He should've killed himself when he'd had the chance.

 

A bullet to the brain, a makeshift noose about his neck—hell, even standing hip-deep in water and smashing his fist into a light socket. Anything would have been preferable to this. Definitely quicker.

 

His left leg was broken. At least, he was pretty sure. He'd lost count of the number of times that goddamned iron pipe had slammed into his shins, but he was fairly certain he'd felt the bone crack a minute ago.

 

Or was that an hour?

 

How long had he been dangling from his wrists inside this sweltering box?

 

Days? Weeks?

 

Months?

 

He no longer knew. All he knew was pain. He welcomed it. It gave him something to concentrate on in place of their incessant questions.

 

One of the bastards was at his ear again, the man's foul breath spilling over the right side of his face. If only the fucker would whale that pipe into his stomach instead of his kidneys for a change. He just might be able to puke on him. He settled for second best. Gathering the saliva he'd hoarded, he turned his head and spewed it into that yammering mouth.

 

Too bad his eyes were swollen shut. What he'd give to see the turd's expression.

He felt it instead as another rib went the way of his shin. He inhaled sharply, then wished to heaven he hadn't.

 

Breathe!

 

Can't. Goddamn it, he'd lost a lung. No, wait—it was there. Merely collapsed, the air knocked halfway to Mecca.

 

The haji was in his face again. Taunting. "Save yourself, kafir. No one else will. Surely not Allah."

 

It was true. He had no illusions. They'd been shattered long before his leg and his ribs. Nor would God—this asshole's or anyone else's—deign to help. When push came to shove, the good Lord couldn't be bothered to save his own son.

 

No, it was up to him. And her.

 

Time.

 

It was all he had left to offer. To her and his country. He'd be damned if he'd held on this long, only to blow it now.

 

"This is the last time I ask, kafir. Where is she?"

 

He found another ounce of spit and used it.

 

A strangled groan ripped free as the pipe crashed into his collar bone. Unlike his lung, this dent wasn't popping back out. He dropped his chin to his chest, sucking in stale air and his own bloody spittle as he fought the plea clawing up his throat.

 

He was dimly aware of the scrape of metal on metal in the blistering existence that followed.

 

Perhaps the bastard was right and there was a God, because somehow, he found the strength to open his left eye. Just a crack. The haji on his far left was bending over a heavy-duty, deep-cycle battery, attaching a pair of jumper cables. The ends had been stripped down to bare, taunting wire. The man crammed his meaty fists into rubber gloves, then retrieved the cables and snapped the raw ends together.

 

Twelve chilling volts sparked and spitted to life. More than enough to stop a human heart. They wouldn't even have to douse him in seawater for max effect.

 

He was drenched in sweat and blood.

 

"Last chance, kafir."

 

"Go to hell."

 

The wires closed in. A split second later, his entire body convulsed—broken bones and all—as white-hot lightning ripped through his groin. And then his body went slack, twisting in the nonexistent wind…until the wires returned.

 

Again and again.

 

Somehow, the secrets he'd locked deep within escaped his splintered brain and invaded his tongue. He was pleading with them now. Shamelessly.

 

Another jolt, and the truth finally tumbled free.

 

That's when he knew it was over.

 

He never saw the haji move, only smelled the blessed absence of that putrid breath beneath the stench of his own burning flesh.

 

Then he heard the order. "Aqtalhi."

 

Kill him.

 

It was done. The most important mission of his life—and he'd failed.
 

 

 

Her reprieve came early. Thirty-one hours and eighteen minutes—and not a second too soon.

 

Air ripped through Mira's lungs as she vaulted down from her aerobic climber to follow the shrill of her phone out of the bedroom of her Washington, DC, sublet. The phone trilled again as she raced past the galley kitchen and into an equally cramped living room. Adrenaline surged, supplanting desperately courted, exercise-induced endorphins as she reached the coffee table and caught sight of her caller ID.

 

Ramsey. A case.

 

For a moment, guilt battled with her own desperate, selfish need.

 

Need won.

 

Mira dragged in a steadying breath as she grabbed the phone. "Who died?"

 

"And hello to you, too, Special Agent Ellis. If I'm not mistaken, the clocks have ticked past midnight along the entire Eastern Seaboard. Odd time to work out…especially since you're supposed to be on vacation."

 

Vacation her ass. Try eight days of mind-numbingly slow, guilt-riddled leave. And the man who'd "suggested" she take it was on the other end of her line.

 

"Blame the neighbor's cat. He's still spending his nights trying to seduce the stone planter outside my window."

 

"This the cat that got run over last month?"

 

Crap.

 

Silence more pregnant than the five remaining felines infesting the alley filled the line.

 

"Still having trouble nodding off, eh?"

 

"Nope."

 

Nodding off wasn't the issue. It was the inevitable waking up shortly thereafter that had her clinging to the outer edges of sanity—despite the shrink session that this man had also convinced her to attend. Not only had the session not helped, all the lengthy discussion had done was burn into her brain the very image—and guilt—that she'd give just about everything to excise.

 

Mira stared at the bottle of scotch that'd taken up residence on the coffee table following her return from the shrink's office. At least the glass beside the bottle was empty—and clean.

 

Now.

 

"You want to talk about it?"

 

She flushed, and not because of the offer. It was his tone.

 

The raw compassion infusing the line didn't belong to William H. Ramsey, Special Agent in Charge of the US Naval Criminal Investigative Service's Washington Field Office. Hell, it hadn't even come from the NCIS agent who'd walked out of a senate committee briefing almost two weeks earlier to beat feet to Creighton Middle School upon learning that she'd discharged her service weapon into a depraved piece of shit bent on concealing his true nature behind a chest full of medals, his sixteen-year career as a Navy corpsman and a twelve-year-old boy.

 

No, the sympathy still oozing through her phone line had come from Bill, the closest thing to an uncle that she was lucky enough to have.

 

Somehow, that made it worse.

 

Mira turned her back on the half-empty bottle of scotch and checked the clock above the fireplace. Ramsey and her instincts were right. It was a quarter past midnight. Worse, though she'd been working out for nearly an hour, she wasn't breathing hard anymore. Amazing what a colossal case of remorse could do for the body.

 

At least on the outside.

 

Mira concentrated on the disembodied Arabic accent of a stewardess running through preflight checks as it spilled out of the phone and into her right ear. It beat focusing on those strangely silent, soul-stripping sobs that had been haunting her since she'd taken that shot with her service weapon—along with those huge brown eyes and the utter devastation that had been within.

 

Devastation that she'd caused.

 

And when she added on the old acidic shit that had been dug up as a result and publicly sprayed into her face via the local news…

 

"Hon—"

 

"You want to tell me why you're calling from a runway halfway around the globe, or am I supposed to guess?"

 

The silence returned—even with that droning stewardess—and this time it was terse. Uncle Bill had left. Special Agent in Charge William Ramsey had taken his place, and he was not happy that she'd cut him off.

 

Mira clamped down on her phone, waiting for the reprimand she deserved.

Ramsey sighed instead. "There's been a murder. Commander Theresa Corrigan. She was a Navy JAG. I'm told Corrigan was a recent transfer to the Pentagon, dealt with espionage cases mostly."

 

Mira sifted through her memory. "Never heard of her."

 

Not surprising. She snagged a rumpled, but clean hand towel from the laundry basket she'd left beside the couch the night before. She might've been investigating the scourge of the Fleet for six years now, but there were over nine hundred lawyers hard-lined to the Judge Advocate General's office—and not only were those JAG lawyers scattered around the globe, but they also specialized in everything from Military Justice and National Security to Civil Litigation and Maritime Law.

 

Even during her initial tour with NCIS at the San Diego Field Office, she'd tended to focus on the former, investigating violent crimes almost exclusively. For good reason. She appeared to have a knack for solving them.

 

Who knew?

 

Mira mopped the perspiration from her face and hooked the hand towel over her shoulder. "What do we have?"

