Navy Justice

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?

* * *

“WE’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.

* * *

BRAD 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.

The curtains moved a fraction, enough for her to see him, make positive identification. She’d remember him—but not like this, all muddy, wet, cut up and bruised.

It’d been a rough morning.

“What do you want?”

Her voice was clear despite the door between them.

“Joy, it’s me, Brad Iverson. From Norfolk.”

The door opened.

“I know who you are, Brad.”

He didn’t give himself a chance to absorb the freshness of her beauty, or to register the wariness of her eyes as she looked at him. With moves he’d employed countless times, he wedged his foot in the door before he reached in, twisted the fire extinguisher out of her hand and clamped a hand over her mouth—her very soft mouth. Then he pushed himself inside the house and maneuvered her up against the nearest counter. It took every bit of his focus, every ounce of his strength, to make sure he treated her as gently as possible.

He had one arm wrapped around her waist, confining her arms against her torso, with her hands on his chest. His other arm was across her chest, his hand over her mouth.

As soon as he looked into her eyes, he removed his hand. If she was going to scream—and she had every right—it would be now. There were law enforcement agents, all over the area and certainly within hearing distance. It’d taken him almost half an hour to climb up the cliff.

Joy stayed silent except for the shaky whoosh of her breath. It smelled sweet and minty, as if she’d just brushed her teeth. His palm seemed to burn where her lips had pressed against it, and he couldn’t stop looking at her full lips, her face. Her eyes were the same color he remembered. Cinnamon brown. They watched him with unnerving steadiness, missing nothing.

He lowered his arm but kept her in his embrace. This was the only time he’d ever felt her so close. Why rush it?

“I can’t explain everything, but I need to know if you’re willing to trust me. I’m in the middle of an undercover op, and I can’t get caught by the police right now. You’re my last hope before I get hauled away and blow the case.”

She blinked. He felt the tension in her legs, her thigh muscles. She wanted to kick him, to knee him. He got it—and had anticipated her tactics. He held her tight and secure.

“Odd habit you have, Brad. Getting yourself into serious trouble that isn’t your fault.”

God, he’d missed her honesty, the unshakeable confidence that bordered on sheer nerve.

And her beauty.

“You can say no and I’ll be gone. You can deny ever seeing me. I’m in a load of trouble and I need your help, Joy.”

CHAPTER TWO

“I WAS SUPPOSED to report to work twenty minutes ago. It’s my first day.” She hadn’t been able to take her gaze off Brad since he’d forced himself into the kitchen. And pressed his body against hers. She still hadn’t told him that she was waiting for the police.

He groaned. “Of course it’s your first day. It’d be too easy if you could’ve taken a day or two off.”

“A day or two?” She clutched the granite counter at her back. It was the only way to keep her hands from shaking because of the mini-shocks of awareness coursing through her veins.

Brad stood in the middle of the kitchen, his hands bloodied. His face was scraped and his clothing had dirt and sand on it. A briar stem clung to one arm of his torn black jacket, and his dark cargo pants were nothing like his Navy fatigue uniform. These pants fit him more tightly; they had to have a lot of stretch to let him move as well as he did. She could all too easily imagine the steely muscles beneath.

“Wait. How did you get here? Were you in my backyard?”

“Something like that, yeah.” He absently picked off some of the brambles.

“I never saw you. Are you hurt?”

“No. I’m fine. I’m on a tight timeline here, Joy. I don’t suppose you still have base access?”

“No, I mean yes—for two more days before my ID expires. I’ve been on terminal leave for the past two months. I got out, Brad.”

“I know. We’re Facebook friends, remember?”

How could she forget? Whenever she wanted to torment herself with the whys and why nots of her love life, she looked at his profile, which he’d made under a fake name. He’d messaged her when he requested she friend him on Facebook to make sure she knew it was him. He’d only ever posted one photo—of a sunset over the view of the Atlantic from Dam Neck, Virginia. She’d imagined them there, together, in different circumstances hundreds of times since they’d wrapped up Farid’s case.

Since she’d helped Brad stay out of trouble.

