Off the Grid

by Monica McCarty

  The LC cursed under his breath. “I’m guessing the attack wasn’t a coincidence.”

  “I don’t think so. She got a call from a coworker not long afterward, telling her that her apartment in DC was ransacked. The guy in the parking lot tried to grab her purse, so I figure they were looking for something.”

  John repeated everything she’d told him about the drop, including the car, the license plate, and the woman wearing a military jacket. He also told the LC about the documents she had.

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. A redacted deployment order? Only a handful of people would have had access to that.”

  Pretty much exactly what John had said.

  “I’ll have Kate look into it and see what she can find out,” Taylor said. “Maybe finding Brittany’s source will help us find the leak.” He didn’t sound overly optimistic. “Anything about the guy in the parking lot?”

  “It was raining and hard to see. He was wearing a hood, so I didn’t get a good look at him. But he was about my size and build and knew how to fight.”

  All of which were significant. Not a lot of guys had a build like his. He was in top physical condition—or had been two months ago.

  “One of ours?”

  “I couldn’t rule it out, but if I had to guess, I’d say Eastern European.” Team Nine had trained with some guys in Crimea once, and Brittany’s attacker reminded him of that.

  “Russian?” The LC asked grimly, as if he already knew the answer.

  “Could be.”

  Taylor didn’t say anything, but John knew what he was thinking. If the Russians were trying to stop her, what did that mean? Were they trying to protect a source—maybe the same source who’d leaked the mission—or did they just want to avoid the public relations disaster of having it be known that they wiped out a platoon of US soldiers?

  Retiarius might have been on Russian soil—which made it look bad for the US—but President Ivanov had vowed to go to war under that very scenario. If what had happened became public, he’d lose considerable face or be forced to go to war. Humiliation or a war with the biggest superpower in the world. For Ivanov, that was what you called a no-win situation.

  “Did he get a look at you?”

  “Not a good one. It happened fast. I was wearing a hood, too. With any luck, he’ll just assume I’m one of the locals.”

  And without luck they were screwed. Like Brittany, they would be targets for anyone who wanted their op to stay a secret, and it would make finding out who had set them up a hell of a lot more difficult.

  “Do you think they were tracking her?”

  “Probably. I didn’t want to take any chances, so I got her out of there fast.” John explained about her luggage and phone, as well as the zigzag train rides.

  “Where are you now?”

  “Denmark.”

  “Good. Sit tight for a couple days. I’ll be in touch once I’ve seen what Kate can dig up on Brittany’s source. I’ll also see if anyone checked into an emergency room with a broken arm. But I’m not holding my breath on that.” Neither was John. A professional would have his own resources. “I assume I don’t have to worry about any more articles?”

  It wasn’t really a question. It was more of a “you better have done your fucking job.” But the LC didn’t know Brittany. She wouldn’t give up so easily. Not with something like this. If she thought the government was trying to cover up her brother’s death—which admittedly it was—she would be relentless. No quit. As that pretty much summed up every SEAL John knew, he might admire her for it if that same quality in her didn’t wind him up so much.

  “Brittany kind of has a mind of her own when it comes to things like this.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  He sighed. “It means I don’t think she’s put aside the idea.”

  Taylor swore a few times at that. “What more does she need to understand the danger?”

  “She understands the danger fine.” John paused. “I think she’s more like Brand than either of them realized.”

  In other words, she was like them. They didn’t run from danger; they ran toward it. He wasn’t one of those guys who thought women couldn’t hack it in war. His mom had made damned sure of that. She’d been a strong woman—and a fighter. He’d never seen anyone do battle the way she had in the hospital. But he’d never understood how such a smart woman—and a feminist to her bones—could fall in love with a guy like his father.

  It was one reason John had no intention of getting married. He’d never do to a woman what his father had done to his mom.

  The LC cursed in frustration before responding. “Well, do what you can to convince her, but if you can’t do that, then at least keep her occupied and too busy to think about anything else,” the LC said. “Put some of that skill you are supposed to have with women to good use for once.”

  “How am I supposed to do that?”

  “I’ll leave the details to you, but I’m sure you can think of something.”

  The LC wasn’t suggesting what John thought he was suggesting . . . was he? “Sleeping with her is off the table, LC. I’m not going to seduce Brand’s sister.”

  He left out “again.”

  “At ease, Donovan. Don’t get your choir boy robes all in a twist. I wasn’t suggesting you sleep with her— although good to know you do have a few lines you won’t cross when it comes to good-looking women. I was referring more to your tour guide skills.” He paused. “Interesting assumption to make though. Have something on your mind, sailor?”

  Ah, hell. John decided to cut his losses and change subject. “You and Kate any closer to figuring out who did this?”

  “We’re still working on a few leads.”

  In other words, no.

  “Weren’t you the one complaining about lack of leave the past couple of years?” Taylor asked. “Well, you got it. So I suggest you take advantage of it while you can.”