 

"Not much. It's not even our case. Yet. The commander's body was found earlier this evening—in her bed. Her townhouse is a couple of blocks northeast of Dupont Circle. As you can imagine, there are…issues."

 

She'd just bet there were. And every one involved jurisdiction.

 

Dupont Circle was located within spitting distance of the White House and a good three miles from the closest naval facility, the Washington Navy Yard. Not only did jurisdiction for the commander's murder not automatically fall within NCIS' purview, it fell squarely within the DC Metropolitan Police Department's. Nor was MPD's current chief known for passing off cases, especially when the victim was high-profile. A category for which a Navy JAG who worked terror cases definitely qualified.

 

The disembodied voice of the flight attendant saturated the line once more, asking passengers to turn off their phones. Mira ignored the request along with Ramsey as she headed out of her living room. "We could flash the national security card."

 

"We may have to. But, so far, we don't have cause. And if MPD finds out we pulled a fast one, it'll piss off their chief in a major way. I'd like to avoid that if possible."

 

So would she. Cops had long memories.

 

Mira reached her bedroom and culled one of the suits from her closet. The plane's engines cut in and began to whine as she turned to toss the dark-blue jacket and slacks onto her bed. "Who caught the case?"

 

"Detective Dahl."

 

"Jerry Dahl?"

 

"The one and only."

 

Mira grinned. She might not know why Jerry had abandoned his plan to join San Diego's finest after he'd retired from NCIS, but she knew exactly why Ramsey had phoned her tonight—despite Ramsey's directive that she ease her way back onto the case roster upon her return to the Field Office come Monday morning.

 

She and Jerry had history. The kind that made a cop grateful.

 

Indebted even.

 

"You still out of town?"

 

She snagged an ivory blouse from the opposite end of the closet and added it to the growing pile of clothes on the bed. "I never left. The realtor called before I could hit the road. He had a potential buyer who wanted to fly in to see the place. Some captain with orders to teach at the Academy. I decided to stay here."

 

She'd told herself it was because there might be additional showings.

 

The real reason lay in those brown eyes and the silent sobs that had been dogging her every moment these past thirteen days—sleeping and waking. Imagine how much more gut-wrenching they'd have been if she'd spent the past seven incarcerated in the family mausoleum in Annapolis as planned, sifting through what was left of her and her brother's childhood memories stored up in the attic so they could finally unload the place?

 

"Did you get an offer on the house?"

 

"No. The guy changed his mind during the showing and asked to rent." And this time around, she was determined to sell. Even if she could reach her brother to discuss it, she knew Nate would agree. That said, the abode she was most interested in at the moment did not come with a prized sailboat slip within view of the US Naval Academy. "You got an address for the murdered JAG?"

 

"Yeah. I just texted it." The whine of the plane's engines increased in pitch as her boss' phone pinged. "Damn. I gotta go. Keep me posted."

 

"Will do."

 

Mira hung up, already forming her coming strategy as she tossed her phone onto the bed before heading for the bathroom to turn on the shower.

 

By the time Ramsey's plane touched down in DC, she would be working the Corrigan investigation. If she had to abuse her past with Jerry Dahl to get herself waved through the door, so be it. She simply could not take another night, let alone another week with nothing but Caleb McCabe's dark, devastated eyes filling her head.

 

Not if she wanted to stay sane.

 

* * *

 

The blue and red, strobe-lit circus was in full swing when she arrived.

 

Mira eased her black Chevy Blazer in behind the dozen-odd MPD cop cars, crime scene vans and unmarked SUVs clogging the townhouse-lined street. She was willing to bet her own federal credentials that at least one of those Explorers was registered to a colleague from the J. Edgar Hoover building across town. Confirmation came in the approaching clean-shaven, twenty-something Boy Scout sporting a red pinstriped tie and higher-end version of her JC Penney's navy-blue special.

 

Definitely FBI.

 

Judging from the no joy stamped along the Feebee's jaw as he tossed his shiny, stainless-steel crime scene kit onto the rear seat of the nearest Explorer before climbing into the front to fire it up, Jerry had already won at least one pissing contest tonight. Fortunately, she'd long since discovered that the Scouts were only partially right. Sometimes it was prudent to come prepared…and sometimes not.

 

Or at least, to not look like it.

 

Mira retrieved the bare necessities from her own battered crime kit, secreting the protective booties, latex gloves and a few other crucial items she unearthed within her trouser pockets as she bailed out of the Blazer and into the unusually chilly late March night.

 

Suppressing a shiver, she headed for the blood-red brick facade of the JAG's Victorian townhouse, making it to the crime scene tape before an MPD uniformed patrol stopped her.

 

"Excuse me, ma'am. I—"

 

She flashed her credentials. "Special Agent Mira Ellis, NCIS. I'm here to see Detective—"

 

"Mir!"

 

Jerry's stocky, rough-and-ready Irish form bounded through the townhouse's gaping door and down its trio of stone steps. Mira was still tucking her credentials home as Jerry elbowed the uniform aside so he could reach over the wrought-iron gate to haul her into his generous warmth for a soul-balming hug.

 

"Damned good to see you. Though, given the customer upstairs, I can't say I'm surprised." Jerry eased back, patting the side of her face as if he had forty years on her instead of twenty—and she let him. "You look great, Mir."

 

She laughed. "You look gray."

 

His grin deepened, splitting into the lines bracketing his lips. The same lines that stress had begun to carve in during the fiasco that had heralded the twilight of Jerry's own career with NCIS. "I see those manners and that mouth haven't improved."

 

"Not a chance."

 

The uniform cleared his throat.

 

Jerry spared the kid a glance as he swung the gate wide and waved her in. "She's with me, Mandello." Jerry hooked his beefy right arm about her shoulders and gave her another squeeze as they headed up the stone steps. "I'd heard you'd made it back to town. Meant to holler sooner, but MPD put me on the homicide roster the same day I swore in, and it's been a nonstop shitstorm since. Then the news broke about that goddamned pedo chief—along with the garbage his widow's been spewing into the ear of every reporter in town this past week." Jerry shifted his callused palm to the back of her neck and gently nudged her into the townhouse's narrow, empty foyer, his voice dropping low as they came to a halt midway in. "I left a message for you at the Field Office."

 

Mira focused on the closed door of the ground-floor condo, unable to deal with that all-too-seductive compassion face to face and from this man any more than she had over the phone with Ramsey. "I took some time off."

 

Not that it had helped.

 

"That's what Aisley told me. Figured I'd wait 'til you got back in the saddle before I reached out again." He gave Mira's arm a final squeeze, then dropped his hand. "How you holding up?"

 

"You know me."

 

His clipped nod was tempered by nearly three years of working together across abutted desks on the opposite side of the country…and a few stark confessions on both their parts as Jerry's mentorship had drawn to a close. "They suggest you see someone?"

 

"Yup."

 

"Go. It helped me."

 

She blinked.

 

"Yeah, I know. Back then, I'd have sworn that the only way you'd get me on a shrink's couch was if you marched me into the room at gunpoint and cuffed me to it. But things change. I changed. Blame it on Shelli. I never told you, but things weren't all that great between us before that Kelter witch accused me of blackmailing her for sex while her husband was on duty. And when it got out that Shelli and I had started dating before the ink was dry on the divorce papers with her asshole of a sailor? Let's just say it got a lot worse before it got better."

 

That surprised and infuriated her. "I could've sworn Shelli believed you."

 

"She did. It was everyone else who didn't—except you. Shell and I had other issues, ones there weren't easy solutions to. That witch's lies just made it all worse. And I don't have to tell you that exoneration counts for piss in this profession. Suspicion lingers—even after your electronic sleuthing blew the Internal Affairs investigation out of the water. Hell, it got so bad that I seriously considered bailing on eighteen years and a pending pension and heading off to parts unknown."

