Off the Grid Page 4

  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
ction, he doubted any of the others would either.

  “What do you think happened to them?” she asked in her heavily accented English.

  He feigned ignorance. “Who?”

  “The Lost Platoon of American soldiers.”

  Now, that grated. SEALs were sailors. He shrugged indifferently. “I have no idea. Sounds like a bunch of speculation to me.”

  He sat down beside her and handed her the glass of schnapps. He’d stick to beer. He wasn’t big on the popular liquor, which tasted like and had the consistency of cough syrup.

  “The reporter seems pretty convinced. Her brother is one of the men missing.”

  John felt the hot pressure building behind his ribs. He didn’t want to talk about this, and he knew just how to end the conversation.

  He slid his arm around her shoulders and leaned in close. Her dark eyes widened a little. They were a really pretty golden brown framed with long, thick lashes. She wasn’t his usual type, but he was up for a change. And it was her mouth he was thinking about now. Red and sweet and gently parted—not with another question but with anticipation.

  Perfect.

  He waited, and she came to him, leaning in ever so slightly until their lips met.

  The kiss was long and slow at first, and just getting mildly interesting when he felt a buzzing vibration in his pocket.

  John knew exactly who it had to be because no one else had the number. That was some kind of timing. John had just been thinking it was time to move on, and now the LC—Scott Taylor—was calling. Had he figured out who had set them up? Was it time to get back to work?

  The relief caused any blood that had been flowing to instantly stop. He pulled away, and Marta made a sound of protest. “Sorry,” he lied. “I gotta take this.”

  He stood and dug the phone out of his pants. Flipping it open, he pushed the button to answer it but didn’t say anything until he was in his room with the door closed behind him. “Johnson’s Plumbing.”

  The code had been his idea. Yes, he was a child. But with what they did, they needed every little bit of amusement—even the cheap dick-humor kind.

  “Next time I’m picking the damned code,” Taylor said. “I’m so tired of hearing that. It wasn’t funny the first time.”

  John grinned. It was good to hear the LC’s voice. That he was clearly irritated and short-tempered didn’t bother him—he was usually that way where John was concerned. The LC was always serious. John wasn’t. “Did you figure out the source of the leak? Are we all clear to get back?”

  There was a long pause. “Not yet. I’m still working on it.”

  John tried not to be disappointed; it wasn’t easy. “What’s up, then?”

  “I take it you’ve seen the paper by now?”

  The subject caused John’s jaw to clamp down. “And the news.” Suspecting what this was about, he started to refuse even before the LC asked. “Don’t look at me—”

  “I need you to shut her up.”

  John’s reaction was visceral. Every bone in his body rejected the idea. He didn’t want to have anything to do with Brand’s sexy, made-his-blood-run-hot, and definitely off-limits sister. That was a no go. She was a no go.

  With unusual vehemence for someone who was normally easygoing and agreeable, John said, “No, sir. Not me. Find someone else to take care of it. Sir.”

  If he thought adding the extra “sir” in there would help, it didn’t. “I wasn’t asking, Donovan, and the ‘sir’ crap isn’t going to help. Everyone else is busy. Besides, you are the logical choice. Baylor told me you know her.”

  That was the problem.

  “Not well,” he lied. Well enough. “What about Miggy? He knows her, too.”

  The four of them had been hanging out at her brother’s rented beach house in San Diego—John, Brand, Miggy, and Tex—when Brittany had shown up for an unexpected visit five years ago. It had been during the time he and Brand were being recruited for Team Nine.

  There was a pause. “What’s this about, Dynomite? I thought you’d want to help—this is Blake’s sister we’re talking about, and she could be in danger. She has no idea of the kind of shit storm she’s stirring up with these articles. We aren’t the only ones who might want her quiet. Did you think of that?”

  John’s jaw was clenching so hard that his teeth were gritting together. He didn’t want to think about that. If he thought about that, he wouldn’t be able to refuse. He’d also have to remember his promise.

  “You think she’s in danger from whoever set us up and told the Russians we were coming?”

  “She could be. She’s shining a light on something a lot of people want to keep dark. And she’s not letting it go.”

  That was her. If there was anything he remembered about Brand’s sister—and unfortunately he remembered a lot, especially those big blue eyes staring up at him as if he’d just stomped all over her heart, which still made him a little sick just thinking about—she didn’t back off easily. Once Brit got her teeth into something, she didn’t let go. She was the pin-down, box-in type. Which was part of the problem. He didn’t do either.

