Out of Time

by Monica McCarty

  But if that was true, coming out would be the safest thing for them.

  Scott watched Colt’s face. His expression didn’t give anything away, but Scott could guess what he was thinking. “You think there’s more to it?”

  Colt met his gaze for the first time since learning that he was Kate’s brother. “I think it’s worth not jumping to any conclusions too quickly. Not until we know all the facts.”

  Ironic advice coming from Colt, given his conclusions about Kate and Scott.

  “Which could be easier to find out with help from the inside,” Scott pointed out. He was close to his direct superior in the chain of command, the commander of SEAL Team Nine, Mark Ryan. Scott wasn’t looking forward to explaining why they hadn’t come to him right away.

  Colt guessed the direction of his thoughts. He didn’t have much regard for the brass in general. “Ryan might be your friend, but he’s an officer first, and he’ll do his duty even if he doesn’t like it.”

  The same thing could be said about Scott. Once. But look at him now: scruffy, AWOL, and definitely not by the book, unless it was called How to Look Like a Lowlife. He didn’t even recognize himself.

  “What are you getting at, Colt?” Kate asked.

  “The government is going to be looking for someone to blame, and right now that’s Taylor. They’ll want to know exactly what and how much he told her.”

  Scott felt his spine go ramrod stiff and his shoulders turn just as rigid. Blood surged through his veins at a boil. “It sounds as if you are accusing me of something, Wesson.” Colt didn’t shy away from Scott’s fury. Scott looked around the table at the other blank faces staring at him. “Is that what you all think?” He swore. “I didn’t tell her a damned thing!”

  The sound of his voice reverberated in the oval room, shaking the floor-to-ceiling windows, which were there to take advantage of the river view.

  Suddenly memories came back to him. Images. Snippets of conversation and clumsy questions when they were lying naked and twisted in the sheets after she’d just brought him to his knees for the God-knew-how-many-eth time.

  When he was at his weakest.

  “I heard there is trouble brewing in Syria again. . . .”

  When all of his defenses had been shattered.

  “You’ll tell me when you have to leave . . . and when you’ll be back?”

  When she’d fucked every ounce of sense from his head—both of them. The one he was supposed to think with, and the one that had been at her mercy from the first moment he’d seen her at that Capitol Hill bar.

  Unlike most Teamguys, bars weren’t stomping grounds for him. He didn’t do drunken hookups or one-night stands.

  But he’d made an exception that night. An accidental bump—at least he’d thought it was accidental—that led to a drink, a flirty conversation that had gotten closer and closer until somehow their lips were touching, and a scorching kiss that had lit his blood on fire. They’d barely made it out of the cab and into his hotel room before her legs were wrapped around his waist, and he was sinking into her for the first time. The first of many times that night.

  His face heated with some of that pounding blood. How could he have been so stupid? How could he not have seen it?

  He’d been too damned bewitched by tilted green cat eyes, long fluttery lashes, pouty red lips, high, sharp cheekbones, long, tousled blond hair, and a body that could have sold sexy lingerie to a Mennonite.

  But it hadn’t just been her beauty that had attracted him. She was smart and knew it. She’d walked into the bar with the cool confidence of a woman who knew she could handle anyone in the room—man or woman—and that had been freaking irresistible.

  Which, of course, was the point. She’d been chosen to deceive and entrance. And like a damned glutton he’d taken a dive right into the honey.

  Over and over. He hadn’t been able to get enough of her. He’d been utterly captivated, out of his mind with lust, and, for the first time in his life, head over heels in love.

  As much as he hated to admit any of that, it was the damned truth. And he’d own it, even if it made him the world’s biggest sucker.

  But he wasn’t a complete fool. He’d never forgotten his job or what that meant. He hadn’t told her a damned thing about what he did or where he went. He’d never told her anything that could be considered confidential or secret. His job was everything to him; he’d be damned if he’d let her take that from him, too.

  Whatever information she’d passed on, it hadn’t come from him, and he dared anyone at the table to suggest otherwise.

  Colt didn’t seem inclined to argue—a rarity for him. Instead he shrugged. “They won’t believe you even if it is true, and you’ll spend the next few weeks in some small room trying to convince them otherwise.”

  Scott cursed; Colt was right. Scott would be the scapegoat, and proving that he hadn’t told her anything would take some time. Assuming he could persuade them, that is.

  “Wesson is right,” the senior chief agreed. “The way it looks now, they’ll hang you from the nearest rafter first and worry about right or wrong later.”

  “Maybe,” Scott admitted. “But I’m not going to let you and the rest of the team face AWOL or desertion charges just to save my own skin.”

  “I never try to second-guess better minds than mine,” Donovan said sarcastically, referring to command, “but I’d wager that charges against the rest of us will be the last thing on their mind. There’s going to be all kinds of spin going on, but trying to punish us for not coming out right away, given everything that happened?” He shook his head. “No way.”