 

It was her turn to squeeze Jerry's shoulder. "I wish I'd known."

 

But she had. At the time, she'd simply respected Jerry's unspoken wish to leave it alone. The life-weary detective pulling a set of protective crime scene booties from the pocket of his own JC Penney's special had known it too. Just as Jerry had known that she'd received the same tainted kiss from her so-called colleagues and friends at the beginning of the end of her painfully short-lived career as a naval officer.

 

One false accusation and her Officer Candidate School graduation and three grueling months at the Fleet's nuclear power school in Goose Creek had been flushed down the tubes—though, unlike Jerry's, her charges hadn't been leveled maliciously.

 

Not entirely, anyway.

 

Not that it had mattered. Nor had her own subsequent exoneration. She'd still gotten those sidelong looks from her former fellow sailors. The whispers.

 

Worse, the three a.m., self-doubting what-ifs egged on by an increasingly empty bottle of booze.

 

Unlike Jerry, she had bailed.

 

Three years before Jerry's rude awakening in San Diego, she'd turned her back on the Fleet and applied to work for its watchdog agency, NCIS. But for her own fucked-up first career, she wouldn't have been able to salvage Jerry's.

 

The irony hadn't been lost on either of them at the time.

 

Guilt cut in over her willingness to abuse his old pain to snag a case…no matter how desperately she needed the distraction.

 

The guilt deepened as Jerry offered her the booties and an exculpatory shrug. "You needed to focus on yourself, not me. You deserved that slot in Yokosuka. You'd worked your ass off; I didn't want to see you blow it by looking back."

 

He was right. If she'd known he needed her, she'd have stayed in San Diego. Though she should've taken the time to check back in on him now and then.

 

Mira swallowed her regret. "So what happened?"

 

How had he gone from shrinks are evil incarnate to the poster cop for therapy?

 

"Shelli. It got to the point where I'd come home and dump everything on her. She finally had it. Said I had to see someone—with or without her—or else. Chicken shit that I am, I chose without. Damned if it didn't help. I still go now and then, to touch base and vent. We're both happier, and things have never been better between us."

 

"I can tell. You look fantastic."

 

Jerry grinned as he ran a hand over the silver that had firmly overtaken the ruddy thatch at his temples. "Despite the frost?"

 

"Absolutely. Makes you look distinguished." That couldn't hurt in this town.

 

"Plus, it scares off the pups. You should've seen the one the FBI sent to try and steal this gig."

 

"I did. He had his tail between his legs as he crawled into his SUV."

 

"Good. Gloves?"

 

"Thanks."

 

Jerry pulled a pair from his jacket, his gaze narrowing suspiciously midway to handing them over. "You have your own, don't you?"

 

"In my pocket. Booties, too."

 

"I'll be damned. At least you had the brains to leave your kit in the car."

 

She smiled. "I did learn from the best."

 

Presumption was more than a pet peeve with Jerry. It was a cardinal sin.

 

He tossed the gloves to her anyway and turned to the stairs that presumably led up to the JAG's third-floor condo. "Put 'em on. I left your partner in the commander's study."

 

Partner? Since when?

 

"The Field Office sent another agent?" Irritation surged as Jerry nodded. Why hadn't Ramsey mentioned it? "Who?"

 

"Guy named Sam Riyad."

 

She shook her head. "Don't know him."

 

"Me neither. But I've been retired for two years. He's FCI, by the way, and new to town."

 

That explained it. Still, "You left him in your crime scene unattended?" She didn't know whether to be stunned or impressed. As Foreign Counterintelligence, Sam Riyad was all but guaranteed to be a far cry from an experienced detective. Closer to a full-fledged spook. A category that fell somewhere below shrink in Jerry's book.

 

Or had.

 

Jerry shrugged. "Wasn't my first choice. Someone busted the combination locks on the JAG's filing cabinet and safe. Dumped the contents everywhere. Appears to be casework mostly, but more than a few sheets are marked CUI/NOFORN. If there's higher sensitive or outright classified material lying around—much less missing—I don't want to know. Someone's gonna be navigating shit's creek before this is over as it is, and it ain't gonna be me."

 

A sage pronouncement if there ever was one. Controlled unclassified information that carried a no-foreign-nationals prohibition was bad enough. But if there were papers stamped higher in that condo, she definitely wanted to know. Unlike Jerry, she still answered to the brass at NCIS, so she had no choice but to grab an oar along with her fellow mystery agent and start paddling.

 

Not to mention, given Ramsey's revelation that the victim upstairs had worked mostly espionage, FCI's attendance would be expected eventually.

 

Mira was about to follow Jerry up the stairs when the MPD uniform poked his head into the foyer.

 

"The medical examiner's here, Detective."

 

"Damn. Okay, on my way."

 

Mira waited for the uniform to leave. "You want me to loiter outside 'til he's done?"

 

Jerry shook his head. "If you were gonna screw me over, you'd have done it long before now. Might as well stay for the main attraction. I'll work it out with my boss later."

 

"I appreciate it."

 

"So get your butt up there before I change my mind. She's in the bedroom at the end of the hall."

 

"Thanks." Mira was halfway to the second floor by the time Jerry headed out into the night.

 

Another uniformed cop stood guard at the third floor, just outside the JAG's open door.

 

She donned the protective booties Jerry had given her and produced her credentials. "Special Agent Ellis, NCIS. I'm with Detective Dahl. He's briefing the ME."

 

Mira added her name and stats to the crime scene roster and entered the condo's surprisingly chilly foyer. She swore it was colder in here than it was out front. Worse, an unmistakable odor tainted the breeze that drifted down the hall.

 

Had someone opened a few windows to combat that smell?

 

Or had the killer left them open?

 

Glancing into what was clearly the JAG's study, she caught sight of a set of oddly scarred, dusky fingers reaching for a sheet of paper on the desk with nothing but a folded over Kleenex between them and the evidence they were about to snag.

 

"What the hell are you doing?"

 

Fingers and tissue firmly clamped about the sheet, the man turned. A split second into her glimpse of the dark, distinctive features above that neatly cropped, mosque-ready mustache and beard, the surname Jerry had offered made sense: Saudi.

 

Irritation tossed another log onto the fire of her ire.

 

The source appeared impervious to both as he reached inside his suit jacket with his completely buck-naked hand, so he could flash his badge. "Special Agent Sam Riyad, NCIS. I'm assist—"

 

"Wrong. What you're doing is blowing this for us." If Jerry spotted that TV-detective, Kleenex stunt, he'd go ballistic—as Jerry should.

 

"Us?"

 

She flashed her own credentials for the third time that night. "Mira Ellis; I work out of the Field Office. Where are your gloves?"

 

"In my car. But this will suffice—"

 

"No, it won't." One look at the sheet of paper that had made it into Riyad's tissue-shielded fingers and the plethora of cross-contaminating fibers they were most likely leaving behind, and Jerry would toss them out on their collective asses.

 

Former colleagues, old friends and classified hot potato or not.

 

Riyad's cheeks flushed as he appeared to accept that he had indeed committed the most basic of procedural violations.

 

Mira ignored the man's embarrassment in favor of her surging panic as she caught the faint thump of boots climbing the stairs. Any second now and the ME would be passing this room—and Jerry would be with him.

 

Talk about shit's creek.

 

She tugged the spare gloves from her trouser pocket and tossed them to her de facto partner. "Hurry."

 

She'd deal with the fallout of extraneous prints and fibers with Jerry later.

 

The thumps reached the third-floor landing and came to a halt outside the condo door as her fellow agent blew precious seconds working the first of his "size-large" hands into her "size-small" gloves. The thumps resumed.

 

"Turn around."

 

The boots reached the study door as Riyad complied, then continued on. Jerry's loafers did not.

 

"Everything okay?"

 

Mira caught the soft snap of a successfully sheathed second glove as she pivoted to the doorway. "Yup."

