Off the Grid

by Monica McCarty

  “You gotta see this,” Taylor said. “She really buried the story.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Blake’s sister.” The LC nodded toward the screen, where the reporter was talking.

  John listened, stunned. “In light of the navy’s statement this morning about the training accident, investigative reporter Brittany Blake, who published a series of articles for the DC Chronicle about the so-called Lost Platoon of a secret SEAL team, has been dismissed for fabricating the stories. The Chronicle has posted a retraction. This is the second time Ms. Blake has been let go under the cloud of suspicion and wrongdoing.”

  John was glad the bed was behind him. “Ah, hell,” he said, sitting down.

  The LC was looking at him. “Man, you must have really persuaded her for her to fall on her sword for you like that.”

  John was too numb to say anything other than, “Yeah.”

  He’d done a number on her, all right. She’d sacrificed everything she’d been fighting for to protect him.

  And what had he done? He’d accused her of betraying him and then stood there, paralyzed, like a fucking coward when she told him she loved him, too scared to admit what he was feeling.

  John wasn’t his father. His first impulse when she’d gotten too close in Denmark was to go to pick someone up, but he hadn’t done it. He couldn’t do it. He hadn’t wanted to, and he’d known that if he did, she would never forgive him—and he would never forgive himself.

  He hadn’t been able to do it five years ago either.

  Because he’d been falling in love with her then, too.

  “I gotta go talk to her,” John said to the LC.

  He just hoped to hell that she would want to see him. That she would give him long enough to explain before slamming the door in his face.

  He couldn’t blame her.

  “Go,” the LC said. “Do what you need to do, but be careful.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Brittany couldn’t stand the thought of going back to an empty apartment, so she’d gone to the National Portrait Gallery and sat in one of the rooms staring at the paintings. Her mother had always loved museums and galleries, and sometimes Brittany came here to think. It made her mom feel not so gone.

  But George wasn’t helping much today. She looked up at the famous Lansdowne Portrait of the first president, by Gilbert Stuart. Her mother had always preferred the English and Continental artists—Gainsborough, Reynolds, Renoir, Monet. But there was something about the wise and serious countenances of the founding fathers that had always appealed to Brittany. Their strength, commitment, and certainty in the country they’d set up were somehow reassuring.

  A psychiatrist would probably have a field day with that, given her personal crusade with the First Amendment.

  But Brittany wasn’t finding much solace in anything today. Eventually, she gathered up her belongings, including the personal items she’d removed from her cubicle—all of which fit in her bag—and returned to her apartment.

  She parked her car on the street. Her building didn’t have a garage, but there was plenty of resident-permit parking around. She was almost to the door of the building when she looked up and saw a man standing there.

  For one incredible heartbeat she thought it was John. She saw the tall, broad-shouldered form in the dark clothes and ball cap and thought he’d changed his mind.

  But then the man looked over. The dark hair and slight crook in his nose made her realize that it wasn’t John; it was her Internet date, the hockey player Mick.

  Brittany swore under her breath and walked toward him. She’d forgotten to call him back and cancel their makeup date tonight.

  He grinned, seeing her. “Hey, there you are. I’ve been buzzing a while and was starting to think that you’d forgotten about tonight.”

  “I’m sorry to say that I did,” Brittany admitted. “I’ve had a lot going on this week, and I should have called to cancel.”

  His expression changed, the easygoing, lady-killer smile replaced by a tinge of annoyance. “But I came all this way—and I made reservations—and you already canceled on me once.”

  He looked around—which she thought was odd—and took a step toward her. She caught the hint of his aftershave. It smelled familiar, although she couldn’t place the scent.

  “Here,” he said. He started to reach for her bag with his right hand, but then switched to his left. “Let me help you with that.”

  Brittany looked down at his right hand and saw the cast on his arm. “What happened?”

  “Pickup hockey game,” he said with a crooked smile.

  He was standing a little too close, and it was beginning to make her uncomfortable. She looked around instinctively. There was a man walking on the opposite side of the street, but he wasn’t looking in their direction.

  Should she call out?

  Almost as if Mick could read her mind, he moved to block her view of the guy.

  Had it been intentional?

  Her heartbeat made a sudden lurch and started to race. Her instincts that something wasn’t right flared even before she realized what it was. “That’s okay.” She pulled her bag in closer to her body. “I really have to go up now. Call, and we can reschedule.”

  Not.

  She started to move away, but he grabbed her arm. “Sorry. Rescheduling isn’t going to work for me.”

  That was when it clicked. The profile, the scent of aftershave, the broken arm. Mick was the guy who’d attacked her in Norway.

  It happened so fast that she didn’t have time to react. He tucked her against his body and dragged her into the alley at the side of her building. She saw the car waiting and tried to yell. Tried to kick. Tried to do anything to get away.

  But her second of hesitation had cost her. The guy across the street was gone.

