Off the Grid Read online

  Actually, John could have walked off that ship himself, although his hair was a darker blond, his beard was trimmed better, and he was a good half a head taller and fifty pounds heavier than his young friend.

  “You’re unbelievable. The hottest woman to walk into Levi in months throws herself at you and you act like it’s no big deal.”

  John wasn’t acting; it wasn’t a big deal. She was a nice enough girl—from what he remembered. And definitely nice to look at. He remembered that. But he didn’t lose his head easily. Actually, he didn’t lose his head ever.

  Once.

  “Paska,” Sami muttered. “If you don’t appreciate her, I’ll take her.”

  Like most Finns, Sami used curse words as punctuation—in this case, shit. Finns were reputed to swear more than Russians and Scots. Which was saying something. John had done his fair share of swearing before moving into this house, but with both a Finn and a Russian in the house, it had increased exponentially.

  “I’m planning to ask her out again,” John said. He might have actually already done so. For some reason Sunday was ringing a bell. He was more tired than he realized, or he might have had one too many beers last night. “But if you want to take her out, I’m happy to stand aside.”

  Sami muttered a word that John took to be roughly equivalent to a harsh “asshole” and added, “If I thought she’d say yes, I would, but after today . . .” He shook his head. “None of us stand a chance. They’re saying that kid would have died if you hadn’t been there.”

  John shrugged again. It paid to be a winner, as Teamguys liked to say. “Day at the office, man.”

  Sami gave him a look that was half-amused and half-incredulous. “I’d tell you to stop being modest, but I don’t think you are. How long was he under?”

  “A minute.” Another shrug. “Maybe two.”

  “I heard it was more like four and that you were under so long they thought you drowned, too.”

  The kid had had his foot caught between two rocks, which was why his life vest hadn’t brought him back to the surface. It had taken some time for John to free him. Not for the first time he thanked BUD/S, which had trained him not just to hold his breath but not to panic. He and Brand . . .

  He swore and took another sip of his beer.

  “No brain damage to the kid?” Sami asked.

  John shook his head. “Doesn’t look like it. They’re keeping him overnight, but he was alert and talking normally when he left in the chopper.”

  “The raft dump-trucked?”

  John nodded. The guide had taken a big wave too close to the edge, causing the boat to tilt and lose more than half its passengers. In rafting lingo, “dump-truck.”

  People fell out of rafts all the time. That hadn’t been the problem. The problem had been twofold: the wave had been close to a known keeper hole, which, as its name suggested, was a feature on the river when a hydraulic—or hole—is so strong that it doesn’t release what goes in it, and the guide miscounted and thought that everyone had been accounted for.

  John hadn’t been the guide for that raft, but he’d been helping out in one of the three rafts in the tour. He hadn’t noticed the seventeen-year-old kid was missing right away either. He’d been helping retrieve another teenage boy who had become hysterical and was being carried toward rocks.

  When John acted as a SEAL squad leader, keeping track of his men was second nature. He didn’t even have to think about it. But he’d missed the kid.

  John had done everything by the book. No one could have found fault with what happened today. But he held himself to a higher standard.

  Just like with the avalanche.

  Did it mean something?

  He was being too hard on himself. Shit happened.

  But not usually to him. Unconsciously his fingers went to his forehead, feeling the nearly healed wound that bisected his brow. His only scar from the missile that should have taken his life. He’d walked away with barely a scratch.

  Sami was still watching him. “Alexi”—their Russian housemate who had also been on the trip—“said you were . . . what is that English expression? Cool as an ice cube?”

  “Cucumber.”

  Sami frowned. “That doesn’t make any sense.” He waved his hand and said another word in Finnish, which John assumed was a curse word he wasn’t familiar with. “He said you could have been one of those mountain rescue guys. Maybe you should volunteer with the local group? What is it you said you did before coming here?”

  He hadn’t. No one had asked—or cared. As he said, this place was perfect. “I was at Whistler for the last five years. I did a little of everything.”

  John had debated picking a more interesting cover than Joe Phillips from Victoria, Canada, but he wasn’t very good at language or accents, and he needed someplace not in Europe—which he would never have been able to fake in a place like this—that could explain his skiing ability. His other option had been New Zealand. Canada was definitely easier.

  For a guy who was stoned more than half the time, Sami was proving unusually focused. This was almost a grilling and certainly the most sustained conversation John had ever had with him. John was hoping it would end soon. These questions were making him uncomfortable. If too many people had them, he would need to move on.

  Surprisingly, a change of scenery didn’t sound like a bad idea. All this relaxing was getting to him. He needed to get back to work. Frogman work. To get his war on, as they liked to say. But who the hell knew how long that would be? He’d talked to the LC only once since he’d been in Levi, and that had only been a quick call to give him his number and fill him in on his cover.

  The six survivors had scattered, and the LC was the only one who knew where they all were. If it hadn’t been hard enough losing Brand and the others, he’d effectively lost Tex, Miggy, Jim Bob, and Dolph as well.

  John would never be characterized as impatient, but he felt a twinge of it now.

  Fortunately, Sami left the room to take a shower and John was able to finish his beer and the episode of The Simpsons in peace.

  Only when he got up to hop in the shower himself did he remember the paper. Avoiding electronic devices meant no tablets, smartphones, or laptops, so he’d had to go old-school for his news. He opened it to the international section and swore. The image was grainy, but there was no mistaking the face staring back at him. It looked back at him in the mirror every day.

  Damn it, Brit! Can’t you just leave it alone? But he knew better than to ask that question. Brittany Blake didn’t leave anything alone.

  Not for the first time, Brand’s little sister was making things difficult for him.

  * * *

  • • •

  John had been on edge all night, but he apparently didn’t have anything to worry about. Either most of the people he hung out with in Levi didn’t pay attention to the news—which was a distinct possibility—or he’d changed so much in five years as to become unrecognizable.

  The latter seemed to be the case later that night when he brought Marta back to the house for a little late-night sauna action. One of his favorite things about Finland so far definitely had to be the saunas. They were ubiquitous, seemingly more common than dishwashers. Even apartments had them.

  He’d left Marta in the living room while he went to get them something to drink, and when he came back she was watching the news. Unfortunately, it was just as they were running a story—with the damned photo—about the “Lost Platoon.”

  Great, it was on the news now. He cursed Brand’s sister again.

  Marta’s gaze shifted from the grainy image on the screen to his face.

  He held his breath for a good long second before he let it go. Not a flicker. Not even one tiny glimmer of recognition.

  With the way she’d been staring at him the past couple days, if she didn’t make the conne