Chapter 2 #3
"I already did." A statement of fact. The action is complete. There is no reversing it now.
"He was trying to help," she protests, though her conviction seems halfhearted at best. She knows as well as I do that intent is irrelevant when measured against capability.
"He was trying to take the vehicle." I keep my tone even, explaining what should be self-evident. "The vehicle contains my equipment."
"Your equipment." She repeats the words slowly, carefully, like she's testing their weight, dreading their implications. There's a pause—a dangerous one, filled with growing suspicion. I can see the exact moment awareness crystallizes in her expression.
"Affirmative."
Her gaze drops to the back seat, scanning the shadows there with increasing alarm. When she speaks again, her voice has become very small, very careful. "Please tell me you didn't bring the axe."
"I did not bring the axe." This is technically accurate. Precision in language is important.
Relief floods her face like sunrise breaking over a battlefield—premature, unearned, about to be violently interrupted by reality.
"It is in the trunk."
"KRUK."
"You did not specify which weapons were prohibited."
"I specified ALL weapons."
"Incorrect. You said no axe. I complied. The axe is not on my person."
She makes a sound like a tea kettle about to explode. "This is—you can't—we're at a wedding."
"Which is why I brought additional equipment. Weddings are high-risk environments."
"How are weddings high-risk?"
"Large crowds. Alcohol consumption. Emotional volatility. Open venue with multiple entry points. Inadequate security presence." I tick off each point on my fingers. "And the presence of your ex-partner, who you describe as 'the worst.'"
"I said he was the worst."
"You also said you would rather 'eat glass' than speak to him."
"I was being dramatic."
"You also said he deserves to step on Legos barefoot for the rest of his miserable, pathetic life." I pause, accessing the full memory file. "And that his new girlfriend 'probably thinks Olive Garden is fancy dining.'"
She flushes, color spreading from her neck to her cheeks in a pattern I have learned to recognize as embarrassment. Her fingers twist around her purse strap. "You remember everything I said that night, don't you."
"I was briefed. I remember all the briefings."
"That wasn't a briefing. I was drunk and crying into nachos."
"Tactical intelligence comes from many sources."
She drops her head back against the seat. "I'm going to die. I'm going to die of embarrassment before we even make it inside."
"You will not die. I will not allow it."
"It's a figure of speech."
"I do not understand figures of speech."
"I've noticed."
I unbuckle my seatbelt, scan the parking lot one final time. Clear. "We should proceed. Remaining in the vehicle reduces our tactical advantage."
"Our tactical advantage."
"Correct."
She unbuckles, gathers her purse, checks her reflection in the visor mirror. She has done this three times since we left her apartment. Each time, she makes a small, dissatisfied sound.
"You look acceptable," I tell her.
"Acceptable. Be still my beating heart."
"Your heart rate is elevated. Is this a medical concern?"
"No, Kruk. It's a sarcastic concern." She pinches the bridge of her nose, exhaling slowly through her teeth. "A joke. I was making a joke."
"I do not—" I pause, reviewing the interaction. Analyzing her tone. Cross-referencing with previous similar exchanges.
"Understand sarcasm," she finishes for me, her voice somewhere between resigned and affectionate. "Yeah. I'm definitely getting that now." She reaches for the door handle, then stops, glancing back at me. "This is going to be a very long evening, isn't it?"
"The event is scheduled for four hours. That is the projected duration."
"That's not what I—never mind." She shakes her head, curls bouncing with the movement. "Never mind."
I exit the vehicle. Move around to her side. Open her door before she can do it herself.
She blinks up at me. "Oh. That's... thank you."
"You are my asset. I will provide for your needs."
"Partner," she corrects quietly. "For the purposes of the mission."
"Correct."
She takes my offered hand, and I pull her up and out. She stumbles slightly on the gravel, and I steady her with a hand on her waist. She is warm. Soft. Smaller than me by nearly a foot.
The protective instinct surges.
I lock it down.
This is a contract. A mission. Nothing more.
"Okay," she says, smoothing her dress. "Okay. We can do this. Just follow my lead, don't threaten anyone, and for the love of god, please try to smile at least once."
