Off the Grid (A Gerrit O'Rourke Novel) Read online

  Chapter 1

  Seattle, Washington, December, Present Day

  A sense of trouble seemed to bear down on him as hard as the chilly blast of wind off the water. Gerrit O’Rourke pulled his navy-blue pea coat tighter, fending off a face-numbing gust straight off the Puget Sound. Leaning over the railing, he appeared to be watching the ferry’s bow plowing through swelling waves. Instead, he stole a look along the deck, studying other red-faced strangers in the crowd, small groups of commuters and tourists.

  No informant yet. No killers trailing behind.

  A comforting bulge beneath his coat—a holstered semi-auto .40 Smith & Wesson— gave him confidence as he thought of Nico Petrosky and the man’s trigger-happy goons. The Russian crime boss planted eyes and ears everywhere—even in law enforcement.

  The informant’s voice had sounded tense over the phone. Gerrit agreed to this meeting because he sensed trouble. On the flip side, it would not be the first time this guy, plastered on drugs or alcohol, feigned danger while demanding more money.

  Nico Petrosky was an animal. A wealthy animal. The man had been in Gerrit’s sights ever since he joined the police department. Even before he was hired though, he never revealed this fact to the background investigators. The name emerged again a few years back when Gerrit, alerted by a tip from the LAPD’s vice squad, found a shipping container stored on the docks in Seattle, waiting for transport to San Francisco. Inside, they found twenty Russian girls—ages ten to fifteen—cowering inside, half starved. The girls were bound for the sexual slave market on both the East and West coasts.

  He found the body of one girl—barely ten years old—curled up in a ball. The coroner would later determine that the girl died from pneumonia and starvation. The sight still haunted him. He swore that day to hunt down those responsible for this atrocity. The girl’s death and leads from the container led to Nico Petrosky. He knew this dirtbag benefited from these crimes, but so far, Gerrit’s unit had not been able to prove it.

  A chrome-glazed December sky hovered as if warning of pending trouble, darkness only a few hours away. He cast a glance toward sheltered passengers, comfortably ensconced behind thick-plated windows, customers bellying up to the bar for another round to ward off the cold. No one looked familiar. Beyond, Seattle’s skyline twinkled with illumination across the waves, beacons of light spewing from high-rises, growing brighter by the moment across a darkening sky.

  The city’s silhouette brought a knot to his stomach, a reminder of the past that drew him to this seaport. Painful memories muscled in on him like the jostling crowd he was watching right now. Wrenching his attention back to the present, Gerrit suppressed those memories, pushing them deep inside. He glanced around once more for the informant.

  “Maybe a no-show?” he whispered into a mike hidden near his shirt collar.

  Looking toward the upper deck, he spotted Mark Taylor, another Seattle PD detective, shaking his head. Taylor’s rich, dark skin stood out among the crowd of pale white commuters standing around him, the only African American assigned to the squad when Gerrit joined the unit.

  It had been seven years since Gerrit left the military and surprised everyone when he applied as an officer with Seattle. He’d worked his way into special assignments, always focusing on positioning himself within the department to investigate his parent’s bombing. And now he was working intelligence. The first day they teamed up together, Taylor took one look at him and shook his head.

  “This ain’t gonna work, bro. A military guy with a college degree and a brotha from Chicago’s Southside just smacks of trouble.” They worked out their differences over time, Gerrit finally managing to overcome Taylor’s suspicions.

  Gerrit keyed his mike. “Did you know that of the 70 percent of people who died in boating accidents in 2009, 84 percent did not wear life jackets?”

  Taylor’s voice came through a transmitter lodged in Gerrit’s right ear. “What are the stats on how many cops shot their partners while traveling on a ferry boat? Do you realize how cold it is up here?”

  “Chill out. Until today, zero cops have fired on their partners while riding on any watercraft.”

  “If we don’t end this soon, I may change those stats. How ’bout we call it quits? This guy’s in the wind.”

  Gerrit turned away, resting his arms on the wooden railing. “Might as well stay with it until we hit the dock.” They were about fifteen minutes out of Seattle’s Pier 50 terminal, heading to Bainbridge Island.

