“What’s the man’s name? Who is he working for?”

“No idea,” Grant replied. “And who knows what his real name is. He was traveling under a Spanish passport with the name Hector Senza on it. Real picture, but that’s not his real name, or I’ll eat my hat. We’ve contacted the Spanish consulate. So far, they’re disavowing the man.”

Xander stood. “And you’re just letting me go. I can leave, head home, and all is forgotten?”

“Less paperwork that way. Mr. Denon wants a word first. Then yes, you’re free to go. I’m sure the feds will have some questions for you, but I’m done with you. Good luck out there. Try not to kill anyone else.”

And he turned and walked off.

Xander glanced at Sean Lawhon, who looked disappointed, to say the least.

“Good for you, bad for me,” he said with a shrug. “It would have been a great case. I’m not kidding about the media, though. We should make a plan, decide who you’ll talk to, who you’ll do interviews with.”

“That would be no one. There’s no way. I can’t go out there and drum up publicity, not with what I do. And I certainly don’t want to put a bigger target on myself than is already there.”

“Target?”

“If Grant is right, and this Senza character is an established pro, I killed someone’s pet. I doubt that will go over well. These are the type of people who hold a grudge, and won’t stop until they get their revenge. Chances are, whoever took the contract out on Mr. Denon will try again. And then they’ll come for me, too.”

“You don’t think you’re exaggerating a bit?”

Xander shook his head. “No, I don’t. I’ve lived in this world for a very long time. I’ve carried a gun by my side day and night for the past eighteen years. I know how they think, and I know how serious they are. Denon has enemies. And now, so do I.”

Lawhon paled a bit. “You keep my card in case anything else goes down. You may still need some media training. You’re going to be approached by all the networks. I’d be happy—”

“Sean, no offense, but I won’t be giving any interviews. All I want is to get back to D.C. I can handle the media from there.”

Lawhon shook Xander’s hand. “Luck to you, then. If you need a proxy, you give me a call. It was good to meet you, Xander Moon.” He grinned, lifted his bag and grandfather’s pen and left, as well.

Xander took a deep breath, picked up his phone. It had been turned off. God knew what they’d done to it. He didn’t want to be paranoid, but it was possible there was tracking software newly installed, allowing the New Jersey Staties to watch his every move. For the moment, he didn’t care. The call would be expected; if he didn’t make it, they’d know he was onto them. He dialed Sam, and she answered on the first ring.

“Xander. Thank God. Are you okay? You’re all over television.”

Great. So it had already begun.

“Hi, babe. I’m all right. It’s all a big misunderstanding. They’ve just released me. I’m going to get back down to D.C. before anyone changes their mind.”

“What happened?”

“Not on the phone, okay? It hasn’t been with me the whole time.”

“Ah.”

He heard her intake of breath, sent up a prayer of thanks that he’d found himself an extremely intelligent woman who understood his world so completely.

“Give me two hours,” he said. “Meet me at the house?”

“I’ll do my best. Baldwin called me in on a case. I can’t talk about it, either,” she said wryly.

“All right. Keep in touch, should anything change. I love you. See you soon.”

He hung up, feeling much calmer. Her voice did that to him. Level-headed, strong, smart. God, he wished she’d agree to marry him already. He made up his mind to pursue this line of thought the moment he was home and she was home and this whole mess was over. Took his cell phone apart, removed the battery and sim card. He tossed the battery in the trash can, pocketed the remaining pieces and stepped out into the corridor.

Grant was standing anxiously by the door, a grimace on his lean face. Xander realized this was the man’s standard look, like the world was coming to an end.

“Mr. Denon’s waiting.”

I bet he is, Xander thought. “Thank you. Is he...?”

“There’s a plane on the tarmac.”

“Ah. I see. Well.” He strode past Grant without further comment. There was a small Gulfstream outside the glass doors, stairs lowered. Chalk was at the base of them. His face lit up when he saw Xander. Slapped him on the back and said, low, “Get the fuck on the plane already, before they change their minds.”

Xander climbed the stairs two at a time, Chalk on his heels. He pulled up the stairs and the door closed with a thunk.

James Denon was inside the plane, sitting midcabin. His three-person team, looking startled, were scattered through the back of the plane. They eyed Xander with everything from fear to awe. He nodded at them, then took a seat. Chalk sat opposite him, and they were wheels up in another two minutes. Xander began breathing again, not realizing he’d been holding his breath.

What a morning.

Denon pulled a decanter out of the wall, and three glasses. Poured, handed them out. It was a fine single-malt; Xander recognized it as one of Sam’s favorites—Lagavulin.

Xander tipped his glass toward the two men and threw the whiskey against the back of his throat. Set the glass down. “Thanks. Now. Someone want to tell me who the hell Hector Senza is, and where we’re going?”

Denon smiled. “Relax. I’m flying you back to D.C. I’ve arranged for another plane to take us back tomorrow. In light of what happened, Mr. Worthington felt it best I alter my plans. It will give my people in the UK time to make contingency arrangements.”

“It might give the people who are trying to kill you time to set up another attack, too,” Chalk said. “But it’s worth the risk, I think.”

“Perhaps.” He toyed idly with a napkin. Denon was distinctly less cheerful now than he was this morning. It was all sinking in. Almost dying did that to a man. “But now that we know someone wants me dead, I can approach my security a little differently.”

He waved his hand at the small contingent with him. Xander ran their names through his head. Louis Bebbington, chief financial officer of Denon Industries; George Everson, the IT guru; and Maureen Heedles, Denon’s head of research. Bebbington was a numbers geek through and through, down to the thin tie and too-tight pants, a particularly British style choice. He and Heedles were middle-aged; Everson was younger, African-American, a dapper lad, as Denon had called him when they first met. Heedles was the more interesting of the three to look at—she had smartly styled ash-brown hair, which framed her face well, and one brown eye and one blue, a remarkably distinct heterochromia. All three were quiet and subdued, talking softly among themselves while their boss sat with his new bodyguards. The idea that he might have been killed, and that someone had orchestrated it, had clearly frightened them all.

Xander wondered what process Denon used to decide who would be by his side when he traveled, and made a note to look into the backgrounds of the three people sitting behind him. They were all trusted members of the company. Denon prized privacy above all things, strictly controlling his interviews and appearances, and Xander knew you had to be the best at what you did to score a spot on his team. Denon expected, and received, the top efforts from everyone around him, at all times. And he had to be on his guard against anyone who might slack off, or betray him, or leak information or mess up in the slightest.

It was an exhausting way to live, a life Xander couldn’t imagine wanting.

He didn’t see any reason to beat around the bush. “We did a full threat assessment before you came and saw nothing that seemed out of place. You certainly have upset some people in your time, but I didn’t see anything active. Do you have any idea who might have a contract out on you, Mr. Denon? And who would know your movements, and that we were involved in your protection?”