Off the Grid

by Monica McCarty

  “Thanks,” she said briskly, pretending she hadn’t heard the sarcasm. She wouldn’t be drawn in to this kind of back-and-forth. She knew better than to try to match him dig for dig. He would win. His tolerance for cruelty had always been much higher than hers.

  She didn’t blame him. It was how he’d been raised and all he’d known as a child. Lashing out had started as defense and turned to offense. Her mistake was thinking that she could atone for that. He was who he was, and she couldn’t change him. It was hard to remember now why she’d ever wanted to try.

  But it hadn’t always been bad. For a while it had been very, very good. And he wasn’t always hard and unapproachable like this. At times he’d let down his guard and let her in a little. But when things got tough those times hadn’t been enough to hang on to. Eventually, they’d disappeared completely.

  Their differences went from the insignificant—he drank whiskey from a bottle; she liked an occasional glass of chilled white wine—to the fundamental. She’d wanted a family; he didn’t. She’d wanted to work; he’d wanted a wife who’d be waiting for him when he got home from his long deployments. She’d wanted him to talk about what was bothering him; he’d wanted to keep it inside and hang out with people who understood—i.e., not his wife.

  They’d been doomed from the start. Add the stress of his job as a SEAL . . . He’d pushed her so far away, by the time she’d gone to San Diego to tell him about the baby—the baby he didn’t want—she felt like she barely knew him.

  “So, what do you want, Kate?”

  “I found something,” she said, handing him a file she pulled from her oversized purse.

  He didn’t take it. “What is it?”

  “A list of everyone in the chain of command, as well as anyone who might have had access to information about the mission.”

  He gave her an indifferent “why should I care about this?” look. “So?”

  “I think I found something, and I need you to help me check it out.”

  He shook his head, refusing to take the file. “Can’t. Wheels up tomorrow at 0800.”

  How many times had she heard something similar? It was the story of their marriage. She needed him and he was gone or shipping out.

  But she knew all about this trip to Russia; it was why she was here. She had to stop him.

  After Colt had shown up at her house and told her about Scott being killed, Kate had been devastated and had agreed to put Colt in touch with her godfather. But that was before she’d received the phone call from Scott. He wasn’t dead. He was in hiding and convinced that Retiarius had been set up. He’d asked for her help to find out by whom.

  Aside from the five other survivors, Kate was the only person who knew that not all of the platoon had been killed in Russia. Scott didn’t trust anyone. For good reason. The woman who’d warned him and saved the lives of six men had been killed.

  Whatever Kate’s personal feelings toward Colt, he was an exceptional operator and undoubtedly had connections and resources that could help. Retiarius had been his family—much more so than her. But Scott had been adamant that she not confide in Colt, given his hatred toward Scott for what Colt thought they’d done. Scott also didn’t want Colt on their trail, which meant keeping him from going to Russia.

  “If I’m right, you won’t need to go to Russia.” She held the file back out to him. “Come on, it won’t hurt to just look at it.”

  He held her gaze for a moment with a hard intensity that she couldn’t decipher. Did he suspect there was more to this than she was letting on?

  As she’d said, he was one of the best. She knew she would have to be careful. Despite what he thought of her, she’d never been good at deceiving him. Nor did she like it. But after all Scott had done for her, she owed him this. He’d been her friend and confidant when she’d most needed someone, and he’d sacrificed a lot for it, including his friendship with Colt.

  Suspicious or not, Colt took the file.

  Kate was following a couple of leads that Scott had given her, including this one. Rear Admiral Ronald Morrison, the head of Naval Special Warfare Command (which had operational command of Team Nine), apparently had a serious gambling problem, which Scott had discovered when the rear admiral’s wife had taken to social media to vent. The admiral’s dire financial straits—which Kate had set out in the documents she’d just handed Colt—gave him a motive.

  She was also following up on the woman who’d died after warning Scott. He wouldn’t like it, but she was being careful.

  “You think Morrison sold them out?” Colt asked, handing it back to her.

  From his tone, she could tell he didn’t put much credence in it. “I think it’s worth looking into.”

  He didn’t disagree. “Nothing stopping you, but what does this have to do with me?”

  “I want you to talk to him.”

  “Maybe you don’t remember too well, but the rear admiral wasn’t exactly a fan of mine.”

  She remembered. Morrison had briefly been the head of Group One when Team Nine was being formed and Colt had been tapped as a founding member—a plankowner.

  Most officers felt that way about Colt. His methods had never been conventional even when he was a SEAL. Now that he did whatever it was that he did—she didn’t know the details and didn’t want to—she was sure their dislike had only grown worse.

  “I remember, which is partly why I want you there. You know how to make people angry. If you push his buttons a little, maybe he’ll reveal something.”

  “From what I hear, CIA interrogators are plenty good at making people angry. Read any newspapers lately?”

  She refused to bite on his reference to recent scandals within the department of overzealous questioning of prisoners. “You know I’m an analyst. I’ve never interrogated a suspect.”

