Alien Diplomacy

are,” Tim added, as he dropped his guns on the table. “Now drop your Glock, Kitty.”
    I sighed and did as requested. I had both my purse and my stylin’ clutch with me. In addition to dumping my gun and extra clips, I transferred what I could from purse to clutch. I had the adrenaline harpoon in its case, my iPod, my wallet, my phone, brush, mirror, and a travel bottle of the Dove nonaerosol hairspray courtesy of Pierre. There was still room in the clutch, so I tossed in some other random things that might possibly work as weapons if push came to the likely shove.
    I stared at the newspaper I’d taken from Olga’s then shoved it into the clutch—since I didn’t get to take my Glock there was room, and this way, if I got really bored, I’d have reading matter. In doing so, I discovered the clutch had a long strap to convert it to a shoulder bag. I decided I loved Akiko and her design skills.
    Jeff arrived during the weapons dump. He looked much better than he had going in to isolation, but that could have been because of the tux he was wearing. It looked great on him, and, as always, he looked totally hot. I managed not to drool on the nice designer dress.
    He and Christopher, who was also dressed for fashion success, were both looking a little smug because neither one of them regularly carried a weapon.
    “No problem, baby,” Jeff said after giving me a quick kiss. “I’ve never had an issue protecting you without firearms.”
    “We’ll be fine,” Christopher agreed.
    “Yeah? Just how do you think we’ll keep from blowing our covers if either one of you goes to hyperspeed?”
    They looked only slightly less smug. “We’ll handle it, baby.”
    A throat cleared and we all turned to the doorway. Ishmael was there. “What can we do to help?”
    “I thought you were sending them to—” I stopped myself, just in case. “Elsewhere.”
    Ishmael grinned. “No human being could have done what your husband did.” He shrugged. “We thought Oliver did the fluff pieces so he could do the real investigative stories, too. Turns out, every story that man prints is true.”
    “Sadly, not quite all—Elvis has truly left our building,” Oliver said, joining us. In black tie. The suit looked good on him, though I still couldn’t tell if he was muscular or pudgy underneath. “Oh, and Officer Melville, it’s Mister Joel Oliver, please.”
    “You’re joining us, MJO?”
    “I am indeed. I was granted an invitation via your lovely mother.”
    “Mom, are you crazy? He’s a target.”
    Mom shook her head. “No, I don’t think so.”
    Chuckie nodded. “The buzz isn’t saying that all the assassination attempts failed, so they’re going to take out the target at the President’s Ball. The operation is and has always been set for the ball.”
    “Okay, fine, so why have Mister Joel Oliver in danger again?”
    Oliver shrugged. “I’m bait, Missus Martini. Just like you.”
    The logic behind this didn’t have to be explained. People had been trying to kill the lot of us for days now, Oliver and me in particular. “Great, so we can draw the early bullets. Can’t wait.”
    Jeff didn’t look happy. “That isn’t the entire plan you all came up with, is it?” he growled. “Using my wife as bait?”
    Everyone looked uncomfortable. Jeff looked ready to go on a protective rampage. I coughed delicately. “Um, Jeff? We did this exact same thing during Operation Fugly. You were the one who suggested it.”
    “That was then. That was different.”
    “Yeah, we had about as much chance of success then as we do now. Otherwise, it was pretty much just like now, only we have a lot more innocent people to protect.”
    “We want to help,” Ishmael said.
    Reader shook his head. “Whoever’s behind at least some of this knows you. If you show up, it’ll give away that you’re alive, which could cause the planned attempt to be aborted. We can’t afford to let that happen.”
    “So what do we do then? Sit here?”
    “Yeah.” I went over to him. “You stay here and you stay safe, and you keep everyone else in this Embassy safe and you be on call, ready for action if we need you. I know your dogs could do that…but can all of you?”
    He tried staring me down. I managed not to snort. There wereexactly two people who I couldn’t beat in a stare down, and he wasn’t Mom or Chuckie.
    Ishmael looked away. “Fine.”
    Amy cleared her throat. “Not to sound unsupportive of our law enforcement officers,