  “Dynomite is right,” Baylor said. “They won’t be looking at us when they have a nice fat target to aim at.” Aka Scott. “We’re safe. But if you want to avoid time in that small room, you’re better off getting your facts lined up first. Besides,” the grim-faced Texan reminded him, “we’re a team. We do this together, and you aren’t going to be much help to us if you are locked up somewhere or spending all your time defending yourself.”

  “What difference is a few days going to make?” Colt pointed out.

  But Scott still wasn’t convinced. They might be right, but he had a duty as an officer not only to come forward but also to protect his men.

  It was Kate who came up with the solution.

  “How about a compromise?” she said. “My godfather is already involved. We could go to him and get his take. You’ll have technically reported in to someone in the chain of command”—Kate’s godfather, General Thomas Murray, was the vice chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and was one of the handful of people who’d been in the loop about their mission—“but we minimize who knows for a little longer.”

  It was a great suggestion. Two birds with one stone. Scott looked around the table, and the three men nodded their approval.

  Kate made the call.

  She returned a short time later. “He was shocked, but when I explained everything, he agreed with Colt.” She said it in a way that suggested that didn’t happen often. “He thinks you should lay low a little longer. Your survival is miraculous but inconvenient as it makes a delicate political situation with Russia even more precarious. The US is already on the brink of war, and if this comes out it will only get worse. You aren’t going to be popular with those in the administration who don’t want war. Some in the White House will wish that you’d just stayed buried, and the secret of your mission along with you.”

  They all knew that, but somehow hearing it from someone in the general’s position made it much more sobering. Nothing like having your life be an inconvenience.

  “He offered to help in any way he can,” Kate added apologetically, understanding the downer cast by her relayed message. “I told him I would keep him in the loop.”

  Scott nodded. He might take the general up on it. He was determined to do whateve
r he needed to do to clear his name. He might have fallen in love with the wrong woman, but he hadn’t betrayed his country or his men.

  He stood up.

  “Where are you going?” Colt asked.

  “To make some calls. I need to tell Spivak, Miggy, and Travis to hang tight.”

  But not for much longer. One way or another this was going to end soon.

  Scott had no intention of letting Natalie rest in peace. He could kill her for what she’d done. Too bad someone else had gotten to her first.

  Two

  KENSINGTON, VERMONT, NEAR THE CANADIAN BORDER

  This wasn’t good for her paranoia, which admittedly was running on all cylinders already.

  Natalie—no, Jennifer, she reminded herself—pulled the old Yankees ball cap down lower over her brow. But she couldn’t hide completely from the curious glances cast in her direction as she moved around the town center doing her errands.

  She’d known this would happen, which is why she had so many things to do. She’d put off coming to town for as long as she could, but she’d needed supplies from the hardware store, fresh food, and, more imperatively, almond milk for her coffee.

  Done in by millennial taste buds. Wouldn’t that be the height of ridiculousness after everything that had happened the past few months? But Natalie couldn’t hide out at the farm forever, and the stuff in a jar just wasn’t cutting it. Her morning coffee was one of the few small pleasures she had left in life. She was miserable enough without suffering powdered creamer.

  If there was ever a made-for-TV movie about her life—and it certainly cried out for one—she could just see it now:

  Why did you leave the safety of the farm to go into town?

  I needed almond milk for my coffee.

  And the wisecracking handsome detective—they were always handsome—would of course add with just the right hint of sarcasm: And did you pick up avocado for your toast as well?

  Ugh. She’d probably be played by some airhead reality TV blonde, despite the fact that Natalie’s hair was more golden brown now.

  Well, she’d worry about that injustice later. Right now she needed to focus on not doing anything to draw attention to herself. Check that. More attention to herself.

  She’d grown up in a small farming community like this one so she understood the interest. New blood always drew attention. But attention was the one thing she couldn’t afford right now. She needed to keep her head down and blend in until it was time to move on to the next town. This was her fourth in three months, and she wanted it to last longer than a few weeks.

  Natalie finished paying for her groceries, holding her breath as she did every time when the credit card went into the machine. But a few minutes later, she exhaled as the approval came through.

  You are safe. No one is looking for you.

  But three months wasn’t long enough to reassure her that she’d gotten away with it. That she’d gotten away at all.

  She left the store, bags in hand, and sighed with relief. It was amazing how a few errands could feel like a major accomplishment. But they did, and now she could return to her rented farmhouse and avoid the prying, questioning gazes until the next time she needed milk. She’d been able to order most of her supplies online, but fresh grocery delivery hadn’t made its way to this part of Vermont yet.

  Natalie crossed the street to where she’d parked. The market was located in the town’s main shopping mall, which, like many malls in rural communities, had seen better days about thirty years ago. Along with a grocery store and pharmacy (Kensington wasn’t big enough to have a Walmart), there were a couple of restaurants—the ubiquitous pizza place and what appeared to be a Chinese buffet—a gym, and a duty-free shop as the town border to the north was Canada—Quebec, to be specific. The only evidence of the town’s dairy farming base was the small ice-cream shop, boasting “made from local Kensington cows.” Maple and apples, the town’s other traditional industries, had been left off the poster.

