Page 87 of Silent Comrade
“Did you fix the camera feeds?” Redasked.
“Yes, Stumpy fixed it just now. Shit onshit, bro. Lequire’s been in the coffee shop!”
“Damn it.” Red jumped to his feet, ready torun to Britt. Was she okay? Should he go after Lequire? That musthave been him in the business suit, leaving the shop. Hell, thatguy was way bigger than the mission photos indicated.
Stop. Think.It damn near killed him,but Red forced himself to stick with mission protocol. Process thesituation logically. Assess infil, exfil, options, liabilities.Determine priorities.
Logic and standard process went out thewindow where Britt was concerned.
Rodeo continued. “The feed came back up aminute ago. There that asshat was, talking with your girl.”
Not my girl. “Did he do anything toher?” Because Red would kill the man if he had hurt Britt.
“Appears to have chatted with her and thenordered a croissant and coffee with all the fixins, tipped well,and left. I’m calling this in to Hunt.” A low whistle came throughthe phone. “Damn. Lequire. Here, in broad daylight. Shit, thatfucker has gotten huge. No telling what the virus has done to him.He’s only had it for a week.”
Red peered down the street. Lequire haddisappeared.
Was he sending in his minions to thislocation, now that he’d identified Britt’s whereabouts? Everymuscle in Red’s body tensed, ready to sprint.
Britt. Red needed to get close to her.Now.
“I’m closing the distance to target,” Redmanaged to say between a clamped jaw as he stormed across the busystreet toward the coffee shop.
“Stand by for Hunt’s orders. Stay close toyour girl.”
Not my girl.
She sure as hell isn’t going to beLequire’s girl, either.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Settling into her late Monday morning classseat, Britt pulled out her laptop.
The temperature dropped in the room withthat too-loud tittering laugh.
Jenna sauntered in and sat in her usual spotnear the front of the class. Flipping her hair over a shoulder, sheglanced back at Britt and froze. The smile turned plastic.Busted. God, Britt hated Jenna’s entitled hiney, evenencased today in Brunello Cucinelli distressed jeans. The superbfit was likely tailor-made. The Fendi pinstripe shirt completed thecausal ensemble that probably cost the same as six months ofBritt’s rent.
All that junk about forging forward and notseeking revenge went right out the window when Jenna gave Britt amanicured wave and a wink.
The top of Britt’s head was about to steamright off into outer space. She gripped the edge of her desk andhung on. Before she could take inappropriate action, who enteredthe class but Mr. Fake Fashionisto himself. He sat down right nextto Jenna, without turning his head toward Britt at all.
The first minutes of lecture registered asnothing but the buzzing of gnats in her ears. Britt tried to thinkof something else besides poking sewing needles into her classmate.She had been tough on Red this morning, but then again he hadn’tbeen forthcoming with information. She cringed. Seriously,thatwas the alternative topic her brain wanted to consider?She swallowed. A few rows up and over, she spied Red sit upstraight, head angled toward her. Weird.
“Whatever,” she muttered.
He glanced back. Like he heard her.
Above his denim jacket layered over a Henleyshirt, the skin of his neck flushed.
With effort, she concentrated on the class.She still had to pass two exams later this week. She needed tofinish the brand-new fashion collection before Friday. Her mindspun. Not enough time and too much to do.
Sucking in air became a problem. Her heartthumped, fast and constricted beneath her ribs. The squeeze in herchest accompanied racing thoughts of how the hell she was going topull off everything this week.
What about after this week? The beating inher chest sped up. She gripped the edge of the chair.
The burning in her eyes had to be from lackof sleep.
Minutes or hours later, who knew, the classfinally ended. Britt zipped up her backpack and swung it over ashoulder. A few steps and she drew even with Red, standing next tohis seat. He stiffened and his hand moved toward her thenstopped.
