The Elite (Romantic Suspense)

Jacob: Reorienting

Jacob exhaled slowly as he stepped into the apartment he had been assigned on the palace grounds. It had been a long day.

One of the reasons that he enjoyed working indirectly with the royal family — in fact, one of the reasons that he had chosen to investigate external threats rather than be a member of a specific security detail — was the relative autonomy it provided. His schedule was mostly his own, unlike the PPOs who shadowed the family's every move. Living on the palace grounds felt like living under a microscope.

The room was quiet and clean, but a bit spartan. There was a large television on one wall, and a list of places to get food after hours on the small desk crammed in the far corner. Jacob could walk from one end of the room to the other in about five paces. There was also a separate bedroom with a television, closet, and nightstand. The young PPO who escorted him to the room watched him from the doorway. "The rooms are kind of small," he said, tone somewhere between apologetic and straightforward.

Jacob mostly managed to hide his snort in a cough. He'd had roughly the same amount of space when he was nearing graduation in boarding school. The real distinguishing factor between that space and this one was that no one was actively trying to prank him here.

Despite being up all night, his to-do list was growing. Top of the list were coffee and food, so he grabbed the key to his room, took a picture of the after-hours food options with his phone, and headed out to find something open.

The sun was barely peeking over the horizon now, and Jacob's breath was clearly visible as he walked. It was unseasonably cold, even for early November in the capital, and the warm Italian days had made him soft. Although he felt like a little boy trying to wear his father's clothes, he was grateful that Schmidt had lent him a pullover. Otherwise, he wouldn't have dared go anywhere until his bag came. As it was, he wasn't sure he could go too far.

The nearest place turned out to be a small, somewhat grubby cafe just outside the gate. The windows were covered with the weird film of grease that he had learned to associate with poor ventilation but decent food, and despite the early hour, there were already several patrons inside. He decided to hedge his bets.

The utter lack of a menu was immediately obvious. Everyone seemed to order from memory, which was both intriguing and problematic; he was going to stick out like a sore thumb. Jacob got in line and prayed that he could figure out a simple order before he got to the front. He had a few Euros in his pocket, but not enough for breakfast from a nicer restaurant.

He reached the front faster than anticipated and mumbled something about black coffee as he nodded towards one of the croissants that had sausage in it. The bleary-eyed cashier rang him up without saying anything at all, and shuffled toward the back counter for a few minutes, only to return with coffee so hot that he worried it would scald his hand through the cup. Jacob nodded his thanks and followed the crowd to the far end of the counter where they waited for their food.

It was a working-class crowd, people who were on their way to a long shift. His eyes bounced between three construction workers who were laughing about something a bit too loudly, a nurse in scrubs who seemed lost in thought as she sipped her small paper cup of coffee, and a woman in a soft flannel shirt and jeans who could have been anything from a cook to a potter.

Unwittingly, his mind slipped towards the case: Which of these people could be an informant? Who had a motive? It was pure speculation, of course, but it was interesting. Not all criminals were categorically evil; some were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

His mentor was famous among The Elite for discovering that one of the most decorated instructors at the academy --a hero who had helped ferry French Resistance out of harm's way in World War I -- was also responsible for an assassination attempt on King Rudyard VI in the 1930s. "Open your mind," he would bark at his students at least once per day. "Accept the possibility that anyone might be the person you are looking for, even the most unlikely person of all."

This morning, the difficulty lay in trying to decide which of the patrons had the best motive. The construction workers were young and loud. Any one of them could be in debt up to their eyeballs and easily bought. The nurse in worn scrubs could be a single mother who accidentally saw something she shouldn't have. If her situation was desperate enough, she might also be an easy mark for someone who viewed lack of money as a pressure point to exploit.

Maybe it was the tired cashier who spent his nights serving greasy food and bad coffee and who, incidentally, had the perfect vantage point to see who came and went every day.

When his name was called, Jacob grabbed the paper sleeve with the sandwich and the still-scalding coffee and left. The croissant lasted the short walk back to his room, but only just. He hadn't realized how hungry he was.

Now that he had food and coffee, he felt slightly more human, slightly more able to take on the day. He crossed to the desk and jotted down a list of things to follow up on.

Kind of explosive. Homemade?
Was Daphne the intended target? Someone else?
Any idea who planted it?
Why a red carpet?
Why post on social media?

He took a careful sip of coffee, winced as he realized that it was still too hot to drink, and flopped down on the couch. If he was honest, he couldn't shake the nagging doubt that they might be approaching this case entirely wrong.

Without stopping to reconsider, Jacob grabbed his phone and dialed. Although he technically was on assignment to the king, he was sure his handler would help him.

Marcus had graduated a year ahead of Jacob, but he was twenty-seven at graduation, near the cutoff for The Elite, which immediately made him the grandfather of his class and garnered him the call sign Pops. Years of working together had earned him the odd distinction of being one of the people Jacob trusted implicitly while also one of the few who would abandon protocol if necessary. Given the strangeness of the last twelve hours, both attributes would likely come in handy on this case.

He listened to the phone ring and tried to ignore his growing sense of unease. This was the oddest case that he had ever worked. Not only because he had blown his own cover, but also because, despite his involvement, he still wasn't sure that his asset was willing to help him. All signs pointed to Daphne agreeing to team up with him — even her father seemed to take that as a given — but there was always a chance she could change her mind.

Marcus answered just before the call would have gone to voicemail. "I thought I'd hear from you hours ago."

Jacob sighed. "Been a little busy."

Marcus snorted. "Aren't we all." Jacob heard tapping as the other man navigated on his computer. "What are you in the market for? Explosives information? Suspicious social media activity? Biographical information about the bomber?"

Jacob choked on the coffee he was sipping. "We have a suspect already?"