"I do not smile."
"Of course you don't."
"Smiling implies weakness."
"Or friendliness."
"Also weakness."
She mutters something under her breath that sounds like "I'm going to need so much therapy after this," and then takes my arm.
I allow it.
We walk toward the venue. The gardens are filled with pastel colored humans, holding drinks, laughing. They look soft. Unaware. Easy targets.
I catalog exits. Note cover positions. Identify potential threats.
A woman in a lavender dress approaches, arms outstretched, smile wide and sharp.
Colletta's entire body becomes rigid.
"Target acquired," I murmured.
"That's my sister," she hisses back. "Do NOT call her a target."
Too late. I have already assessed: five-foot-six, one hundred and thirty pounds, high heels that reduce mobility, expensive jewelry that indicates status. Hair done in elaborate curls. Makeup precise.
The bride.
Monica.
"LETTIE!" She descends on us like a pastel missile, pulling Colletta into a hug that looks more like a tactical restraint.
"Oh my god, you made it! I was so worried you'd bail again like you did on the engagement party and the dress fitting and—" She pulls back, keeping her hands on Colletta's shoulders, and her gaze shifts to me.
Her eyes go wide.
Very wide.
"Oh my god," she says again, but this time her voice climbs an octave. "Oh my GOD."
"Monica, this is—"
"Is this the neurosurgeon you told me about?!"
Silence.
Colletta's face goes through several expressions in rapid succession: confusion, horror, panic, and something that might be the dawning realization that she is about to be caught in a lie.
I shift my gaze downward, meeting Colletta's eyes. The height difference between us is significant, she barely reaches my chest even in those heels she's wobbling in.
She stares up at me, and I can read the message in her wide, panicked expression as clearly as tactical hand signals, HELP. DO SOMETHING. FIX THIS DISASTER.
Her pupils are dilated. Her breathing has become shallow. This is a distress response.
I made my decision.
"Yes," I say, my voice steady and confident.
Colletta's mouth falls open, her jaw going slack in what appears to be complete shock. A small squeaking sound escapes her throat—barely audible, but I catch it. Her fingers dig into my arm with surprising force for someone her size.
Monica's hands fly to her mouth. "I KNEW IT! I knew you were seeing someone! Dennis owes me fifty bucks!" She turns, yells across the garden, "DENNIS! I WAS RIGHT!"
"Kruk," Colletta whispers. "What are you doing?"
"Maintaining cover," I whisper back.
"You're not a neurosurgeon."
"I am now."
"You can't just—"
Monica spins back, grabbing my hand, shaking it with excessive force. "It is so wonderful to finally meet you! Lettie's been so secretive about you, we were starting to think you were made up! What's your name? Where do you practice? How did you two meet? Oh my god, tell me everything!"
I look at Colletta.
She looks at me.
Her expression clearly communicates: Fix this.
"Kruk," I say, applying standard identification protocol. My name. Clear. Unambiguous. No room for misinterpretation.
Monica's smile freezes on her face, the expression locked in place like a tactical position that's suddenly become untenable.
Her eyes do a quick scan—down to my tattoos, up to my face, back to Colletta, then to me again.
Threat assessment. Social confusion. "I'm.
.. I'm sorry?" she says, her voice climbing half an octave. "Your name is... Kruk?"
"My name. Kruk."
"That's... unique."
"It is traditional."
"Right. Of course." Her gaze drops to my hand, still in hers, and I realize she is staring at the tribal tattoos that crawl up from my wrist. "And you're a... neurosurgeon."
"Affirmative."
"Specializing in...?"
I do not know what neurosurgeons specialize in.
"Brains," I say.
Colletta makes a choking sound.
Monica's smile is starting to look strained. "Yes. Brains. Obviously. That's... that's what neurosurgeons do."
"Correct."
"And you met at a...?"
"Gym," Colletta blurts. "We met at a gym. I was using the equipment wrong and he corrected my form."
"How romantic," Monica says faintly.
"Very," I agree.
"And you're... engaged?"
"He claimed me," Colletta says, and I can hear hysteria in her voice. "Six months ago. Very traditional. Very... Orc."
