Off the Grid

by Monica McCarty

  She had. Brittany was reeling from shock, trying to control the sudden flood of converging emotions. She looked over at him, trying to think of what to say. “I’m sorry. Would you excuse me for a moment? I . . . I’m not feeling very well.”

  “Of course,” he said. “Is there anything I can do? Something I can get you?”

  He was so concerned and sweet, it made her feel even worse. But she shook her head and got up. “I’ll be back in a minute. If the food comes, please don’t wait for me.”

  “Of course I’m going to wait for you. Are you sure there isn’t anything I can—”

  “I’m sure,” she cut him off, and then hastily added, “I’m sorry. I’ll be right back.”

  She followed the signs to the restroom, surprised that her liquefactioned legs were keeping her upright and that she wasn’t swaying side to side, using the tables to steady her as she made her way across the candlelit restaurant.

  Her heart was pounding like a jackhammer.

  Her phone felt like a brick in her hand. Maybe she’d been wrong. Maybe she’d read it too quickly. Maybe it was a joke. A horrible, cruel joke.

  But not trusting her emotions to stay contained, she waited until she was in the bathroom before checking her phone again. Her hand shook as she touched the screen.

  The blood drained from her face all over again. It can’t be. . . .

  But the message clearly said Brandon Blake and seemed to be from his personal e-mail account: snowman123. Was it possible he was still alive? She’d been so certain that something horrible had happened to him.

  She hit the message and read the words on the small screen. She really needed to get a better cell phone. But it wasn’t in her starving-reporter fund. The money her parents had left her had run out a long time ago.

  Brit, I can’t take the time to explain now, but you have to stop what you are doing. Your articles are causing me a lot of problems and putting both of us in danger. If you don’t stop writing them, I’m going to end up dead. I’m sorry for not writing you sooner. I know you’ve been worried. I’ll explain everything when I can, but please don’t try to contact me. It’s too dangerous right now, and both our lives may depend on it. Stay frosty, Brand.

  Brittany read the note over at least a half-dozen times. She didn’t know what to think. The “Brit” bothered her. He hadn’t called her by her childhood nickname in five years. As did the “Brand.” That was what his SEAL friends called him, but she’d always called him by his full name. And the note didn’t sound like him. It was—she didn’t know how to put it—too considerate? Too nice? Their exchanges since their big fallout had been much more stilted and formal.

  But the “stay frosty” gave her pause. That did sound like him. The warning to stay cool and not let down her guard was what he was known for and had given him the nickname of “Snowman” in the SEALs. But similar to addressing her as “Brit,” he hadn’t signed off on messages to her like that in a long time.

  She didn’t know what to think. She wanted to hope, but . . .

  Someone jiggled the handle of the single bathroom, reminding her of where she was. She couldn’t do this here. She needed to think, but not in a restaurant bathroom. Dropping her phone in her bag, she unlocked the door, gave an apologetic smile to the older woman whose expression suggested that Brittany had been in there longer than she realized, and returned to her date.

  “Is everything all right?” Mick asked, standing as she reached the table.

  Brittany didn’t sit down. She shook her head. “I’m afraid it’s not. I think it’s best if I go home.” He looked so crestfallen, she added hastily, “I’m really sorry about this.”

  “Don’t apologize,” he said. “Just let me take care of the bill, and I’ll walk you to your car.”

  She tried to protest—both on his paying and on him missing his meal—but he insisted. He really was a nice guy, she realized, which made her feel even worse for her attitude earlier.

  “Thanks again,” she said, getting into her car. She didn’t bother saying “see you next time.” She knew there wasn’t going to be a next time. She’d blown this date big-time. It was too late to regret it. Story. Love life.

  “Are you sure you are all right to drive? Do you want me to follow you?”

  She shook her head. As great as he was being, she didn’t want some guy she’d just met from an app following her home. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.” He was standing there, holding the door, looking down at her intently. She felt her cheeks grow warm, not knowing what else to say. “I’m really sorry.”

  “Make it up to me,” he said. “Go out with me again.”

  Surprised, she hesitated. But only for an instant. How could she refuse? More important, why would she want to refuse? She nodded and gave him her number. He promised to call and shut the door.

  She left wondering if she would ever hear from him again, and despite the initial lack of spark, she kind of hoped she would. It wasn’t as if she had guys like Mick knocking her door down. She hadn’t been with someone who was that much of a total package since—

  She stopped the thought before it could form. Her lips pressed together in a hard line. If only she’d kept her mouth closed like that back then. She hadn’t really been with him at all. And John Donovan certainly hadn’t been interested in her—the interest had been painfully one-sided. But her brother’s friend had been every bit as good-looking as Mick. Maybe that was what explained her less-than-enthusiastic response to her date tonight. Once burned, twice shy.

  Putting aside thoughts of John Donovan, she focused on the mysterious e-mail. As much as she wanted it to be from her brother, something about it didn’t feel right. But she couldn’t put her finger on what.

