Off the Grid

by Monica McCarty

  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, grabbed him 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 trying to discredit her or get the jump on her story. The attack in Norway was what Brittany initially thought it had been: an attempted mugging.

  She didn’t know whether to be disappointed or happy. No one was trying to kill her, but neither were she and John any closer to finding out who was responsible for setting up Team Nine and killing her brother.

  She had one more idea, but she knew John wasn’t going to like it.

  Twenty-four

  “No.” John was furious even at the suggestion. Brittany had waited until after they’d gotten back to her apartment and he’d called the LC to fill him in on what had happened to spring her “idea” on him. “What I told you was in confidence. You swore that you wouldn’t print anything.”

  “I said I wouldn’t print anything that you told me,” she said. “And I won’t, but I think you should listen and think about it before you say no. It could be a way to shake things up and see what comes loose.”

  John couldn’t believe it. He’d thought she understood. He’d told her the information in confidence. He didn’t want to hear her rationale, even if it made some sense.

  Although the LC had Kate helping them, a full-scale investigation from a “leak” could lead to an answer much faster. And even though the LC didn’t think they could trust anyone, John could think of plenty he would trust with his life—including Colt Wesson, Kate’s ex-husband and John’s ex-chief.

  But it wasn’t just his life; it was the lives of the five other men who’d survived with him. And it wasn’t his call to make.

  “It could also put a target on my head.” Not to mention the other survivors.

  “I don’t have to say there were survivors. But I could say that it looked like a setup. That the Russians knew you were coming. It might start an investigation.”

  “No, damn it! You aren’t going to say anything!”

  John didn’t realize he was shouting until she took a step back and looked up at him with a wounded expression on her face that made him want to crawl out of his own skin. “It was only an idea. I was trying to help. But if you don’t want me to say anything about what you told me, I won’t.”

  “I don’t want you to say anything at all.”

  She didn’t respond. But he knew. He fucking knew. “You’re still planning to write another story, aren’t you? I can’t believe it. After everything that just happened?”

  “But that’s just it. Nothing just happened. I’m not in any danger. What happened at my apartment and in Norway had nothing to do with you. I can’t put this aside.”

  “Yes, you can. Very easily. You just don’t write the damn story. Simple.”

  “This is my job, John, and I owe it to my brother to uncover the truth and see that who is responsible is punished.”

  “So this is all about lofty ideals? It doesn’t have anything to do with you making a name for yourself? Or maybe I should say remaking a name for yourself. This is a great story. It would do a lot to get back some of your lost credibility. You’ve already used intel you saw on that doc in Brand’s room.”

  She flushed with anger. And maybe a little guilt. “I explained about that. It was already a not-very-well-kept secret.”

  “But you made it not a secret. How do I know you won’t rationalize the same thing with what I told you?”

  She looked struck—and hurt. As if the accusation had wounded her. “I would never betray your trust. You should know that.”

  “What I know is that you have a one-track mind when it comes to uncovering ‘the truth’ and that nothing else matters when you think you are onto something. But you’ve let your search for justice for the people who are dead interfere with the living. First with your parents and Brand and now with me. You are so busy looking behind you that you don’t think about what you are doing. Not all cover-ups are bad cover-ups. Sometimes there are things more important than the truth.”

  She was clearly furious. “You have no idea what you are talking about.”

  “I know a hell of a lot more than you do. You were wrong to turn your back on Brand. You should have trusted him.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He shouldn’t have said anything. “Nothing.” But he couldn’t leave it there. “Sometimes justice isn’t meted out right away. Sometimes it takes longer.”

  “Like the justice for my parents? I’m still waiting for that, John, and it’s been twelve years. And while you’re lecturing me about living in the past, what about you? At least I care about something and don’t mind showing it. Your mom died and you acted as if it were no big deal. Just like you did with Brandon and the others you lost in Russia. Just another day at the office, right, Johnny?”

  A flash of white heat shot through him as fierce and riveting as a lightning bolt. He stiffened. “Don’t try to psychoanalyze me, Brittany. You aren’t my—” He stopped.

