Chapter 4
Wedding day has arrived. By ten-thirty in the morning, Travers has asked me if I’m nervous six times.
By eleven, he’s started taking bets on whether I’ll crack before the ceremony.
By eleven-fifteen, I consider having him removed from.
Not from the wedding.
From California.
“Thirty says Miss London Bridge ghosts him again,” Drew announces from the terrace behind me.
I ignore him.
My attention stays on the security display projected across the inside of my lenses.
South perimeter clear.
Ocean patrol holding.
Private road locked.
Airspace clean.
No unauthorized drones.
No cellular transmissions inside the inner perimeter.
No press boats within the offshore restriction zone.
Guest intake is moving exactly as designed.
It should be enough to make me relax.
It isn’t.
I roll my neck until something cracks.
Drew hears it.
“Forty now.”
I turn.
He’s leaning against one of the stone columns in a black tuxedo, sunglasses on despite the shade, drinking something that absolutely contains alcohol despite the fact that the ceremony is hours away.
Isa is going to kill him.
I may help.
“What exactly are you betting on?” I ask.
He smiles.
“Whether you spontaneously combust before your internet girlfriend arrives.”
“She is not my girlfriend.”
“Right. She’s your encrypted emotional-support hacker.”
Vale walks out through the French doors behind him, fastening one cuff.
“Technically, we don’t know that she’s arriving.”
Drew points at him.
“Thank you. Thirty on no-show.”
“Your odds are terrible,” Tristan says.
“Not asking for input.”
“You should.”
Leo joins them with a coffee and the smug expression of a man who has been married long enough to enjoy somebody else’s problems.
“Jalen has fifty on her showing.”
“Jalen also bet on himself hooking up with two women in the Mediterranean and somehow won,” I say.
“That was skill,” Jalen calls from somewhere inside.
I look back toward the perimeter.
Nothing.
My watch says 11:22.
I checked it twelve seconds ago.
Drew notices.
“There. Again.”
“What?”
“The watch.”
“I’m running security.”
“You’re waiting for her.”
“I can do two things at once.”
“Apparently not calmly.”
Kane steps onto the terrace.
The groom looks more relaxed than anyone has a right to look on his wedding day.
White shirt open at the collar. Tuxedo trousers. No jacket yet. Hannah’s father is somewhere upstairs. Half the NBA appears to have descended on the guest wing. There are florists in every hallway and catering teams moving like military units through the lower level.
Kane has a coffee.
I have a security operation that would make a diplomatic summit look careless.
And somehow I’m the one being mocked.
Haverhill looks at me.
Then at my watch.
Then at Drew.
“What number are we at?”
“Thirty.”
Kane thinks.
“I’ll take fifty that she comes.”
I stare at him.
“You’re betting on this too?”
“It’s my wedding.”
“That is becoming your excuse for everything.”
“Works pretty well.”
Vale lifts one shoulder.
“I still have the original hundred-to-one.”
“That bet was ridiculous.”
“Only because you’re worried I’ll collect.”
Leo smiles over his cup.
“Blackwell is nervous.”
“I’m not nervous.”
Drew makes a loud choking sound.
I ignore him.
The estate stretches behind us in pale stone and glass, perched high above the Pacific with terraced gardens falling toward the cliffs. Kane and Hannah chose it because it felt private without being theatrical.
Then they let me handle security.
Now it could survive a siege.
No guest phones.
No smart watches except cleared medical devices.
No personal cameras.
No drones.
No livestreams.
No forgotten phone tucked into somebody’s evening bag because they think rules apply primarily to other people.
Every guest receives an analog credential at intake.
Every name has been verified.
Every driver screened.
Every vendor checked twice.
The cellular dead zone inside the ceremony perimeter is intentional.
The wedding of one of professional basketball’s newest stars will exist tonight only in the memories of the people invited to witness it.
And in the handful of official images Hannah approved in advance.
Nothing else.
That was the promise.
Vesper presents a unique problem.
Naturally.
She refuses to give me a real name.
So several weeks ago I sent an encrypted credential through NULL that permits one unidentified female guest into the property using a rotating authentication phrase and a physical token waiting at the outer checkpoint.
I hated every second of creating it.
I still hate it.
It violates nearly every security protocol I’ve written.
Which is why the authorization can only be confirmed by me.
Not my staff.
Not Kane.
Not the electronic system.
Me.
If she appears, I will know first.
If.
That word has been ruining my morning.
Drew pushes away from the column.
“Maybe she’s Sergei.”
I look at him.
“We retired Sergei.”
“You retired Sergei.”
“He had hot hair,” Jalen says, finally joining us.
He’s already dressed and looks offensively healthy considering what he did in France.
Drew nods thoughtfully.
“Could still be extensions.”
Kane laughs.
I check my watch.
11:24.
Leo catches it.
“That’s thirteen.”
“I’m checking security.”
“Sure.”
