She let out a sharp gasp when confronted with the hired soldiers who’d been protecting her. If she thought John was intimidating, a dozen G.I. Joe Johns were even more so. John was only minimally geared up compared to these guys. They were dressed in black from head to toe and armed to the gills with all sorts of weapons. Each guy looked bigger and stronger than the last.
Brittany had read a lot of stories in her research about black ops and secret warriors, but seeing these guys put it all in perspective.
Without realizing it, she took a step toward John.
Mistaking the source of her fear, he said, “Get back in the car. You shouldn’t be out here.”
She didn’t bother to respond, but she wasn’t going anywhere. She needed to be here. She needed to see who was trying to kill her.
The guy they’d pulled from the car was dragged forward. She could see John and one of the black-clad soldiers exchanging glances. But she didn’t need to ask what the problem was. She could see it for herself.
The guy they were holding didn’t look anything like the guy who’d attacked her in Norway. He was about half a foot shorter and fifty pounds thinner for one. “Scrawny” came to mind. He was also in his midforties and wearing thick glasses that looked completely wrong with the black stocking cap and black leather jacket.
What was going on here? This guy was clearly not a professional hit man—or any kind of hit man.
“What the fuck?” John said to the soldier he’d exchanged a glance with.
Brittany assumed he was the head honcho. He looked at one of his guys, who said, “I thought he had a gun.”
Someone else came forward, holding something up. “It was a camera. It fell to the ground when we pulled him from the car.”
“If that lens is damaged, you’re paying for it,” the man they’d pulled from the car said.
“What were you doing out here?” John demanded. “Why were you in that car with a camera?”
“It’s none of your business.”
John took a step toward him. “Try again.”
The guy looked at the men circling in around him, and his pale face lost some of its defiance. “I’m meeting someone, and I saw the car pull up. I thought it looked suspicious—”
John didn’t let him finish. He reached down, grabbedhim by the collar of his jacket, and lifted him a few inches off the ground as if he weighed no more than a wet cat. “Maybe you don’t understand the seriousness of your situation right now. But if I were you, I’d think about the next words out of my mouth.”
Brittany shivered at the cold menace in his voice. The guy’s eyes bulged, and whatever bravery he’d shown dissolved comically fast. “I’m a PI. I was hired to follow her.”
“Hired by who?”
“I don’t know.”
John tightened his grip and lifted him higher so they were almost eye to eye and the private eye was hanging a good foot off the ground.
“One of her coworkers,” the PI couldn’t say fast enough. “She gave me a fake name, but it was Nancy something.”
Brittany was completely floored. Paulie she might have believed, but Nancy? “Why?”
The PI looked at her. “She wanted to know where you were getting your information.”
“So you broke into her apartment?” John growled.
The guy nodded nervously. “Looking for her laptop or documents. But I didn’t find anything. The woman told me to make it look bad.”
Nancy had gotten what she paid for. Brittany was still too stunned to process it all. Her friend—the woman she’d tried to help—had hired someone to spy on her? Terrorize her with scary messages in lipstick?
“And you followed her to Europe?” John said.
The guy shook his head, obviously confused. “No. The woman didn’t pay me enough for that. She didn’t pay me enough for any of this.”
John questioned him a little longer, but it was obvious the guy was telling the truth. It was also obvious that they’d made a mistake. What had happened to Brittany wasn’t connected to John’s platoon and what went wrong in Russia at all. This was about a jealous coworker tryingto discredit her or get the jump on her story. The attack in Norway was what Brittany initially thought it had been: an attempted mugging.