  He glanced over the crowd one more time and saw a familiar face sliding through the throng. “Got ’em, Mark. Coming my way at three o’clock. Where did this guy come from? Hiding in the john?”

  Two clicks signaled Taylor understood. Gerrit pushed off the railing, one hand ready to reach under his coat for his S&W.

  The informant—a gaunt, birdlike creature with raven-black hair and even darker eyes—sidled alongside a moment later. Clothes hung on the man like a straw-filled scarecrow in the middle of a cornfield. A tanned fleece jacket with blotches of dark grease flapped in the gusty wind like a seagull trying to take off.

  As Birdman leaned closer, Gerrit caught a whiff of skid-row perfume—wine and urine, overpowered by fear-drenching sweat. Birdman, real name Gregori in the snitch file, seemed to be coming unglued.

  Cautiously, Gerrit eyed the informant, watching the guy’s eyes and hands for any sign of danger. “What happened to you? You’re a mess.”

  The man next to him did not even resemble the lab rat Gerrit had rolled as an informant. He studied Gregori’s lifestyle, his appetites, and found the man’s Achilles heel: money and a promise of a new life. The man standing before him seemed to have lost his nerve after stealing from Nico. Gerrit had not heard from him in weeks. Now he knew where Gregori must have been hiding. In a bottle somewhere deep in a skid-row sewer.

  “I th-think someone’s on to m-me. I run,” the informant stuttered, his lips cracked and dry. “I think dis whole thing mistake.” His Russian accent and wine-influenced English dropped and smashed words together like a giant blender.

  “Gregori, stay cool. You’re the one who called me. Said you made copies of what Nico stole.” Sometimes he needed to speak to the informant as if he were communicating with a child. “If you’re not blowing smoke, then we’re almost to the finish line. And you’re off to Witness Protection and a new life. Don’t blow it now.”

  Birdman straightened. “You … You drop me in danger. They like sharks. They smell my blood. They …oh, man, I wish we never met. They know! I feel it.”

  “How can they, unless you let it slip?” Gerrit glanced beyond him, eyeing the throng once more. Something really spooked this guy. He looked for a face that might raise a warning flag. Normal crowd. Normal commuters. Bainbridge only ten minutes away. “Tell me why this was worth my time.”

  The man reached into his grimy jacket and withdrew a thumb drive. “Download all dis stuff. All right here.”

  Gerrit started to reach for it, but the man jerked back, clenching it in his fist. “First, you, how you say, immunize me. And protection. I dead man if this gets out.” He waved the clenched fist holding the computer drive.

  A clicking noise chirped in Gerrit’s earpiece alerting him that Taylor was about to transmit. “We got a boat tailing us forty yards off starboard. They’ve been following us for several minutes.”

  A sport-fishing vessel with jet engines ran parallel to the ferry. Two men on board. Their engine throttled down to keep abreast of the bigger, lumbering vessel. “I see ’em.” Gerrit leaned away from the informant to speak. “Keep your eyes on them until I finish up here.”

  Gregori’s eyes flickered, fear widening his pupils. “What happening?”

  “Nothing.” He flicked his hand as if it was nothing. “And, my friend, it’s called immunity unless you’ve caught some disease I don’t know about. Let’s get down to business.”

  “The boat’s dropping back. Looks like they might be trailing us to the dock, matching
our speed. Maybe picking up a friend?”

  Glancing up at Taylor, Gerrit nodded. He did not want to spook the informant.

  Gregori followed his gaze. “That one of you guys?”

  Gerrit deadpanned, “Like I said, don’t worry about it. We’ve got this covered.”

  “No way, man. Something wrong—” Birdman glanced over Gerrit’s shoulder in horror.

  Gerrit reached for his weapon. He whipped around, seeing a man a few yards away armed with a gun. He shoved Gregori to the deck with one hand just as the gunman fired off two compressed shots. The first shot splintered the deck, and the second seemed to go wild when a bystander fell into him.

  A silencer. The shots sounded like compressed air hissing angry spit wads.

  The gunman seemed to be trying to follow Gregori’s path to the ground with his weapon. A few bystanders bolted when they saw the guns. A woman screamed, starting more of a panic. The attacker seemed to realize his chance to kill Gregori just vanished as each shot caused more chaos.

