Navy Justice. Geri Krotow
the pantry, and frozen yogurt in the freezer. Did they need dessert, though? Normally her mouth would be watering at the thought.
Instead, she picked up her glass of ice water to moisten her dry mouth. She took several gulps before she grasped what Brad had said. The glass almost slipped out of her hand before she clunked it onto the counter.
“You think it’s the same group Farid helped you take out in Afghanistan, don’t you?”
Brad shrugged. “That’s what headquarters and the Intel analysts were telling me. These guys fit the pattern. We had indications that they might try to interrupt the Naval exercise that’s going on this week in Puget Sound and the Strait of Juan de Fuca. I was supposed to be halfway between the shore and the Abraham Lincoln. You know Old Abe is the flagship for the exercise.”
“As expected.” She didn’t know a lot about Navy Special Operations or practice scenarios, but Brad was probably familiar with all the possible circumstances under which the Navy trained.
“I was at the boat rental place two days ago, ready to get my own little powerboat to take me out to the prearranged area, when it occurred to me that I’d be better off using my own equipment. If anything was going to happen at sea, I wouldn’t be able to prevent it, but I trust the ability of the aircraft carrier and her ship’s company to do their jobs. I certainly couldn’t protect them.”
“What are you most worried about?”
“That’s classified.”
Joy shook the bottle into which she’d mixed oil, vinegar, lemon juice and salt. When she finished, she poured a generous amount over the ready-made salad she’d bought.
“Save the classified routine for someone else, Brad. I’m the one risking my neck getting classified information for you, remember? What about your boss? Can you contact him now?”
“I could use your phone, as you suggested. But I’d rather not. I’m pretty damn sure that everyone’s calls on this side of the island are being monitored. So if a call went into the Bureau from either your landline or your cell, it would immediately pop up. I don’t want to bring anyone into this, no matter how legit they are.”
“Maybe you should calm down and be a little more trusting of the process.”
“I trust no one.”
Joy washed her hands and looked out her kitchen window at the windswept coastline. The emergency vehicles of this morning were gone, but she knew Brad was correct. Several lookouts had been assigned to keep an eye on the beach for whatever—or whoever—washed up in the next few days. She didn’t have to see them to know it.
They were looking for the domestic terrorists whose group Brad had infiltrated.
She shuddered. The thought of American citizens willingly working for such an evil cause gave her the creeps.
Brad was a solid military man who now worked for the FBI. He wasn’t going to emerge from his undercover role until he had the answers he needed. That they all needed to ensure the safety of the base and surrounding area.
“I’m going to get into more comfortable clothes,” she told him. “Please help yourself to some of this and I’ll be right back. We have to come up with an action plan.” She pointed to the dish of crudités and hummus she’d prepared and left on the dining room table.
“I’ve kept myself occupied all day. I think I can manage another five minutes.” He walked over to the table. “Wow, you’ve fixed us a regular feast.”
“It’s the least I can do to support my local counter-terrorist undercover FBI agent.”
“Well, not the least.”
Joy didn’t react to his comment—she wasn’t sure he realized he’d said it so loudly.
Brad’s tone was steady, the same level voice she remembered from Norfolk. But his expression was worrying. It wasn’t the five o’clock shadow or the rumpled hair. They’d worked long hours together with few breaks and had seen each other at their worst.
It was the faraway look in his eyes. As if he was there physically, talking to her, but his mind was preoccupied with figuring out a puzzle.
She’d have to help him get to the bottom of it. Especially since she preferred her yoga pants and T-shirt to an orange jumpsuit.
* * *
THEY SAT WITH half a bottle of wine unfinished between them as she took notes and Brad leaned forward with his elbows on his thighs. She’d left the dinner plates in the sink for later, much as that pained her. What they were doing was more important.
“You must know something or you saw something downrange that’s incriminating to whoever wants General Grimes, and maybe you, dead. Let’s list all your missions and detachments. Anything you think was suspicious about them.”
Brad actually laughed, a rumble from deep in his chest. It seemed to echo in her dining room.
“The real question is what mission wasn’t suspicious or fraught with shady characters. Hell, Joy, do you think they send former SEALs and FBI agents to deal with the ‘aboveboard’ terrorists? Do you think there’s such a thing?”
The skin around his eyes crinkled, and she noticed his even white teeth. He’d always been attractive, but as an enlisted man he wasn’t available to her, even with his engagement on the rocks. He’d acted on his beliefs and on what he knew was right; she respected him for that. His behavior was typical of most Navy personnel she’d known, but she’d met a few officers as well as enlisted who’d crossed the line into fraternization. Brad had never so much as tried.
His good looks and their chemistry tempted her nonetheless.
“Cut me some slack, Iverson. I don’t have the battle scars you do.”
“I’m sorry, Joy. I guess I needed to blow off some steam with a good laugh.”
“Glad I could help. Now that it’s out of your system, how about refocusing and going over what you know?”
The thought of a bomb or a missile hitting either of the bases on Whidbey and injuring innocent civilians as well as Navy personnel stoked the fire that’d fueled the most fundamental reasons Joy had joined the military. She’d wanted to serve her country, protect its citizens and help defeat the bad guy wherever and whenever possible.
“Joy, you know I can’t tell you any of that.”
“You can’t tell me details, fine. But you can list who you’ve been targeting. No names—just call them persons A, B, C, whatever. I just need a timeline.”
“I realize now it was a cell of four, three since this morning’s events. I think one of them is a veteran, unfortunately. Army.”
“I hadn’t even thought of it being another vet.” She should have, though. The horrors of war were enough to make the most stable, honest human being turn to alcohol, drugs and worse. Mental illness rates among war vets were skyrocketing, and the VA Hospitals overflowed with PTSD patients.
“It’s not anyone I ever worked with, not former Navy or Marine. The guy was in the Army and saw several people in his unit killed or injured by an IED. Based on what I’ve seen of him, he probably has TBI.”
Traumatic Brain Injury. “That’s rough.”
“I’ve met all three players in this local cell face-to-face. The shooter is the first one I didn’t know. The cell’s small, and they’re not the type who have the months of training by al Qaeda or ISIL behind them. They’re homegrown terrorists who want some kind of vengeance because they feel the US Military wronged them—or the cause they’ve been associated with online.”
“Only one of the three you know personally is a veteran?”
“Yes. There’s one guy who acts like he has ties to another suspect, but I don’t have anything