The blonde huffed. “Uh,yeah.I had his picture taped above my bed forever. God, those abs…”
Of course she had. The most famous photo of Jason, which had been plastered everywhere, was burned into the brain of almost anyone from her generation attracted to the male form.
“This one?” Dallas asked with an uncharacteristic smile, turning his computer to share with the group.
In the iconic image, Jason leaned against a wall of white tile that appeared to be melting from his touch, hips thrust forward, one thumb hooked teasingly into the waistband of a pair of red boxer briefs. He was pure sex appeal with all those shiny brown muscles and ripply abs, but it was his expression—like he’d been caught mid-laugh—that had always made her tingly and breathless.
The campaign for Hot Stuff had made the popular UVA wide receiver an instant star off campus too. After their breakup, she’d had to endure sexy shots of him on billboards and in magazines for years.
“Yessss!” Nat said, giving Emma a playful shove. “Why did I not know this?”
Emma shrugged. “These days I like my privacy.” And things between her and Jason hadn’t ended well. It wasn’t her favorite topic.
Everyone at the table sobered, and Gretchen cleared her throat, bringing their attention back to her. “Does the brother work for Warner too?”
Dallas shook his head. “No, he’s running the newly opened LA office for a company called Steele Security. According to his employment records, he was an Air Force PJ—a pararescueman—for seven years, earning several medals and an honorable discharge.Damn.” He showed the group another photo, this time of Jason looking just as hot in his combat uniform, wearing the maroon beret that signified he was a USAF special operator. “I saw a show on the PJs once. They run rescue and medevac operations behind enemy lines. They’re like a cross between a Navy SEAL and an ER nurse.”
Emma nodded. She’d never once doubted that Jason would earn that beret. “Technically, he was a combat rescue officer. The leadership part of the PJs.” CRO’s had to graduate from college and take an officer’s commission rather than enlisting.
When they were dating, Jason had already been accepted to Officer Training School in Alabama after graduation. He was just waiting to be assigned his start date. She’d wondered what it would mean for their relationship, and how she’d handle his deployments if they somehow survived two years of him being gone for training. Turned out it hadn’t mattered.
“After the Air Force, he worked as a paramedic briefly,” Dallas continued, unaware that he was twisting the knife deeper, “then started at Steele Security in Virginia six years ago, working for a former teammate named Kurt Steele.”
Ignoring their tech genius’s breathless spiel, Gretchen trained her gaze on Emma. “I trust that you can set aside your personal feelings and do the job, whether Jason is somehow involved or not.”
Emma balked. Getting close to Byron could mean encountering Jason again. Not a meeting she relished.
“Look,” Gretchen said, probably picking up on her reluctance, “I know this isn’t ideal, and if you really can’t take this assignment, we’ll figure something out. But this informant...what’s his name?”
“Viktor,” Emma supplied.
Gretchen nodded. “Right, Viktor. He trusts you, but he’s nervous, and he’s already been shunted off once. If you try to give him a new handler, he might bail on us. Not to mention, you’re the only fluent German speaker in the group.”
The woman wasn’t wrong, dammit.
God, could Byron really be guilty of helping Renfro Warner satisfy his sexual appetite for teenagers?
Either way, for Jason’s sake—and her own—Emma hoped like hell Jason wasn’t involved.
She looked at all the expectant faces around the table, any of whom would gladly step in to take over if she backed out. “Fine. I’ll do it.”
CHAPTER TWO
A WEEK LATER, Emma raised her phone and snapped a photo of a dying lion carved into a sandstone wall in Lucerne. According to an informational sign, the moving monument was a memorial to Swiss Guards massacred during the French Revolution.
Outside the busy square, Nat worked overwatch as they waited for Viktor to appear. It was just after four-thirty, so he should’ve already been there. In the time since Emma’s first meeting with him, she and Nat had tracked down women and girls with a connection to Renfro Warner and Byron Chin, hoping for physical evidence, but mostly getting heartbreaking stories of assault, blackmail, and financial ruin from the few who would talk.
Nolan had been following the money through a maze of shell corporations and offshore accounts, while Hailey and Ashley had shadowed the two men around Hardy Beach, where Renfro had a palatial estate on a hill overlooking the small town on California’s Central Coast.
According to their reports, the former fishing village with a now-defunct oil pipeline—located on a cove too far off the 101 to get much tourism—had been dying until the billionaire moved in. He’d donated millions to the tiny police force, bought up and renovated buildings on the dilapidated Main Street. He’d brought members of his entourage along, helping them buy luxury properties with ocean views, and he’d lured his wealthy friends and business associates to town to work and play, propping up the few restaurants, bars, and inns.
The minuscule marina was chock full of oversized yachts and sailboats with full crews.
Like a mini St. Tropez, he’d turned Hardy Beach into his private playground, and the locals either loved or hated him for it. The ones who hated him had filled Ash and Hailey’s ears with rumors, speculation, and a few helpful tips on who might talk.
The team now had enough testimony and circumstantial evidence to believe that Renfro Warner and his cronies deserved to be ruined, but they’d need some hard evidence to take back to Dave Ulrich for an exposé.
Viktor Schulz claimed to have it. Which was why Emma and Natalie were now in Switzerland.
