He couldn’t even think about it without breaking out in a cold sweat. John had never been in this position before, and he didn’t like it. He didn’t like feeling vulnerable. It reminded him of the months he’d spent in the hospital sitting by his mother’s bedside. He’d never felt so damned helpless in his life. He never wanted to feel like that again.
But he was coming close now. He wanted to tell himself it was because of the promise he’d made to Brand to keep Brittany safe, but he knew it was a hell of a lot more than that. How much more he didn’t know. This was Star Trek territory for him, as in “never gone before.”
He almost didn’t recognize himself. Brittany had turned him into some kind of less evolved, possessive, jealous version of John Donovan. Just hearing the other guy’s voice in the message and thinking of her dating someone else made him feel like smashing something—preferably the other guy’s face. He’d had to do something. So he’d found himself setting down a line he’d never set down before. The one guy/one girl kind of line. As in boyfriend/girlfriend. As in exclusive.
As in something he’d always avoided.
It scared the hell out of him. But for the first time in his life, John realized that he wanted to share more than a bed and a few laughs with someone. He wasn’t sure what it meant—or whether it would be enough to keep from hurting her. And maybe that bothered him most of all. Not only had he broken his promise to Brand by messing around with his sister, but he could end up doing the very thing his friend had feared he would do by breaking her heart. For real this time.
At the very least, he owed it to Brand not to do that. But despite John’s attempt to qualify “exclusive” with an “as long as we’re together,” he suspected it might already be too late. He’d seen her face. She thought he was making promises.
But he wasn’t ready for promises. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be ready. He didn’t know whether he had what it took for that kind of relationship—the permanent type.
He hadn’t exactly had a good role model in that arena. His dad had broken every promise that mattered to his mother. John had seen how it destroyed her and vowed to never let himself do that to anyone. He didn’t want to be anything like his father, so he’d never put himself in the position to be like him.
Until now.
Just how much of the old man did he have in him? He looked just like the bastard, and what bothered him most was that he might be like him in other ways too. Blood will tell. Isn’t that how the saying went?
To hell with that. He was nothing like his dad. And he’d prove it by being the best damned boyfriend—no matter how temporary—and doing everything in his power not to hurt her.
But first he had to get her through this op safely and catch the guys that were trying to hurt her.
John spent the rest of the afternoon assuring himself that no one would be able to slip through their net. By the time he left to return to Brittany’s apartment, he was satisfied—or as satisfied as he could be in an afternoon—that she would be covered. But he still couldn’t relax. He wouldn’t be able to relax until this was all over.
The trap was set. Now they just needed someone to spring it.
* * *
• • •
Brittany took advantage of John’s absence to put the finishing touches on her next “Lost Platoon” article. Even without using anything that John had told her, the documents, photos, and identification by Nils of her brother at the base in Norway painted a pretty compelling case of a secret SEAL team sent on a covert mission to Russia and targeted by a missile strike.
It should be enough to satisfy Jameson.
Should.
Of course, the second version of the article with the section about the six survivors who were in hiding because they weren’t sure whether someone on their own side had set them up to die was even better. If only she could publish it.
But she wouldn’t do that until she had John’s permission. Which she was hoping to get tonight if all went as planned.
She read through the articles one last time and then backed them up with a trick she’d learned from terrorists: saving it as a draft in a private e-mail account—i.e., a dead-drop e-mail. It was a little paranoid, perhaps, but she had learned to be cautious with her work after what had happened five years ago, when her files had been sabotaged. She also didn’t want anyone—including her boss and her coworkers—reading her articles before they were ready to be published.
She’d just finished shutting down her laptop and putting it back in her messenger bag when she heard a commotion outside her door. Two voices—a man’s and a woman’s—were arguing.
“What do you mean I can’t go in there? Who the hell are you, and what the heck is going on around here?”
Brittany grinned, and despite her assurances to John that she wouldn’t open the door even if it were the Pope dropping by for tea, she undid the dead bolt and threw it open.
Mac was a hell of a lot more tenacious than the Pope—and much less understanding. She was also a lot louder, and Brittany knew that she’d have every neighbor in the place wondering what was going on if she didn’t let her in.
The sight that met her eyes was almost comical. Her tiny friend, who was all of about a hundred pounds soaking wet and not much taller than five feet, was standing toe-to-toe with a guy a good foot and half taller than her who looked like he belonged in the WWE. He was huge. He was also clearly packing—the casual clothing didn’t quite hide the bulge of the sidearm under his jacket. She could also see the wire of his earpiece under his Yankees baseball cap.
None of that seemed to bother Mac, who had her finger jabbed against his impressive chest. She turned as soon as the door opened, and the relief in her eyes filled Brittany with guilt.
“Thank God.”
Mac had clearly been worried about her; Brittany should have tried harder to get her a message. But if she’d asked to use John’s phone he would have had questions, and Brittany knew Mac didn’t like people knowing about her. She was almost a mythic figure in the dark web, and she liked to keep it that way. Very few people knew what she did for a living.