 

Jerry nodded. "Let's get in there then. The ME's ready to do his thing. Name's Simon Kent—and by the way, he's got a bit of a complex. Prefers to work in silence, even at crime scenes. Talking's okay—just not with him. At least, not until he's finished."

 

Curiosity piqued, Mira abandoned Riyad to the study and joined Jerry in heading down the hall. They passed a meticulously pristine galley kitchen and followed the increasingly sickening stench of days-old death into a bedroom that was anything but.

 

"Jesus."

 

Jerry cracked his gallows grin. "Ah, Mir. Didn't realize you'd found religion."

 

She shook her head. "I haven't."

 

Another few rooms like this, and she never would.

 

At first glance, the JAG's private sanctuary looked a lot like the floor of a halalslaughterhouse at the close of Eid al-Adha. Dark rust, almost black vestiges of the victim's blood were everywhere, staining damned near everything. The gauzy sheers bunched at the corners of the iron four-poster were splattered with it, as were the pale peach walls beyond. Hell, even the mint-green area rug was covered in smeared swathes and the distinct arcs of dried arterial spurts. Dozens of tented, yellow crime scene numbers were scattered about the room as well, some nestled in amid the blood, others marking remaining evidence of interest.

 

But that wasn't what drew her attention.

 

It was the body.

 

The victim was naked and tied spread-eagle atop a rumpled, once-white satin coverlet. It was a good thing they knew the JAG's name, because battered, bruised and painfully bloated forms did not make for easy ID's. But that wasn't the worst of it. The poor woman had been violated in at least two orifices. In the mouth—and lower. A filthy gag spilled from now blackened lips, while the bulk of the wine bottle that'd once complemented the shattered goblet on the floor was visible between the woman's legs.

 

Despite the amount of blood outside the body, the sheer extent of those bruises confirmed that the JAG had been alive for damned near all of it.

 

Mira turned to Jerry as the eerily mute ME leaned over the body to insert a thermometer into the JAG's liver. "Whoever did this wanted something. Badly." She had no idea what, but she'd also lay odds that the bastard also had a serious issue with women in general or this woman in particular.

 

Given that the woman was a lawyer, Mira's instincts were leaning toward the latter.

Jerry nodded.

 

"But judging from the contusions—" She pointed toward the JAG's legs. "Not to mention the depth of that bottle, I don't think he got it."

 

Another nod.

 

Mira caught sight of an antiqued photo frame on the nightstand. An intriguing square of blood-splattered paper lay folded up beside it. But as she stepped forward to get a better look, the photo shanghaied her attention. The paper's mysteries on hold, she took another step. Like almost everything else in the room, the glass covering the photo was marred with splotches of dried blood. She could make out the outline of a man and a woman beneath the splotches, striking the standard female-hand-in-male-crooked-arm pose snapped at the beginning of countless formal military functions. Both the man and the woman in this picture were wearing Navy Service Dress Blues.

 

Something about the visible portion of the woman's deeply dimpled chin teased at the recesses of Mira's brain.

 

She arched a brow toward Jerry. "May I?"

 

"Go ahead. Initial photos are done."

 

She eased the frame from the nightstand, flipping it so she could unlatch the prongs on the reverse as the ME cut the scarf securing the victim's right hand to the bed. Mira slid the photo free, her stomach bottoming out as the couple came into view.

 

Oh, shit.

 

"What's wrong?"

 

Mira held up the photo, drawing Jerry's attention to the impressive diamond and white-gold wedding band on the woman's left ring finger as the ME cut the second scarf from their victim's wrist. The JAG's swollen fingers came into view as the ME drew her arm down from the headboard.

 

The rings matched.

 

Disappointment bit in as Mira realized she'd lied to Ramsey on the phone earlier, albeit unwittingly. Not that it would matter. Nor would Riyad's procedural gaff. She'd lost this case all on her own and not because of what she'd done right here and now—but because of what she hadn't done…seven years ago.

 

"Mir?"

 

"She got married."

 

"Who?" Jerry jerked his chin toward the victim. "Commander Corrigan?"

 

Mira nodded.

 

"That a problem?"

 

And then some. "You remember the lying witch who damned near killed your first career?"

 

"Yeah?"

 

Mira stared at the obscenely mutilated body on the bed. "This is the woman that obliterated mine."
 

 

Jerry's low whistle filled the room as he hunkered down to get a better view of the face of the corpse. "Fuck me."

 

Mira frowned. "I think that's my line."

 

Nausea that had nothing to do with the view roiled in as she studied the strands of blood-encrusted hair, searching in vain for the silky tangle of vibrant auburn curls that were forever seared into her memory. The woman's deceptively sweet peaches-and-cream complexion had long since fled as well. But as Mira skimmed the bruised and mottled flesh left behind, she succeeded in picking out enough of the delicate features captured in that photo and her own ancient memories to form a positive ID.

 

It was her. Lieutenant Tess Linden—aka Commander Theresa Corrigan, following two promotions and at least one wedding. The mutilated body belonged to the same JAG who'd once ripped through the fabric of Mira's life, relentlessly severing every thread until there was nothing left to hold it—and her—together. Her promising career as a Navy nuclear surface warfare officer, her circle of so-called friends, her easy-going, trusting relationship with her brother. Hell, even Mira's own once-pending marriage to a fellow sailor. This woman had had a hand in destroying them all.

 

Jerry's palm cupped her left shoulder. "You okay?"

 

The twin, dangerously seductive demons of anger and regret slithered back into their respective holes as she nodded. "Absolutely."

 

Admittedly, there'd been more than a few moments through the intervening years when she'd entertained fantasies of various ills befalling the mutilated woman still arranged spread eagle on this bed, but nothing like this. Mira took in those clouded, sightless eyes. The rag stuffed inside blackened lips. That goddamned bottle.

 

The plethora of flies and other insects eagerly jockeying for position in and around all three.

 

Nope, not even close.

 

She pulled in her breath, ignoring the putrid stench of the past and the present as she faced Jerry. "You want me to leave?"

 

"Shit, no. If anything, your insight may help."

 

His instant certainty and steadfast support soothed her nerves, not to mention the insidious surge of self-doubt. Had anyone else offered it, she'd have embraced it with no qualms. But this was a friend talking, her old NCIS mentor. Not some simple MPD colleague. "You sure, Jerry? Your chain is bound to scream conflict of interest."

 

So would hers. But, by then, the case would be at least half theirs.

 

Mission accomplished.

 

Instead of agreeing, he turned to the bed. "What do you remember about her?"

 

"Other than that she was determined to obliterate my personal and professional lives? Not much. I'm surprised she made time for anything outside work, much less men. The Lieutenant Linden I remember was determined to forge her mark on JAG, and she didn't care how many sailors she annihilated in the process. She knew that, based on the timeline, the odds of my sneaking into the instructor bay and stealing that laptop were slim to none. But the moment she discovered that my dad had bailed on his family and his country to set up shop in Al Jubail with some shiftless Saudi, I was toast. She taunted as much. I don't know who was more livid when that laptop reappeared—without my prints or DNA anywhere near it—the instructor who'd left it out…or her. She was convinced I was her ticket to admiral. At least she made commander."

 

Mira met the ME's damning stare over the corpse. Unlike Jerry, the doc appeared affronted by her summation.

 

Too bad. She was simply relaying the facts.

 

If Corrigan had wanted a kinder eulogy, she shouldn't have dogged Mira and her equally unfortunate former classmate as rudely and ruthlessly as she had.

 

Hell, the woman had damned near destroyed two careers that day.

 

Unlike Frank, Mira had taken the JAG's stiff apology and the official, grudging offer of reinstatement she'd brought with her, and had told her where to shove them. She'd officially resigned her Navy commission, and then accepted Ramsey's invitation to apply to the Navy's civilian watchdog agency, NCIS, determined to not only succeed but also spend her alternative career ensuring that at least one pillar of the Fleet's judicial system had its base planted firmly upon the time-honored principle of innocent until proven guilty.

