Читать книгу Prince Incognito - Rachelle McCalla - Страница 11

ONE

His Royal Highness Prince Alexander of Lydia stood at attention in the palace courtyard, his back extra straight, his arms practically immobilized by the stiff sleeves of his dress uniform. The classic-cut olive-green suit was reserved for formal occasions, and Alec hadn’t realized until he’d squeezed into it for this evening’s state dinner just how long it had been since he’d last worn it.

About fifteen pounds of muscle ago, judging by how tight the shirt felt around his neck. He couldn’t take a deep breath, and he felt a tingling sensation in his fingers every time he tried to bend his arms at the elbow. The warm weather of the June evening didn’t help, though Alec was at least accustomed to heat.

His last deployment, a humanitarian mission in the deserts of North Africa, had required daily physical labor. Alec hadn’t appreciated how much the work had transformed him until he’d returned home to Sardis, Lydia’s capital city, the day before and found that none of his old clothes fit the same.

The limousines began to line up for the motorcade, and Alec watched his parents descend the palace steps with the rustle of sashes and silk. His father, His Majesty King Philip, waved Alec away from the head car.

“You’ll be sixth in line.” He pointed him farther down the queue.

“Why sixth? Who’s in between us?” Though Alec didn’t want to sound presumptuous, he was, after all, heir apparent to the throne of Lydia. While that didn’t mean he had to ride in the front car, he certainly found it odd that he’d be placed so far down the line.

“State officials. Regional dignitaries. Guards.”

“Guards?”

“Yes. Guards on motorcycles, guards in every car.” King Philip motioned to a group of gun-bearing men. “You’ll have one riding with you.”

“A bodyguard?” Alec looked down at the young man who’d stepped forward. The kid wasn’t small, but Alec was considerably larger, and he guessed, more experienced. “Father, I’m a soldier. I can take care of myself.”

The king was halfway to his car, but as he looked back, he seemed to notice for the first time that his son had grown, and he deflated a little. “Fine. You can ride alone. But stay close. Stay safe.” The king appeared as though he wanted to say more, but the cars and guards were waiting, and he ducked inside the limo after the queen.

Alec watched the door close after his parents, and their car rolled forward.

What was that all about? Stay close? Stay safe? Alec blinked at the abundance of men who filled the waiting vehicles and perched on their motorcycles, ready to go. Behind him, he spotted his sister Isabelle giving her bodyguard the cold shoulder as he held open the door to her waiting limousine. She’d told Alec that her request to have the guard removed had been turned down by their father.

Something strange was going on. When he’d first arrived home, Alec had assumed everything felt foreign simply because he wasn’t used to it anymore. He’d acclimated to desert life, and no longer felt like he fit in with Lydia’s aristocratic circles. In fact, until the announcement at tonight’s dinner, when his father had promised he’d learn what his next assignment was, Alec didn’t figure he’d feel as though he fit in anywhere.

But all the extra security, as well as his father’s odd behavior, left Alec questioning what was going on. Sure, he was used to men with guns—but there weren’t usually so many of them swarming the palace, were there? And whereas these events of state tended to be stressful for his father, today the king seemed downright jumpy.

Alec slid into his car, but he couldn’t relax, in spite of the sumptuous leather seat of the limousine he was riding in. Too much about the situation bothered him.

Besides that, in a seated position, he could hardly take a breath.

His car crept forward, and Alec strained to see through the darkly tinted windows to the vehicles ahead of him. He hadn’t seen any officials or dignitaries in the courtyard—no one had entered the vehicles ahead of him except for a few guards.

What was going on?

The motorcade progressed down the narrow streets of Sardis. Alec watched warily out the window, trying to sort out what had made his father, usually a self-assured ruler, act so skittish.

Crowds lined the sidewalks and people waved from balconies and open windows as the motorcade passed down the first few blocks. But the farther they went, the thinner the crowds became, and Alec craned his neck up ahead in time to spot uniformed men waving people inside.

More guards? Alec strained to see, but between the distance and the dark glass, he couldn’t recognize their uniforms. Still, they looked like…

Lydian soldiers?

Alec lowered the window to get a better look. Without the sound of cheering crowds, he could hear the Lydian national anthem being projected from a low-fidelity speaker somewhere.

The window glass was a third of the way down when suddenly, it started moving up again.

Alec looked at the driver. Had he closed the window?

Rather than hit the intercom button to ask, Alec opened the door and stuck his head outside. As he squinted at the soldiers, the car slowed to a stop. Now what?

