Off the Grid

by Monica McCarty

  The desperation in her voice sent a knife through his ribs. Home wasn’t him anymore. Home was to someone else.

  Colt didn’t say anything. He just nodded and returned to the elevator panel. In a few seconds it was going again.

  He hit the button for the lobby, and a few moments later he was watching her walk away from him. After what had just happened, it probably should be for the last time. But somehow he knew it wasn’t. There was unfinished business between them, whether either of them wanted to admit it or not. That kiss had just ripped open a scar that wasn’t fully closed.

  Twenty-two

  Brittany heard the mutter of curses and a few angry huffs behind her as she clambered up the fire escape stairwell to her fifth-floor apartment the next morning. She waited at the top, holding the door open as John rounded the last turn below her with the bulky suitcase they’d retrieved from her building manager.

  She smiled. “Everything okay?”

  “Peachy,” he said with a grunt, dropping the wheeled duffel to the floor. It landed with a heavy thud, which wasn’t surprising, as it must have weighed about seventy-five pounds, thanks to the stack of yellow pages that had been sitting in the mailroom. She’d jammed in as many as she could when he wasn’t looking. “How long did you say that elevator has been on the blitz?”

  She shrugged. “A couple weeks. I told you I didn’t mind carrying it. I hope it wasn’t too heavy for you.” She smiled sweetly as he shot her a disgusted glare. “I thought you guys carried big packs when you go . . .” Seeing his warning glare, she modified her comment to, “To work.”

  “Sometimes, but on our backs. But this thing is a pain in the—”

  The sound of the elevator chime stopped him. The door opened, and her manager walked out. “I forgot to give you the new key I had made after the break-in,” he said, frowning at the suitcase at the top of the stairs. “Why didn’t you take the elevator?”

  “It’s broken,” John replied, although his gaze had slid to hers.

  Busted.

  “Broken?” the manager repeated with a frown. “I had it replaced last year. It’s practically brand-new.”

  Brittany fought a smile—pretty unsuccessfully. “Is that right? I would have sworn it was down last week. But Joe doesn’t mind a little exercise. Do you, Joe?”

  Brittany might have had her fun—she hadn’t forgotten his comments about the rocks in her bag—but from the look on John’s face, he was already planning his payback. Wait until he saw the phone books.

  Bring it on, Johnny. She could take whatever he dished out. And when his gaze slid hotly and possessively down her body as her manager unlocked the door, she was looking forward to it. A lot.

  She’d taken him in her mouth again this morning, waking him slowly and gently with the sensual kiss until he was as big and hard as a spike and straining against the urge to push deeper into her mouth. She’d tortured him with the long, slow sucks and pulls until his body was shaking with need and he started to beg with small pumps of his hips. Only then did she suck him hard and deep, pumping him as fast as he wanted.

  Nope, no lessons needed.

  But he gave her one anyway in the shower. A lesson in how not to slip when a man had his tongue buried between your legs and you were coming until your legs gave out. Or when he bent you over to brace against the wall while he took you from behind.

  But all thoughts of their morning sex-fest fell by the wayside when her manager opened the door and she walked into her apartment.

  Or what had been her apartment. There wasn’t much left of the place she remembered. The few pieces of furniture she’d had—mostly IKEA remainders—had been torn apart, with the stuffing pulled out and strewn across the floor or, in the case of the wood, broken into pieces. It was as if a cyclone had hit it.

  But from the level of destruction, it was more than that. It felt almost malevolent. As if someone hadn’t been just looking for something but had wanted to destroy.

  John swore.

  Brittany felt oddly numb. It hadn’t been much of a home, but it had been the only one she had.

  The manager, an older man who’d lost his wife a few years ago and seemed pretty checked out most of the time, seemed to suddenly see it as well. He turned a chair upright. “I didn’t want to disturb anything,” he apologized defensively.

  “I understand completely, Mr. Polonsky. I’m sure the police had their investigation and you didn’t want to throw out anything that might be important.”

  The old man was obviously relieved at the out she’d given him. “That’s right.”

  “We can take it from here,” she said. “Joe is going to help me clean up.”

  The manager took in the big, strong-looking SEAL, obviously concluded that she was in capable hands, and gave her a nod. “Good. Let me know if you need anything.”

  He shut the door behind him, and Brittany looked around. “Lots of trash bags,” she said to herself.

  Glancing up, she saw John watching her. “You okay?” he asked.

  “I’m fine. Or I will be as soon as I get some new furniture.”

  He must have picked up on the malevolent aspect of the destruction as well. “You’re safe, Brit. I won’t let anything happen to you. And there are a half-dozen guys watching this building right now. No one is getting in or out of here without us knowing it.”

  She nodded, the reminder definitely making her feel better. But it wasn’t the half-dozen guys posted around the building that steadied her; it was John’s presence.

  He swore again. “I never should have agreed to this. I’m going to call my guy and tell him it’s all off.”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” she said, putting her hand on his chest. She wasn’t the only one who needed steadying. “It was just a little bit of a shock. I’m fine—or will be when we get some of this cleaned up. Okay?”

