Going Dark

by Monica McCarty

Of course it had. There wasn’t any other option, and he never wasted time worrying about things he couldn’t change. He dealt in hard truths all the time. Accept and move on.

  He punched in the numbers on the keypad and waited. It didn’t take long. The LC answered on the second ring.

  Taylor waited for Dean to speak first. It was part of the code they’d worked out to ensure that nothing had been compromised.

  “Johnson’s plumbing?”

  The dick euphemism had lost its humor quickly, but a code was a code.

  “This better be fucking good, Tex,” the LC said. “And not be another one of your damned calls about how this is all a waste of time—”

  “It isn’t.” Although anticipating Taylor’s reaction, Dean wished it were. “I’ve run into some trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  The brown-haired, green-eyed, drop-dead-gorgeous, “just made me see stars” kind.

  Already hearing the suspicion in the LC’s voice and knowing he was about to get an ass-chewing, Dean knew he had to just bite the bullet. It wasn’t like him to prevaricate anyway. But he and the LC had never really gotten along—even before the mess with Colt Wesson and his wife. Had the LC really messed around with Kate? It didn’t seem to fit with Taylor’s by-the-book, aboveboard personality, but who the hell knew?

  Dean and the LC were like two bulls in the same china shop, and they often went head-to-head on things. The difference was that Dean was usually confident that he was in the right. But he’d fucked up, and he knew it. He’d compromised their cover, and for someone who prided himself on being a professional—always—that was hard to take.

  “The involved-in-an-ecoterrorist-plot-and-murder-charge kind of trouble,” Dean said.

  Dead silence followed for a good thirty seconds. It was a little bit like waiting for a punch in the face.

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Tell me you are fucking kidding me.”

  “I wish I were.” Dean explained about the charter to the drillship, about finding the explosives, and how the terrorists had pulled a gun on him when he was trying to leave.

  “So you killed them?”

  “No. They were alive when I left the ship. I suspect the leader was able to free himself and killed the others to cover up the crime and blame it on us before the coast guard arrived.”

  Us. Shit. He’d slipped, and it was too much to hope that the LC wouldn’t pick up on it.

  “Don’t tell me you are still with the girl?”

  Dean could practically hear the LC’s blood boiling over the phone.

  “Let me guess. She’s blond with blue eyes and a nice-sized rack?”

  Dean would object if that didn’t pretty much size up his normal hookups to a tee. But there wasn’t anything about Annie that was normal. Well, maybe one out of the three, but he would use the word “exceptional.”

  “She’s attractive”—understatement—“but that doesn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “You can’t be that effing stupid—or hard up. You know what’s at stake.”

  “I couldn’t leave her there. She could have been killed.”

  “Fine. So why didn’t you drop her off at the first place you could when it was safe?”

  Good question. That was exactly what Dean should have done. But then she’d looked at him with those big eyes and the steel in his resolve had turned to fucking putty. “They set her up and made it look like she was in on it. I told her I’d help her clear it up with the police.”

  “And how the hell do you plan to do that? You can’t let anyone know you survived that blast.”

  Taylor didn’t think they could trust anyone. Whatever the warning message the LC had received before the missile exploded had said, it had spooked him and made him certain that they’d been set up. But when Dean pressed him, he’d refused to say anything more. He was protecting someone.

  Dean listened to the LC tear him a new one for a good two minutes, before he finally told him what he wanted. “I want you to call Kate.”

  The dead silence this time wasn’t as long, but it was a hell of a lot more ominous. The LC’s fury was almost palpable. As was the one-word response. “No.”

  “If you don’t, I will,” Dean said.

  They’d all been friends at one time, although Dean and the LC had never been particularly close. Dean didn’t know the exact details of what had gone down in the breakup of the Wesson marriage—nor did he want to—but it had been bad. Dean had sided with Colt in the whole fiasco. Whether they’d slept together, Dean didn’t know, but clearly they’d gotten too close. And wives were off-limits. Period. But he had to work with Taylor. By unwritten rule he and the LC hadn’t mentioned Kate or Colt since Colt left. An unwritten rule that Dean had just broken.

  But he’d been patient too long. Although he wasn’t as ready to see conspiracy theories as the LC, he’d given Taylor time to see what he could discover. But it had become patently clear that they weren’t going to be able to figure it out themselves. They needed someone on the inside. Someone in a position to help them. Kate was CIA but didn’t have anything to do with the navy or Special Operations. She was perfect.

  “The hell you will,” Taylor spat out. “You aren’t contacting anyone. That’s a fucking order, Baylor.”

  That the LC had violated his own rule about saying their names over phone lines spoke to the level of his anger.

  “Right now you aren’t in any position to be issuing orders,” Dean said bluntly. “We’re pretty far off the reservation with all this.”

  Annie would probably object to . . . Fuck. Now she was making him think about how he talked. It was just a phrase, damn it. Whatever the original context, it was part of the vernacular. Not everything had to be overanalyzed.

  Which was exactly what he was doing.

  Shit.

  “This is still my operation, and I’m still your fucking commander.”

