Page 137 of Black Reign

I compare faces against credential photos and arrival logs.

Nothing.

Every worker who entered through the staff gate belongs somewhere.

Or appears to.

That's different.

“She's not staff.”

Drew's voice comes from behind me.

I turn.

He has champagne in one hand and his tuxedo jacket thrown over one shoulder.

“You suddenly work intelligence?”

“No. I work women.”

“That sentence alone should concern your wife.”

“Isa understands my skill set.”

“I doubt that.”

He grins. “You think Miss London Bridge crossed an ocean to spend Haverhill's wedding washing forks?”

“She already infiltrated the property.”

“Exactly. She's going to enjoy it.”

I look at him.

He gestures around us.

“Open bar. Famous people. Great food. She beat you. Why hide in a kitchen after?”

Because unlike Travers, Vesper understands risk.

Still—my gaze moves toward the reception tables.

Guests.

That possibility bothers me more.

Staff can be verified.

Guests are harder.

Families branch.

Friends bring spouses.

Professional athletes arrive with agents, girlfriends, relatives, people whose identities are legitimate enough that nobody questions whether anyone at the next table personally recognizes them.

I designed security around threats entering the wedding.