Navy Justice (Whidbey Island, Book 5) (2 page)

The shale of the cliff cut his fingers, and blood dripped down his wrists. He wiped the sweat from his brow with his forearm. Gloves would’ve been smart but they lay with his destroyed inflatable on the ocean floor.

He was going to need help. It wasn’t the
how
or the
where
that gave him pause. It was the
who
.

He’d done his research well. He knew exactly where she lived.

Joy.

Why was it that his only chance to untangle the vicious web that had almost destroyed him lay with the one woman he didn’t want to bring into this mess? A woman who’d sacrificed six months of her life to help him and another innocent man. A woman he wanted to meet under better circumstances. He wanted to thank her properly. And yes, ask her out.

You don’t have a choice
.
You need her help.

If there’d been anyone else, someone he wouldn’t have on his conscience if things went south, he’d go to that person. He wished he could talk to Mike, his boss. FBI Agent Michael Rubio, former Navy SEAL and now Brad’s boss at the Bureau. Mike had been on his SEAL team, and they’d worked together on operational missions for most of a decade. Mike had sent him to monitor Whidbey and to bring back hard Intel on the people surveilling the area for a possible terrorist attack.

He couldn’t take the chance of giving his location away with a cellular communication. Plus, Mike would have too many questions. Brad didn’t have time for questions.

Because this op had taken a major detour in the bright blaze of an explosion. An explosion he’d caused. Justifiably, but the local cops weren’t going to wait for him to explain that part. He also had to keep the über-classified nature of this mission in mind.

His rigorous training meant his thoughts could wander as he struggled up the cliff. And that kept the enormity of the physical task he had to accomplish more manageable.

How the hell had a small-town domestic terrorist cell obtained a surface-to-air missile? If they wanted to provoke a response from Naval Air Station Whidbey, why hadn’t they tried something on land? Was this to see what the Navy’s local capabilities were?

No fewer than a dozen scenarios fought for priority in his overtaxed mind. The terrorist cell he’d been sent to infiltrate had seemed amateur at best, Taliban or al Qaeda wannabes.

He hadn’t believed they were connected to anything on a grander scale. Until yesterday.

Channeling his frustration into the energy he needed to climb the cliff side was another survival tactic he’d used innumerable times. He’d never had to use it in his own country, though.

Anger made the blood roar in his ears. There were terrorists running free on Whidbey Island, and they’d almost succeeded in shooting down a US Navy aircraft.

His toehold, a small ledge, crumbled as he tried to cling to it, and his ribs slammed against the rough wall. An involuntary grunt left his chest, along with his air.

Focus, breathe, reach, climb
.

He’d done this kind of thing when he was in worse shape. He remembered scaling an enemy compound wall with broken ribs and a collapsed lung... The searing pain in his side didn’t come close to the pain of past injuries.

The image of a beautiful woman with a voice as sexy as any he’d ever known flashed in front of him.

The same woman he hadn’t been able to erase from his mind in the year and a half since he’d seen her.

Joy
.

He wished it was only the pain, the shock of his predicament, that made him think of her.

Had he really thought he’d be able to wrap up this case and then go reintroduce himself? After eighteen months of no contact, except reading her Facebook page via the fake one he’d created? Not that he’d been keeping track as he faced down the devil himself and came through the hell that was his life those last six months of active duty.

He wished, too, that he had someone else, anyone other than Joy, to rely on. Anyone other than the woman who’d already done so much for him and his colleague.

Now he had to ask her to trust him again—but without the evidence he’d provided in Norfolk. He gritted his teeth. Joy Alexander deserved better than to be drawn into the reach of such evil.

But you need her intelligence, her skill...her
.

His fingers ached, and he wasn’t even halfway up the cliff. Worrying about Joy was just his brain’s way of distracting him from his discomfort. Another operational habit.

Schedules and crises had prevented him from connecting with her sooner. Clearing his name of a murder allegation had been another stumbling block, to say the least.