  She felt the sharp pinch of a needle in her neck and tried to break away, but she could feel the rush of fluid pouring into her body. Too late. “What are you doing? Mick! Stop!”

  “Not Mick,” he said softly, his face swimming above hers. “Mikhail.”

  Oh God . . . he’s Russian.

  It was the last thought Brittany had before she catapulted into unconsciousness.

  Twenty-seven

  Percy had known there was something wrong as soon as Kate walked in the door.

  It was no wonder. She must look like a wreck. Hurricane Colt had struck again. She’d been completely destroyed by that kiss.

  How could she still respond to someone she hated?

  She couldn’t. That was the problem. She didn’t hate Colt. She hated what he’d done, but not the man. She didn’t need to. He hated himself enough for both of them. He’d never believed he deserved to be happy, so he’d seen that he wasn’t.

  And heaven help her, she still felt drawn to him. Still felt that maybe she was the one who could get through to him. Was it arrogance or idiocy? Maybe a little of both.

  But what about her? Didn’t she deserve to be happy, too?

  She knew the answer, and she also knew that she wasn’t going to find it with Percy. Not if he didn’t want a child with her.

  And not if he couldn’t do that to her with a kiss.

  The conversation was painful but over quickly. For the first time, Kate told him how she felt. She wanted to adopt a child. Not in the future but now. As soon as they were married. If that wasn’t something he wanted, he needed to tell her.

  He did. He didn’t want to be a father again. He loved George and Poppy, but he was ready for a new stage in his life. One that didn’t involve diapers and parent-teacher meetings. He wanted to enjoy all the benefits of his being in the diplomatic service. The travel. The parties. All the opportunities that wouldn’t be as easy with small children.

  When it was over, Kate couldn’t help but think
how civilized it all had been. There hadn’t been tears or accusations or anger. There hadn’t been slammed doors or yelling or any signs of emotion. It hadn’t felt as if her limbs were being torn from her body and her heart had been burned to an ashy crisp.

  It hadn’t felt anything like before.

  But in one way it had been brutally the same. Neither man she thought she loved had been willing to fight for her—or for them. They’d both walked away and not looked back.

  In the aftermath of Percy’s departure, Kate took up residence in her home office. For the next few days, when she wasn’t working, she pored over everything she could find about Natalie Andersson, aka Natalya Petrova.

  There wasn’t much.

  She fell asleep on the sofa bed, and when she woke up, she made a pot of coffee and went at it again.

  Calling in favors, she scoured every kind of record she could find. Credit card statements, utility bills, phone bills, employment records, medical records, social media accounts—especially social media accounts, which were usually a hotbed of information.

  But there was nothing. Either Natalie was good or Scott was right—it was a coincidence.

  But Kate didn’t believe in coincidences and something about it didn’t feel right.

  It was only after Scott called her to tell her about the bungled sting and the PI who’d walked into it that Kate shifted her attention back to Brittany. She’d pulled Brittany’s cell phone records a couple days ago and decided to look at them again.

  There was something niggling, but she couldn’t put her finger on it.

  Kate scanned the numbers of the recent calls and stopped, the niggle turning to a fully formed buzz. 0125. The last four numbers of one of the calls. January 25th. Her father’s birthday. To remember important numbers—such as phone numbers—she’d used memory tricks like birthdays, anniversaries, or other important dates.

  She’d seen that number before.

  She pulled out Natalie’s phone records again, and halfway down the page of the last bill before she died, there it was again a few times in the weeks leading up to the Russia mission. The number matched. A few more hours of digging and Kate had the missing link that connected Brittany and Natalie.

  She called the number Scott had left for her. He answered on the second ring.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  “I found something.” She paused. “You aren’t going to like it.”

  “If this is about Natalie, I told you—”

  “I know what you told me and I know she tried to help you, but she was involved, Scott.” She quickly brought him up to speed. “Natalie and Brittany had texts and calls from the same number.”

  She could hear the dead pause on the other side of the call. “I assume you were able to trace the number and have more than a common phone number?” he asked, his voice flat.

  “Yes. It belongs to a hockey player named Mick Evans. Brittany met him on a dating app. I haven’t been able to find out how Natalie knew him, but his number shows up a few times in the weeks before she was killed. I did some digging into his background. He was adopted as a child, too.”

  Scott didn’t say anything for a moment, but then he filled it in. “From Russia?”

  “It looks that way—I’m tracking down the records now.”

  “So, what, you think there’s some baby-spy network with Russian orphans? That’s ridiculous.”

  “I don’t think anything. I’m just putting together the information.”

  “You didn’t know her, Kate. Nat wasn’t a spy. I was going to fucking ask her to marry me, for Christ’s sake.”

  He was fighting, but she could tell his certainty was wavering. One coincidence could maybe be explained, but not two.

  Kate’s heart went out to him. She knew better than anyone what it was like to have the person you thought you loved betray you. “I’m sorry, Scott. But you need to warn John. Brittany might not be out of danger if this guy is who we think he is.”

