lowered his arms onto the desk and leaned toward her.
“They’re in a basement in DC, Joy. If they haven’t been destroyed by now. Which, most likely, they have.”
“You know as well as I do that those files won’t be destroyed for another decade.” The backlog of paperwork in the legal field was staggering. Even more so when it involved something as high-profile as terrorism.
Once she’d agreed to defend Farid based on Brad’s testimony, she’d had to wrestle with the possibility that Brad had been brainwashed by the same Taliban group his SEAL team and General Grimes’s command had infiltrated and taken out. She’d had to make certain that his testimony, intended to free Farid from a possible death sentence, wasn’t based on a sense of guilt at having sold out Farid’s village leaders. It would’ve been so much easier to let Brad’s almost zealous drive to free his friend convince her that he was an unreliable witness and that she had no business trying to help Farid.
But she’d never been one for taking the easy road or the convenient one. She had to be able to look herself in the mirror every day, knowing she’d done her best. Brad wasn’t a war-damaged SEAL—he was a good man who refused to let an innocent man take the rap for something he hadn’t done. Brad’s intensity had sparked the most intense legal work of her career. He demanded nothing less than her utmost ability as an attorney and as a Naval officer.
“I have to see those files, Dennis.”
“I can request them, Joy, but I need to show cause.”
“Tell them one of the defendants in the barracks drug ring that NCIS is investigating is former special ops, that he’s claiming PTSD, and inhumane treatment during his time downrange made him snap and get involved in drugs here.”
Dennis shot her a rueful grin. “You always managed to get what we needed, Joy.”
“So you’ll do it?”
“I can try, but no promises. Even if they’ve got them, you could be talking boxes and boxes of paper. How will you know which one has what you need?”
“I’ll know. Can you have them FedEx the boxes to my house?”
“Hell, no. I can get them sent here if I’m lucky.”
“My ID runs out—”
“In two days. I remember.” His comment stoked her guilt. She’d been unable to make things work with Dennis except at work. He’d often hinted that he’d like their relationship to become more after she got out, but there’d never been any chemistry between them. Not for her, at least. She hadn’t offered him the slightest encouragement. Yet he still knew her last day of active duty.
He was handsome, excellent at his job and would never think of asking her to break the law.
Dennis glanced at his watch. “I’ll send a system request and follow it up with a phone call to a buddy of mine who’s working at headquarters. If we’re lucky we’ll get the boxes by tomorrow. That’ll give you a day to look at them. You’ll have to come in to base to do it. I can’t let you have access to anything after your terminal leave expires, Joy. You’ve already been read out.”
Unspoken was the fact that Dennis was breaking the law by allowing her access to classified material after she’d been read out of her clearance.
“I’ll sign a temporary clearance waiver.”
Dennis nodded. “Yes, you will. I trust you, Joy, but the system could end my career over this.”
“I understand. I can’t thank you enough.”
“Thank me when the boxes get here and you figure out who the bad guy is.”
* * *
FRUSTRATION SEETHED THROUGH BRAD. As powerful as Joy’s binoculars were and as advantageous as the view from her sunroom was, he couldn’t make out the US platforms—boats and aircraft—at the explosion site. Had anyone realized it was a SAM that had exploded? Did the Navy think it’d been a less hostile explosion, meant as a warning to the aircraft training from the base?
Won’t your boss be worried that you were killed in the explosion?
Unlikely, as Mike didn’t know he was anywhere near the boat that had blown up. Plus, they’d been through the same SEAL indoctrination in San Diego years ago. Mike knew his capabilities as well as he did himself.
He thanked his handy-dandy SEAL training for having a car trunk full of survival gear that had ultimately saved his life.
The scent of Joy’s laundry detergent wafted up with each step he took toward the kitchen. At least his clothes were clean, and he’d had a long, hot shower.
His stomach grumbled, and he checked the time. He’d told Joy not to call him on her house phone, not to have any communication unless they were face-to-face. She’d pick up a burner phone at Walmart sometime today, and then he could start making calls of his own.
But to whom? He didn’t want to call the Bureau until he had more answers. They’d warned General Grimes and arranged for a security detail. The general was in the loop, which was a load off Brad’s conscience.
Not that he’d ever been a big fan of General Grimes, USMC. The man had been such a hard-ass to work for in the warzone he’d been given the nickname “General Blue Balls” among the troops. Not for Grimes’s ears or his staffers’, of course. He’d really been a jerk with Brad during the Norfolk case, too. He’d refused to speak to him alone and ignored him when they were in the same room together. Grimes gave the impression of being a big fat egoist who’d managed to complete a successful career in the Marines but not through being open-minded. He’d especially resented it when a SEAL team who worked under him wasn’t required to report directly to him.
Brad was certain that Grimes would’ve been content to see Farid sentenced for the crimes he’d been accused of. Crimes he didn’t commit.
He picked up the remote and turned on the television, finding the news channel with ease. Military intelligence was tight with security, but some parts of the truth were bound to leak out.
As an anchor talked about the need for parents to vaccinate their children, Brad walked into Joy’s kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Fancy little yogurt containers, almond milk, a bin full of green leafy veggies. Skinny girly stuff. He looked in the freezer, hoping for some protein.
Score! The package of chicken breasts was thawing in the microwave before any sense of shame at scarfing her food could stop him. Opening cabinet doors and drawers, he found a frying pan, utensils and a plate.
“The apparent explosion happened...”
He ran into the front room and stared at the television. A live video stream of the search and rescue efforts filled the big screen, showing additional SAR units launching from NAS Whidbey.
“The cause of the explosion is unknown, but the possibility of a homemade bomb hasn’t been ruled out. NCIS at NAS Whidbey reports that they are receiving many anonymous tips and that they will follow up on all of them. No body has been recovered at the scene, but officials have received indications that there was at least one victim.” The reporter droned on with no further details as to why a “bomb” had gone off in the middle of the water off Whidbey Island.
With one of their colleagues missing and Brad gone, as well, what would the domestic terrorists do now? None of the cell members he’d met had struck him as overflowing with initiative.
They’re just the puppets.
He knew it was always a possibility—that bigger forces were manipulating events, to make them look like simple homegrown terrorists. That was why he’d been sent in. To figure it out.
Technically, he’d failed on a basic mission. Infiltrate the enemy. Observe, collect information and report back. Instead, he’d been backed into taking one of them out and bringing the entire undercover op to a halt.