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“This has to be the feds making a show. I hate when I get a handler who couldn’t make a career in theater.” Kim’s eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. “I’ll go in first and see what’s going on.”

That’s code for making sure we’re not walking into a trap. The car that was behind us is back, sneaking into one of the spaces farthest away.

Before Kim can get out, a beaming man in a neat suit comes to the side of the vehicle. “The bride and groom! The maid of honor and best man! Wonderful, wonderful! Therese, my dear! You look wonderful.”

Therese gives me a nervous look before laughing joyfully. “So good to see you! I’m glad you could make it!”

Kim and I are swept up in a throng of other middle-aged men in dark suits sporting big smiles, smiles so wide and guileless that only a pro would know they were fake.

KIM AND THERESE DISAPPEARinto a private little room on the right side of the chapel, and I go into the one on the right with two strangers who are slightly less paunchy and bald than the first handlers we met.

I hear the chatter out of the earbud from the guy sitting beside me. Someone (I’m pretty sure it’s the guy who followed us) just tried to get in the building and was told the chapel iscurrently occupied for a private wedding. He got shunted off to the church’s office in the larger main building, but I’m betting he’ll either go back to his car or circle around the building.

“Elaborate,” I finally say to no one in particular.

“This? Cost a couple thousand dollars and a few dozen agents. Do you know how much cocaine and illegal cargo Estrada and his Revolutionaries have trafficked in the past six months? Enough to let everyone in here retire. If Delgado’s ex can give us something...” he trails off with a hungry look and then takes me in, eyes not sure if they approve or not. “You’re the private security company, the bodyguard?” An agent a few years younger than me asks.

“Yep.”

“Military contractor?”

“Special forces. Intelligence. Former.” Retired is the best word for what happened, but I can’t tell how this person sees me. Presumably young enough to be a viable groom and security for their witness. Former sums it up well enough. I’m no longer needed. I’m not in service, beyond repair, like one of the ancient washing machines I sometimes try to help the older ladies of Pine Ridge fix.

“Shame. So you went with private security?”

“Yes, private security.” I can’t tell them about my ancient connection with Therese’s people or my more recent connection with her family. I definitely cannot talk to him about Pine Ridge, the Night Watch, or what a human would need to be protected from in my hometown.

He looks around the room and leans over, “This is a pretty cushy job. I would have taken it myself, but they said it would compromise my identity as an agent...” He tsks and shrugs.

“Very cushy, yes. It’s loads of fun keeping a witness alive while you sort out if she has to testify and start her life over.” Myaccent comes out more, and my voice is clipped and harsh. Like I said, I’m not good with small talk.

I go get a cup of coffee from the machine in the back of the room. How long do we have to stay here? How long is a convincing wedding ceremony? Depositions can take hours. I know more about debriefings and depositions than I do matrimony. I guess that could be said of most men in my position, but—

Wedding rings. Do we have rings? Do we need them? Yes, we need them. Even the young asshat who thinks being a bodyguard for a witness in a murder-terrorism case is a swish job is wearing a wedding ring. True, it could be part of the look, but I don’t think so.

How does anyone in the military or police world get attached to another human after they’ve seen how humans turn on each other? How can they put the ones they love at risk?

I think about all the happily married monster-human couples I know as I try not to fidget. They love each other (I assume). They are capable of feeling that spark that mutes the ugliness of the world. They have that spark that makes them alive, that makes them love, that must make them immune to the realities of fear and loss.

I was made without that spark, yet I’m sitting in a church in my good suit, waiting for the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen to be mywife, one to whom I will pledge my life. Pledging my life to a cause isn’t anything new. But for once—someone will return that pledge and forge that bond—even if it’s an act.

I told myself I’d never be in this situation, not after years of half-hearted hoping, yet here I am.

It feels terrible and not terrible at the same time. Confusing.

A little nagging voice in the back of my head keeps telling me that the worst part of this whole thing isn’t the danger or thecharade we’re playing—it’s the fact that it will all end in just a few days.

“THAT’S IT.”

I blink and clutch my bottle of water. I wanted coffee, but between my nerves, my sweaty hands, and the white dress, I opted for the beverage that won’t stain. “That’s it?”

“We’ll schedule a meeting with you on Tuesday or Wednesday once we have a chance to go through this and discuss things with the relevant parties. Then, we’ll schedule your WITSEC orientation time in D.C.”

I bite down a frown. I want to ask questions. I don’t like the way these “relevant parties” aren’t specifically named. I know what WITSEC is—the United States Federal Witness Protection Program. But D.C.? Why D.C.? What exactly do I do in orientation?

Is this one of those “the less you know, the better” cases? “Where will we meet?”

“At the rental property where you and Mr. Reginald Gray are staying. In a few days, four of us will come for dinner, posing as friends with housewarming gifts.” My handler, Agent Wharton Powell, smiles in a reassuring way. “The USB device you’ve given us is immensely helpful. It contains detailed financial transactions and records that we have to examine more closely.” He hesitates, and I see his eyes travel over me in a way that I’m used to.