Chapter 7 Bombs Beneath the Altar

# Chapter 7: Bombs Beneath the Altar

The governor's mansion gleamed like a jewel against the evening sky, its pristine white columns illuminated by strategically placed spotlights. A steady stream of limousines deposited California's elite onto the red carpet leading to the grand entrance. Security was visible but discreet—dark-suited men with earpieces and careful eyes scanning each arriving guest.

"Remember, three minutes maximum with Sokolov," Milo murmured as their vehicle approached the drop-off point. His hand rested lightly on Noelle's, the gesture appearing affectionate to any observer while actually checking her pulse. "The recording device activates when you touch the left earring twice."

Noelle nodded almost imperceptibly, keeping her practiced smile in place. The burgundy gown Valentina had designed fit perfectly, its reinforced fabric providing reassurance against the dangers that awaited inside. The diamond bracelet on her wrist—Milo's tracking device—glittered under the limousine's interior lights.

"And the west ballroom warning?" she whispered as the car slowed.

"A necessary precaution." His expression revealed nothing. "Just stay away from the windows until I give the signal."

Before she could press for more details, the door opened, and they were swept into the current of flashbulbs and fawning greetings. Milo played his role flawlessly—the generous benefactor, the engaged philanthropist, his hand never leaving the small of Noelle's back as they navigated the receiving line.

The fundraiser proceeded according to plan for the first hour. Noelle charmed potential donors while keeping Sokolov in her peripheral vision. The Russian moved through the crowd with practiced ease, his new security detail maintaining a tight formation around him. The governor himself seemed nervous, his laughter too loud, his eyes darting frequently toward Sokolov during his welcome speech.

At precisely 9:15 PM, Milo squeezed her elbow—the signal. "Champagne fountain," he murmured, before being drawn away by the state attorney general, a calculated distraction they had arranged during planning.

Noelle made her way to the elaborate champagne tower, positioning herself exactly as instructed. From this angle, she could see Sokolov engaged in conversation with the governor's chief of staff near the west windows—the very location Milo had warned her to avoid.

The clock struck 9:17 PM, and several things happened at once. A waiter stumbled near Sokolov, spilling champagne on one of his bodyguards. In the momentary confusion, a red dot appeared briefly on the window behind the Russian's head, visible only to those looking for it. One of Sokolov's new security team spotted it instantly, tackling his employer to the ground as the window exploded inward.

Chaos erupted. Security personnel flooded the room as guests screamed and scrambled for exits. Noelle remained calm, using the confusion to slide closer to where Sokolov was being hustled toward a side door, exactly as Milo had predicted he would be.

"Mr. Sokolov," she called out, her voice carrying just enough distress to seem authentic. "Are you hurt? Please, this way—there's a secure room."

The Russian hesitated, recognition flickering in his eyes as Noelle approached. His security team moved to intercept her, but Sokolov waved them off.

"Miss Bates," he said, his accent thickening under stress. "Or should I say, Detective? Such concern for my welfare is... unexpected."

"Former detective," she corrected, guiding him toward the corridor that would lead to their planned recording location. "And soon to be Mrs. Dennis. My fiancé would be devastated if anything happened to one of his most generous donors."

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The calculated flattery worked. Sokolov followed her into a small study, two of his guards insisting on accompanying them. Perfect—witnesses to whatever he might say.

"A convenient engagement," Sokolov remarked once the door closed behind them. "Dennis acquires a beautiful wife with law enforcement connections, and you gain access to his considerable resources."

Noelle touched her earring twice, activating the recording. "Love works in mysterious ways."

"Love," Sokolov scoffed. "A man like Dennis knows nothing of love. Only acquisition and control." He stepped closer, his cologne cloying. "Tell me, does he know about the children in Barcelona?"

The reference to her most painful case made her blood run cold, but she maintained her composure. "Ancient history. What matters now is getting you safely through this incident."

"So concerned for my safety when once you tried so hard to destroy me." His smile didn't reach his eyes. "Perhaps we could help each other, you and I. Dennis has enemies who would pay handsomely for inside information."

There it was—the incriminating suggestion she needed. Noelle kept him talking, extracting references to his trafficking operation, political bribes, and the network of corrupt officials he controlled. Each damning word was captured by the device in her earring.

When her three minutes were nearly up, she made her excuses. "I should find Milo. He'll be worried."

"Of course." Sokolov caught her wrist as she turned to leave. "Consider my offer, Noelle. Dennis will discard you once you've served your purpose. When that happens, remember who your friends are."

She extracted herself gracefully and made her way to the extraction point, where Richards was waiting with a service elevator key. The operation had gone perfectly—almost too perfectly. The staged sniper attempt, Sokolov's predictable reaction, his incriminating statements—everything had unfolded exactly as Milo had planned.

The next twenty-four hours passed in a blur of debriefings and preparations. The evidence they'd gathered, combined with the server data Milo's team had extracted, provided enough ammunition to launch a multi-agency investigation into Sokolov's network. By morning, news had broken of federal raids on several locations connected to the Russian's operations.

Sokolov himself had disappeared—likely tipped off by his sources within law enforcement—but his operation was crippled. The governor had issued a public statement distancing himself from the "shocking allegations," while three of his senior staff had been taken in for questioning.

