Mitchell poured them both a drink and sat back to enjoy the ride. The traffic was not bad, considering the hour. They made good time as they drove east on West Boulevard.
“The flowers for my mother were a nice touch. A little over the top, but nice nonetheless,” said Jen, as she sipped her drink.
Mitchell chuckled. “I actually bought them for you, but once I saw your mother giving me the eye as if I were a raw recruit, I instantly panicked and changed my tack. I thought she might be easier on me if I gave them to her instead; sorry.”
Jen broke out laughing, almost spilling her drink in the process.
“Glad you thought it was funny.”
“My mom, bless her heart, is a little over-protective of me these days. You must have made quite the impression. She’s never that nice to any of my gentlemen callers; not that there have been that many recently.”
Mitchell looked deep into Jen’s beautiful eyes and said, “I find it hard to believe that someone as stunning as you doesn’t get many dates.”
Jen turned away. “Please, Ryan, you’re making me blush.”
“Sorry, that wasn’t my intention,” said Mitchell. “I honestly find it hard to believe that you cannot get a date.”
“I was seeing someone,” said Jen, looking uncomfortable, “but that all fell apart in the spring. Being a historian isn’t the most glamorous of professions and besides, most of the men I work with are already married.”
“Well tonight, I for one am glad for that,” said Mitchell, as he toasted Jen with his glass.
“But enough about me, Ryan Mitchell. Why isn’t a handsome man like yourself married?” asked Jen good-naturedly, as she took another sip of her drink.
“Who says I’m not?”
Jen playfully slapped Mitchell on the arm. “Don’t even joke like that! It’s not the slightest bit funny.”
“Sorry again,” said Mitchell. “Like yourself, in my line of work it’s hard to find someone to spend time with, let alone settle down. I was engaged once, but that was a while ago.”
“Oh dear, what happened?” asked Jen.
“When I was on my first tour of duty in Afghanistan, the supposed love of my life ran off and eloped with my older brother.”
Jen sat there speechless for a moment, and then hit Mitchell’s arm again. “You’re awful. Quit toying with me.”
Mitchell downed his drink in one gulp. “I’m not. It’s all true,” said Mitchell, with a slightly sour look on his face.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry,” said Jen, as she took his hand.
“Family dynamics will never be the same. Christmas is always awkward at my parents’ house, but it turns out that I dodged the proverbial bullet on that one as she has become, shall we say, high maintenance for my poor brother.”
“Damn,” said Jen, as she finished her drink.
“All true; scouts honor,” said Mitchell, with a flash of the two-fingered scout salute.
Jen giggled and changed the topic. “So, please, tell me about your work and the people you work with. The ones I met in the Philippines seemed like quite an eclectic group.”
Mitchell grinned at Jen’s use of eclectic. However, he’d never heard his friends referred to like that before. Scoundrels, yes, but never eclectic. “Well, we all work for an organization known as Polaris Operations.”
“Polaris, that seems like an odd name,” said Jen.
“Not really if you knew our boss, Major-General Jack O’Reilly. Polaris is the North Star. The general chose it because it has both a modern and a historical context. If you know where the North Star is, you can find your way home. The Underground Railway taught it to escaping slaves, to help guide them to freedom in the north. We may not be as noble, but I find it an apt name in today’s environment.”
“And your friends?”
Mitchell collected his thoughts. “Well, as you know, Nate and I met in the army. We were both Army Rangers working together in a combined NATO Special Operations Task Force assigned to track down and eliminate HVTs.”
Jen scrunched up her face. “HVT. What is that?”
“Sorry, army-speak. It means a high-value target. It could be anything from a key Al Qaeda or a Taliban leader, to a command and control node, or perhaps even an IED factory, all of which needed dealing with to ensure that they were no longer able to influence the fight.”
Jen did not need to be told that Mitchell was talking about killing terrorists. After another sip, she said, “Sounds really dangerous.”
“Yes, it can be, if you don’t take the time to plan and resource it properly.”
“You did ok rescuing me on short notice,” said Jen, with a warm smile on her lips.
“That was a case of blind luck more than anything else. Not the best way to conduct business, if you want to stay alive long enough to retire and enjoy your grandchildren.”
“And your other teammates?” asked Jen.
“Sam was a medic in the 82nd Airborne attached to the organization and Cardinal was from a Canadian sniper team that supported many of our operations. The only one not from our time in Afghanistan is Yuri. He’s a Russian former black marketer, who sort of fell into our laps a while back. His contacts throughout the world are invaluable to a team like ours.”
“Fascinating,” said Jen. “Truly fascinating, it all sounds far more exciting than being a simple old professor of history.”
“It sounds glamorous, but I live out a duffle bag and can’t remember the last home-cooked meal I ate,” said Mitchell.
“Well, I’ll have to have you over for dinner. My mom would love the company, and she cooks a mean meatloaf.”
Mitchell smiled. He found himself truly relaxing in Jen’s warmth and easy-going manner. “Sounds like a date.”
Looking at his watch and then over at Jen, Mitchell spoke. “The traffic is starting to slow down. We’re not going to be late, are we?”
“No, these things always start with a few cocktails, followed by some overly pretentious and boring people talking art and other such foolishness, as if they were all experts on such things. The charade usually runs a good hour before the auction actually begins. As long as we get there by nine, we should be ok.”
Mitchell thought about it for a moment. Even with a small delay, they would still arrive with plenty of time to spare. He shimmied over to the bar. “Since we have time to kill, can I offer you another drink? And from here on out, I promise that the conversation will be neither pretentious nor boring,” said Mitchell, as he waved his empty glass.
Jen beamed a smile back at him. “Sure, why not?”
9
Mitchell and Jen got out of the limo at the entrance to the Charter House. Stepping up to the driver’s-side window, Mitchell quickly spoke to the driver and, offering Jen his arm, they headed inside.
The three-story Charter House was until recently an exclusive high-end art studio for the haute rich. Coming under new management, the old building had received a much-needed facelift and had diversified its activities to include an art gallery, offices, and a floor solely dedicated to auctions.
As soon as they stepped inside the warm building, Mitchell realized that he was no longer in his comfort zone. He could see several politicians, several professional athletes, and at least three media personalities with their camera crews in tow, hovering around for an interview. Everyone in the room was well-dressed in suits and outfits that would have easily bankrupted Mitchell.
Jen could see the uncomfortable look on Mitchell’s face, so she slipped her arm into his and gently pulled him towards a sculpture on the far wall. Along the way, they both helped themselves to a free flute of expensive champagne.
“So, Jen, what exactly is your interest here tonight? Not that I’m objecting to spending time with you,” said Mitchell, as he sipped his champagne.