The ballroom went still again.
Four large men in tactical black stepped away from the walls and moved toward the stage.
Money versus paper.
I did not reach for a weapon.
Instead, I shifted my feet shoulder-width apart and clasped my hands behind my back in the Army position of parade rest. I locked eyes with the man leading them.
His name was Mike. I knew his file. Former Army Ranger. Three tours in Iraq.
“Mike,” I said.
My voice was almost conversational, but it carried all the same.
“You know the general orders. Who do you serve, Sergeant? The man who signs the check, or the Constitution?”
He stopped dead ten feet from the stage. The three men behind him halted in perfect unison.
Calvin’s eyes darted between us. “What are you doing?” he screamed. “That’s a direct order. Grab her.”
Mike looked at Calvin.
Then he looked at me.
Then he looked at the Bronze Star on my chest, stained with champagne but still catching the stage lights.
And then the room turned.
He snapped his heels together.
Clack.
He came to perfect attention and raised a crisp salute. “Good evening, Captain,” he said. “Ma’am.”
Behind him, the other three guards—all veterans, as it turned out—snapped to attention and saluted too.
Calvin’s jaw dropped.