  John wanted to refuse, but he knew he was beaten. He might not want to have anything to do with her, but she was his best friend’s sister. He couldn’t stand by if she was in danger. Besides, it wasn’t as if he had to physically come into contact with her. He shivered with something that might actually be characterized as fear.

  At least he didn’t think he would have to. “I thought you didn’t want anyone to know we are alive.”

  “I don’t.” The LC stopped to correct himself. “Didn’t. Something came up with the senior chief, and I had to bring Kate into it, but no one else can know.”

  John didn’t say anything. He didn’t know what to think. Kate was Katherine Wesson. The ex-wife of Team Nine’s former chief, Colt Wesson. LC Taylor was supposedly one of the reasons the Wesson marriage had broken up. John hadn’t wanted to believe the LC could have done something so effed up as to screw around with another man’s wife, let alone a close friend and team member’s wife—it didn’t fit with Taylor’s always by-the-book, run-a-tight-ship persona. But now the one person he’d confided in about this was Kate? John didn’t know what to make of that, but he was glad they had someone they could trust helping them—especially since Kate was CIA.

  “Then how am I supposed to get her to back off?” John said. “I can’t exactly call her and tell her what’s up.” Nor was he going to threaten or scare her. Not only did the idea make him cringe, but he didn’t think it would stop her. Rather, it would probably have the opposite effect.

  “You’ll think of something,” the LC said, apparently unconcerned. “Just do it fast. For her sake as well as ours, this story needs to go away.”

  John hung up the phone and leaned back against the door, feeling as if he’d just been told to run a marathon in an hour—uphill. Hell, that would be easier. And preferable.

  He closed his eyes and thought for a minute, letting the memories come back to him. Memories that he normally kept shut away in a very dark corner, behind a very thick wall. Not for you.

  His eyes popped open. He had an idea. There was one way he could think of to be sure she heeded the warning. But he was going to hate himself for doing it. And she would hate him more than she already did if she ever found out what he’d done.

  Which was definitely saying something.

  Three

  The hockey player had all his teeth.

  Brittany’s hot date—Mick—was even hotter than his picture, which meant he was pretty damned hot. Way too hot for her. She was fine-looking—maybe even pretty when she put some effort into it (which she had tonight)—but she was nowhere near this guy’s level. A supermodel wouldn’t be near this guy’s level.

  He was gorgeous. Dark, wavy hair, heavily lashed green eyes, chiseled, masculine features, and built. Se
riously built, like . . . a hockey player. Tall, broad-shouldered, and stacked with enough hard muscle to make any sane person turn and run in the opposite direction and give proof to his role as the team’s enforcer—she didn’t need to be a hockey fan to get the gist of that. He bore a distinct resemblance to the actor who played Superman in the new movies and always made her heart beat a little faster.

  She didn’t know what was more surprising: the fact that her heart was beating at a nice, steady pace (and had been all night) or that Superman—Mick—seemed to be interested in her. Really interested in her. Which might be flattering if she weren’t sitting there wondering why.

  Good-looking, easy to talk to, a former professional hockey player who’d spent most of his eight years in the minor leagues but had made a few appearances with the Boston Bruins and had gone back to finish school afterward—Harvard, no less—and who was now working as a lobbyist with a big firm in town . . . What was her problem?

  She should have been on her knees, thanking God for this gift—for this miracle—rather than wondering whether he had some kind of weird fetishes or some other reason to explain why he wasn’t sitting at the bar with a gorgeous woman on each arm.

  God, she was cynical. Why did she find it so hard to believe that an exceptionally good-looking guy could be interested in her? Why couldn’t she just enjoy herself? And why, for God’s sake, was she bored? This was interesting! He was telling her about going back to school as a twenty-six-year-old and . . .

  She glanced down at her phone, sitting there temptingly on the chair beside her. She nodded and gave him an encouraging laugh, while surreptitiously touching the screen so that her messages would pop up.

  What was she, seventeen? Only teenagers and rude adults checked their phones while at the table.

  Suddenly, her eyes widened and her hand went to her mouth to muffle the strangled gasp that snuck out from between her lips.

  “What’s wrong?” Mick asked, stopping his story to lean across and put a hand on hers. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”