Off the Grid Read online

  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?”

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