  It wasn’t until she was back at the tiny hovel she called home and read through it again that she figured it out. Brandon hadn’t mentioned the missed anniversary of their parents’ death in the e-mail. It was the one connection they still had and the only thing that bound them together. It didn’t seem likely that he would forget to say something about it.

  And what about the satellite pictures she’d received from her new source, showing the explosion in Russia and the deployment orders of a team that she assumed was the didn’t-exist Team Nine to Norway, which was a perfect launching place for a mission? Why would this person come forward with information to substantiate her claims if it wasn’t true?

  The timing of Brandon’s e-mail was too convenient. It smelled like a cover-up. Brittany had been in the middle of government cover-ups more than once and knew the lengths they could go to shut someone up. Hacking into an e-mail account would be child’s play.

  Which gave her an idea. She picked up her phone and dialed.

  Mac—as in MacKenzie, her go-to person for anything technology related—picked up on the second ring. “What do you want this time? Spy cameras in your bedroom?”

  Brittany wrinkled her nose. “Very funny. You act as if no one has ever asked you to tap their own phone line.”

  “As a matter of fact”—snap, crackle, pop—“no one ever has.”

  Mac was the best, but a bad smoking habit in high school had turned into a bad chewing gum habit in college. She had been single-handedly keeping Wrigley’s Big Red gum in business ever since. Brittany supposed there were worse things than smelling like cinnamon. Smelling like smoke, for example. But Brittany put up with the constant gum smacking not just because Mac was a whiz with computers, but because they’d been friends since high school, when they’d both gone to the same all-girls Catholic school in Baltimore. Rebels needed to stick together.

  Brittany had spoken to Mac earlier and asked her to tap her home and office phone lines on the off chance her source decided to contact her by phone. “I need you to try to trace an e-mail for me.”

  “Who from?”

  “Brandon.” Brittany heard the stunned silence on t
he other end. Mac had never met her brother, but she was the one person who knew their history and everything that had gone down between them. “Or someone purporting to be Brandon.”

  “You don’t think it’s him?”

  “I . . .” Brittany paused. “I’m not sure. Can you take a look at it?”

  “Forward it, and I’ll see what I can do. If it’s not official, it should be easy enough. But if it was him, and he was using official channels, it might take a few days. The military has some decent encryption.”

  Brittany smiled for the first time since that e-mail had come through. “Only decent? Maybe the military should hire you to design their systems for them.”

  “They couldn’t afford me,” Mac said bluntly. Which pretty much summed her up. Mac said what she thought. Not a lot of editing going on there. She didn’t have Asperger’s, but she touched the spectrum in a few places.

  Brittany laughed, although it was undoubtedly true. Mac made millions as a freelancer, hired by corporations to hack into their systems. Not that you would ever know it. She still lived in a shoe box apartment like Brittany—although Mac’s was in a nicer area—and also like Brittany, she dressed for comfort not fashion. The only thing she seemed to spend money on was computer equipment. Brittany had seen the computer room in her apartment once and had felt like she’d walked into a high-tech war room or a teenage boy gamer’s wet dream—she couldn’t decide which.

  Mac had said it might take her a few days, so Brittany was surprised when she heard from her the following afternoon. “That was quick,” she said, answering the phone.

  “Whoever did this was being careful. It isn’t going to be as easy as I thought.” Mac sounded a little annoyed—and maybe a little impressed as well, which was unusual.

  “Is it military?”

  “I’m not sure. It doesn’t have the typical military fingerprint—it feels more sophisticated than that. Something more like the CIA would use.”

  Brittany let that sink in, but she didn’t know what to think. “How much longer do you need?”

  “I’m not sure, but I have another idea. Something that may get you an answer much quicker.”

  Quicker was good, especially with her boss breathing down her neck.

  Brittany was listening.

  * * *

  • • •

  Impersonating his dead best friend in an e-mail to his sister was pretty low. And John was feeling guilty, even if it was for Brittany’s own good. But what else could he have done? He had to stop her, and God knew—he sure as hell did—the girl didn’t take no for an answer.

  Case in point, the e-mail that had just come through on the account that he should have deleted on the phone that he should have tossed. But he’d known she would respond, and Kate had routed the account through a special IP address and network. It looked like a popular e-mail account, but that was just a mask for whatever Kate had cooked up to make it impossible—or as close to impossible as possible—to trace.

  He’d told Brittany in the note not to contact him, but what had she done? Contacted him, of course. He wasn’t surprised she’d ignored him. He was more surprised that it had taken her more than a day to do so.

  He stared at the envelope button for a moment. He should probably just delete it. God knew he felt guilty enough already for what he’d done, and she had a talent for making him feel like an asshole, but like some kind of masochist, he hit the button.

  The message took a second to load. There was an attachment. A few moments later he was staring at the picture of him, Brand, Miggy, and Tex that had been plastered all over the news. There was a note that went along with it: If this is Brandon, tell me when and where this picture was taken.

  She was like a damned pit bull. Couldn’t she let something go just once? He was trying to help her, for shit’s sake.

  John didn’t hesitate. Jaw clamped, he furiously banged out a response on the keypad.