 

The ME ceded the silent stare-off, shifting his attention to the thermometer he'd inserted upon arrival. Mira watched as he removed and read the instrument, before she turned to slip the photo of the JAG and her husband back into its frame.

 

She set the photo on the nightstand, a fresh wave of gooseflesh rippling beneath her suit as Jerry joined her.

 

"It's freezing in here."

 

He nodded. "Looks as though whoever did this turned on the A/C and jammed it down to fifty-five. It's just over that now."

 

Odd. It was as if the JAG's killer had wanted his vile work preserved.

 

But why? To send a message?

 

If so, the bastard had left one hell of a statement behind—though damned if she could decipher it. Given the severity and placement of those bruises, Commander Corrigan had definitely been tortured prior to her death. And not by some random, twisted fuck who'd spotted the JAG on the street. But there was more to the torture. There was a palpable level of rage present that suggested…revenge.

 

The kind that was personal.

 

Jerry tipped his head toward the body. "You feel it too, don't you? The hate."

"Yeah." She pointed to the folded square of paper that had initially attracted her attention. "May I?"

 

Another nod.

 

Though gloved, Mira took care to open the paper by its corners. A printed flight itinerary lay within. The JAG appeared to have purchased a round trip ticket to San Antonio on the second of March. According to the times listed, Corrigan's outgoing flight should've left Dulles International roughly eight days ago, the evening of the nineteenth.

 

That explained the level of decomposition, despite the icy temperature.

 

But not the rest.

 

Yes, the commander would've needed to take leave for the trip and, since the return flight had landed this past Friday afternoon—a mere thirty-four hours earlier—Corrigan was most likely not scheduled to return to her office until roughly the same time as Mira, at 0700 Monday morning. But surely someone had known where the JAG was headed—and why. Had even anticipated her arrival. Surely, he or she would've reported Corrigan missing, or at least contacted her office at some point.

 

And who'd found the body, anyway?

 

The husband?

 

Mira doubled-checked the triple gold stripes encircling the left cuff of the man's Service Dress Blues in the photo, along with the visible portion of cropped blond hair and almost boyish features. She hadn't spotted that face down on the street on her way in.

 

"Where's Captain Corrigan? At your station?" He should've noticed his wife was missing. Unless that trip to San Antonio hadn't included the husband.

 

Had the two been estranged?

 

According to the itinerary, Theresa Corrigan had purchased a single ticket.

 

Jerry shook his head. "The Corrigans are geographical bachelors. She's stationed across town at the Pentagon; her husband's the commanding officer on a submarine."

 

"Homeport?"

 

"Kings Bay."

 

One mystery solved. Not only was Kings Bay located in Georgia, the base was home to half the Navy's ballistic missile subs. Boomers had two things over attack submarines—a bit more wiggle room and the unique concept of crew rotation. The Fleet's boomers were assigned two complete contingents, from the commanding officer all the way down to lowly Seaman Schmuckatelly at the bottom of the roster. But for a handful of days necessary for crew turnover and refit, the dual-manning strategy allowed boomers to deploy for three and a half months at a pop—continuously.

 

"Blue or Gold crew?"

 

"Blue."

 

"Let me guess, Blue's underway and currently incommunicado."

 

"Right the first time. According to Agent Riyad, your guys are drafting a message to send to the sub as we speak. But since only a handful of personnel know a boomer's precise location, who knows how long it'll take the captain to arrive."

 

That explained the husband's absence. It also explained Agent Riyad's early presence—and so much more.

 

Her boss hadn't left her in the dark. Special Agent in Charge or not, Bill Ramsey had been shut out right along with her, at least until those in the upper echelon had a chance to get their proverbial ducks in a row. A viciously murdered JAG who worked espionage was one thing. A viciously murdered JAG married to the commanding officer of an Ohio-class submarine on active, classified patrol was another. Particularly in light of the boomer's mission: nuclear deterrence via its stash of ever-ready Trident II ballistic missiles.

 

The latter scenario raised several chilling specters. All were cloaked in terrorism.

 

Enter Riyad and his Foreign Counterintelligence credentials. The man might know squat about crime scene procedure, but as an FCI agent, Sam Riyad was far better equipped to deal with the contents of that ransacked office than she was, especially if those contents ended up tainting the submarine's commander.

 

Mira turned to the bedroom door, startled to find the agent in question, not where she'd left him in the office, but marking time just inside the room. Like the ME, Riyad appeared to embrace the concept of silence.

 

Fine with her.

 

So long as he kept those damned gloves on.

 

Mira swung back to the bed, shifting her position so the ME could pass. Though still mute, the doc's features spoke volumes as he paled noticeably upon reaching out to encase the JAG's swollen left hand, wrist and the still-knotted scarf in a preservation bag in an attempt to protect any potential evidence that might be clinging to it.

 

The requisite, leakproof body bag would be on its way up the stairs along with a gurney any moment now.

 

Was that why the doc preferred quiet? The better to contain his own threatening nausea?

 

Mira left that particular mystery untouched and focused on another. "How did MPD get the call?"

 

"Corrigan's paralegal let herself in—a woman by the name of Bertha Rodriguez." Jerry swept his hand toward the files and papers littering the floor at the foot of the bed. Unlike nearly everything else in the room, they were devoid of dried blood. "Rodriguez had been tasked with dropping off those so the commander could get a leg up before Monday morning. The paralegal tossed the paperwork upon spotting the body and beat feet to the landing, where she paused long enough to dial nine-one-one. I imagine she'll regret that instinct by morning—if she doesn't already."

 

Undoubtedly. Like the JAG, the paralegal either wore the uniform or was government service and employed by the Fleet. Either way, she should've known enough to alert the NCIS Field Office instead. At the very least, Rodriguez should have phoned her own office. A call to either the NCIS or JAG duty officer would've allowed the Navy to plant its flag in this room first. An event that took on critical significance in a town where everything—including the assignment of corpses—was political.

 

Though given the state of the room and of this particular corpse, Mira couldn't blame the paralegal. Hopefully, Rodriguez hadn't known Corrigan well, let alone been friends with the commander.

 

Not that that bit of distancing would help with the nightmares that were bound to set in.

 

Lord knew, it wouldn't be helping Mira. She suspected that Caleb McCabe was about to garner some competition.

 

Whether she wanted it or not.

 

Jerry sighed as the ME moved around the bed to bag the JAG's right hand. "I've got uniforms canvassing the neighborhood in hopes that someone'll recall something noteworthy in or around this building since the commander signed out on leave."

 

"Any leads yet?"

 

"Not a one. I'm not holding my breath either. Given the amount of time it took the bastard to do this and the fact that he was able to keep the commander relatively quiet through it all, I doubt he was dumb enough to leave witnesses, much less prints."

 

She was forced to agree. As the ME grasped the JAG's body, clearly intent on turning it, Mira started for the opposite side of the bed, then stopped. By the time she reached the ME's side, the man would be finished.

 

Despite Jerry's advice, she risked speech. "See anything unusual?"

 

A sharp Bostonian accent clipped across the bed as the ME shook his head. "Just additional contusions along the ribs, special attention to the area in and around the kidneys. It's as if he'd set out to pulverize them."

 

Mira ignored Jerry's curse, stepping closer as the ME eased the body into its original, supine position, her attention captured by a small speck of metallic yellow now glinting up from the edge of the gag still shoved in the JAG's mouth. Before she could alert the ME to the sight, the distinctive rhythmic clip of a rolling gurney echoed in from the condo's hall, and the doc departed the room to greet it.

 

Mira shifted to the right, and the glint intensified. "Jerry, there's something trapped in that gag."

 

"What?"

 

"No idea…yet." She reached into her suit. Her former mentor's brows shot up as she withdrew her trusty tweezers.