His father never allowed the royal motorcade to come to a complete stop. Had so much changed since Alec had been gone? Before he could sort it out, the uniformed men ahead of him shouted, leaping inside the nearest buildings.

Alec didn’t have long to wonder at their actions. A dissonant, mechanical scream filled the air. Alec ducked behind the open door and pinched his eyes shut as a brilliant flash erupted in front of the motorcade’s head car, its searing light penetrating his closed eyelids with its red glare. The moment it passed, Alec snapped his eyes open, following the grenade’s trajectory upward to its source.

Two blocks ahead, he spotted a soldier on a high balcony, his assault rifle equipped with an under-barrel grenade launcher.

In the time it took the man to reload, Alec sized up the situation. Based on the sound and the blinding flash, he was nearly certain the soldier had shot a stun grenade—a sound- and light-emitting device designed to incapacitate targets by causing immediate but temporary deafness and flash-blindness. The weapon was technically classified as nonlethal, but only when used in an environment free of combustibles.

Given the number of vehicles in the motorcade, and the likelihood they were all carrying full tanks of fuel, the diversion grenade could be plenty lethal. Immediately Alec feared for the safety of his sisters traveling in the limousines behind his.

Before the soldier got his weapon raised again, Alec made his decision. The royal limousines were lightweight-armor plated. For budget reasons, King Philip had never deemed it necessary to commission defensive countermeasures or military-grade armor. The car would offer little protection against a stun grenade—and Alec had no guarantee that’s all the soldier would be shooting. If a fragmentation grenade struck the motorcade, it could kill everyone in a ten-meter radius.

Rather than wait to find out what the soldier had used to reload, Alec sprinted for the cars behind him, where his sisters were. He had to reach them, to help them find cover before the blasts became deadly. Stun grenades were a tactical weapon, often used for clearing the way for the big guns. He might not have much time!

A squeal rent the air above his head an instant before another stun grenade hit the rear of the motorcade, spewing thick smoke for dozens of meters in every direction. Was this what his father had been nervous about? Had the king somehow gotten wind that an attack was being planned? Had the royal family been specifically targeted?

Alec could see no sign of his sisters—he could hardly see the cars through the heavy smoke. He prayed for their safety as he staggered forward, uncertain whether he was even still heading in the right direction, disoriented by the eruptions. Isabelle had been wary of the bodyguard who’d been appointed to protect her, and Stasi… Come to think of it, he hadn’t even seen Stasi.

Another deafening squeal filled the air, the sound tearing at his ears as it approached, closer this time. Alec flung himself backward instinctively, diving away from the eruption, praying for some form of cover.

Heat swelled behind him as he felt the stone of a limestone wall. A building! He turned away from it, pushing himself back into the heat and smoke and chaos. His sisters were back there. He had to reach them. He had to find them!

His ears throbbed, too traumatized to hear, but he felt the vibrations of the next incoming eruption, closer this time, and more powerful. He spun around, bracing himself to run, to dive toward his sisters’ cars, but there was no time. The concussion caught him before his feet hit the ground, propelling him sideways, the shock wave pulsing through him like an electrical fire.

Then all was black, and silent.

The ringing in his ears began slowly, and Alec peeled his face away from the weathered limestone, blinking as his eyes focused on a red smear across the cream-colored stones.

Why was there blood on the stones?

He looked down. Blood splashed against his suit. Where was he? What was happening?

Stumbling forward, he tried to remember.

He’d been attacked, surrounded.

He had to escape.

He had to survive.

* * *

Lillian Bardici turned and ran down the alley for her rented rickshaw as the sound of another blast erupted, nearer this time. Heat from the blast sizzled down the alleyway, swelling past her as she ran. Okay, so maybe watching the royal motorcade pass by hadn’t been such a good idea. Maybe she should have listened to her parents, who wanted to set sail earlier in the afternoon. They could have been in the middle of the Mediterranean by now, far from the explosions on the street behind her.

Glancing back over her shoulder, Lily saw a man in an olive soldier’s uniform—different from those of the officers who’d waved her back from the street. He’d barely made it to the opening of the alleyway when another blast struck.

Lily ducked back into the thick stone archway of a limestone doorway. Waves of heat plunged past her, and she caught her breath, praying.

Dear God, help me! Help that soldier!

Her heart pinched at the thought of the handsome man who’d had no chance to escape the blast. As soon as the first swell passed by, Lillian peeked out.

The soldier leaned against the wall, a red streak of blood painting the creamy limestone behind him, marking the place where his face had grated against the wall. He raised his head just as she looked at him, and she saw disorientation in his eyes. He staggered forward a few steps.

