Mark Young - Off the grid

A long trip for a short conversation.

Kane wasn’t telling him everything. Lawton’s chiding words about this man’s lack of forthrightness seem to jive with Gerrit’s gut instinct. And Cromwell’s warning about watching his back with these guys troubled him. Everyone around him-Cromwell, Marilynn, the senator-all seemed to know more about what was happening than he did.

He felt like he was working in the dark without a flashlight, and he’d have a lot to lose if things went wrong.

Seattle, Washington

Gerrit drew closer, sighting down the barrel of his semi-auto Smith amp; Wesson M amp;P. Squinty eyes, fat jowls, and a heavyset man slouched in the armchair, sleeping. Gerrit eased the safety off and pressed the. 40 cal barrel into the fat man’s forehead.

“Wake up and die,” Gerrit hissed, watching the man’s eyes suddenly open.

Fear and stale beer mingled with sweat on the killer’s face. “Don’t hurt me! I’ll give you whatever you want.”

Gerrit clutched the man’s throat and squeezed. “Can you bring back my mother and father?”

A look of recognition and terror flickered in the man’s eyes. “Are you…?”

Squeezing tighter, Gerrit drew closer. “I’m your worst nightmare. Your first mistake was killing my parents. Your second mistake-leaving me alive.”

The man gasped for breath.

Gerrit felt like ripping the man’s throat out. “Just one question. Who hired you to kill them?”

His eyes widened. “I can’t,” he gasped. “If they find out I snitched, they’ll hunt me down.”

“Wrong answer,” Gerrit said, his voice dropping to almost a whisper. He slowly squeezed the trigger until-

Gerrit jerked awake. Light flickered across the darkened room as the black-and-white video played on the screen. A cold, wet nose nudged his hand.

Bones.

The dog placed his head on Gerrit’s lap and whined.

Stroking the animal’s head, Gerrit tried to clear his mind. Waves lapped against the pier as his houseboat creaked from Lake Washington’s current, lights from Seattle seen in the distance through a bay window. Bones always sensed when Gerrit had troubled dreams. The dog had been with him-with a few absences-since that day in Fallujah. No longer skin and bones, the dog never missed a meal. And it showed. No fat, just muscle.

The dog had been Gerrit’s jogging partner since they returned from the Middle East. Bones could run Gerrit into the ground and loved to dive off the houseboat for long swims in the lake. This desert dog loved water. At the moment, Bones was concerned about his master.

With a dry mouth, Gerrit turned and began to watch the tape he’d seen a million times as the camera operator panned the blast area. The lens zoomed downward to focus on a blackened hand, severed at the wrist, lying amid ashes and debris on the dirty-gray concrete.

One of the few parts left of his father.

As the film rolled on, investigators slowly identified other body parts, marking each one with a number for later mapping and tagging. These images still left him numb, as if he just learned of the explosion. Even after viewing this gruesome tape over and over since the blast seven years ago, his chest still tightened, his heart still ached.

As he viewed each film clip-putting his emotions aside-he’d carefully study the documented evidence trying to figure out what everyone else missed. Who triggered this ghastly killing? Give me just one lousy lead. A Russian-made detonator had been recovered. Nico Petrosky’s group? Gerrit thought so. But as always, he came up empty. And Nico was dead.

Strewn on the floor of his small office, documents and photographs lay in small piles, all duplications from the original files. Lab reports, crime-scene sketches, and reams of reports carefully recording all the efforts of every investigator assigned to the case.

In all these hundreds of investigative man-hours and all the trained eyes focused on this case-SPD, ATF, FBI, DOJ, ICE-not one substantive suspect surfaced. Not one tangible lead emerged that might give him a clue as to who might have triggered the explosion. Not one hint as to who ordered this hit or who built this bomb that destroyed the ones he loved.

He was the only one left to mourn. The only one left to carry on this investigation. Everything changed for him the moment their lives ended. Turning his back on the military and his potential future in science, Gerrit became a police officer here in Seattle. All for one purpose-to find his parents’ killers and bring them to justice. To take revenge against those responsible.

Many a night he woke up fantasizing, peering down the barrel of his gun, pointing it at the faces of his parents’ murderers. There was never any hesitation in his dreams. He always pulled that trigger.

A life for a life.

Actually three lives. The only family he’d ever known had been destroyed in one night-his parents killed and his uncle disappeared.

Three tours in the Middle East had started him down this solitary road. Once his military duty ended, he planned to start a normal life. A wife. A family. The all-American dream. When tragedy struck, however, he knew his world had changed forever. His future would never be normal.

He picked up the file on Dr. Henry Clarke that Kane had provided in England and began to review the man’s history so his cover story in Vienna would hold up. He used the flickering light from the television screen to read, too tired to get up and turn on a light.

According to the documents, Clarke supervised the UK’s Communication-Electronic Security Group, CESG, an arm of GCHQ, Government Communications Headquarters. His group made sure British communications and electronic data remained intact with no security breaches. Clarke rode shotgun on any projects aimed at improving these capabilities while keeping a watchful eye out for those who might seek to breach security.

CESG worked arm and arm with Lawton’s MI6, Secret Intelligence Service, and the MI5, the UK’s Security Service branch. Sooner or later, all intelligence and counterintelligence communications filtered through Clarke’s office.

Gerrit could see why terrorists and foreign governments might like to get inside Clarke’s arrogant head.

Two quick raps on the door followed by a key in the lock made him jump and reach for his gun. Bones never growled.

“Gerrit, you home?” Marilynn Summers. He forgot she still had his houseboat key.

He put the gun back on the end table, quickly buried Clarke’s file, and reached for the remote, killing the video and bathing the room in darkness. He heard her footsteps heading toward his office.

“Gerrit?” Lights came on, dispelling darkness. “Why are you sitting here in the dark? Watching that video again?” she said brusquely as she entered. Bones stood, and Marilynn gave the animal a look that said it all-she and Bones were not on friendly terms. “Why you choose to live in this damp houseboat I’ll never know. You can afford better.”

“It suits me, Marilynn. What are you doing here?”

“I was concerned. Never heard from you when you got back. Everything went all right in England?”

“Just fine.” He took a deep breath and exhaled. “Thanks for asking.”

Her intrusion ticked him off and he struggled to be cordial. Everything changed over the last few weeks, particularly after their conversation while he was in San Diego. The Nico Petrosky investigation seemed less important to her, and whatever they had going on between them had cooled. She seemed willing to move on to more important matters since their meeting in D.C. It surprised him she even showed up tonight; her actions made him suspicious. Marilynn always had an agenda.

He never kidded himself about their relationship. He knew from the first day that this wasn’t going to be a forever thing with them. Marilynn wanted to climb, to achieve, and she hungered for power, a lust she learned from her father. Their relationship had become a matter of convenience. To be brutally honest, he preferred it this way. His agenda didn’t include others-including Marilynn. Finding his parents’ killer was his primary goal in life.