  The mall was situated right off Main Street, where she’d found the hardware store and, interestingly, a craft brewery and a small coffee shop that roasted its own beans. These last two businesses hinted at the small organic-and-sustainability-focused businesses that were moving into many of Vermont’s traditional farm communities. Some people disparagingly called the young people who ran them “hipsters,” but she thought that was unfair. Probably because a business along those lines had always been her dream.

  One day, she told herself. In a town just like this. When she was sure no one was looking for her, and she had an identity that no one could connect to Natalie Andersson.

  Rounding out Main Street were the post office and the town’s municipal building, which presumably served as the headquarters for the local government. There wasn’t a police station in town—a bonus, as far as she was concerned—but the volunteer firehouse was at the end of the block.

  Natalie had just finished putting her grocery bags in the trunk of Jennifer’s ten-year-old BMW convertible that she’d retrieved from New Jersey—a car Natalie never would have purchased even if she lived in California, and in Vermont it was just plain silly—when she heard the first notes of a Tchaikovsky waltz that would stop her in her tracks anywhere. It reminded her of her childhood. Her Minnesota childhood. Although Natalie knew now that it probably went deeper than that. Blood deep.

  Not long after she and her sister had come to live in America, her adoptive father had taken her to see The Nutcracker in the city. Not Mankato, which was the biggest city close to where they lived, but to the real big city: Minneapolis.

  Her father had worn his Sunday best and had even put on a tie for the occasion. She’d had a new plaid dress that her adoptive mother had had to coax her into putting on. She’d never had anything so beautiful before, and she couldn’t believe it was for her. The white tights and black patent leather shoes made her feel like a princess.

  But the real magic had begun when she’d heard those first few notes of the overture. When the ballerinas had twirled onto the stage, she’d been absolutely transfixed.

  Only years later did she understand why.

  She’d been just five at the time, but the memory stuck with her because it was the first time she could remember being happy. She’d had so many good memories afterward, but that had been the first. It had seemed to be a demarcation; a line separating the sad past that she wanted to forget and the happy future that she could look forward to. And it had been happy. Perfectly boring, normal, and wonderful. Until four years ago, when another demarcation had sent her life into a tailspin.

  She shook off the memory and let the music take her back. She and her father went to Minneapolis to see the ballet every December until a few years ago when his prior heart attack and worsening diabetes had put an end to car trips. When her sister, Lana, was old enough she and their mother sometimes joined them, too, but the tradition had always been with her father, and they’d never thought of going without him.

  Her heart squeezed as she thought of her family. God, how she missed them. She wondered how Lana was doing. They’d never been apart for this long. But this was how it had to be. She was keeping them safe the only way she could. By being dead.

  Moving toward the source of the music, Natalie realized there was a small glass-front studio a couple of doors down from the hardware store. She smiled, watching the half dozen or so young dancers, ranging in age from about five to sixteen, execute the ballet steps in their classic pink tights and black leotards.

  Their dance teacher was young but obviously a traditionalist. The diminutive brunette with her hair in a bun and also wearing dance clothes barked out corrections with the authority of an old general as the girls moved around the room with varying levels of success.

  The teacher looked at the door impatiently and caught Natalie’s gaze, causing her to start.

  Frowning, the t
eacher headed toward her at the same moment as Natalie turned to leave, realizing what she was doing. Staring at young girls through a window was probably not the best way for a stranger to go unnoticed.

  Natalie took one step toward her car when she heard a door slam and a car drive off. A moment later, she saw a flash of pink and black as a young girl who was obviously late for class came racing around the corner toward her. She took the curb with a graceful, well-executed leap that was only ruined when she landed on a wet pack of leaves (it rained a lot in Vermont, with August being the wettest month) and her ballet slipper–clad feet slid out from under her.

  The girl would have landed hard on her backside if Natalie hadn’t reacted quickly. She heard a cry that she assumed came from the teacher as Natalie lurched forward and caught the girl in her arms. Or mostly caught the girl in her arms as Natalie came down hard herself on the sidewalk.

  “Oh my God,” the teacher said, helping the girl off her. “Are you okay?”

  Natalie peeled her skinned forearms and knees off the sidewalk and came to her feet with only a slight wobble. “I’m fine.”

  Mostly. The scrapes on her arms and knees—of course she had to be wearing shorts (in addition to rainy, August was also warm)—weren’t going to feel too good later. But they weren’t bleeding too heavily. Just lots of rocks and dirt with a few spiderweb lines of red.

  “Samantha, apologize to this poor woman!”

  The girl who was slight and older than Natalie initially thought at about eleven or twelve if the braces were any indication, turned to her with wide eyes. She looked stunned and on the verge of tears. “I’m sorry. I was practicing my dance in my head and didn’t see the leaves.”

  “You should have been practicing the dance in the studio,” the teacher said sternly. “You are late again. What did I warn you about last week?”

  The glimmer of tears in the girl’s big brown eyes grew thicker. “But it wasn’t my fault. My dad got a call on the way and we had to stop and check on Miss Mabel’s barn. The lock she put on it was cut off, and she found beer cans again.”