Lillian couldn’t leave him. If another blast hit, he’d be done for. She ran forward. “Hurry. You’ve got to get out of here!” The scream of another incoming explosive buried her words, but thankfully, the blast struck farther away. Though it shook the ground beneath them, she felt none of its heat.

The man seemed to find his feet and trotted forward, his expression determined in spite of the blood that marred the left half of his face.

“Can I help you?” Lily asked as he reached her. She stumbled along beside him. “You need to get to a hospital.”

“No.” He stopped, his earnest blue eyes boring into hers. “No hospital. I’ve got to get out of the country. It’s not safe here.” He took another step forward. “Hurry. Don’t let them find me.”

“Don’t let who find you?”

Another distant blast erupted, and the soldier plodded past her, toward her rickshaw that sat at the end of the alley. Lily caught up to him just as he paused next to it.

Again, his eyes met hers. “Help.”

Unsure what he meant, Lily reached for his arm, steadying him as he sagged into the back passenger seat of her tricycle-like rented rickshaw.

She looked at him for only a second, his eyes closed, his body slumped down. From her medical training, Lillian knew the concussive shock waves from explosions could cause tremendous internal injuries, often with no external harm. The damage was likely catching up to him already.

Goaded on by the eruptions behind them, Lily hopped onto the bike and pointed the handlebars downhill. Between the added weight of the soldier behind her and the downward slope of the streets as the city gave way to the sea, she had no trouble getting her bike moving.

The marina was a mere three blocks away, all downhill. Her parents had already said they wanted to cast off that afternoon, but Lillian had begged them to stay long enough for her to watch the motorcade pass by. Her father hadn’t been happy about it, insisting that they should leave before the state dinner. But when she’d pointed out all the other promises he’d broken in the past few weeks, he had reluctantly agreed. She’d promised to return immediately thereafter, and return the rickshaw at the stand at the head of the pier. They could leave immediately.

Since she’d personally run all their errands while they’d been in port in Sardis, renting the bike so she could haul fresh stores of food and water, it had seemed only fair that she be allowed to stay a little longer. And she’d promised they could be gone before the state dinner began.

Now Lillian questioned the wisdom of her decision as the rickshaw picked up speed, careening toward the pier. She laid on the brakes as she blew past the rickshaw rental stand, and just managed to skid to a stop next to her parents’ yacht.

“Lillian!” Her mother, Sandra, gasped when she saw the soldier’s bloody form slumped on the back of her bike.

Her father’s jaw dropped.

But by the time he found his voice to insist that Lily take the soldier right back to where she’d found him, Lillian had already dismounted from the bike. The rail of their yacht bobbed a little higher than the dock, but the bike sat higher still. Lily tipped the rickshaw, and the unconscious soldier keeled toward the cushioned bench that encircled the deck of the yacht.

“Lily, no!” Michael Bardici demanded, rushing forward to stop her, an instant too late.

With a hefty heave, the soldier tumbled gracelessly onto the cushion. Lily hopped onboard after him, rearranging his arms and legs to settle him flat on his back.

“Lily.” Her mother approached, wringing her hands. “Did you see what was going on up there? It’s like a war zone.”

“Mom, please. Can you push the rickshaw back up the pier? We have to get out of town.”

Her mother paused, surprise on her face, then obediently climbed onto the dock and took the bike back up to the rental stand.

Lifting the man’s eyelids to check his pupils for signs of concussion, Lillian listened with one ear to her father’s protests.

“What are you thinking bringing that man onboard? There’s been some sort of violent attack up there, and now you’re getting us mixed up in it. What will your uncle David say?”

Lily focused on her examination and didn’t respond. The man’s pupils were even, with no telltale red streaks that would have indicated his capillaries had burst. A good sign. Hopefully the alleyway had blocked much of the force of the blast, preventing a traumatic concussion. It boded well for the likelihood of minimal internal injuries.

Her father inserted his face in her line of sight. “I know you think you have to rescue every injured creature that crosses your path, but this is going too far. He’s a human being. You can’t take him out of his country—”

“He asked me to take him out of the country.”

“Oh, he did, did he?”

“Yes.” She checked the soldier’s pulse. Strong. “He specifically asked me to help him, to get him out of the country, and to hurry.”

“Did he say anything else?”

She looked her father full in the face. “Don’t let them find me.”

“Who’s he hiding from?” Michael Bardici sputtered. “Did he have something to do with those explosions? He could be a criminal!”

Before Lily could respond, her mother returned. “Let’s do hurry and get out of here,” Sandra Bardici requested. “There are soldiers with guns everywhere. Whatever those explosions were about, I don’t like it. What if they try to lock down the marina?”

