the place, okay?”
“She shouldn’t even be here.”
Grayson. He takes a step forward. His turn to be the center of attention. “I checked your file,” he says to me. Then he turns to the crowd, making sure it lands. “The head of security for this hotel is Unstuck.”
That changes the subject right quick.
And it sends a whole gallon of blood rushing to my face, making me a little dizzy from the sudden attention and embarrassment. Because I see it spread through the crowd, immediately. The pity. The fear. The assumption that I am damaged or crazy. Which hell, maybe it’s true. But it still doesn’t feel nice.
“Someone like this…” Teller says, and I’m not sure if it’s because I’m Unstuck or just a woman in a leadership role, “should not be in charge of security. Are you kidding us with this, Allyn?”
Allyn. They’re on a first-name basis. Swell.
“January has a long and impressive service record,” Allyn says, his voice strong, sharp, and borderline furious. “One which, I might point out, includes saving my life on a few occasions. She is in charge because there’s no one I trust more.”
Teller actually blinks. The tension drops from the prince’s shoulders. I’m not sure anyone really trusts me that much, but they trust Allyn enough to leave it alone.
Except Grayson. He’s still not a member of my fan club.
Me, I’m a little annoyed that Allyn had to step in to defend me, but what was I going to say? No, it’s cool, I’m not crazy, but will you all excuse me so I can investigate the dead body that only I can see?
“Now everyone split up, because I don’t like the look of a crowd like this,” Allyn says.
The scrum unlocks and drifts apart. Teller with a look of satisfaction—he made his point. Grayson is disappointed that he didn’t get me off the case. I almost wish he did, because then there’d be less of a chance he’ll end up shooting me?
Who knows.
Time travel!
And the prince looks genuinely sad, in that way when you thought you’d figured something out about someone, and ended up being wrong.
Allyn leans into my ear and says, “Reg’s office. Now.”
The way he says it has the distinct feel of being called to the principal’s office. We break off and head inside…
…I’m supposed to be in a briefing, but instead I’m sitting in a half-empty office in an all-empty building. There’s a computer in the corner, still in the box, and the filing cabinets have blue tape over them, to prevent the drawers from rolling out during shipping. Allyn waves his hand at an empty chair in front of the desk. “Take a seat, January.”
My stomach twists. I’m not sure what he wants to talk about, though I have an idea. I also want to portray myself as relaxed, so I put my feet on the desk, and he grimaces at that. Though the grimace turns into a smile because it’s not like this behavior should be surprising.
He settles in the roller chair behind the desk, adjusts it to his liking. Then he runs his hands through his short, dark hair, smoothing it out. Taking his time. Which I do not like. Allyn is usually direct. If he’s hesitating, that means he doesn’t like what he has to say. And neither will I.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
I scratch behind my ear, give him a shrug. “Fine.”
“Your test results came in.”
“Yeah, well, what do doctors know, am I right?”
“January, this is serious.”
“Just get it out, okay? You know I hate dancing. I hate even more to watch you do it.”
He smiles. “I’m a decent dancer.”
“Mikayla’s retirement party? I almost called an ambulance. I thought you were having a seizure.”
“You’re being reassigned.”
I knew it was coming. I tried to convince myself it wasn’t, but also I knew.
“Where?” I ask.
“Here.”
“This heap?”