If he involved her in this op, there was no longer any hope of ever having more with her than what they’d always had—business. And yet, she was the only woman who’d completely believed in him, as a Navy sailor, a SEAL, a man.

Navy Lieutenant Commander Joy Alexander.

A wisp of memory drifted through his adrenaline-soaked mind—the tall, curvy Navy JAG he’d worked with, the attorney who’d defended him. It’d been a tough case.

She’d been tougher.

They’d made a good team. For six long months in the legal offices of Naval Station Norfolk, they’d slugged it out, seeking justice for an Afghan villager anyone else might have presumed guilty. It certainly would’ve been easier than facing down the entire United States Justice System with what initially looked like almost zero evidence.

Joy hadn’t given up from the very first minute they were introduced. In the aftermath of their trial win, his days had become bleak—for other reasons. He’d thought back to how she’d looked on that last day as she drove out of the legal building’s parking lot and waved goodbye.

He’d followed her Facebook posts while she was aboard the USS
Lincoln
, and then after, when she’d moved here to Whidbey. Brad didn’t post on Facebook; he lurked solely as a means of keeping in touch with the few old friends he had left. Joy had gotten out of the Navy and stayed on the West Coast to start over as a civvie.

He’d hoped to show up, take her on a date. If he got past his wariness over chasing a woman he still thought about. A woman he’d made love to in his mind countless times.

Like him, she’d been a loner. Dedicated to the pursuit of freedom and justice for all. The job was starting to wear on her; he’d seen it back then. He’d felt the same way. Dedicating your life to your country at eighteen, fresh out of high school, was noble and needed. Democracy had to be protected. Terrorists had to be stopped.

By thirty, the thrill of adrenaline rushes started to break down your body, no matter how fit you were, how dedicated. By thirty-five, you realized that the hard jobs were meant to be done by younger shipmates.

From what he’d gleaned, Joy had led a relatively charmed Navy career. Still, as they worked on the case together, he’d seen the fatigue shadowing her, too.

He knew she’d felt the attraction between them—he’d seen it in her glances, the way her hand crept to her throat in an unconscious defense mechanism. If they’d met elsewhere, some situation in which he wasn’t an enlisted SEAL and she wasn’t a Naval Officer JAG, their relationship might have played out very differently.

A different ending was what he’d hoped for when he saw that she’d gotten out of the Navy, too. They were both civilians now, free to take up with whomever they wanted.

And then he’d been assigned this mission.

You’ll never be free
.

As he pulled himself over the edge of the cliff and onto grass that felt surprisingly soft after the rough-hewn cliff side, he figured he had three more minutes to make it inside her place.

Good thing he was in her backyard.

He’d memorized her address and the surrounding locale back at the office, when he’d done a search on her, just in case.

In case he had a chance to ask her out. Instead, he had to ask her for help. Again. He vowed to get what he needed and get out before the terrorists knew he’d been here, before Joy could wind up like his ex-fiancée.

Dead.

The question he’d ignored, the question he had to disregard, nipped at his conscience.

How are you going to let her go a second time?

* * *

“W
E
’
LL
HAVE
A
deputy out there as soon as we can, ma’am.”

“I have to report to work in an hour. Can I give you my work address and they can take my statement there?”

“No, ma’am.” The emergency operator’s voice was firm. Practiced in getting panicked people to tell her what she needed.

Joy wasn’t panicked. But she was getting annoyed.

“I’m just trying to do my civic duty. I’m an attorney, if that helps. Former Navy JAG.” It was a little bittersweet, saying
former
, but thrilling to think of her new life, too.

“Then you’ll understand, ma’am, why we need you to stay put. As you can imagine, we’re getting a lot of calls at the moment. Call and tell your boss you’ll be late, and an officer will be at your home, either from Oak Harbor PD or the sheriff’s office.”

“Fine.”

She disconnected and made a quick call to the firm’s receptionist as she hurried to her bedroom. Maggie picked up immediately.

“I’m so sorry to do this on my first day, but it’s unavoidable.”

Grabbing her jewelry she went into the bathroom.