 

"Christ, Mir. Got fingerprint and DNA kits in there too?"

 

She returned his smirk. "I might."

 

Jerry followed her up to the body as she bought the tweezer's tips within an inch of the gag.

 

"May I?"

 

"Hell, you brought the barbecue tongs; you get the honor. But be quick. If the ME catches us, I'm blaming you."

 

Mira swallowed a snort as she used the tweezers to nudge the gag aside. Her snort morphed to a curse as the object the ME had accidentally dislodged when he'd shifted the body slid partway out of the JAG's mouth.

 

Curiosity propelled her closer.

 

Jerry joined her. "What the—" He pointed at the two-inch-long section of gold. "Is that what I think it is?"

 

Mira nodded. "Water wings."

 

"What?" Riyad. She'd forgotten the man had joined them at the back of the room. From the way Jerry had stiffened, so had he.

 

Jerry edged into Mira's side, his body heat radiating through the fabric of his suit and hers to temper the condo's surrounding chill. Riyad took the hint, squeezing a surprisingly dense, muscular frame for a taller Saudi into the remaining narrow space beside the bed as well.

 

Jerry shifted his head so she could meet her fellow agent's stare.

 

"It's a warfare insignia pin. Sailors don them after they qualify in their branch. Aviators have wings; submariners wear dolphins. This one's gold, meaning its owner was an officer. The edge of the ship's bow you see cutting through the waves also means the insignia belonged to someone certified to drive surface ships."

 

Instead of nodding, Riyad frowned. "I know what it is, Agent Ellis. I was expressing surprise at your finding one inside the woman's mouth."

 

Mira caught sight of Jerry's rising brow as the surrounding temp plummeted once more—though this shift had nothing to do with the condo's over-active air conditioning.

 

She ignored Jerry's surprise and Riyad's ire.

 

So she'd mistakenly assumed the agent was a rookie, fresh from his NCIS Basic Course and obligatory six-month, follow-on stint with criminal investigations. Why not? The man hadn't even known enough to don gloves within the outer crime scene.

 

Mira glanced at the water wings, then Jerry.

 

Her old partner nodded, no more in favor of waiting for the ME's return than she was.

 

Using the tips of the tweezers, Mira gave the edge of the gag a second, slightly stronger nudge. A bubble of the decomp gas that the ME had disturbed earlier did the rest, sliding the warfare insignia pin all the way out of the JAG's mouth and into Mira's waiting latexed palm with a nauseating plop.

 

Definitely water wings.

 

She turned the pin over and spotted the engraving on the reverse.

 

Shock ricocheted in as she straightened, threatening to knock her all the way down to her knees. If she hadn't reached out to grab the edge of the bed with her free hand, she'd have hit the floor less than six inches from the sorry remains of the very woman who'd mercilessly shredded her life all those years ago.

 

Not only did she know the victim on her latest case…there was an outstanding chance she knew the man who'd killed her, too.
 

 

 

Mira suppressed a bone-weary yawn as she leaned against the wall of the deserted corridor to await her catch-up session with Jerry and the subsequent autopsy they were scheduled to attend at eight a.m. Retrieving her phone, she straightened and shifted sideways, sinking into the closest metal chair opposite the suite's door to study the official Navy commissioning photo she'd downloaded hours earlier.

 

 

Limpy for short.

 

She'd have felt guilty for even recalling the nickname Farid "Frank" Nasser had been saddled with on a chilly Newport night seven years ago, but for the fact that she'd spent most of last night and this morning in a deserted NCIS Field Office across town, scouring Limpy's less than impressive service record at Jerry's request.

 

Upshot?

 

Murderer or not, Frank didn't appear to have changed in the intervening years—much less grown into his potential. Not even remotely.

 

In the initial officer fitness review that had been filed shortly after he'd been assigned to his first ship, Ensign Nasser had been labeled "adequate." In the second, his performance had been deemed "acceptable." A year later, Lieutenant Junior Grade Nasser's professional skills had improved slightly with "meets expectations," only to backslide following Frank's promotion to full lieutenant when the dual, career-throttling albatrosses of "acceptable decision making" and "competent watchstanding" had been slung about his still-scrawny neck. Nothing like being damned with faint praise—or less.

 

Especially in the Type-A-personality dominated Fleet.

 

And if the officer so "praised" was a nuke, scrabbling for advancement to lieutenant commander? Said officer would most likely be passed over for promotion and advised to not let the watertight door smack him in the ass on his way out.

 

As Frank had been.

 

In his defense, the then fellow recent Boston University graduate with whom Mira had attended Officer Candidate School hadn't been all bad. In fact, Frank Nasser possessed one of the sharpest brains she'd encountered to date. Unfortunately—brilliant or not—Frank had been at best awkward and stiff in every other area of his life, particularly those that required social skills. During their shared thirteen weeks of OCS and nearly twelve more at the Navy's Nuclear Power School, she'd rarely seen Frank interface with anyone voluntarily. And when he'd been forced into it?

 

Well, the results had been even less pretty.

 

Limpy.

 

Not only had the nickname stuck, but as much as she was loath to admit it, the moniker had been spot on.

 

But did that mean the man who'd earned it was capable of the carnage she'd seen tonight?

 

Despite the presence of those water wings, her gut still voted no.

 

Granted, Frank Nasser had once had reason to outright hate Commander Corrigan. More so than Mira. She might've been manning the duty desk the night that classified laptop had disappeared, but Frank had been the roving patrol.

 

And there was his family. If possible, Corrigan had salivated over the "questionable" quality of Frank's DNA more than Mira's. While her father had ditched the States in favor of setting up shop in Saudi Arabia, Frank was ethnically Arab…a fact that had caused Corrigan's pure, Daughters of the American Revolution blood to curl.

 

Limpy's grandfather had been a naturalized American from Oman, of all places.

 

Seven years ago, with the country's post-9/11, chase-down-the-terrorists-where-they-live mindset fully engaged—and the bombing of the USS Cole next door in Yemen still embedded deep within every sailor's psyche—snagging Frank's Omani ethnicity and impressive Arabic skills for the Fleet had been a coup. At least according to the recruiter she and Frank had met during the career fair they'd attended prior to graduation from Boston University.

 

Not so Corrigan.

 

At the final joint meeting the JAG had subjected them to, Corrigan had let slip an Arab slur so filthy that Mira had nearly lodged a formal complaint. But what would've been the point? She'd already been all but booted from the Navy.

 

In the end, Mira had simply added the JAG's simmering prejudice to Corrigan's overt suspicion regarding her father's permanent address in Al Jubail and had firmly rejected the Fleet's official mea culpa and offer of full reinstatement.

 

Frank had not.

 

For all his professional shortcomings and social flaws, Limpy had been a staunch idealist, at least back then.

 

Frank hadn't just believed that the laptop would turn up during the entirety of the eleven-day search that had followed; once it had, the man had swallowed their CO's flowers-and-rainbow assurances that the Navy would forget all about the snafu that had nearly incarcerated them within the walls of Leavenworth.

 

But it hadn't turned out that way, had it? At least not for Frank Nasser. Because while that unfortunate incident had indeed been expunged from the official personnel record Mira had accessed via her laptop at the Field Office, unofficially nearly every sailor Frank had served with since had known exactly what had happened back at nuke school…and had wondered if there hadn't been a whiff of truth to it.

 

The evidence was embedded within those lackluster fitness reports.

 

In the end, Corrigan had succeeded in her vow to drive them both out of the Fleet. Frank had simply hung on a few years longer.

 

Hell, given the timeline established by the JAG's outgoing flight to San Antonio, Corrigan had probably been able to turn on the news the day before she died to hear that all the old, rancid mud that Corrigan herself had nurtured years ago had been scooped back up and flung Mira's way in attempt to destroy her second career.