Lily felt grateful her mother had so quickly sized up the situation. “She’s right, Dad. We should get moving. Do you need me to help you get under sail, or can I bandage his face?”

“You should do nothing of the sort,” her father protested. “Surely there’s somewhere in the city.” He looked at Sardis beyond the bay, black smoke rising above the limestone buildings, and his protest lost a little power.

“We should get out of the marina while we still can.” Sandra sounded almost frantic.

“Of course we should go.” Michael Bardici faced his wife. “But we can’t take this man with us! We don’t know anything about him. What if he’s dangerous?”

“He looks to be out cold right now. She’s brought him this far. It’s chaos up there—I suppose the local hospital will be overwhelmed. She’s a trained medical professional.”

“She just graduated from veterinary school.”

Sandra took a step closer to her husband and lowered her voice. “She wants to help. This is the first time she’s wanted to do anything medical since…”

Lily heard her mother’s sentence hang in the air, and knew exactly what words she hadn’t spoken. Since she’d failed to save the horses. The painful memory taunted her, but she pushed it away. Thinking about the tragedy in her past wasn’t going to help her now.

Michael Bardici huffed. “Fine. We’ll set sail. But I’ll warn you both—I intend to get rid of this fellow at the first opportunity.” He stomped over and untied the boat.

“Thank you, Dad.” Lily sprinted into the top-level pilothouse and pulled out the first-aid kit, which she had personally assembled in a small suitcase years before, and kept stocked for emergencies.

The unconscious soldier didn’t flinch as she cleaned the wound on his face. To her relief, the abrasions didn’t appear to be deep, though they stretched from his nose to his ear, covering much of his forehead, down to his chin. Still, if she bandaged his face quickly and kept the injuries clean, he’d likely heal with minimal scarring.

Once she had the blood cleaned off and a fresh white bandage wrapped around his head to hold the gauze and batting in place, she pulled out her otoscope and checked his ears, sighing with relief when she saw no sign of blood.

Excellent. Ears were particularly susceptible to primary-blast injuries. The fact that they’d sustained no damage reduced the likelihood that he’d been hit with enough concussive force to injure his lungs or his brain. She’d heard horror stories of those with blast-force injuries to the brain who’d lost their memories, and developed short tempers as well as ongoing headaches. Only time would tell the extent of the soldier’s injuries, but for the time being, Lillian’s hopes were buoyed by her discovery.

With her attention focused on the soldier, she hardly noticed the progress of their 52-foot vessel as they left the marina and reached the open sea.

“Did you want something to eat, Lily?” Her mother climbed up from the below-deck cabins and handed her a bottle of water.

Surprised, Lily realized the sun had already sunk low on the horizon. “No, thank you. Water’s fine.”

Her mother sat on the bench near the man’s feet. “Your father’s very upset.”

Lily gestured to the soldier as she placed her otoscope back in its case. “He asked me to help.”

“I know. And I’m glad you want to help again. But he’s not an injured animal. He’s a person.”

“Doesn’t that make him even more worthy of my help?”

Her mother sighed.

Lily changed the subject. “Can you help me try to get him out of his suit jacket? There’s blood on his shirt. I just want to make sure it came from his face. I don’t want to miss an injury.”

Her mother agreed, propping up the soldier’s torso while Lily tugged the suit jacket off his arms. She wasn’t sure if it was the humidity or a sizing issue, but the jacket didn’t want to come off. The soldier had been wearing a dark olive dress uniform—maybe he’d been en route to the state dinner. His choice of apparel certainly seemed too formal for an ambush attack. A cluster of medals decorated the garment at the chest, topped by a badge bearing one name. “Lydia.”

When Lillian finally pulled the man’s arms free, Sandra ran her fingers over the name as she folded the jacket neatly. “What do you suppose this means?” She held out the badge for Lily to see.

Lily was already working on the soldier’s shirt buttons, praying silently that he’d be okay. If a shrapnel wound snuck past her, the soldier could bleed out overnight. “Lydia is the name of the country.”

“But the other soldiers we saw in Lydia didn’t have the name of the country on their badge. They had their last names.”

Lily tried to think. If she was honest with herself, she felt uncomfortable checking the soldier’s chest for injuries because he was attractive—wounded or not. “Maybe Lydia is his last name, then.”

“Why would his last name be the same as the name of his country?”