  But she guessed what he’d been about to say. Girlfriend. Wife. Someone who had a right to intrude.

  He hadn’t said it, but that didn’t seem to matter. She looked just as crushe
d as if he had.

  “Me, try to get inside the great John Donovan’s head? I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  He didn’t like her sarcasm, but he also knew he’d better put a stop to this before they both said something they would regret.

  He sat on the couch, trying to calm down. It had been a shit night. He’d been so certain the apartment and attack in Norway were related. But now they were back to square one, and he was still . . . lost.

  But he might not be for much longer if he didn’t convince her to put her story aside.

  “Look, Brit. I know you think you have a duty, but what about your duty not to inflame an already precarious situation? The US and Russia are teetering on the edge of war. Do you really want to be the one to push us into it? I’ve been there once. I don’t have any interest in going back anytime soon.” He looked over to where she stood by the kitchen table and met her gaze squarely. “I’m not asking you to put it aside forever. I’m just asking you to be patient for a little longer.” He paused. “For me.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Brittany couldn’t believe he was doing this. He was trying to manipulate her. If not with guilt for inciting a war, then with her feelings for him.

  “You don’t have any idea what you are asking.”

  “I know exactly what I’m asking.”

  “You want me to bury another government cover-up and let my brother’s death be swept aside just as my parents’ were.” Because you know how much I care about you. “You want me to ignore my job and the story of a lifetime. Yes, a story that could give me my career back. I’m a journalist, John—as much as you are a SEAL. Searching for the truth, uncovering secrets, holding the government accountable . . . this is exactly the kind of story that I went into this business to write. It’s what I’ve devoted my life to.”

  “Too much of your life, from what I can see.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Look at this place. There’s hardly anything personal around. And didn’t you say something about a pet?”

  She flushed. Even if that were true, he had no right to comment. “You are one to talk. You’ve devoted your life to being a SEAL just as much as I’ve devoted my life to my job. What if I asked you to put it all aside for me?”

  “This is different. My job isn’t going to get you killed.”

  “But your job could get you killed.” He didn’t bite, but she could tell he didn’t appreciate her flip response. “No one is looking for you right now, John. No one knows you are alive. My articles haven’t changed that. You are asking me to put aside everything I’ve believed in and forgo justice for yet another family member’s death.” She paused. “What you are asking isn’t fair. If you cared about me, if you loved me as I love you, you would understand that and would never ask this.”

  I love you. She hadn’t meant to say it; it just sort of slipped out. So much for not rushing things. But for her it wasn’t rushed at all. It was the realization of what had been growing between them five years ago and had reached full maturation over the past ten days that they’d been together.

  But it didn’t take her long to regret the words. His reaction was every bit as horrible as she might have imagined. Instant discomfort. Avoiding her gaze. Something like panic in his. And mentally racing for the door. All that was missing was a cold sweat.

  It was just like last time. She might have been standing in that second-floor bedroom of the beach house he shared with her brother, having her heart ripped to shreds all over again. But this time was worse. This time she’d thought . . .

  No. She stopped herself. She hadn’t been all wrong. He did care about her.

  Just not enough.

  But it turned out that being partially right didn’t stop her chest from feeling as if an elephant had just stomped on it.

  She couldn’t stand the silence, so she rushed to cover it. “But I guess that’s hypothetical, right?” She tried to smile, but it came out wobbly. “That was rhetorical. I don’t expect you to say anything. You didn’t do anything wrong. You never made me any promises. I get it. You don’t need to go find a set of twins again to prove it to me.”

  The joke fell flat. But he finally seemed to come out of his daze. He stood and reached for her, snagging her arm before she could spin away. “Look. I care about you. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  Then don’t.

  But if he heard her silent plea, he didn’t answer it.

  To hell with playing it safe. She couldn’t take the words back. She might as well deal with them. “What are we doing here, John?”

  “I’m trying to keep you safe.”

  She’d always thought the dagger-through-the-heart thing was just a romantic metaphor. Too flowery. Way too silly for a serious writer like herself. But she felt it now. Digging sharp and deep. Words could cut.

