They separated, and he asked the priest for the microphone. The perplexed young priest took the slender wire from around his neck and handed it to him.
Sabastian switched on the microphone, put his arm around Lena’s waist, and turned to face the congregation, confident and composed.
“Dear friends,” he said, seeking out faces on both sides of the aisle that he knew he could count on. “Dear family.” He kissed Lena’s hair. “Lena and I thank you from the bottoms of our hearts for the love you have shown us both by coming here today. We apologize for this last-minute change in plans, and we beg your forgiveness. We are all imperfect human beings — I more imperfect than most — and we have all made mistakes in our lives.” He paused to smile compassionately over the crowd. “Lena and I have decided against making a mistake here today… but will you please—if you love us—will you please join us at the reception hall? There is a fine meal and some very expensive champagne awaiting us all, with an orchestra and dancing that will last the entire night. So please, please honor us by joining us in a celebration of this life which we are all so privileged to live.”
With that, he handed the microphone back to the priest, and to Lena’s astonishment, the congregation began to applaud as Sabastian took her by the hand and led her down the aisle. They arrived at the entrance, and he turned them both to face back toward the altar, waving airily as everyone began standing.
“How was that for poise?” he said into her ear.
Her eyes flooded again. “You’ll be a legend.”
“No,” he said, laughing, “but nor will I look the fool.”
89
Lena arrived home by limousine the next morning, a little drunk, utterly exhausted, and entirely relieved not to be married. The reception had been a truly gala affair, with many friends congratulating her and Sabastian for having had the courage and the wisdom to change their minds even at the risk of disappointing so many people. A number of opportunistic men had even had the bad taste to invite themselves into her life now that she had chosen not to wed, and she was sure that more than one or two women had made similar overtures to Sabastian, who was once again one of the most eligible bachelors in Bern.
She slipped off her heels in the foyer and mounted the staircase in her bare feet, holding the train of her wedding gown in one hand and leaning on the railing as she ascended the stairs. Her brother Joaquin, who now lived in Germany, was in town for the wedding, and she heard him showering in the master bath as she entered her bedroom, crossing to the walk-in closet.
She put her heels on the shelf and stepped back into the bedroom to see Gil standing in the bathroom doorway with a white towel wrapped around his waist.
She was immediately overcome. At first her shock was so complete that she couldn’t cry or even breathe. Then her face contorted, and she sank to her knees, weeping into her hands.
Gil was nearly as stunned to see her as she was to see him, having expected her to be long gone on her honeymoon. He went to her, and she smacked him away, but then she grabbed onto him, erupting in a torrent of heavy sobs.
She eventually fell asleep in his arms.
He lifted her from the floor and was laying her down on the bed when her brother appeared in the bedroom doorway, his tie undone, hair a mess, and a half empty bottle of champagne gripped in his right hand.
Joaquin remembered Gil from when Lena had brought him to Germany ten days before, and knowing his sister as well as he knew her, he was no more surprised to find Gil in her bedroom than he’d been when she’d changed her mind at the altar.
He grinned, pulling the door closed as he left.
Gil stretched out beside Lena on the bed and watched her sleep. She slept for two hours, and when she awoke, she was still unable to speak to him, still not entirely convinced he was real. She opened her arms, and he lay down against her.
He awoke with her running her long fingers through his hair.
“I still had the key,” he said quietly. “I needed a shower, and I thought you’d be in Paris by now.”
“Why?” she whispered.
“Isn’t that where the honeymoon was supposed to be?”
She gripped his hair. “Why, Gil?”
“Oh.” He caressed her belly over the tight-fitting gown. “You said you wanted us to move forward — and there was no other way.”
“You could have told me.”
“No. You had to believe I was dead. Everyone had to believe it. Otherwise Pope would have known I wasn’t.”
“Is he that smart?”
“Yeah, he is. He might figure it out yet.”
“You were at the wedding — you saw me see you?”
“I got there too late. If I’d shown myself …”
“You disappeared so fast,” she said with a sigh. “I thought it was my imagination.”
“Are you married?”
She pulled his head back to look into his eyes. “What do you think?”
He raised up onto an elbow. “Jesus Christ, you were beautiful. It was almost more than I could take.” He held his fingers a millimeter apart. “I was this close to exposing myself.”
She knew there must be some other reason he’d faked his death. If he had truly gone to all that trouble just for the two of them, he would have done whatever was necessary to stop the wedding.
“Do you love me?”
He kissed her. “I love you.”
“Is the real reason you faked your death anything I have to worry about?”
He smiled, loving that she was so intuitive. “Nothing at all.”
“Will you tell me why someday? When you’re ready?”
“Yes.”
She wrapped her arms around him. “I told you we were destined to be together, Gil. Not even death could stop it.”
He chuckled, burying his face in her hair. “That’s not at all wildly exaggerated.”
She laughed, twisting free and rolling to her belly. “Undo me. This fucking thing fits me like a suit of armor, and I want to consummate our relationship.”
He flipped her onto her back again, gathering up the train of the gown to expose her thighs. “Suit of armor or not, it stays on you — at least for the first run.”
Her laughter filled the room. She’d never been so happy.
EPILOGUE
Five months after the Battle of Toluca, Rhett Hancock was fully recovered from his wounds. He now owned a fishing charter called the Beetle, and he was giving serious thought to taking it down the coast to Panama or Colombia, where he could go into business for himself without drawing attention. He didn’t need the money, but he was bored most of the time now, and he thought it would be good to have people to talk to once in a while.
He still drank tequila, though not as much, and he was less haunted by the car accident that had taken his girlfriend’s life years before. One problem remained, however: the nagging urge to shoot people. Not just anybody, but somebody.
With a casual wave to another fishing charter anchored a hundred yards away, he stretched out on the deck and pulled the stock of a suppressed M40A5 sniper rifle into his shoulder. He put his eye to the scope and scanned the shore where a naked Antonio Castañeda was partying on a private beach with seven equally naked young women. There was a bonfire and five bodyguards standing around. One of the guards had some kind of sniper rifle slung over his shoulder.