“I don’t know.” Lily focused her attention on inspecting the man in the dying evening light. One thing was for certain—he’d been in fine physical shape before the attack. Lily felt herself blush as she checked his torso for any sign that shrapnel might have penetrated his uniform. Cleaning off the residual blood on his chest, she determined it had soaked through from the outside, no doubt originating from the injuries to his face.

“Did he tell you his name?”

“There wasn’t time to ask.” Lillian reached for the man’s side pants pocket, where a squarish bulge indicated something was stowed. “Maybe he has some ID on him.” She pulled out the contents of his pocket—a wad of unfamiliar bills, secured with a pewter money clip.

“Those aren’t euros,” her mom observed.

“I don’t know what they are.” Lillian flipped through the banknotes, looking for anything that would indicate which country they originated from.

“Why would a Lydian soldier be carrying foreign currency?” Sandra Bardici mused aloud.

Lillian wondered the same thing. Lydia, a small Christian kingdom squeezed along the shoreline between Albania and Greece, traded in euros, the official currency of most of Europe. “It does seem a little odd.” She shook off a shiver.

“Do you suppose he’s working for a foreign nation? He might have been part of the group that staged that attack.”

“I don’t know. We’ll have to wait for him to wake up so we can ask him.” Lily stuffed the money back into the soldier’s pocket. Satisfied that she’d done all she could for him, she watched his chest rise and fall. He seemed to be breathing easier without the restrictive suit. From what she’d observed, she guessed he wasn’t terribly old, maybe mid- to late-twenties, hardly any older than she was. And in spite of the bandage covering half his face, he was handsome, with sandy brown hair in a military cut, and a strong, square jaw.

Her mother had given up her inquiries. “Don’t put his bloody shirt back on him. I’ll get him one of your father’s old T-shirts.” She retreated back into the cabin, and Lily could hear her footsteps carry her below deck.

As she lowered the man from his propped-up position, Lily’s hands grazed something rough on his back. Afraid she might have missed an injury in the fading light, she traced the ridge with her fingers, then propped him up higher to get a better look.

A network of healing scabs crisscrossed his back, as though he’d been beaten or whipped. As Lily surveyed the extent of the damage, her sympathy for the soldier increased even as she wondered what had caused the marks. It reminded her of the horrors of slavery, and yet, even this far from America, she couldn’t imagine the man having been enslaved, not in the twenty-first century.

She thought of the uniform jacket her mother had carried downstairs. The man was a soldier. “Were you a prisoner of war?” She voiced the question in a whisper, not expecting a response.

Settling the man’s torso back gently onto the cushion, Lily let his head rest on her lap for just a second as she held the edge of the boat, preparing to scoot out from under him.

The man moaned and shifted his head.

Lily froze. She’d been thinking that he ought to drink something, but she didn’t want to shove it down his throat and risk drowning him. She figured if he was reviving, however slightly, now was her chance. She grabbed the water bottle her mother had brought her.

* * *

A dark blanket of pain settled heavily across his face. He wanted to push it away, but it felt so heavy, and his mouth was dry. So dry.

“Water?”

The word came from somewhere beyond him, a gentle, feminine voice.

“Can you sit up a little and drink?”

Who was this creature who knew exactly what he longed for? She’d soothed the pain on his face. She had water. He tried to obey her instructions, to lift his head.

He opened his mouth. Couldn’t she just pour it down his throat? He couldn’t see. There was too much darkness, and too much pain. His head throbbed.

“Can you swallow?”

Something touched his lips, and he felt a tiny pool of cool liquid. “More.” He tried to speak, but it came out as a groan.

“Here—slowly.”

He gulped too much, and sputtered. Afraid the woman would remove the water before his thirst was remotely quenched, he felt relieved when the bottle touched his lips again. He focused on each cool swallow that soothed his parched tongue and dry throat.

Then the water was gone, and he moaned, wanting it back.

“You’ve got to have a horrible headache.” Gentle fingers touched his forehead. “Can you swallow a pill? It will help with the pain.”

If the woman with the water could make his headache go away, he would know God had sent her. He tried to answer, to nod—anything—but the blanket was too heavy for him to push past. Gratitude swelled within him as he felt her place something just inside his mouth.

And then more water. Ah, sweet water. He swallowed it greedily until the bottle held no more.

“That’s enough for now. We don’t know if you’ve sustained any internal injuries, and we don’t want to overwhelm them.”

The gentle voice hinted at something. Injuries? That would explain the pain. Who was this gentle woman who eased his pain?

Come to think of it, who was he? Fighting back against the throbbing in his head, he tried to think, but the pain only pounded louder, the blanket of darkness heavier. He tried for a moment to resist it, then gave in to its pressing darkness.