  He held her gaze, again seemingly trying to assess her sincerity. But whether he believed her or not didn’t matter. He shook his head. “Sorry. I can’t help you out. Everything is already set.”

  She’d expected this, but it still rankled. How many times had she asked him for anything? It had always been the other way around. Her job that had to be sacrificed. Her being the one to have understanding. Her waiting for him to come back from whatever hellhole he’d been sent to, wondering what kind of horrible things he’d done or seen and what kind of black mood he’d be in this time.

  Selfish bastard.

  Well, this time he was going to do something for her. “I don’t think you are sorry at all. I think you don’t want to help because it’s me who is asking. I think you still want to punish me and would refuse even if it meant going on a wild-goose chase to Russia and never finding out the truth.” His expression gave no hint of his thoughts. It was the same dark look he always gave her. “Your plans can be rearranged. There are other transport flights you can hitch a ride on. I’m asking for a week. That’s it. Even if you don’t think you owe me anything, don’t you owe it to your former teammates—your former men—to follow up on a good lead before getting yourself killed?”

  “Is that wishful thinking on your part, your godfather’s part, or both?”

  Finally he’d managed to prick beneath the shield. How could he think that of her? “I never wanted you dead, Colt.” Not even after all the hateful things he’d accused her of—all the words he’d said that could never be taken back: “Too bad the driver didn’t have a few more. He could have saved me a lot of lawyer’s bills.” Even the memory made her ill. “It was the other way around.”

  Still nothing. It was like looking into a black hole with him. It always had been.

  She took a deep breath and tried again. “Can’t you put aside your hatred of me for a few days? Or do you hate me so much and the idea of being near me is so horrible that you’d rather go tromping around Arctic Russia?”

  Even as she asked the question, Kate wondered if she
wouldn’t rather go tromping around Arctic Russia than spend time with her ex-husband. Being around Colt for five minutes was already stirring up memories that she’d spent three years—and thousands of dollars on therapy—to put behind her. But maybe this was exactly what she needed: closure. Maybe they could find a way to forgive each other.

  Right. More likely he would just walk away like he’d done three years ago.

  He held her gaze so long she wanted to start squirming, but she forced herself not to reveal any of the turmoil seeing him again had unleashed inside her.

  “You have your week. Set up the meeting with the admiral. We’ll fly as soon as it can be arranged.” He stopped. “Assuming Lord Percy doesn’t have an objection to you flying across the country with me? Or maybe you won’t tell him.”

  Percy wasn’t a lord, as he well knew. He was a knight. His Excellency Sir Percival Edwards, Her Majesty’s Ambassador to the United States.

  But Colt was right. Percy wasn’t going to like it. He knew what Colt had done to her. He knew what Scott was to her as well, although not that he was alive. She couldn’t tell him that. But Percy understood about her job—there were things he couldn’t share with her either. Percy trusted her. Which was something Colt had never done. He’d been jealous from the start. If he only knew how wrong he’d been.

  “Why would he have an objection?” she asked innocently. “He knows exactly what you are to me.”

  Nothing. The slight tightening of his jaw was the only sign that her comment had pricked beneath that impenetrable surface.

  Marriage to Colt had taught her something after all. Never show weakness. She needed to remember it.

  Eight

  John opened his eyes for only a split second, but sunlight found the crack and exploded in his head like a grenade.

  God, his head hurt. He felt like crap. What time was it? He blinked again—the pain from the light marginally less excruciating this time—and felt around for his watch on the bedside table.

  It could be midnight for all he knew. Finland had taught him that there could be too much of a good thing—who would have ever thought he’d get tired of daylight? But it wasn’t conducive to sleeping well. Of course, the nightmares weren’t either.

  What did help was alcohol, but unfortunately that had a rather unpleasant side effect. Waking up with a head that felt as if it had just gone through a meat grinder, which was pretty much how it felt right now. It was still buzzing with the sound of . . .

  Ah, hell, not his head. The phone. That must have been what woke him. Slightly more alert, John sat up and looked around. He saw his watch on the table, but the phone was still in his jeans pocket. He rolled out of bed, fished through the pocket, and pulled it out to answer.

  They exchanged the code before the LC laid into him. John was still half-asleep, and it took a moment for his brain to catch up with what Taylor was saying.

  “What the hell have you been doing the past few days? I told you to take care of it—of her.”

  John’s mouth flattened. He didn’t need to ask whom the LC meant. He’d thought of little else besides her since Brittany walked out of here three nights ago.

  “I did take care of her,” John said, although not in the way he had planned. But he had no intention of sharing that particular detail with the LC. John was doing his best to forget it himself.

  A few more nights and he was sure he’d stop thinking about it. Then he’d be out of this weird funk he’d been in. He’d actually lost his temper at work a couple times today with one of the new guys. If he didn’t watch it, the senior chief was going to have some competition in the hard-ass category when they all got back to work.

  Except they wouldn’t all be going back to work.

  “Then why the hell did I just find out that Lois Lane is in Norway now, asking questions around the base?”

  It was John’s turn to swear. “At Vaernes?”