  Gerrit positioned himself to protect Gregori, but he could not take a shot due to the number of innocent people. Grimacing, the shooter—a lithe man in blue denim trousers and a dark, bulky sweatshirt—turned and roughly shoved his way through the crowd, forcing at least one woman to lose her balance. The gunman dashed toward the stern.

  “Hey,” Gerrit yelled, trying to draw the shooter’s attention. The informant hovered on the ground, chest still heaving. Gerrit activated his radio. “Taylor. We’re Code 4 on this end. Shooter heading aft through the crowd. See him?”

  “Gotcha. On my way.”

  Quickly, Gerrit knelt. “You okay?”

  Gregori nodded.

  Gerrit grabbed the thumb drive from the man’s grasp and slipped it into his pocket. “I’ll take this for safekeeping. Stay down and don’t move.”

  Gregori mutely nodded again.

  People crowded around, eyeing the man on the ground like this was some television show. One woman edged closer and saw Gerrit holding a gun. He yanked out his badge just as the woman screamed. He flashed it at the crowd.

  “Police! Everyone take cover. Man with a gun.” He jabbed a finger toward the stern. A young girl stared at his right hand, still holding the S&W. “Another man with a gun,” he said, looking away, searching for the gunman.

  People began clearing a path as he pushed through the lingering crowd. Some still crouched in place. Others ran for the enclosed bar and lunchroom inside.

  Taylor’s voice blared across the radio. “The shooter’s on the railing. He…he jumped overboard.” Frustration was evident in his voice. “I can’t get to him, Gerrit. Caught in this crowd topside.”

  Gerrit neared the railing and spotted the attacker bobbing between waves. The fishing boat Taylor spotted earlier drew alongside. One of the crew members hurled a life preserver, attached to a nylon rope, into the water, waiting until the gunman grasped it. Once set, the crewman yanked on the rope like he was hauling in a large fish. Fist over fist until the man in the water reached the edge of the craft. The shooter clambered up a metal ladder as the vessel pulled away.

  The bow rose as the boat picked up speed, heading toward the Seattle shoreline. The fishing vessel would soon be lost on the far shore. Air support was too far out, and ground units could never respond in time.

  He reholstered the weapon and pounded the railing with a clenched fist.

  Chapter 2

  Bainbridge Island, Washington

  “Here it comes,” Gerrit muttered to his partner. “The inquisition has begun.”

  Their one-sided gun battle aboard the ferry sparked a police investigation even though they never fired a shot. And internal affairs would be panting in the wings, waiting their turn to roast Gerrit and Taylor, if any procedural irregularities turned up. A paunchy investigator from the Washington State Patrol motioned Gerrit toward a makeshift office inside the terminal.

  Gerrit started toward the officer until the man held up a hand, cell phone planted in one ear. The man straightened and glanced toward Gerrit while shaking his head, jaw tightening as he ended the call.

  “My boss told me to stand down.” The officer glared at Gerrit. “Said some feds are on their way to talk to you guys.”

  Gerrit nodded. “I’m going to step outside for some fresh air.” He gestured at his partner heading toward an exit door and followed Taylor outside.

  Earlier, officers from the Washington state police tried to keep the two of them apart until investigators arrived, but in the confusion over supervision and the number of eyewitnesses milling around, Gerrit and Taylor met up and stayed together. Now, the state troopers probably thought they had already worked out their stories, so what’s the point in keeping them sequestered.

  He found Taylor standing in the dark a few feet from the doorway. Light from his cigarette illuminated his face as he took a deep drag.

  Gerrit stood upwind from the smoke. “Task force heading our way. Probably want to do damage control before WSP gets too far into this investigation. I figure Marilynn just threw around her federal weight at the locals.” Marilynn Summers spearheaded the investigation for the federal prosecutor’s office.

  Taylor shook his head, the cigarette bobbing in the dark. “I’ll bet Summers wants to handle this herself. One of our informants almost gets wasted by a hitter right in front of us, then the shooter vanishes off a boat.” He winced, his dark skin and clipped Chicago accent seeming out of place here in Washington. “I hope this doesn’t come out of our paycheck. Brothers always seem to wind up in more trouble than you white guys.” Taylor grinned at him before taking another hit on the cigarette.