 

Ramsey and the rest of the brass at the Field Office had been stunned when the story had broken about her supposed involvement in that not-quite-missing, classified laptop. Mira hadn't been. After all, most folks had a handful or two of sludge sloshing through the bilges of their past…whether they were willing to admit it or not.

 

Chief Umber's wife had simply been devastated and humiliated enough that she'd hired someone with the right connections to dig into Mira's past and dredge up hers.

 

Mira had told the shrink the truth. Given that she was the one who'd been forced to shoot Umber the week before, she couldn't resent the chief's widow for attempting to smear her name. Nor had she been offended over the accusation that she'd joined NCIS so she could trash stellar Navy careers out of revenge for the implosion of her own.

 

No, it was those devastated eyes of Caleb's that she couldn't get past…and the fact that they were currently closed.

 

Caleb had been the true victim—and hero—in all this. Whether the kid would ever be able to accept that, or not.

 

Mira clicked out of the commissioning photo she'd saved of Frank and pocketed her phone. Perhaps the agency shrink was right. Maybe she should reach out to—

 

"Well, now, there's a sight I never thought I'd behold again. Special Agent Ellis, patiently marking time outside an autopsy suite, waiting for my lazy old ass to show."

 

Mira checked her watch, smiling as she rose from her metal chair and turned to take in Jerry's lumbering approach.

 

Yeah, she'd blown yet another chunk of her life waiting for the man, but she refused to rub it in. The creases in that crumpled suit and face looked as exhausted as she felt, and Jerry was holding two Styrofoam coffee cups, both of which were steaming.

 

He extended one of the cups as he reached her side. "Sorry. I hit up both machines, but the cream and sugar options were offline across the board."

 

"S'okay. I'm desperate." The oversized caramel latte she'd grabbed at a drive-thru on her way to the Field Office had been left forgotten beside her printer, its contents congealing as she'd gotten sucked deeper into her electronic research and the few, but mostly productive, calls she'd managed to make. Mira took a healthy sip from Jerry's bare-bones, but heart-felt offering, suppressing a grimace at its bitterness as she tipped her head toward the door opposite them.

 

It was still closed.

 

"Besides, legally you're not late. The pathologist hasn't even poked his head out yet."

 

"Probably still wrapping up the x-rays and getting set up. We're just lucky the advanced state of decay got us bumped up in the schedule. Pretty sure they just want this one out of the way before it gets any riper." Jerry shifted the remaining Styrofoam cup to his right hand and took a swig. "You catch a nap?"

 

"Didn't even try."

 

Why? Though the office had a duty cot she could've crawled into, she'd have ended up spending every moment inside it trying to evade the same nightmare that had been plaguing her in her bed at home these last nine days.

 

Her old mentor chased his second swig with a sigh. "Yeah, me neither. I got hung up on a call with my boss. That's why I'm late."

 

Shit. "He changed his mind, didn't he?"

 

Jerry waved her off with his cup as he turned to brace himself against the wall of the corridor beside her. "Nah. The big guy's happy to let you tag along until this is solved, as a resource if nothing else. What about your end? Ramsey get back to you?"

 

"No." Which was weird.

 

She'd not only left a detailed voicemail regarding her ancient, if lurid connections to both Commander Corrigan and Frank Nasser before she'd departed the condo, but she'd also followed up her unanswered call with half a dozen texts to keep Ramsey updated as she'd pushed through the past decade of Frank's life—not a single text of which had been acknowledged. Which meant one thing, of course, and it wasn't good.

 

Whatever fire Ramsey had been ordered to fly overseas to extinguish this weekend was still actively raging.

 

"Ramsey say where he was, and/or when he's due back stateside?"

 

"Nope." Her only hint had come via that stewardess' accent: Arabic.

 

As clues went, it was seriously vague.

 

Jerry took another sip from his cup and shrugged. "I wouldn't sweat it. If someone on your team screams conflict of interest later today, we'll deal with it then. As far as MPD and I are concerned, you raised your hand. That's all you can do."

 

True. Not to mention that in his last orders to her, Ramsey had stated that NCIS wanted this case, and badly.

 

Well, here the agency was. If the upper brass needed a different incarnation bearing the badge, all Ramsey had to do was respond.

 

"So, you get anything from Nasser's files?"

 

Mira downed another mouthful of the bitter brew. "Nothing case-breaking. Frank's sea tours were less than spectacular. No major screwups, but not a single evaluating officer during his career thought he walked on water either. Exact words were 'acceptable decision making' followed by 'competent watchstanding.'"

 

"Ouch."

 

"I know, right?"

 

"Does that wimp-ass assessment track with what you knew of the man back then?"

 

"Yes and no. Frank was awkward in groups, but he did okay one-on-one. He was also scary smart. I didn't know him well before that laptop went missing, but the night he and I dined with the Navy recruiter after our business fair at Boston University, he impressed the heck out of me. His take on the state of the Fleet and what improvements were needed was spot on. And don't get me started on his chemistry brain. The man's a flat-out savant there. That's why the Navy wanted him. Well, that and his Arabic skills. Anyway, Frank wrapped up his surface career as an assistant liaison for the Rim of the Pacific exercises. He must've impressed someone in the Japanese fleet, though. Because while Frank was over there, working through the coming logistics, he scored an interview with the head honcho at the power plant at Ishida."

 

"Ishida? That's a nuclear-powered electric facility, isn't it?"

 

"Uh-huh." And not a surprising shift career-wise. Frank had been a US Navy nuclear engineer. Though the prestige quotient wasn't as high, a private sector job with Ishida would've come with more money and better sleep.

 

Go, Frank.

 

"Anyway, Ishida made him an offer. Frank resigned his commission roughly a year ago and moved to Japan. I haven't come across any recent flight manifests in his name into or out of the States, but neither have I been able to definitively place him at work in Ishida on the nineteenth—yet. I'm waiting to hear from his supervisor. By the way, I downplayed my initial call over there as a standard NCIS 'just following up' query regarding someone else in our Fleet who Frank once served with."

 

"Excellent."

 

Mira nodded. She figured he'd approve.

 

She and Jerry had been in agreement before she'd even left the condo. Given the files and CUI/NOFORN-stamped papers that had been blown across every surface in Corrigan's office, they needed to proceed carefully.

 

Not to mention that if Chief Umber's widow had managed to dredge up the old nuke school dirt that connected her and Frank to the JAG, Corrigan's killer could've done the same—and possibly decided to set Frank up to throw suspicion off himself.

 

Or at least to delay the narrowing in on him.

 

"What about Corrigan? You get any more on the commander or her husband? Something that will help us navigate our way through this mess?" Jerry swallowed the dregs of his coffee and held out his free hand.

 

Mira blinked down at her cup, surprised to see an exposed bottom. She was so tired, she'd downed the contents without realizing it.

 

She passed the Styrofoam to Jerry so he could stack her cup inside his, waiting until he'd balanced both at the edge of the chair beside them before she continued. "I do know why Corrigan bought the ticket to San Antonio. She had a sister who was pregnant and scheduled to give birth via Cesarean on the twenty-second—which the sister did. But Corrigan never showed. According to the agent I sent to perform the death notification, Corrigan phoned her sister on the nineteenth, about the time she should've been leaving for the airport. Corrigan said something critical had come up at work and she might be out of touch for a while. She promised to reschedule and call her sister back with the updated trip details, but she never did."

 

"That would explain why there was no missing person's report phoned in by the sister to the folks at the JAG office, let alone mine."

 

"Yep." And with the husband's submarine operating deep beneath the waves for the past two months…somewhere…there'd been no one else phoning Corrigan and wondering why she wasn't picking up. "I'm still waiting on the dump from Corrigan's phone, but I suspect the data will bear out the sister's story. I also called Corrigan's number myself a couple of hours ago; it goes straight to voicemail. Since your team couldn't find her phone in the condo, I'm guessing it was taken and destroyed by whoever killed her."

 

"Agreed—but damn. I hope to hell the pathologist finds something with the body. Other than one hell of a fucked-up crime scene, we've got squat."