  That was what this was about to him. Keeping her safe. And, apparently, keeping her quiet. She’d been building a relationship, while he’d been fulfilling some kind of duty.

  She sucked in her breath sharply. The answer obvious. She should have known. “Let me guess. Brandon made you promise to watch over me if anything ever happened to him.”

  * * *

  • • •

  John had finally recovered enough from the shock of the “L” word to realize that this conversation was in a nosedive, and if he didn’t do something to pull himself out of it soon, it was heading for a death spiral.

  “No . . . well . . . yes. But that isn’t why—”

  She stopped him. “Forget it. You don’t need to explain. I get it.”

  Clearly she didn’t. But how could he explain? He was here for Brand, but he was also here for himself. He reached for her, cupping the side of her face with his hand and forcing her to look at him. The pad of his thumb slid over her bottom lip in a tender caress. “I care about you, Brit. And I don’t want to hurt you, but I can’t make any more promises than that.”

  She pulled away. “Then don’t.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t hurt me any more. I’m not in any danger. You kept your promise to my brother. You don’t need to stay here anymore. Leave before it gets worse.”

  Wait. That wasn’t what he wanted.

  She read his hesitation but misinterpreted it. “If you are worried about keeping me quiet, don’t be. You win. Consider the article buried.”

  Now, that really jellied him. “What?”

  “I won’t publish another Lost Platoon article. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  That was exactly what he wanted. So why did he feel like shit? Why did he feel as if he’d just asked her to cut out her heart and hand it to him on a plate? Why did he feel as if he should never have asked it of her?

  If you loved me . . .

  He felt the walls closing in on him again. As if he were being backed into a corner. But for the first time, he didn’t feel like running.

  He knew that if he ran now, there would be no coming back.

  But Brittany had other ideas. She wasn’t trying to hold on to him; she was trying to force him out the door. Literally. She crossed the room and opened the door. “Go now, John. While your conscience is clear. You’ve kept your promise. But if you stick around, you might not be able to say the same.”

  But maybe he would. Maybe he wouldn’t end up hurting her at all. Maybe he would make her promises and keep them.

  Was maybe enough?

  “Leave before it gets worse.”

  He was hurting her. And without the justification of protecting her, he didn’t really have an excuse to stick around any longer.

  Had it all been an excuse? Had he overreacted to what he’d seen in Norway? Seen danger that wasn’t there because of who she was?

  He didn’t know anymore. And after the war party they’d mobilized tonight, and t
he risk of discovery that he’d taken, it felt as if his senses had let him down. Not getting emotionally invested was the only way he could do his job.

  He needed to do what he always did: put it aside—put her aside—and move on.

  Except he didn’t want to.

  “Johnny, you’re going to break some poor girl’s heart one day.” He could still hear the sadness in his mom’s voice when some girl in high school was calling him all the time. He knew what she was thinking. That he was like his old man. Even his mom who’d loved him more than anything had seen it.

  Without more to offer, was that fair to Brittany?

  He knew the answer. With one last look, he walked out of the apartment. “I’m sorry.”

  “I know.”

  And then the door closed, and it was too late to wonder if he’d made a mistake.

  Twenty-five

  It wasn’t supposed to happen that way. He wasn’t supposed to leave.

  But you asked him to. You practically pushed him out the door. You played the noble card and he took it. Why are you surprised?

  For all his ladies’ man reputation, Brittany knew John Donovan was an inherently decent guy. When faced with a choice between hurting her more or hurting her less, he was going to take the less.

  She’d asked him to give her a guarantee when there weren’t any. Love didn’t come with guarantees. It came with hard work and commitment. It came with understanding and patience.

  It came with trust.

  None of which she’d showed him. Instead, she’d given him an ultimatum: tell me you love me and will never hurt me or go. So he’d gone. What had she expected?

  She’d wanted everything wrapped up. But life didn’t come with pretty bows. It came with snags and tears and knots. Sometimes lots of knots that needed to be untangled.