“It’s okay,” Brittany said to the burly giant, who, with his handlebar mustache and neck tattoos, looked like he could have doubled for a guy in a motorcycle gang. “She’s a friend.”
Mac crossed her arms and scowled at the man who was still blocking her path. “Just like I said: Move aside, tough guy.”
The tough guy didn’t look convinced. “I need to pat her down first.” His voice was deep and held just a hint of Jersey.
“The hell you do! Put one hand on me and I’ll rip it off.”
Mac’s threat elicited no more than a raised eyebrow and maybe a glint of amusement in his dark eyes. With his accent and coloring, Brittany was going to go out on a limb and say Italian. Brittany also suspected he’d been messing with her friend just to get a reaction.
“Feisty little thing, aren’t you?” He didn’t wait for a response—Mac was too busy sputtering obscenities—and looked back at Brittany. “Call out if she gives you any trouble.” He looked Mac up and down calculatingly. “I wouldn’t mind taking Tinker Bell here down.”
Brittany dragged her friend inside before she could retaliate.
“Pig!” Mac said as the door closed behind her. “God, I hate guys who think a couple inches and a few muscles give them a right to push people around.” Brittany decided not to point out that it was way more than a couple or a few. “And Tinker Bell? How demeaning is that? I don’t look anything like a fairy.” Brittany didn’t comment. With her tinted violet hair—which actually looked cute—and her pixie features . . . “Why do you have a guy like that watching your door? He was on me out of nowhere as soon as I got out of the elevator.” She didn’t give Brittany a chance to answer. “God, I was so worried about you. I thought you’d been killed. What is going on around here?”
&
nbsp; She gazed around at the cleaned up but still obviously destroyed apartment.
“Sit down,” Brittany said. “I’ll tell you what I can.”
Leaving out John’s role and what he’d told her about Team Nine, she filled Mac in on the attack in Norway and the not-so-coincidentally timed break-in at her apartment. She said that they had a plan to try to catch who was responsible and that the man guarding her door was one of the good guys.
Mac snorted at that.
“What about the e-mail?” Mac asked. “Did you find your brother?”
Brittany was surprised by the sudden well of emotion and tears that filled her eyes. She shook her head.
“Then who sent it?”
“I can’t say. I’m sorry, but when this is all over, I promise I’ll explain everything.”
Mac must have heard the pleading in her voice and didn’t press.
Brittany apologized for not getting in touch before, explaining that she feared her phone and e-mail were compromised.
“Do you have your phone?”
Brittany nodded and retrieved it from the kitchen counter.
Mac pulled out a laptop, hooked it up to the phone, and a few minutes later, after a flurry of keystrokes, shook her head. “It doesn’t look as if it’s been cloned and I don’t see any spyware.”
“Other than yours, you mean?”
Mac smiled. “Hey, it was your idea.”
“I assume that’s how you knew I was back?” Brittany asked.
Her friend nodded. “But that doesn’t mean someone hasn’t been monitoring your calls—all they need is your phone number and some good software. And hacking someone’s e-mail takes about fifteen minutes of watching a video. There are tutorials on this stuff all over the Internet.”
“How reassuring,” Brittany said dryly.
Mac grinned.
“Did you find out anything more about the driver of that car?” she asked.
Mac’s expression changed quickly to one of frustration and annoyance. “Not yet. But I’m still working on it. I can’t believe in this day and age that our government is still using a logbook.” She paused. “Wait. Maybe I can.”
They both laughed.
Mac didn’t stay around for long. After exacting a promise that Brittany would do a better job at staying in touch, she pulled a flip phone from her bag and handed it to her.
“What’s this?”
“A burner.”
“You keep them in your purse?”
“All the time. I have boatloads of them. Let me know if you need anything. If that cretin out there is any indication, you seem to have plenty of muscle. But you might want to rely on more than the CIA for brains.”
Brittany didn’t have much more faith in their government than Mac did, but she had faith in John, and that was all that mattered.
Twenty-three
Brittany’s heart was pounding as she approached the overpass. She didn’t know whether it was nervousness or excitement. Maybe it was a little of both. It was hard to believe that it had been almost two weeks since she’d driven her car to this exact spot to meet her unknown source.
It seemed like a lifetime ago. So much had changed. She wasn’t scared like last time. Of course, last time she hadn’t had a small army watching over her and a one-man army lying low in the backseat.
John had insisted on accompanying her in the car. She hadn’t argued; she felt safer with him there. She’d forgotten how scary this place was—not that she was going to bring that up to John. She’d gotten enough of an earful from him about it earlier.
“What the hell, Brittany? You shouldn’t be driving through a place like that by yourself at night, let alone sitting in your damned car for God knows how long!”
She’d tried to explain to him that it went with the job, but he hadn’t been in the mood to hear it. As they didn’t see eye to eye on many of the finer points of her being a journalist—or the bigger points, for that matter—she’d let it go. But she knew she couldn’t do that forever, and at some point they were going to have to talk about it. Being a reporter was important to her. As important as being a SEAL was to him. If they were going to have any chance, they needed to figure out a way to deal with that. She didn’t have to like what he did any more than he had to like what she did, but they needed to respect each other’s jobs.