  “Let me guess, by sightseeing in Copenhagen?”

  “Exactly.” The LC sounded like he might be smiling. “Keep me posted.”

  John hung up and started to head back to the room. But recalling who was waiting for him, he took the elevator downstairs instead to talk to the front desk.

  When the maid made up the room later today, that king bed was going to turn into two twins.

  Thirteen

  Brittany took a sip of her Austrian beer in its Edelweiss logo glass and studied the man across the picnic-style table.

  “What?” John said. “Do I have mustard on my face or something?”

  She smiled. “No. I’m just surprised, that’s all. I wouldn’t think that bratwurst was on the John-Donovan-approved menu list. Didn’t you give me a long lecture after I ate that hot dog at the Padres game about how unhealthy they were?”

  He’d taken her to a baseball game to cheer her up not long after that first time he’d sat down next to her on the beach. She’d made a comment about the only thing they ever had on the TV being baseball, which had to be about the most boring sport known to man and mentioned that she’d never been to a game. He insisted on correcting that “defect” in her Americanness immediately, and they’d spent a Sunday afternoon baking in the warm San Diego sun. She still didn’t like baseball, but being at the game with him had been the most fun she’d had in years. They’d argued playfully all day.

  Much like today. Which had also been one of the most fun days she’d had in years. He was funny and charming, easy to be around, and so sexy he made her eyes hurt. Too many times today it had felt as if they were a couple. It had been the same way five years ago.

  He put down the enormous roll loaded with sauerkraut, mustard, and some kind of weird curry ketchup and gave her a look of acute disappointment that hadn’t lessened any in five years. “Anyone who eats a hot dog at a Padres game when there are s
ome of the best fish tacos to be had doesn’t deserve an answer.”

  She made a face. “I told you, I’m not big on fish or on Mexican food—except for nachos.”

  He gave her a long, hard look. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that, but plastic cheese sauce isn’t Mexican food. Nor is Taco Bell, which, knowing your teenage-boy eating tendencies, is probably what you are basing your judgment on.” She rolled her eyes even though he was pretty much right. She knew better than to get him on a discussion of Mexican food, which he considered God’s gift to the planet. “But to answer your question, there is a vast difference between a fresh brat and a hot dog—namely discernible meat. By the time those things are emulsified and processed, God only knows what you are eating.”

  “Who cares? They taste good.” She dipped a fried potato wedge—cooked with bacon—in the weird ketchup and popped it in her mouth to emphasize her point and smiled.

  He shook his head, apparently giving up on her lack of a palate. “Finish your fried chicken, Brittany, so we can go on more rides before the park closes.”

  They’d spent the morning at the Viking Ship Museum in Roskilde, and then they’d visited the National Museum of Denmark in the afternoon before walking to the famous Tivoli Gardens, one of the oldest amusement parks in the world.

  It was a magical place, and she hadn’t been surprised at all when John had told her Walt Disney had once visited and had used it as inspiration for Disneyland. The better word might be “modeled,” as there were so many parts of the park that looked a lot like the Anaheim theme park. They were eating dinner at the Biergarten restaurant that was next to the Bjergbanen Mountain Coaster, which bore a distinct resemblance to the Matterhorn Bobsleds.

  “It’s not fried chicken,” she said. “It’s schnitzel.” Which was obviously much healthier. “And I’m not leaving without dessert. You can’t eat in an Austrian restaurant and not try the strudel.”

  “Is that a rule?”

  “If it’s not, it should be.”

  He smiled. “For once, when it comes to food, we agree on something. Apple strudel is one of my favorites.”

  She realized just how much of a favorite after he devoured his and then finished off the second half of hers. The chef, a seventy-plus-year-old Austrian woman, overheard him complimenting the waiter and came out to accept the praise in person. This precipitated a good ten-minute conversation about the proper way to make a true Viennese apple strudel.

  “How does an American know so much about strudel?” the chef asked, her rosy cheeks dimpling.

  He didn’t correct her assumption that they were American. “It was one my mother’s favorites.”

  “Did she have family from Austria?”

  Brittany suspected that the woman was getting ready to whisk him away if the answer was yes. Alas, Brittany wouldn’t be getting rid of him that easily. John shook his head. “No. Her family was Danish. They were from a town not far from here.”

  Brittany stilled, her heart jamming in her chest. Was that why they were here? She’d thought they’d ended up in Copenhagen by chance, but had he picked it for a reason?

  She stared at him. Almost as if he knew what she was thinking, he wouldn’t look in her direction.

  It wasn’t until they were walking out of the restaurant that she asked him about it. “I was wondering how you knew so much about Copenhagen. Were you here before with your mom?”

  He shook his head. “No. She never had the chance. But it was her dream to come here one day.” He smiled. “She used to read guidebooks cover to cover. We talked about doing a trip together after I graduated from SC.”