  Scott swore. “He left a while ago to find her. Hold on a sec. I’ll try to call him from another phone.” He was back on a few moments later. “He’s not answering. I left a text as well, but I’m going after him.”

  She knew better than to try to talk him out of it, but John was going to need some help.

  Twenty-eight

  John was in a cab when the call came through. Recognizing the number, he heaved a sigh of relief. He should have gotten rid of his phone after he left Brittany’s apartment, but he was damned glad he’d followed his gut and not protocol.

  “Brit,” he said, answering. “Thank God. Where are you? I need to talk to you.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you. I knew you wouldn’t get rid of the phone. Good thing for her I was right. Sloppy, Donovan. But I guess even SEALs have weak spots. Good thing I found yours.”

  John went cold at the man’s words. He processed instantly what had happened. Brittany had been taken, and whoever had done so knew who he was. “If you hurt her, I’ll kill you,” John said.

  It wasn’t a threat; it was a promise.

  “You aren’t exactly in a position to be bargaining right now. I hold all the cards—or the only card that matters.” He laughed. “And I owe you for my broken wrist. Maybe I’ll fuck her when you get here so you can watch. Again.”

  Oh God. John’s chest twisted. Every bone in his body ached at the thought of her being hurt like that.

  She was alive; he had to focus on that.

  John didn’t know whether the guy was telling the truth or trying to get to him, but he wasn’t going to show how much he had. “That was you in Norway,” he said. “I should have killed you.”

  “You should have,” the guy agreed. “But you didn’t finish the job. You were more concerned with making sure she was okay. You can be assured that’s not a mistake I will make.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Simple. An exchange. Your life for hers.”

  The irony wasn’t lost on him. Brittany was bait again, but this time he was the fish. “Where?” John asked.

  The guy gave him an address of a warehouse near the docks. “I don’t have to tell you to come alone. I won’t be—I’ll be well covered—but I bet you figured that out. Be here in thirty minutes.”

  The call disconnected.

  John had figured it out, all right. Whoever was holding her didn’t have any intention of letting either of them walk away. And thirty minutes wasn’t enough time to get anything in place. Not that he was going to take the chance.

  But then his phone buzzed again. He didn’t recognize the number but took a chance and answered.

  * * *

  • • •

  Brittany woke to the sound of distant voices. Her head felt as if it were stuffed with cotton and her mouth was dry. She blinked, but it took her eyes a while to focus. She was lying on the ground in a damp, dank-smelling room. It was dark—lit only by what remained of the daylight streaming through a small oval window on the wall opposite her. The walls and floors appeared to be made of steel.

  There was a banging sound above her that echoed strangely, and she knew at once where she was. They weren’t moving, but she was sure she was on a ship.

  All of a sudden it came back to her. Mick—Mikhail—had stuck her with something and taken her. His was one of the voices she was hearing. Her back was to the men speaking on the other side of the room behind her, and she dared not turn and alert them to her consciousness. But it took everything she had not to cry out when she realized whom Mick was calling—and what he intended to do.

  He must have taken her phone from her bag. She looked around on the ground before her and saw the contents of the messenger bag spread out on the floor in front of her. Her computer and the files she had in her bag were gone as well.

  Panic raced through her, but she knew she had to do something.
Mick knew who John was. He must have recognized him from the picture she’d posted in the paper when he’d seen him with her in Norway. She wished she’d never published it, but she couldn’t have imagined something like this.

  She also knew that she couldn’t let John walk in here and sacrifice himself for her.

  The fact that Mick had been using her phone made her think her guess was right that they probably weren’t out to sea. If he had cell service, they must still be docked somewhere.

  If only she had a way of warning . . .

  Oh my God. She did. She just prayed Mick hadn’t found it.

  She felt around the front pocket of her shorts, and it was there. The burner phone Mac had given her. It had been sitting on her counter when she went to leave for work this morning. She’d stuck it in her pocket almost as an afterthought.

  Thank you, Mac! Brittany owed her big-time. Although a few moments later, as she was painstakingly texting out a message using the number keys, she was wishing Mac’s supply of burners was smartphones.

  But she managed a short message: Kidnapped. Being held on a ship. Tell John not to come. She sent the message and then thought again. She knew better. Tell him not to come alone.

  She knew him well enough to have no doubt that he would come for her—no matter what she said. But she would do everything in her power to help him.

  After pressing a couple keys, she slipped the phone back in her pocket and turned around, pretending to wake up.

  She had to try to find out what Mick intended. Even if it meant drawing attention to herself.

  She shivered as she saw him walking toward her, the look of cold purpose on his face almost making her reconsider.

  She just prayed someone was listening.

  Twenty-nine

  Brittany had done everything she could. She just had to hope that it was enough.

  On seeing that she was awake, Mick had her hauled up and tossed in a metal chair. Her hands had been tied behind her back and her feet were bound.