She’d also had an earful about her visit from Mac, which he’d apparently been briefed on by the guy in the stairwell before he entered the apartment. She’d let him bellow, knowing it would make him feel better. He’d needed to let off some steam. He was too wound up. Which was still almost surreal to think about. John Donovan. Wound up. Because of her. Who would have thought?
John waited for the car to stop before he asked, “See anything?”
She bent down and pretended to fiddle with the radio before responding, “Not yet.”
“Okay, but stay—” He stopped all of a sudden.
She didn’t need to ask why. “Frosty,” she finished for him, her voice soft and gentle.
John didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. She knew what he was thinking. The familiar saying had resurrected her brother between them. No doubt John was feeling guilty again, blaming himself for getting her into this mess. But it had been her decision.
“I’m sure,” she said, anticipating his next question. It was the same thing he’d asked half a dozen times since they’d gotten in the car: “Are you sure you want to go through with this? It’s not too late to back out.”
John made a not-so-happy grunt. “If you see anything that doesn’t look right, let me know right away.”
She listened as he made radio contact with the men surrounding them. It had been a shock to see him all geared up. Though he wasn’t in a uniform, the dark ball cap and clothing, earpiece, armored vest stuffed with gear, and gun had given her a good idea of what he must look like when he went on an op.
When he’d walked out of her bathroom, it had taken her aback. The grim-faced mercenary didn’t look anything like the laid-back surfer. She knew how big and strong he was physically, but kitted out G.I. Joe John was a very different kind of big and strong.
It was a little intimidating.
And a lot sexy. A whole lot sexy. Which, given her feelings about his being a SEAL, was unexpected. But primitive instincts were primitive instincts, and hers had gone a little hog wild. She’d wanted to drag him right back in that bedroom and strip him down piece by piece. Or maybe she’d just let him take her while he was all kitted out.
Was she messed up or what?
She adjusted the vest he’d made her put on, which was bulky, heavy, and uncomfortable. “I can’t imagine running or walking long distances in one of these things.”
“Try dropping out of an airplane, fast-roping down from a hovering helicopter, or swimming a few miles in one. But those plates have saved my life more than once.”
She didn’t like to think about him being shot at. Nor did she really want to think about herself being shot at. It was just a precaution, he’d told her when he handed it to her. It was better to be safe than sorry.
Of course, it would be useless against a shot to the head, which was probably not something she should be thinking about right now.
Knowing they shouldn’t talk too much in case someone was watching them from afar, Brittany sat quietly watching the clock creep forward minute by minute. It was 10:17. Seventeen minutes after the appointed time and nearly a half hour since she’d parked. The wait was agonizing and interminable.
What if they didn’t show up? What if this was all for nothing? What if . . . ?
She jumped when her phone rang. She didn’t recognize the number, but it was local. “What should I do?”
“Answer it,” John said.
“Hello?”
“Finally! I was beginning to think you
disappeared on me.”
She recognized the voice and cursed silently. “Hey, Mick. I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you, but it’s not a good time right now.”
John said something she was sure she didn’t want to hear, and she was glad he wasn’t sitting next to her.
“Sorry to call so late, but I’m just checking to make sure we are still on for tomorrow night?” Mick said. “I thought we could go to that new Italian restaurant in Georgetown.”
Brittany didn’t get a chance to respond. At that moment all hell broke loose in front of her. She could hear the quick exchange of voices through John’s earpiece. The men who’d been watching from the shadows poured out into the street and dragged someone from what looked like an abandoned car parked next to the building opposite her.
John was already out of the car. Brittany paused long enough to tell Mick she would have to call him back, but then she was right behind him.
She let out a sharp gasp when confronted with the hired soldiers who’d been protecting her. If she thought John was intimidating, a dozen G.I. Joe Johns were even more so. John was only minimally geared up compared to these guys. They were dressed in black from head to toe and armed to the gills with all sorts of weapons. Each guy looked bigger and stronger than the last.
Brittany had read a lot of stories in her research about black ops and secret warriors, but seeing these guys put it all in perspective.
Without realizing it, she took a step toward John.
Mistaking the source of her fear, he said, “Get back in the car. You shouldn’t be out here.”
She didn’t bother to respond, but she wasn’t going anywhere. She needed to be here. She needed to see who was trying to kill her.
The guy they’d pulled from the car was dragged forward. She could see John and one of the black-clad soldiers exchanging glances. But she didn’t need to ask what the problem was. She could see it for herself.
The guy they were holding didn’t look anything like the guy who’d attacked her in Norway. He was about half a foot shorter and fifty pounds thinner for one. “Scrawny” came to mind. He was also in his midforties and wearing thick glasses that looked completely wrong with the black stocking cap and black leather jacket.
Off the Grid Page 28