  Gerrit laughed. “White or black, we’re both in trouble, partner. Don’t play that race card with me. It won’t fly.”

  Taylor chuckled. It was a politically incorrect game they played with each other, since they had become tighter than brothers. Taylor knew Gerrit would always have his back. And Taylor always backed his play even when they got into serious jams. “Where’s the snitch?”

  “I gave him a few bills and sent him on his way. No use letting him sit around here and give the shooter a second chance. Right now, he has a better chance running on his own than sticking around for police protection.”

  Blades from an incoming helicopter beat the air behind them. Gerrit turned just as the craft emerged, rotors whirling through the night like a giant wind machine. The aircraft hovered, slowly settling to roost somewhere behind the terminal building.

  “Here they come. Get ready for them to turn up the heat.” Taylor dropped the cigarette butt on the ground, grinding it with his heel. “Well, Einstein, did you tell the state troopers about the evidence you snatched?”

  Gerrit shook his head, leaning against a concrete pole, hands thrust in his trouser pockets. Taylor’s self-appointed nickname irked Gerrit. His right hand circled around the thumb drive. “No need to complicate their investigation.”

  Taylor snorted, reaching for another cigarette.

  A door opened, thrusting shafts of white iridescence from inside the building across the black asphalt. It was the same WSP investigator who had been ordered to wait before interviewing them. He leaned through the doorway, one hand resting on the knob. “They want to see you inside.” He thrust a chin in Gerrit’s direction.

  Pushing off the pole, Gerrit glanced at his partner. Taylor returned the look. “Good luck, my man.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, no harm, no foul. No one’s dead. No one got hurt.”

  “Yeah, but shots were fired and you scared the crap out of everyone on that boat. I’m sure the whole thing will wind up on YouTube before we get interviewed.”

  Gerrit shrugged before entering the building behind the trooper. Once inside, he paused for a moment to allow his eyes to adjust. A man and a woman stood at the top of a flight of stairs to his right. The man wore a dark-blue suit and red tie, obviously FBI. The woman—Marilynn Summers—turned and glanced down at him.

  “Detect
ive, why don’t you join me up here where we can talk…privately.” She gestured toward a door a few yards away from where she stood. As he climbed the stairs, Marilynn turned toward the FBI agent. “Why don’t you contact the other detective and have him debrief you on the incident. We’ll compare notes after I’m through with Gerrit.”

  He tried to mask his irritation while Marilynn and the agent continued chatting. She glanced at him, still conversing with the other man. Her soft blond hair, cut shoulder length, added a certain softness to her navy-blue skirt and black waist-length leather jacket. Any softness coming from this woman was merely a means to an end.

  As he reached the top landing, she gave him one more look. “Okay, Detective. Follow me and let’s get this over with.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Marilynn seemed oblivious to his comment as she opened the office door and gestured him inside. Gerrit strode into the room and leaned against the only desk, a gray metallic bruiser positioned dead center in a large, vacuous office.

  She closed and locked the door from inside. A slow smile emerged as she advanced toward him. “Well, honey. I wish we could make good use of this private office. Door’s locked and the window shades are drawn.” She pulled off her jacket and flung it across the desk, pushing herself against him. Her arms encircled his waist as she moved in close. “Can’t wait to get you home.”

  Gerrit raised himself up, grasping her shoulders. “Get a grip, Marilynn. I almost lost an informant out there, and I know my boss will be planting his boot up my butt over this. We need to get our stories straight.”

  “Our stories? Don’t draw me into this. You and your partner wanna play cowboy and meet an informant without backup knowing Nico’s lurking out there…well, that’s your problem. Not mine.”

  He eased away, putting distance between them. Since when did she start playing it safe? Her willingness to take chances, to walk a fine line between the law and the lawless, to get the job done had been the magnet that drew them together. Gerrit never stomached unnecessary rules. Even worse, he hated rule makers sitting behind a desk and coming up with reasons why the job couldn’t get done. Impatience always drove Gerrit to scale these obstacles any way he could.