“The military has declared us dead. Apparently, it was on the news and in the papers this morning.”
They turned on CNN. It didn’t take long for the “training accident” story to appear. It was surreal to see his name and face on the screen.
“Guess we’re officially dead now,” John said. “What do you think it means?”
“That they are nervous. That your reporter was making it too hard for them to keep this under wraps.” He paused. “And that we probably both should get out of DC before someone recognizes us.”
John shook his head. “I can’t do that, sir. Not yet.” Not while he couldn’t shake this unease with Brittany.
The LC eyed him, clearly suspecting the reason. “Yeah, that makes two of us. So, what do you say we put our heads together and see what we can come up with?”
For the rest of the day they did just that. Going over every angle of the operation at least a half-dozen times. It was damned good to be back in the saddle again, but John was still distracted.
He went into the bathroom to take a shower to clear his head while the LC ordered more room service, but he came out a few minutes later when the LC called to him.
“You gotta see this,” Taylor said. “Shereallyburied 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 theDC Chronicleabout the so-called Lost Platoon of a secret SEAL team, has been dismissed for fabricating the stories. TheChroniclehas 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 famousLansdowne Portraitof 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.