  Only then did he delete the account and toss the phone.

  * * *

  • • •

  Brittany paled as she read the response: Fourth of July five years ago at Imperial Beach in San Diego, a few blocks from the beach house.

  Oh my God.

  She would have sunk to the couch if she hadn’t already been sitting on it. She stared at the laptop screen in disbelief. She’d sent the e-mail while watching a hockey movie on TV—trying to get in the spirit of the second date that she’d agreed to go on next week (Mick had called to check on her that morning)—and hadn’t even had a chance to set it aside before the message came through. Could it really be Brandon? Was her brother alive?

  She felt tears push up her throat to sting behind her eyes. One of the hardest things about losing her brother had been knowing that he’d died when they’d barely been on speaking terms and that she would never have a chance to repair their relationship. But if he was alive . . .

  There were only a handful of people who could have answered that question—especially so quickly—and most of them were in that picture. She looked at the four faces in the image. Something she rarely did for two reasons. First because the photo reminded her of the big blowup fight she’d had with Brandon. And second because, even after five years, the sight of John Donovan’s grinning, I’m-so-gorgeous face looking back at her could still make her chest—and cheeks—burn.

  Five years ago had been the second-worst time of her then twenty-two-year-old life. The worst had been when her parents were killed, but she’d had Brandon then. Maybe that was why her first instinct had been to seek him out when life had handed her another big shit sandwich.

  She and Brandon had been so close before the car “accident” that took their parents’ lives. Their entire family had been unusually close, perhaps because their father’s job in sales caused them to move around so much.

  They’d all been in the car together when another driver slammed into them, sending their car head-on into an enormous concrete pillar of a highway overpass.

  Their parents had died on impact. She and Brandon had been injured as well, but both had been able to tell the police exactly what had happened: the other driver had run the red light and barreled right into them at an extremely high speed.

  When they learned from the police that the driver had been drunk and high on cocaine, it had seemed a slam-dunk case of vehicular homicide. Until they found out whom the driver was—or rather who his father was.

  It was Brittany’s introduction to the horrible abuses of diplomatic immunity and government cover-ups. The driver was the twenty-two-year-old son of a Saudi “diplomat.” She never did find out exactly what the father did. The son had been pulled over multiple times for speeding, reckless driving, and drunk driving. Later she’d heard that he’d been accused of raping a girl he’d picked up at a bar. But the police had to let him go each time with—unbelievably—an apology.

  But apparently being given a hall pass for killing her parents wasn’t enough. The public pressure to have his son sent back home or for Saudi Arabia to waive immunity angered the father. And he was important enough for the government—her government—to want to appease. Photos from the intersection suddenly materialized showing her father supposedly running the red light.

  But far worse was what had come next. Brandon had reversed his statement and agreed with the government’s lies and doctored “evidence.”

  With that she’d lost not just her parents, but her brother as well. At fifteen, she’d gone to live with her aunt and uncle in Baltimore, while the eighteen-year-old Brandon had joined the navy.

  She hadn’t seen him in years when she’d shown up out of the blue five years ago in San Diego.

  Despite all the horrible words exchanged between them after their parents’ death, when she’d lost her job, her first instinct had been to reach out to him.

  But “lost her job” made it sound nice, when it was anyt
hing but. She’d been fired, discredited, and publicly humiliated after being accused of manufacturing “proof” for an article she’d written on backroom deals and corruption on Capitol Hill. Her “deep throat” had disappeared, and the documents were found to have originated on her computer. The circumstances surrounding her parents’ death were resurrected, and Brittany was made to seem like a wacko spouting conspiracy theories or as someone with an ax to grind.

  Maybe she did have a bit of an ax. But for the second time, she’d come up against the wrong people and paid the price.

  She’d reached out to Brandon, but ironically, it had been his drop-dead-sexy friend who’d been her lifeline this time.

  She’d never forget the first time she’d seen John Donovan. Not long after she’d arrived, he’d walked into the beach house he rented with her brother, dripping wet, half-covered in sand, carrying a surfboard under his arm and wearing nothing but a killer smile and faded low-slung board shorts, which perfectly accentuated the tanned, muscular torso above them.

  Big, bad-assed, and gorgeous. That pretty much summed him up. And even in her depressed state she hadn’t failed to notice.

  Brittany hadn’t been happy to learn that her brother had decided to become a SEAL—the secrecy of the Teams was everything she was fighting against—but she couldn’t deny that his friends were built and nice to look at. They seemed to live by the mantra “work hard and play harder.”

  What she hadn’t expected was that the golden-boy player with a capital “P” who’d walked into the house that day would be just as nice on the inside as he was outside.

  Or so she’d thought.

  She’d been sitting on the beach, wondering if it had been a mistake for her to come, when he’d sat down beside her and started talking. If nothing else, John Donovan was easy to talk to. He was so easygoing, so happy and laid-back, it made her problems seem a little less dire. A little less impossible to overcome. He helped her break things down. Focus on the things she could control and not the things she couldn’t. But most of all he made her laugh.