  Dean didn’t say anything, but they both knew there was nothing regulation about what they’d done. Operation White Night had ended the moment they ditched their gear in that fire. They were on their own. AWOL.

  But he wasn’t going to press. Dean had been a SEAL for too long not to have a healthy respect for authority and the command structure, and AWOL or not, they were still a team. They needed to work together if they were going to get out of this. But the LC was intent on doing it on his own. He didn’t want to risk any more lives when too many had been lost already.

  “Look,” Dean said, trying to strike a “let’s be reasonable” tone, which admittedly was a stretch for him. “This is too big. You can’t do this on your own. We aren’t any closer to finding out what happened than we were two months ago. We need someone on the inside.”

  The LC took too long to respond.

  Dean guessed why. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “I don’t know if it’s anything yet.”

  “I’ve been sitting with my thumb up my ass, looking for nonexistent subs, for weeks, and you’ve been fucking holding back on me?”

  “I wanted to be sure.”

  Dean could hear the LC’s defensiveness. For good reason. The lone-wolf shit had to stop. That wasn’t how SEALs operated. “Sure of what?”

  “I’ve been looking for motive. If someone betrayed us—”

  “If,” Dean reminded him. He still didn’t want to believe someone would do that. But he couldn’t ignore the fact that the Russians had known they were coming, and that someone on the inside had been able to warn Taylor. That ruled out a mistake on the platoon’s part and made the Russians having figured it out on their own unlikely. Possible, but unlikely. The easiest explanation was that someone on their side had betrayed them. But that was hard to accept. But the inescapable truth was that someone had wanted them dead, and they had to find out who and why before they surfaced.
Not only because of the danger they might still be in, but also because it was easier to find out information when no one thought they were looking.

  “If,” the LC acknowledged. “There had to be a reason. And for something like this, the reason would have to be pretty damned big.”

  Dean agreed. Big enough to sacrifice an entire fucking platoon of Navy SEALs.

  “I came up with four possibilities,” Taylor continued. “We saw something we shouldn’t have on a previous mission, revenge for something we’ve done—God knows we’ve pissed a lot of people off—espionage or money.”

  “You think someone sold us out?”

  “It’s one possibility. I’ve been researching everyone who knew where we were to see if I could find anything in their backgrounds that might be relevant.”

  “No undercover Russian nationals?”

  The LC gave a dry laugh. “Not so easy, I’m afraid. But did you know that Admiral Morrison’s wife filed for divorce recently? Apparently the rear admiral has an Internet gambling problem.”

  “How did you find that out?”

  “Social media. People really need to get a clue about privacy settings. The missus used her maiden name, but it wasn’t hard to track down her posts on various gambling anonymous sites. Apparently it’s bad, and they were in enormous debt. But around two months ago her posts stopped.”

  Dean didn’t believe it. He’d known Ronald Morrison for too long. He’d been in charge of Group One when Dean joined. “Selling out an entire platoon of SEALs to Russia to cover gambling debts? That’s a huge stretch, and you know it.”

  “I didn’t say otherwise. But it’s something.”

  “And even more reason to contact Kate. She can help. She has resources and contacts that you and I don’t. She can clear up this mess in Scotland, and help find out whether there is something to what you’ve found out.” Dean paused. “Don’t you trust her?”

  “Of course I trust her. But I don’t want her involved.”

  Dean understood. He was trying to protect her. “Kate can take care of herself. She was married to Colt, for Christ’s sake.” He was beginning to recognize the silence. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  Was Kate his person on the inside? Taylor had sworn she wasn’t.

  “She’s dead.”

  “Who’s dead?”

  “The person who sent me the text.”

  Dean’s stomach sank. Fuck. “When? How?”

  “A few days after the missile.”

  “And you didn’t fucking say anything? How could you keep something like that to yourself?”

  Silence for a moment. Then, “It’s complicated.”

  Dean was furious. It sure as hell was. This put an entirely new spin on everything; he finally understood why the LC was so certain that they’d been betrayed. “What the hell else are you holding back?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You going to tell me who this woman was?”

  Pause. “It isn’t important now.”

  There was something in his voice that stopped Dean from pressing. For now. “We need help, Scott. Someone we can trust. If there’s someone you trust more than Kate—”

  “There isn’t. Fine. You win. I’ll call her. You happy now?”

  Dean didn’t say anything. This time it was his silence that gave the LC time to think.

  “What is this girl to you, Tex?”

  “Nothing.”

  It was harsh, but true. It couldn’t be any other way.

  Besides, the LC was right. Anyone connected to them could be at risk. Kate could take care of herself; she was CIA. But Annie . . . she was smart and sassy, but she was an idealistic environmental scientist. She wasn’t cut out for this kind of ugly. And Dean had no doubt that before this was all over, it was going to get very ugly.

  • • •

  When Dan found her in the breakfast room and told her he was going to see about finding a windsurf board to “train” with, Annie thought he was taking their cover story a little too far but didn’t try to stop him.

  Maybe he needed some time away to clear his thoughts. God knew, she did.