“What good will having my military ID do? Aren’t you still in the reserves? What about your ID?”

“I don’t have it. Truth is, I haven’t got any ID on me.”

Interesting.

“Any reason why?”

His green eyes revealed very little, but his slumped shoulders put the fear of God into her.

“Brad, what happened? Please tell me you weren’t involved in the explosion.”

His head snapped up.

“You know about it?”

She pushed away from the counter and crossed her arms. “I saw it. From my sunroom.”

“Did you see the aircraft?”

“I saw two F-18 Growlers, followed by a P-3 and a P-8. They flew west for a minute or two before I saw the fireball. I was worried it was one of the planes at first.”

“Did you see anything else that seemed suspicious?”

“No more from me, Brad. You said you needed help. If you want my help, you have to cut me in.”

He rubbed his hands across the back of his head and neck, much as she’d seen countless military men do after they removed their uniform covers. It was a habitual reaction for him, a sign of his stress, perhaps. His dark hair was longer than he’d worn it as a sailor, longer than Navy regulation by far. The lustrous curls at the nape of his neck made her grip her upper arms to keep from reaching across and touching him.

He was her idea of beautiful, if the adjective could be applied to a man.

“I’m FBI now. I’ve been working undercover trying to break up a cell.”

FBI. That was the “government job” he had. On Facebook he never got specific.

So he’d been out of the active-duty Navy this entire time. She’d thought his murky job description was because of his SEAL designation.

You could have gotten together.

No. She’d dismissed her attraction to Brad. Or rather, locked it away. Months ago.

Hadn’t she?

He shook his head. “Damn, it wasn’t supposed to go down like this.”

His profile was achingly familiar. Yet instead of the hardened strength she remembered, he gave off an air of uncertainty. Brad, vulnerable?

“How about some coffee?” She asked for him as much as for herself. She needed an immediate task to keep her thoughts where they belonged. If she was going to help Brad she needed to listen to his story instead of thinking about how sexy he looked standing in her kitchen.

* * *

“YOU’VE GOT UNTIL the police officer shows up. You can shower after I leave for work, wash and dry your clothes, make whatever food you need.” She handed him her largest mug, the one with the Navy JAG crest on it.

He raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement.

This was the man she’d come to understand first briefly in Cuba, and then Norfolk. He missed nothing; no detail was too minute to him.

“The cops?”

“I reported the explosion. They asked me to wait here until someone can take my report.”

“So I’m not safe here.”

“You’re safe for now. Tell me what you know, Iverson.”

“I’m working an undercover op. Let’s just call it against the bad guys for now. My job is to infiltrate them and monitor any suspicious activity. I assumed I was bringing in the suspects today. Things didn’t go according to my assumptions.”

He took a long pull of his coffee. The dirt under his fingernails made her wonder if he’d had to climb up from West Beach to get here.

Was that possible? The cliff was a straight drop.

Brad was a trained SEAL and now an undercover agent for the FBI. Scaling a cliff was all in a day’s work for him.

“You climbed up the cliff, didn’t you?”

He ignored her and continued his explanation. “This morning I was supposed to monitor the Sound from West Beach, as instructed by the suspects. I think, and so does my team at the Bureau, that they may want to hit the Naval Air Station since they’ve been surveilling the area for a month. Last night one of the suspects called and told me I should watch the horizon from West Beach very closely this morning.”

“And?”

“I had my team figure out what was on the docket for the squadrons on NAS Whidbey for the next several days. This morning is the start of a major West Coast Fleet exercise. When I put it together with what the suspects were feeding me, I took the initiative and decided to be out on the water instead of on the beach.”

Dread seemed to wrap itself around her.

“With the Navy? On a Navy ship?”

She knew the answer before he said it. “No. I was in a small inflatable powerboat. That’s all I’m going to tell you about it.”

“What did you see, Brad?”

He quietly tapped the side of his mug. “One of the suspects I’m familiar with was out there in a fishing boat. I stayed as far away from him as I could, as long as I could, but then I saw what looked like a SAM in his arms.”