  She didn’t give him a chance to answer and went to work. They spent the next hour clearing the worst of it, filling a few trash bags and salvaging what they could. A couch with one cushion, a couple wooden chairs, and her breakfast table. Fortunately, her dishes were mostly melamine and she only had a few broken coffee mugs that she had to toss, including a SAVE A REPORTER: BUY A NEWSPAPER gag gift that Mac had given her for her birthday last year.

  There was only one time the tears that she’d kept tight in her throat threatened to spill, and that was when she saw her clothes all over the floor of her bedroom and realized someone had gone through her underwear, socks, pajamas, and everything else in her drawers. That made it personal. Violating.

  Fortunately, John was still in the living room and didn’t witness the moment of weakness or he might have called it off for good this time.

  She threw all the clothes in a laundry bag to be washed, but she wondered if she’d wear any of them again.

  Once the worst of it was straightened, John asked her to see if she could find anything missing. What limited jewelry she had—a few necklaces and earrings that had belonged to her mother—had been tossed on the floor, but thankfully appeared undamaged. This hadn’t been a robbery; it had been a hunt.

  She didn’t have much by way of electronics, but the TV and the alarm clock that served triple purpose by functioning as a phone dock and stereo speaker had been knocked over but seemed okay.

  Her desk mostly served as a place to rest her laptop. She didn’t store files at home, so nothing important would have been taken. Her personal papers consisted of bank and credit card statements and tax documents. Nothing worthwhile there. The would-be thief must have agreed because those appeared to be opened and strewn across her desk—the only pieces of upright furniture in her apartment aside from the bed—but intact.

  She panicked for a minute when she couldn’t find the silver frame with the photo of her parents that she kept on the desk, but it was on the floor by her bed. The glass was broken, b
ut she cleared it away and placed the frame back on her desk.

  She didn’t realize John was watching her. “You look like your mom.”

  She nodded, smiling wistfully at the woman who looked so young and happy in the picture. “Who do you look like?”

  He didn’t answer right away. “My dad.”

  Clearly, he wasn’t happy about that. “Well, I looked like my mom, but I was more like my dad. I’m sure you’re nothing like your father in the ways that matter, John.”

  He didn’t look so sure, but he let the subject drop. “Anything missing? Laptop? Anything else like that?”

  She shook her head. She had that on her—although he didn’t know about that. Before he could follow up, she remembered. “My phone! I can’t believe I didn’t check it yet.”

  She wasn’t as tied to her phone as some millennials, but after a few days she should be jonesing big-time. After rescuing it from the suitcase John had dragged up the stairs, she had to plug it in for a few minutes to start it. There were three progressively angrier messages from her boss, one from Nancy making sure she was okay, and two from Mac wondering where the hell she was. There was also a message from Mick the hockey player, checking in to make sure they were still on for their rescheduled date tomorrow. She’d called before she’d left for Finland to push their makeup date back a week. Not surprisingly, she’d forgotten all about it.

  She didn’t realize John was listening so closely until he said, “Who the hell was that?”

  She turned to look at him, hearing the angry edge to his voice. No, “angry” wasn’t quite the right word. “Ice-cold” was a little better. His eyes were positively glacial.

  She arched an eyebrow, taking in his reaction. Interesting. Very interesting. Mr. Casual wasn’t acting so casual. He was acting jealous.

  Deciding to test her theory, she said, “Just a guy I’ve been dating.”

  Half a date, but who was counting?

  “You’ve been dating someone?” he shouted, looking as if his head were about to explode. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  Okay, maybe it was juvenile to be happy when a guy was jealous, but that didn’t stop her. She wanted to grin like a thirteen-year-old.

  Instead, she shrugged. “I didn’t think it mattered. It’s not as if you and I are exclusive or anything.”

  “Who the fuck said that!”

  His shouting was getting louder and angrier. “I just assumed. You aren’t exactly a one-girl type of guy, John.”

  His eyes narrowed to slits. “You aren’t dating him.”

  “I assume the same goes for you?”

  “I won’t date him either.”

  She’d walked right into that one. “You know what I mean.”

  He finally seemed to realize that she was teasing him, but surprisingly, rather than accuse her of trying to trick him or pin him down, he pulled her into his arms. “Consider this exclusive.”

  Brittany tried not to get carried away, but it happened anyway. She knew what a big step it was for him to make that kind of commitment to her, and her heart swelled.

  Not even his hastily added “as long as we’re together” could put a rein on her soaring hopes. Especially when he sealed that promise by covering his mouth with hers in a fierce kiss that left no room for argument.

  Not that she intended to make one. Exclusive was fine by her. It was more than fine. It was what she’d wanted but hadn’t let herself think about.

  Just like she wouldn’t let herself wonder how long “as long as we’re together” would be.

  * * *

  • • •

  “I won’t be too late,” John said. “There are guys posted at every exit, on the roof, and one in that car over there.” He pointed to the midsized American-made sedan parked across the street with a perfect view to her living room window.