It was a significant victory, yet Noelle felt strangely unfulfilled as she prepared for the hastily arranged wedding ceremony. Standing in her suite, studying her reflection in the wedding dress that was both beautiful and armored, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was missing something crucial.

"It's time, Miss Bates." Richards appeared at the door, immaculate in his formal wear. He would be walking her down the aisle, another carefully choreographed element of their public narrative.

The small chapel perched on the cliffside was filled with strategically selected guests—business associates Milo needed to impress, charitable foundation partners, and a few carefully vetted journalists to document the event. Emma and two other children from the orphanage had been brought in as flower girl and ring bearers, their presence adding an authentic touch of emotion to the proceedings.

As the music began and Noelle took her first steps down the aisle, she found herself studying the scene with a detective's eye rather than a bride's. Milo stood at the altar, impeccable in his bespoke suit, his expression revealing nothing of their dramatic operations of the previous day. The guests smiled appropriately, cameras captured the perfect moment, and everything proceeded according to plan.

Yet Noelle couldn't forget the note hidden in her veil: "Today there will be someone with a gun at the altar... don't worry, I bought sniper insurance."

Who was armed? The officiant? One of the guests? Milo himself? And what was the real purpose of this accelerated ceremony when Sokolov's immediate threat had been neutralized?

As she reached the altar and Milo took her hand, she saw something in his eyes—a warning, a message he couldn't speak aloud. His fingers tightened around hers slightly, the pressure conveying urgency.

The ceremony proceeded, vows exchanged with convincing sincerity, rings placed on fingers with practiced precision. As the officiant pronounced them husband and wife, Noelle made her decision. Instead of the expected kiss, she stepped back, pulling her hand from Milo's grasp.

"Before we continue," she announced clearly, reaching into her bodice to withdraw her badge—the one she'd kept as a memento of her former life. "There's something I need to address."

A ripple of confusion moved through the assembled guests. Milo remained perfectly still, his eyes never leaving hers.

"My name is Noelle Bates, former detective with the Major Crimes Division." She held up her badge for all to see. "And I have reason to believe this ceremony is being used to conceal criminal activity."

The gasps from the audience were genuine. Camera flashes intensified as journalists recognized the unexpected drama unfolding. Milo's expression remained unreadable, though something like respect flickered briefly in his eyes.

"Mr. Dennis," she continued, turning to face her new husband, "would you care to explain why you've orchestrated this elaborate charade?"

For a moment, the chapel was absolutely silent. Then, to everyone's shock, Milo smiled and reached into his jacket pocket. The security team tensed, hands moving toward concealed weapons, but what Milo withdrew wasn't a gun—it was a small remote detonator.

"Actually," he said calmly, "I believe my grandmother can explain better than I can."

Before anyone could react, he pressed the button. There was no explosion, no violence—instead, the floor beneath the altar slid open, revealing a hidden projection system that sprang to life. A holographic image formed in the center of the chapel—an elderly woman with Milo's green eyes and an aristocratic bearing.

"If this message is playing," the hologram began, "then my grandson has finally found a woman with both the courage and intelligence to challenge him publicly. Good. Milo needs that more than he needs another yes-man."

The assembled guests stared in amazement as the holographic will continued: "I, Eleanor Dennis, being of sound mind but increasingly disappointed in my grandson's moral compass, hereby declare that Milo Dennis must be arrested—or at minimum, publicly challenged by a person of strong ethical character—in order to inherit his conscience along with my controlling shares in Dennis Medical Research."

The hologram smiled mischievously. "The marriage was his idea, I assume—always looking for the most efficient solution. But the public challenge was my requirement. Congratulations, my dear." The glowing figure seemed to address Noelle directly. "You've done what an army of lawyers and therapists could not—you've made my grandson accountable to someone besides himself."

As the hologram faded, Noelle turned to Milo, understanding dawning. "This whole thing—the contract, the orphanage threats, Operation Phoenix—it was all to fulfill your grandmother's will conditions?"

"Not entirely," Milo replied quietly. "Sokolov needed to be stopped regardless. But yes, the public confrontation was a necessary component of her inheritance terms."

Before Noelle could respond, movement at the back of the chapel caught her attention. Several guests stood, drawing badges of their own—Interpol credentials.

"International Criminal Police Organization," announced their leader, moving down the aisle. "We're here to witness the fulfillment of Eleanor Dennis's final instructions regarding the Phoenix Foundation succession."

Noelle stared in disbelief as the Interpol agents nodded respectfully toward Milo. "You knew them? They work for you?"

"With me," Milo corrected. "My grandmother established the Phoenix Foundation thirty years ago to combat international trafficking networks. I've continued her work, with Interpol's covert cooperation."

The realization hit Noelle like a physical blow. "You're not a criminal. You're some kind of... sanctioned vigilante?"

"I prefer 'independent contractor with specialized resources,'" Milo replied with the ghost of a smile. "Though 'sanctioned vigilante' has a certain ring to it."

As the guests buzzed with confusion and the journalists frantically documented every moment, Noelle realized the true nature of the elaborate game Milo had been playing all along—and her unwitting role in it.

"So," she said quietly, "is this marriage real, or just another part of your grandmother's requirements?"

Milo took her hand again, his expression more genuine than she'd ever seen it. "That," he said, "is entirely up to you."