  Brittany knew his mother hadn’t lived that long. She’d been diagnosed with a vicious form of breast cancer when John was a senior in high school. He’d missed so much school to stay by her bedside that he probably shouldn’t have graduated, but his teachers had taken pity on him. He’d passed, but barely.

  His mom had died a few months after she was diagnosed. John had to live with his water polo coach and his coach’s wife for the remainder of his senior year, as he didn’t have any other immediate family.

  Brittany had asked him about his father when he’d told her about his mom. It was the first time she’d ever seen him angry. He’d said his father was a selfish bastard and a walking cliché who’d left them to marry his twenty-two-year-old secretary when John was nine years old. He was on his fourth wife now and had three other kids whom John had never met.

  He’d played his father’s abandonment and mother’s death off as no big deal, but Brittany knew otherwise. She knew what it was like to be orphaned at a young age. It must have been difficult to go off to college alone. What had he done during holidays? She’d at least had her aunt and uncle. And Brandon. Though they hadn’t seen much of each other in those days—or the days after—she’d always known he was there.

  Brittany had never had the courage to ask John about where he’d gone during the off times during college, as she suspected he would think she felt sorry for him. Maybe he was right. But her heart had gone out to him anyway.

  She’d been touched that he’d confided in her about his mom at all. As much as he talked and enjoyed being the center of attention, John actually didn’t say much about himself. That he’d shared something so personal with her meant something.

  She suspected that despite his matter-of-fact, no-big-deal, everyone-has-shit-to-deal-with attitude, his mother’s death was a painful subject for him that he tried to block out or not think about at all. Maybe that was how he was able to move on—by pretending it didn’t happen.

  In other words, she’d convinced herself that beneath the outwardly “no big deal” exterior, things did matter to him. His mom. Brandon and the other guys on the team. Her.

  At least that’s what she’d thought until that day on the beach. But what if she’d been right in the beginning and he did care?

  “Is this your first time here?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  She tried to stop her heart from squeezing, but it wasn’t easy. She told herself it didn’t necessarily mean anything that he’d chosen to visit his mother’s special place with her, but she couldn’t make herself believe it was a coincidence that they’d just ended up in Copenhagen. They could have stopped anywhere in Scandinavia.

  What did it mean?

  It meant that if she didn’t get a grip, she was going to find herself headed down a dangerous path again.

  She had to stop inventing feelings for him and just enjoy the moment because she didn’t delude herself: John Donovan was not long-term material. As soon as it was safe, he would walk out of her life and not look back.

  She couldn’t forget that, no matter how special he made her feel. That was his superpower. That was why women were drawn to him.

  With a broad smile that might have been a little forced, she turned to him. “Which ride next? And if you say the roller coaster, you are riding by yourself. You crushed me every time we went around a curve.”

  He returned her smile, seemingly glad to be back on playful-not-serious ground again. “You can’t fight the laws of physics, Brit.”

  “He who has more body mass wins?”

  He laughed. “Exactly. Want to compare muscles?”

  She rolled her eyes. She didn’t need any reminders. She had a feeling every one of those muscles was going to be imprinted in her mind for a very long time. “No, thanks, but next time remind me to finish my dessert.”

  * * *

  • • •

  The problem with John doing his best impression of Rick Steves was that not only was he running them ragged by exploring every inch of this pretty damned incredible city, but he was also spending way too much time with her—which wasn’t good.

  He’d forgotten how easy it was to be around her. How much he liked to be around her. How good she was at giving it back to him. />
  What he hadn’t forgotten was how it felt to have her under him. To be inside her. To have her fingertips digging into the muscles of his shoulders and arms. The soft little cries she’d made in his ear as she came. The taste of butterscotch melting in his mouth.

  The first night after they’d closed down Tivoli Gardens, they’d returned to their hotel room and collapsed on the beds. The twin beds. She’d looked so relieved by the new sleeping arrangements that he almost regretted talking to the front desk. The rest of the time she seemed so indifferent to him, it was driving him nuts.

  Because he sure as hell wasn’t indifferent to her.

  It had taken everything he had to stay in his own bed that night. He wanted her, and that wanting wasn’t going away. It was getting stronger. He’d been awake most of the night reminding himself of why it was a bad idea to screw around with his dead best friend’s sister, and that if he were alive, Brand would kill him for even considering it. Although if Brand were alive, John would probably already be dead for having done it the first time.

  Day two had been pretty much a rinse and repeat—which only made that wanting worse. They’d been sightseeing all day. Initially she’d balked, claiming she needed to find an Internet café to do some work. But he’d distracted her with mermaids and palaces. Hans Christian Andersen’s Little Mermaid statue in Langelinie Park and Kronborg Castle, made famous in Hamlet, to be specific. Afterward, they’d walked around the colorful buildings that lined the canal at Nyhavn and had dinner at one of the waterfront restaurants.

  He was having so much fun that he forgot it was only a distraction. She, however, hadn’t forgotten a damned thing. While he was lingering over his wine, reluctant to end the day by returning to their beds—their separate beds—her mind was still on one track.