  The LC had essentially given them their own private army. The guys—all former operatives—had been sent from the biggest defense contractor in the country. Apparently, the senior chief, Dean Baylor, had hooked up with Steve Marino’s stepdaughter—more than hooked up, according to the LC—and they essentially had carte blanche/no questions asked with his hired men.

  John would have to thank Tex later for the fortunate taste in girlfriends. After he gave him shit for hooking up with a “do-gooder.” The senior chief with an environmental activist? John couldn’t believe it. After all the pinko Berkeley crap John had taken over the years from him, he was looking forward to some payback.

  Brittany practically pushed him out the door. “Get out of here. I’ll be fine. It’s like Fort Knox at this place. Besides, your hovering is driving me nuts.”

  He frowned. What was she talking about? “I’m not hovering.”

  She stared at him, challenging that assessment with crossed arms and a sharply arched eyebrow.

  One corner of his mouth lifted, which was about as close to a smile as he’d had since this damned plot had been hatched. “All right, maybe I’ve been hovering a little.”

  “You taste-tested my peanut butter and jelly sandwich!”

  He made a face. “You mean the ninety-nine percent grape jelly and one percent thin layer of overly processed brown crap that belongs in a candy bar on the pieces of white Styrofoam? You know, it’s just as easy to make your own peanut butter in a food processor, and it tastes like actual nuts.”

  “Food processor? You’re kidding, right? Did you look at my kitchen? There’s barely room for a microwave. And before you tell me that I don’t need a microwave”—he slammed his mouth shut, having been about to say exactly that—“I happen to like my microwave. It’s perfect for reheating TV dinners.”

  His eyes narrowed. She was messing with him, wasn’t she? But with her fast-food eating habits, he couldn’t be completely sure. Making a note to check the freezer for any form of Salisbury when he got back, he let her push him out the door with only a few more warnings before the door closed behind him.

  He hated the idea of leaving her alone even for a few hours, but he had to scout the drop area and go through the mission plan before game time tonight.

  For most ops SEALs spent weeks, sometimes months, practicing and going through every permutation, often using actual ships, helicopters, and buildings. Before Operation Neptune Spear—the bin Laden raid—Team Six had spent weeks training in North Carolina, in a building constructed to replicate the compound in Abbottabad, and in Nevada to replicate the high altitude for the new stealth Black Hawks.

  A couple of hours wasn’t anywhere near enough.

  But it was all he had; the op was set for 2200 hours.

  Brittany had sent her e-mails and texts and made her phone calls earlier to her boss and coworkers, informing them that she was meeting her source tonight and had “explosive proof” of what had happened to the platoon of SEALs.

  If he’d thought she’d been exaggerating her job status, after he heard some of her boss’s response while she was talking to him, John realized she hadn’t been exaggerating at all.

  Apparently, her boss, Jameson Cooper, was being pressured by the head of the investigative reporting team to get rid of her, and if she didn’t come up with something soon, he was going to have to move her to the metro news desk.

  There was something in “Jameson’s” voice that John didn’t like—he sounded a little too familiar—but John put it aside for now. Brittany had hidden her worry from him, but he knew it was there.

  It made him momentarily uneasy, given all that he’d confided in her about what had happened in Russia, but she’d promised him, and he knew he could trust her.

  It was strange how he didn’t question it. But he trusted her in the same way he had her brother—with his life. And as she was trusting hers with him, he intended to do everything he could to ensure that nothing went wrong.

  The LC was standing by if he needed him, b
ut this was John’s op.

  He met his contact at the highway underpass where Brittany had met her source the first time. Had he been more familiar with DC at the time, he would have had a hell of a lot more to say about her business practices. Did she have a fucking death wish? This place was crime central, and hanging around here was asking for trouble. Thinking of her sitting here alone in her car at night made him furious.

  He’d been forced to leave the gun he’d taken from Brittany’s attacker in Norway behind, and even he breathed a little easier once Buddha—they were all using code names—handed him the bag with the weapons, body armor, and gear he’d asked for. For the first time since the explosion in Russia, John felt like himself again.

  The biggest danger with the hired army was that one of the former operators would recognize him. Over the years he’d crossed paths with a number of SEALs who’d gone into the private sector when they’d decided not to re-up or retired from the Teams after getting their twenty years. But among the sixteen men Buddha had gathered in the abandoned warehouse to sketch out the details of what was going on tonight, John didn’t see any familiar faces.

  Buddha—it seemed as if every team had a guy named after the ancient sage—reminded him of a stockier, thicker-necked version of the senior chief. They had the same take-charge, no-nonsense, hard-ass, Spartan-throwback personality that immediately put John at ease. This guy knew what he was doing, and he was good at his job.

  For the next few hours they scouted the terrain, made note of entry and exit points, and tried to cover as many potential scenarios as possible to mitigate the risk of something going wrong.

  Basically running it like any other op. Except that John was keenly aware that it wasn’t any other op. With Brittany at the center of it, this private army—who were damned good even if they weren’t his Team Nine brethren—weren’t going to be enough to make him relax.

  Nothing was going to make him relax until this was over, the bastards who were after her were caught, and she was out of danger. If anything happened to her . . .