My jaw tics.
Drew points.
“There! See? He’s doing the face.”
“What face?”
“The one where you look like you’re about to delete someone’s citizenship.”
“I can’t delete citizenship.”
Vale looks at me.
“You can make it inconvenient.”
“Different service.”
Jalen laughs.
I walk away before I start demonstrating.
The west terrace overlooks the approach road. From here, I can see several black cars winding toward the estate while security teams guide arrivals through the outer checkpoint.
My lenses quietly identify each vehicle.
Families.
Players.
Agents.
Old friends from Stanford.
Leo’s parents.
Vale’s mother.
People from Hannah’s world.
People from Kane’s.
No Vesper.
I knew this was a mistake.
That thought has been circling since sunrise.
Maybe I never should have invited her.
Maybe keeping Vesper inside NULL was the smarter choice.
Clean.
Contained.
A woman made of words and fragments.
Caramel hair.
A mouth.
A teardrop on paper.
Italian messages appearing in darkness.
No expectations.
No possibility of standing ten feet from someone and realizing years of mental chemistry vanish the moment she opens her mouth.
Or worse.
Realizing they don’t.
That possibility is considerably more dangerous.
I rub the back of my neck.
She could be fifty.
Drew’s Russian theory remains statistically possible.
Not likely.
But possible.
The photographs suggest otherwise.
Still, photographs can be fabricated.
Bodies can belong to someone else.
Identity is cheap online when you know what you’re doing.
Vesper knows exactly what she’s doing.
Maybe that’s the real reason I’m nervous.
I’m not afraid she won’t be attractive.
I’m afraid she will be.
I’m afraid I’ll recognize the mind before I recognize the woman.
That years of carefully contained fascination will suddenly acquire a voice, a scent, expressions I can read, and a physical presence I can’t shut down by closing NULL.
“Xavier.”
Kane has come up beside me.
I didn’t hear him.
Unacceptable.
“You all right?”
“Yes.”
He looks toward the road.
“She might not come.”
“I’m aware.”
“You want her to.”
Not a question.
I adjust the cuff of my shirt.
“Apparently.”
Kane smiles.
“You’re screwed.”
“You’re getting married in three hours.”
“Exactly. I know what screwed looks like.”
“That analogy failed somewhere in the middle.”
He laughs.
Then his expression changes.
Softer.
He looks toward the upper floor of the mansion where Hannah is getting ready.
“You’ll know.”
“Know what?”
“If she’s worth it.”
I stare at him.
“That sounds like something Hannah told you.”
“It probably is.”
“I liked you better before she improved you.”
“No, you didn’t.”
Unfortunately true.
Someone calls Kane from inside.
He starts to turn away, then looks back.
“By the way, Bookworm knows about Vesper.”
I go still.
“What exactly does she know?”
“That you invited a mystery hacker nobody has ever met to our wedding.”
My eyes close.
“Kane.”
“What?”
“You told Hannah?”
“She’s my wife in approximately three hours.”
“Not currently.”
“She’s still Hannah.”
“That does not answer the question.”
“She thought it was romantic.”
Naturally.
“Who else knows?”
His pause tells me everything.
“Kane.”
“Not many.”
“How many is not many?”
He retreats through the doors.
“I need to get dressed.”
“Haverhill.”
Gone.
I look toward the staircase.
There is only one way to find out how bad this has become.
The bridal suite occupies half the upper floor.
I knock.
No answer.
Knock again.
A female voice calls, “Who?”
“Blackwell.”
The door opens six inches.
Jade Holt looks out.
Her eyes narrow.
Then the door opens completely.
“You.”
Good start.
Jade is already dressed in deep wine silk, dark hair swept back, earrings catching the afternoon light.
She gives me a slow inspection.
“You’re nervous.”
“Why is everyone saying that?”
“Because you look nervous.”
“I look exactly the same as always.”
“No. You’re doing the jaw thing.”
Apparently my face has become communal property.
I step inside.
The room smells like flowers, hairspray, champagne, and whatever highly specialized form of chaos occurs when several women prepare for a wedding together.
Stella is near the windows, already dressed, watching a makeup artist finish something on Hannah.
Isa is sitting cross-legged on a sofa despite wearing a gown that probably costs more than several cars.
Hannah is in front of the mirror.
Her dress is on.
She looks happy.
Terrified.
Beautiful.
And deeply suspicious when she sees me.
“Oh, good,” she says. “Security has arrived.”
“I’m checking on the bride.”
“No, you’re not.”
Isa grins.
“He’s checking whether Vesper came.”
I look at Kane’s future wife.
“You told everyone.”
Hannah turns carefully in her chair.
“I was informed that my wedding has apparently become the set of the next Jason Bourne movie because Xavier invited an anonymous hacker from the dark web.”
“The Veil is not the dark web.”
Four women stare at me.
I reconsider.
“Not exactly.”
Isa claps her hands.