Monica's smile is definitely frozen now.
Behind her, a tall human male approaches. Well-groomed. Expensive suit. Soft hands. Non-threat.
"Babe?" he says. "Is everything—" He sees me. Stops walking. "Oh."
"Dennis!" Monica's voice is too bright. "This is Lettie's fiancé! The neurosurgeon!"
"The...?" Dennis extends a hand. I shake it. He winces. "Wow. Strong grip."
"I do manual labor," I say.
"I thought you were a neurosurgeon?"
"In my spare time."
Colletta is actively dying beside me. I can feel it.
"Well," Dennis says, recovering his smile. "It's great to meet you, man. Lettie's told us so much about you."
"She has spoken of me?"
"Oh yeah. Tons."
I look at Colletta. She is staring at the ground like she wants it to swallow her whole.
"What has she said," I ask.
"Just... you know. That you're brilliant. Dedicated. Very... intense."
"This is accurate."
"Great. That's... great." Dennis looks at Monica. Monica looks at Dennis. They seem to be having a silent conversation that I cannot interpret.
Then Monica's smile sharpens. "Well, we should let you two get settled! The rehearsal dinner starts at six, but feel free to explore the grounds! There's a wine tasting in the main building, or you can walk the vineyards, or—"
"We will conduct reconnaissance," I say.
"I'm sorry?"
"Of the venue. To ensure optimal safety during tomorrow's ceremony."
"Safety?"
"Affirmative. The site has multiple vulnerabilities. I will need to assess each one."
Monica and Dennis exchange another look.
"That's... very thorough," Dennis says carefully.
"I am always thorough."
"Right. Of course." He claps his hands together. "Well! We'll let you two... do that. See you at dinner!"
They retreat.
Fast.
Colletta waits until they are out of earshot, then rounds on me.
"A neurosurgeon." She says that signals impending distress.
I blink at her, uncertain why this is problematic. "Affirmative. You introduced me as such when we arrived."
"No! I mean, yes, but—" She presses both palms against her forehead, fingers digging into that wild tangle of curls.
"Kruk, I made that up! Months ago! When my mom kept calling me every single weekend to ask if I was 'seeing anyone special' and wouldn't drop it no matter how many times I changed the subject!
I just blurted out that I was dating a neurosurgeon to get her off my back about my love life! "
She drops her hands and stares at me with those wide, panicked eyes that make her look like a startled woodland creature.
"I didn't think I'd ever actually have to produce one!"
"Then the cover story is already established. I simply confirmed it."
"You can't just, you don't know anything about neurosurgery!"
"I know brains are involved."
"That's not—" She stops. Takes a breath. "Okay. Okay. This is fine. We'll just... we'll avoid anyone who asks medical questions."
"Agreed."
"And you'll stop saying things like 'reconnaissance' and 'tactical vulnerabilities.'"
"Those are accurate terms."
"They make you sound like you're planning a military strike, not attending a wedding."
"The distinction is minimal," I state, because operationally speaking, both scenarios require threat assessment, strategic positioning, and the ability to adapt to rapidly changing circumstances.
She makes that tea-kettle sound again, a high-pitched, strangled noise that starts somewhere in the back of her throat and builds until it sounds like steam escaping under pressure.
I realize, with some surprise, that I am starting to enjoy it.
The sound indicates peak frustration, which means I have said something perfectly logical that she finds completely unreasonable. This happens frequently.
She is chaotic in every sense of the word. Her organizational systems make no tactical sense. She operates on impulse rather than planning. Inefficient in her movements, her decisions, her explanations that spiral off into tangents about things that have no bearing on the current situation.
Emotionally volatile in ways I am still cataloging.
She oscillates between anxiety and forced cheerfulness.
She laughs at inappropriate moments, like earlier, when I informed her cousin's husband that his approach vector was unacceptable and he needed to maintain a two-foot perimeter.
Her giggling made the warning seem far more threatening than I had intended, which was actually tactically advantageous, but I do not think that was her goal.
But she is also mine.
For three days.
I will ensure no harm comes to her.
Even if the primary threat is her own family.