“A surface-to-air missile?” She knew enough to realize there was always the possibility of terrorists smuggling in war weapons. The reports she’d read over the years had discussed shipments being stopped by US Customs at the border or sooner.

“Yes. I had a feeling something wasn’t right about the way they’d told me to watch from the shoreline. After putting it together with the Fleet exercise—it all pointed to trouble of the biggest kind.”

She had a feeling that the “something not right” was directly related to the explosion.

“Go on.”

“I took him, and the weapon, out.”

“Who’s him, and what exactly do you mean by I took him out?”

His shifted his eyes, his expression no longer readable.

“I had to stop him from firing the SAM, Joy.”

The gravity of the situation, his situation, hit her like a Puget Sound gale in November. “You killed a man out there today?”

“I disabled his weapon. The resulting explosion did the rest.”

“Okay. So now all you have to do is call in to FBI headquarters, to your team, and report what happened.” Honestly, did he have to play the dramatic SEAL part? Weren’t those days supposed to be over?

“I can’t. I blew my cover by blowing their mission. No pun intended.”

“Do you think they—the terrorists, whoever they are—know you’re the one who stopped the SAM?”

As she asked, she couldn’t believe that Brad’s cover would be compromised by anything he did or didn’t do. He was a professional who’d completed umpteen missions in the most hellish places on earth. He knew how to keep his cover.

“I have to assume they do, or at the very least they’ll figure it out soon enough.”

She believed him.

“Let me clarify. They may suspect I’m not legit when I don’t meet up with them again. They have no way of knowing which LEA I belong to. I’ve been playing the part of the disillusioned émigré who wanted to help quell the American Imperialists. These are all domestic terrorists. None of them speak Pashto or Dari—I threw in a few words here and there to test them. They’re all homegrown wannabes. My team was alerted that they were trying to leave the country to join a terrorist group overseas.”

“But they decided to get some credibility by doing one of those sleeper-type actions?”

“Yes. This is more than a sleeper cell, though. They have contacts with the bad guys overseas. That’s certain now that I identified the SAM. I just don’t know who that contact is yet.”

Brad’s wide range of skills, including his ability with more than one foreign language, was a big part of what had made him such a valuable asset to the Navy SEALs. All SEALs had intensive training in weapons identification and employment. If he said he saw a SAM about to be launched, it was true.

And the explosion left no doubt.

“The thing is, I think they’re also targeting an individual here on Whidbey. They’ll lie low if they have to, until the LEA presence lessens, but they’re going to go after him sooner or later.”

She ran her fingers through her hair. “Terrorists who are so bold they’ll try to shoot down a US Navy aircraft just offshore, in US territory, don’t care about the LEA all over the place, Brad. They won’t wait.”

His appreciation of her accurate observation gleamed in his eyes. The instant warmth that flushed her cheeks was impossible to control.

“Exactly.”

* * *

THE DOORBELL RANG, and Brad saw her shoulders tense, her mouth tighten in a grim line.

“That’s the OHPD or sheriff’s deputy. Coming over in the respectable way.” She tried to keep it light by poking fun at his entrance via her side door earlier, but her anxiety was palpable.

You’ve done this to her.

“OHPD?”

“Oak Harbor Police Department. Keep up, Mr. FBI.”

“Are you going to tell them I’m here?”

“Why can’t I? You’re FBI. Don’t all LEA talk to each other?”

“You know damn well they don’t. I’m undercover, Joy. I can’t be seen.”

He knew he was asking her to trust him with little reason. He’d made no attempt to contact her since he’d been free to do so. Only now, when he was in serious trouble, had he sought her out.

“You don’t have to do this, Joy. Say the word and I’ll go out the back and disappear. Just give me thirty seconds lead time.”

“No, don’t go. I’m not going to say anything to them other than what I reported on the phone. There’s no need, not legally.”

He saw the inner war play out in her expression. She had a beautiful face, capable of distracting the most hardened criminal. Sometimes her face revealed what she was thinking, what she was feeling. But she was capable of hiding her emotions, too. Her poker face had let her get what they needed to set Farid free from the hell he’d been condemned to. He felt a rush of warmth.