  He reminded her about not speaking English and left her some money for lunch in case he wasn’t back.

  Too bad she didn’t have her phone. She could use one of those translate apps for Portuguese. At least she would be able to converse with people.

  Wait . . . Was that it? Had he told people she was foreign so she wouldn’t be able to talk to anyone and unwittingly give something away? It sounded like him. Untrusting. Suspicious. Anticipating. Prepared.

  Mr. Boy Scout, all right. The perfect soldier. Sailor, she corrected herself, remembering the conversation she’d had at the bar with Julien.

  Suddenly she remembered the rest of the conversation, and it clicked. Special Forces. If she were a betting woman, she would wager her entire savings (which weren’t insignificant) that Dan had been Special Forces.

  It fit. Though he’d done everything he could to hide it, the signs were all there. Big. Badass. Tough as nails. Secretive. Extreme fighting skills. Invincible, can-do-anything, “I got this” attitude. That unshakable code of duty, honor, “and the American way.”

  The only thing he was missing was the swagger, which she was sure was there but temporarily out of commission.

  She’d seen enough of them to know. She’d been surrounded by the type through most of her childhood with her dad and his friends. At times their living room had felt more like a locker room or frat house than a family home. But her mom had said they acted that way—always teasing, making jokes, screwing around—to release the pressure.

  The tattoo.

  Of course! Rangers had tattoos, and other Special Forces units probably did as well. Was that what it was? Some kind of Special Forces insignia?

  Her heart started to pound. She had to find out.

  But perhaps she could kill two birds with one stone. . . .

  After finishing her breakfast, she thanked the innkeeper in broken English, and then opened and closed her hands—pantomiming a book—to ask about a “biblioteca.” She hoped the word for library in Spanish was close to the one in Portuguese. Although the chances of the innkeeper knowing the difference were pretty slim, as it took her quite a while to figure out what Annie wanted.

  “A library!” the woman finally guessed. “We have a wee one near the ferry terminal. Is that what you’re looking for? Ah, you poor wee thing. You must be bored out of your mind. I’m not sure they’ll have many books there for you to read, but they’ll have a computer.”

  Bingo.

  Annie nodded gratefully, and the woman was off to find her a map. She came back with a tourist booklet and marked the route, although it wasn’t far.

  Annie didn’t waste any time. It was a sunny start to what promised to be a warm day as she walked along the seashore to the port.

  The library was right where it was supposed to be. The long white portable with a flat green roof was on the far side of a complex that housed the primary school and a preschool or day care.

  The innkeeper had written her a note to hand to the librarian, saving Annie from having to act out some more. The woman welcomed Annie and told her to look around all she wanted. If she wanted to borrow anything, she could just leave it with Mrs. Collins—the innkeeper—when she left.

  Annie was no longer surprised by the informality and trusting nature of the locals. It was like that on Tiree—unlocked doors, kids playing out on the street, borrowing a library book even without a card.

  An older man was using the computer terminal, so Annie wrote her name down on the clipboard and headed for the reference section.

  She hit the jackpot. There wasn’t just one—there were two Portuguese dictionaries. One was hardback and definitely more comprehensive, but the other was a beaten-up paperback “
for travelers,” containing English to Portuguese in the front half, and Portuguese to English in the back.

  Her English was about to get a lot better.

  She smiled, already anticipating the look on Dan’s face. He wouldn’t like being outplayed, but Annie had to admit it was fun trying to do so. Mrs. Thompson wasn’t the quiet, barefoot, and pregnant-in-the-kitchen type. Mr. Thompson needed to figure that out.

  Annie poked around a little more, picking up a paperback mystery that took place on the Isle of Lewis that looked interesting, until the older man finished and her name was up.

  It was an ancient PC, something she was used to in university research and with many of the nonprofits she’d worked with. Making sure no one could see the screen while she browsed, she went to work.

  It took her a few tries. “Special Forces tattoo” and “Navy Special Forces tattoo” didn’t come up with much, but when she added the word “Budweiser,” that did it. A nickname for the Navy SEALs trident insignia was “the Budweiser.”

  A little more poking around, though, and she realized that Dan had probably been telling her the truth—it was a Budweiser tattoo. SEALs didn’t get tattoos that would identify them by branch or unit. They were more subtle. One article mentioned tattooing frogs (a reference to the frogmen that had predated SEALs) with numbers or things like that. The Budweiser was no doubt Dan’s tongue-in-cheek play on the insignia.

  It made horrible sense, given his knowledge about diving and his skill with boats.

  Being right didn’t soften the disappointment. He’d gone from not a good idea to no way in hell.

  His defense of her father suddenly took on a new light. A personal light. He’d been defending himself also.

  She was tempted to run to the beach to confront him, but what would that do? It wouldn’t change anything. She already knew he wasn’t for her; now she was only more certain of it. She knew only too well the kind of baggage and scars those guys came with—visible or not—and she had no desire to wade in that cesspool ever again. The memories of finding her father had haunted her for years; she wouldn’t resurrect them. Nor would she take the chance of coming home again one day to find someone she loved with a bullet through the head.