Holiday Heroes (Wingmen Warriors 13)

“Mom?” Sebastian’s hand came to rest on her shoulder. “Are you all right?”

Ginger gave her grown-up child a quick hug and blinked away the sting of tears. “Of course. I’m just sentimental at the holidays.”

But as she and Hank both left to get ready for her final appearance on this Christmas tour, she couldn’t stop the fear that happiness would be snatched from her once again.

Hank didn’t care that they had an entire flipping courtyard littered with security, even a sniper perched on two parapets. He still had what his youngest daughter would have called the heebie-jeebies.

He tried not to fidget while he sat next to Ginger in the front row of chairs set up in the chapel ruins, but there were just too many people at this sunset dedication ceremony. Dignitaries, locals, media, the military aircrewmen who’d flown him and Ginger around from the start. Not to mention an orchestra, all bundled in jackets under tents erected around the chapel remains.

An earpiece in place, he listened to the security chatter, but it did little to reassure him or stop him from scanning the area. The Christmas decorations of lit trees in every corner, live boughs, bows and floral arrangements were magnificent; still, he couldn’t help but think of the personnel who’d tromped through setting up each and every piece.

Most of all, he couldn’t help but think of how vulnerable Ginger was, sitting next to him wearing her creamy off-white suit and a matching overcoat. She stood out like a beautiful beacon amid all the formal black and festive red.

A Christmas angel to his Scrooge.

They could tra-la-la all they wanted, but he was in more of a bah-humbug mood. Something felt off.

Ginger sat perched on the edge of her chair alongside the remains of the stone altar, empty velvet bag in her lap as Franz Kohl made comments about the rarity of the crèche now nestled on the stark stone altar. As if having Ginger here in the open wasn’t enough, to up the stakes, his own kids had arrived for the event as well, showing up a mere twenty minutes before showtime.

They all sat in the audience with Ginger’s boys, their friends since childhood. Hank eyed them lined along the front row of observers—vulnerable, even if his children were all trained Air Force warriors as well.

His oldest, Alicia, and her husband Josh, who both flew fighter planes, passed their wide-awake baby girl back and forth to quiet her while the Minister of Arts continued his lengthy speech.

Shifting his gaze to his own baby girl, Hank could hardly believe Darcy would be a mother soon. Part of him wanted to launch down there and protect her, but she had her special agent husband sitting next to her on one side and her navigator brother—Hank Junior—on the other. Hank couldn’t suppress the twinge of surprise at his son’s appearance, since his namesake usually checked out of family stuff, especially if “the old man” was around.

As much as he appreciated their support in showing up, he really wished they were somewhere else tonight. He’d asked them to consider observing from the safety of the castle—but none of them would even consider it.

“Hank,” Ginger whispered out of the corner of her mouth, “do you have your BlackBerry with you?”

“Does a rose have thorns?” he answered softly without moving his lips. They’d gotten pretty good at near-silent ventriloquism over the years of sitting in the limelight for hours on end.

She rested a hand on the crook of his arm. “Could you look something up for me without appearing conspicuous?”

“No one will think it’s odd if I’m using the thing. What do you need?” He surreptitiously slid his BlackBerry from beneath his jacket and cradled it in his palm, his hand large enough most should never even notice he held it.

“You mentioned not liking the look of Mashchenko.”

“That’s because he was checking you out.” The lech.

“Oh really?”

Hank growled lowly.

“Your instincts are usually right on. Why not run a search on him?”

Hank’s eyes shot over to Mashchenko where the older man waited for his turn to speak after Kohl. “Now?”

“Why not now?”

Of course nothing about this weekend had been on anything but a breakneck timetable.

“Okay, sure. We already know he’s not from here. He’s from the neighboring country of Kasov.” Hank tapped through to the green screen for a secure connection with deeper files and typed in Mashchenko’s name. The man had a healthy portfolio…but sketchy info on his youth. He’d certainly made something of himself from very little past, but then many did. Still. Hank went back to his original gut feeling about the attack being somehow tied into the crèche. “Where did you say the crèche came from?”

“An auction in New York City.

“Before that.” He eyed the velvet bag in her lap

“The auction house had papers that traced it to a village outside of Berlin. I thought since it was a German piece, it would be nice to dedicate it to this chapel and return it to the same general area.”