“No problem. I’ll let Paul know. He’s a proponent of flexible working hours, as I’m sure he told you, and you have a valid reason for coming in late.” Maggie’s soothing tone reflected professionalism and concern. “Are you okay, Joy?”

“Yes, yes. I’ll be in as soon as possible. Thank you.”

She hung up and hoped Maggie was right—that Paul wouldn’t think twice about her tardiness.

Joy hated being late for anything.

After she applied her makeup in record time, despite her trembling hands, she took a minute to take in her full appearance.

And snorted.

She threw her mascara into the vanity drawer. How could she care about her appearance when she’d witnessed what could very well have been a terrorist attack?

Her stomach churned, and she regretted that last cup of coffee as it threatened to come back up. GERD and its annoying symptoms was how her body handled the stress, the overload of information and emotions; she was aware of that. It aggravated her gastrointestinal problems. But understanding her physical coping mechanisms didn’t make them any less bothersome.

The beating of helicopter blades and wail of sirens had been constant. She should take the long route to the office and avoid the shore road, but she knew she wouldn’t. She’d want to see what kind of crash recovery site had been set up. Of course it would be on West Beach, practically next to her house.

Back in her sunroom she couldn’t take her gaze off the shoreline. Sure enough, several people were walking the rocky stretch in front of her house, two hundred feet below her vantage point. Most were in some sort of uniform, either Navy or local emergency management. A couple of the responders wore windbreakers with identifying letters like “OHPD” for Oak Harbor Police Department and “US NAVY.”

The police officer or deputy sent to take her statement probably wouldn’t learn anything new from her. The people who could use her eyewitness testimony were higher up on the chain of command and in Washington DC, able to make decisions that affected national defense. As a civilian, however, with no immediate access to official Navy communications systems, she had no recourse.

A sharp rap at the back door made her jump. She hadn’t seen anyone walk up the side of her property, most of which was visible from the sunroom.

That couldn’t be the police officer, not yet. It’d only been five minutes, and it took at least ten to drive to West Beach from downtown Oak Harbor, where the police station was located. And a sheriff’s deputy would have to come from Coupeville, twenty minutes away.

Maybe the sheriff’s deputy was already out this way. That was it. She forced herself to relax. And then froze.

Why hadn’t the cop used her
front
door?

She crept quietly into the kitchen, wishing like hell she’d left for work before she saw the explosion.

She saw the tall silhouette through the door’s window the moment she stepped onto the kitchen’s hardwood floor. The cream curtains she’d hung last weekend meant she couldn’t make out her visitor clearly, but based on the height and breadth of the shadow, it was a man. No evidence of a uniform hat.

Her new suit felt too tight, the tailored jacket too restrictive. What if she needed to defend herself? She tore off the peplum coat, her hands flailing as she freed her arms from the sleeves.

She didn’t have a weapon.

As her jacket fell to the floor she searched under the kitchen sink for something heavy.

She really needed to get a baseball bat to keep next to the kitchen door, besides the one next to her bed. She grasped the cool neck of the small kitchen fire extinguisher.

Tiptoeing to the door, her senses on high alert, she tried to remember every self-defense move she’d ever learned. Today’s events had been far from routine or normal. She wasn’t going to take a chance that her visitor was a friendly one.

* * *

B
RAD
HEARD
HER
moving around the house. Joy hadn’t had Spec Ops training, that was for sure—judging by the fact that she’d parked her car in the driveway, allowing any passerby to determine whether she was home. Not to mention that he’d been able to get to her side entrance so easily. She should have a tall fence around the back of her property, with a locked gate. And a more secure side door; this one wouldn’t be hard to kick in.

There’d been no barking, either, so she didn’t have a dog to protect her.

As he listened to her shuffle about in the kitchen, he wondered if she might be grabbing a weapon.

Unlikely. She’d never struck him as the type to harbor a weapon, no matter how legal it might be. That was the advantage someone like Joy had over him—she’d never seen what he’d seen, never had to face down the bad guys except on paper or in a courtroom. She could still believe in the inherent goodness of humanity.