The working class are those who work the mines, work for the royal family, or those who work to maintain the city-state itself. They are paid a minimum of four times the minimum wage of the closest country of Australia, and that amount goes up depending on job skill and experience.
Privately owned small businesses, including bakeries, restaurants, and retail stores, operate at full capacity at all times of the year. Between private business success and a well-paid workforce, there is virtually no poverty, no slums, and no lack of education. King Thomas even provides private schooling for every single child on the island. If you are lucky enough to have citizenship here, you never want to leave. Truly, the working class is the middle class and the concept of lower class has no standing in Bretaria.
The other part of the citizenry is the überwealthy. Those in banking and finance have flocked here over the last hundred years, the wealth of the ruby mines like a beacon. Others who’ve come include heiresses and one-percenters who wanted a part-time home on a beautiful island with near-perfect weather year-round. With those people came construction of grand homes and mansions, fine dining, couture shopping, and expensive cars. You’re more likely to see a Lamborghini zipping along the narrow-cobbled streets than you are a moped, also a popular means of travel on the island.
Yes, I learned a lot about this very interesting city-state and garnered a modicum of respect that King Thomas spreads his royal wealth to his people. And while he is generous, almost to a fault, with his money, he’s also frivolous. He is splashy and spends on ridiculous things. It’s no secret to the world that he’s so rich, he could pay off a kidnapper every month and still never dent the interest he earns in that same period.
That makes him, and every member of his family, a high-value target, which is why I’m sitting in the security conference room of the royal palace in Bretaria.
We arrived early this morning and met with Dmitri Lebedev, the head of palace security. It’s really not just the palace he’s in charge of but the very personages of the king, queen, and princess.
I can’t get a good read on the dude. He’s old enough to be my dad but I wouldn’t want to tangle with him. He’s reserved and mistrustful, but hell, so am I when it comes to the business of protection. Kynan said he’s former KGB, although you’ll never find that in any public record or résumé. Such information comes straight from our government, as we vet all our clients as thoroughly as they should be vetting us.
I’ve got no qualms with his prior Communist ties, nor with how crooked and corrupt the KGB was. I figure if you’re going to protect a family such as the Winterbournes, you have to be as ruthless as they come.
In addition to Ladd, two other Jameson mates came along to the meeting, Cruce Britton and Dozer Burney.
Cruce will be more of a consultant as we get started. His background in the Secret Service means he’s got loads of experience scoping out places ahead of time and devising protection plans. He’s basically here to verify the final agenda of the princess’s travel in the US, go over the original plan we devised a few weeks ago based on her proposed agenda shared with us, and then head back to the States to finalize plans based on the scouting he’s coordinated.
Dozer isn’t an active agent with the company but rather our resident genius who Kynan stole away from NASA. He’s built like a linebacker, but his brain is bigger than his muscles. He currently helps run the Research and Development division at Jameson, along with our ex-con hacker, Bebe Grimshaw, and they are developing some freaky shit.
They’ve managed to develop an artificial intelligence they’ve named BOB for no particular reason. BOB can predict outcomes based on information fed into the program. Currently we use BOB, and Dozer, to help us plan and carry out missions by building hypotheses based on the information provided. BOB then offers solutions and potential outcomes so we can make well-informed decisions.
Super freaky shit.
Dozer’s currently working on his laptop, diamond studs glistening in his ears. Probably communicating with BOB.
“You got to admit,” Cruce says as he leans back in the leather conference chair, “this isn’t a shoddy job.”
I don’t reply. His job isn’t the same as mine. He’s going to help Ladd and Dozer work out logistics and manage perimeter support along with several other agents that will rotate in. He won’t be stuck babysitting, but whatever.
I can deal.
“Your asset isn’t hard to look at,” Cruce continues, his eyes coming straight to me, and they are alight with mischief and goading.
I shrug but remain silent. Not even going there because in addition to the very accurate and complete dossier I’ve read, which provided plenty of information about Camille Winterbourne, I googled the princess.
There were a multitude of paparazzi-funded photos of her in bikinis, sipping fancy drinks aboard yachts, and a plethora of red-carpet pictures of the princess in couture gowns. Every single picture, she’s smiling perfectly. She emits an air of superiority—maybe it’s the chin lift, maybe it’s my own prejudice, but no matter how gorgeous she is, she’s still a princess without a handle on real life.
At least that’s the prevailing theory I’m going with. I’m willing to keep an open mind, though.
“Stop,” says a female voice just outside the door Dmitri exited through to get the princess more than half an hour ago. Ladd turns from the balcony, eyebrows raised at the command within that one word.
“I am Princess Camille of House Winterbourne. I demand you look at me when I’m talking to you.”
Her accent is beautiful… a slightly dry English tone that’s been passed down over hundreds of years from when Bretaria belonged to the British crown.
Ladd’s gaze meets mine, a sly smirk on his face as he shakes his head. He knows I’m not crazy about babysitting a princess.
Dozer’s head pops up when she continues on. “I also demand that you give me the full details about what the hell is going on. You answer to me as much as to my father.”
“Oh man,” Cruce murmurs upon a chuckle, sitting straighter in his chair. “She sounds like a pistol.”
Like a spoiled brat.
Dmitri answers her, but his voice is too low—very calm—and I can’t hear exactly what he says. But within just a moment, the knob turns and the door swings open. I see Dmitri, but then my vision is filled with Camille Winterbourne as she walks through the door.
My gut tightens, not in reaction to her extreme beauty, which, to be fucking honest, is unparalleled. She’s got golden skin, sun-bleached hair, and light blue eyes. Her face is exquisite, her body perfectly proportioned.
But that’s not what has me doing a double take.
It’s that she’s wearing a pair of frayed denim shorts, an old T-shirt, and a pair of nondescript sandals. Her hair is in a bun with locks of it coming loose to frame her face, and she doesn’t have on a lick of makeup.
She looks … normal.
Although highly irritated.
Her blue eyes sweep the room, passing right over me, Cruce, and Dozer, landing on Ladd to stick there. “I understand you’re part of my new protection detail for my upcoming travels to the United States.”
It’s no surprise she narrowed in on Ladd. He’s the oldest of our crew—not that forty-one is old—but I’m sure his premature salt-and-pepper hair makes him look like he’s the mature one in charge. He rolls with her assumption and steps forward to greet her while Cruce, Dozer, and myself rise from our chairs.