  “Where else?” the LC said. The air station in Vaernes, Norway, had been their forward operating base for the Russian mission. From Norway they’d hopped on a bird to rendezvous with the ship, which had taken them as close as it could get to Russia before they’d boarded the submersible.

  “What did you tell her?” the LC asked.

  “Nothing, I swear.”

  “Then how the hell did she find out about Vaernes?”

  “I don’t know, but it wasn’t from me.” John filled the LC in on the e-mail he’d sent and how she’d used the picture to track him down. He also mentioned her referring to an explosion, although she could have just been fishing for information.

  It took a minute for the LC to stop cursing so John could explain the rest. John understood Taylor’s reaction. The LC didn’t want anyone to know they were alive—and Brittany being a reporter made her knowledge even more dangerous.

  But his head was killing him, and the LC tearing him a new one wasn’t helping. Taylor only relented a little when John explained that he had used Kate’s tech. Brittany’s person had just outsmarted them.

  John told the LC that he’d made it clear—very clear—the danger she would put him in if she continued with her story. “But other than confirming what she’d already guessed—that Brand was killed in a mission—I didn’t tell her anything. I thought she understood and was going home.”

  He thought back on what she’d said and realized now that she’d just been putting him off. She hadn’t agreed to anything.

  “Well, obviously you didn’t make much of an impact on her.”

  John’s jaw was clenched so tightly his teeth hurt. That was true in more ways than one. “I guess not.”

  The LC was silent for a moment on the other line. “Why do I have a feeling there is something you aren’t telling me? What else happened, Dynomite?”

  “Nothing,” John said, maybe a little too quickly. “I told you everything important.”

  But the LC hadn’t been given command of one of the most elite military units in the US by being an idiot. “Tex mentioned that he thought she had a crush on you when she was a kid.” Twenty-two was hardly a kid. “You didn’t do anything to piss her off, did you?”

  John definitely took offense at that. “Why would you think that?”

  “I don’t know,” the LC said impatiently. “Maybe because I’ve seen you in action for about five years.”

  “I don’t know what you think you’ve seen, but I haven’t had any complaints.”

  The LC snorted. “I bet. But maybe I should let Miggy handle this after all.”

  “No!” Now, that was too quick—and too adamant. If the LC hadn’t guessed something was up before, he sure as hell knew it now. “I can handle her, sir.”

  As a matter of fact, John couldn’t wait to get his hands on her.

  The LC paused so long that John heard a crack in the plastic of his phone. He released his grip. Cheap, piece-of-crap burner.

  “See that you do,” Taylor said. “And, Dynomite, I don’t think I need to remind you what’s at stake.”

  “Copy that, sir.” He knew exactly what was at stake, and Brittany was going to regret not heeding his request the first time.

  But this time he wasn’t going to be so pleasant. No more Mr. Nice Guy, as the old heavy metal song put it so succinctly.

  * * *

  • • •

  The young soldier and his friends had been checking Brittany out since she’d walked into the bar and found a seat in a corner booth. She smiled shyly—encouragingly—from behind her menu, and not long after she ordered, he slid into the booth opposite her.

  “Hi,” he said. “You waiting for someone, or can I buy you a drink?”

  His English was very good, but laced with a strong Norwegian accent. She met his ice-blue gaze hesitantly. “I probably shouldn’t answer the first, and I just ordered a beer, so the second isn’t necessary.”

 
He grinned as if just having something confirmed. “You are American. I thought you might be.”

  Brittany wasn’t surprised that he’d guessed. The same thing had happened the past two nights. This was her third night mingling with the locals at the favorite hangout of the soldiers who were based at Vaernes Air Station. Either she had some kind of invisible sign above her head blinking “American” or there was something about her clothes and appearance, but the guys who’d talked to her seemed to know before she opened her mouth where she was from. She guessed she could check “spy” off the list of future careers.

  “What gave me away?” she asked.

  He shrugged and gave her a smile and a conspiratorial wink that if she were a few years younger and not on the job might have made her heart do a little stutter.

  He was a nice-looking guy in that blond, blue-eyed, clean-cut Nordic fashion that encompassed about a third of the guys in here. From what she’d seen of Scandinavia so far, they were certainly a good-looking bunch. A little on the homogeneous side, but if big, blond, and Viking were your thing, this was the place to be.

  She thought of another big, blond Viking and pursed her mouth. She wasn’t going to let him run her off. Having Brandon’s death confirmed hadn’t changed her mind. If anything, it had made her even more determined to find out the truth of what had happened. Her brother’s death wasn’t going to be swept aside for some governmental expediency. Not like her parents. She wouldn’t fail him, too.

  And neither was she going to put aside the story of a lifetime without a good reason. And a vague warning that it could be dangerous wasn’t enough. She wouldn’t say anything about survivors, but if John thought he could use her feelings—her former feelings—for him to get her to bury the story, he was even more full of himself than she thought. He probably assumed she’d been so overwhelmed by having sex with him that she’d fallen in love with him all over again.

  Right. No one was that good.

  Although admittedly . . .