 

As much as she hated to admit it, he was right. "What about—"

 

Her phone vibrated, redirecting her attention and jacking up her hopes as she reached for it. Please let it be Frank's supervisor at Ishida.

 

It wasn't.

 

Nor did she need caller ID to know who was behind that number.

 

She rejected the call, then took the time to open her phone app so she could block the number and prevent it from interrupting her again—ever.

 

She shoved her phone back into her trouser pocket with more force than she'd intended.

 

"Mir? What's wrong?"

 

"Nothing." Everything. And, damn it, she didn't need it all pummeling through her brain. Least of all this morning. Not with a pending autopsy for what was already shaping up to be a particularly consuming case that, for some reason, still appeared to be half hers.

 

"Bullshit. I know that look. Who was that?" Jerry sucked in his breath and scowled. "Christ. Was that your old man?"

 

Nope. Though dear ol' Dad had deigned to reach out to her recently. The morning after the shooting, in fact. She'd hung up on that bastard, too. She'd even deleted the voicemail that had followed—without listening to it.

 

"Mir?"

 

She met that familiar stubborn stare and sighed. "No, it wasn't my dad." Nor had the call been case-related. Not this case, anyway. "That was Josiah Briggs." Again. "He hounds victims professionally, their friends and families too, on behalf of the DC Dispatch."

 

Sunday morning had barely begun and the paper's leading leech had already commenced his daily harassment of her.

 

Joy.

 

"This about that accusation Umber's wife made about you looking to get even for what happened to you and Nasser back at nuke school?"

 

"Yeah." But Briggs wouldn't be stopping there. From the half-dozen previous voicemails the reporter had left, he wanted it all. Her sobbingly emotional take on what it had been like to make that perfect head shot when her own admittedly barely makes the grade qualifications suggested she shouldn't have made it at all, to her private thoughts on the not-so-hero chief corpsman who turned out to be a coward and a pedophile. And, of course, Briggs wanted her to serve up every salacious detail on what it had been like to work a case where the victim was so ashamed that he'd denied being a victim.

 

Even after his abuser was dead.

 

Nothing sold papers like pain, did it?

 

If it bleeds, it leads. Chief Umber might not be bleeding anymore, but his wife was. Emotionally, anyway—just as Caleb McCabe would be again.

 

But first, the boy would have to wake up.

 

Until that happened, the best thing she could do for everyone, including NCIS, was to keep her mouth shut. About everything. Only then would this nightmare fade from the news. And only then could Caleb begin to heal.

 

If that was even possible at this point.

 

"The kid still denying the abuse?"

 

"Not…exactly."

 

Jerry's brow rose over that cryptic comment, but then he nodded. "Well, that's good, I guess. At least it's not still your word against the dead war hero's rep and his widow's blind outrage and diarrhea of the mouth."

 

Mira shook her head. That part had been negated at least. "They found Umber's stash a week ago Thursday. Photos and video. All boys, all sickeningly young. They were stored on a memory card in a burner phone that the chief kept locked up in a private post office box." Ironically, the widow's brother had come across a monthly debit for the mailbox while he'd been sorting through his grieving sister's bills. He decided to stop by the storefront the following day to close the box so that the reoccurring charge would cease. The man had been so horrified by what he'd found on the phone—password protected by his sister's birthdate, no less—he'd walked it straight into NCIS and turned it over to the duty agent without even telling his sister.

 

A lot of good the discovery had done.

 

For Caleb, least of all.

 

The majority of the videos on that phone had been of him, age eight to his current twelve, being coerced into doing all sorts of vile things…and having that same filth done to him—over and over again.

 

And that night, when Caleb had been told of the discovery of the phone and had realized that his own father had seen several of the videos on it?

 

"The boy broke into the family medicine chest, found the fresh bottle of oxycodone a Bethesda doc had prescribed for phantom pain following his dad's old leg amputation and swallowed every blessed pill."

 

"Fuck."

 

Yeah.

 

"I am so sorry; I didn't know."

 

He wouldn't have. Out of respect for Caleb and his father, outside her, Ramsey, key NCIS personnel and, of course, the boy's medical team, no one had been told.

And if Briggs and the Dispatch found out?

 

"Is he going to be—"

 

"Okay?" She shook her head. "I have no idea." Just the million-odd prayers she wanted to believe would help—but didn't.

 

How could she?

 

She'd begun this morning with yet another hopeful call to the nurses' station outside the boy's intensive care unit at Bethesda, only to receive the same soul-shredding assessment: I'm so sorry, Agent Ellis. There's been no change.

For nine damned days now.

 

Mira folded her arms, rubbing her palms up and down the sleeves of her tired suit in an effort to stave off the chill that had closed in on her as she slumped back against the corridor's wall. It didn't help. "Caleb's still in a coma."

 

And if the boy came out of it?

 

Well, then he'd be forced to deal with the surfacing of that phone all over again, along with the "proof" that Umber's widow had so vocally been demanding.

 

Not that Talia Umber had accepted it once it had surfaced. While Caleb had been in the ambulance on his way to the ER to get his stomach pumped, Talia had been putting the final piece of her charming revenge against Mira into motion. Aware that her husband's survivor's pay and benefits were about to evaporate along with his reputation, Talia had struck back at NCIS, the Navy and Mira in one fell swoop.

 

Talia had phoned Josiah Briggs personally to reveal the dirt her private eye had uncovered about that old classified, not missing after all laptop.

 

As for Briggs and his "opportunity" for Mira to offer a rebuttal in print?

 

The leech could rot in hell with Umber.

 

And herself.

 

"Hey," Jerry's fingers gently hooked the bottom of her chin as he stepped in front of her, forcing her to look up. Worry swirled through that soothing brown. "You okay?"

 

God forgive her, she gave the man the same lie he'd given her all those years ago in San Diego when his own sanity had been hanging by a thread, along with his eighteen-year career and, apparently, his already shaky marriage. "I'm fine."

 

"It was a good shoot, Mir. A damned good shoot."

 

"I know."

 

He squeezed her chin. "Good. Because that bastard deserved it. Umber messed up that kid's life three times over. First, by abusing him, then by jamming that scalpel into his neck. And finally, by leaving the boy to deal with the fallout from his own twisted shit. No, Caleb's life won't ever be the same, but he will have a life. Because of you."

 

She nodded. Because that's what the agency shrink had said.

 

Ramsey, too.

 

She might've been able to believe it, too…were it not for those huge eyes that she just could not get out of her head. The utter devastation that she'd caused.

Umber had been a truly despicable monster. But she was the one who'd turned a lazy, late-afternoon, middle-school classroom into an active crime scene.

Shivers set in as the cold inside her deepened.

 

"Mir?" Jerry's fingers shifted to catch a drop of the shame that had escaped to trickle down her left cheek. "Hey, it's okay. Come here."

 

She closed her eyes as he gathered her close. Savored his rock-steady warmth as it gradually spread into her.

 

Maybe that's what did it. Having this man to lean on.

 

An old friend, yes, but one who'd once been trapped right where she was—and had somehow found the strength and the means to claw his way out.

 

She sucked up the rest of the tears and sighed, stepping back a bit as she forced herself to face the truth head-on for the first time in nearly thirteen days. To voice it aloud. "I screwed up, Jerry. I never should have gone into that classroom to confront Umber. Caleb would've been better off without me."

 

"Oh, hon. That's just not true, and you know it. What did Nate say?"

 

She managed a desolate shrug.

 

"Shit." A frown bit in, deepening the creases around Jerry's mouth as his stare narrowed in comprehension. "Your brother's undercover again, isn't he? Leaving you to push through this on your own." Jerry shook his head as he reached up to soothe her cheek. "Well, you're not alone on this. You've got me back in your life; Shelli, too. She said as much when she called earlier. And I'm betting Ramsey's never left, so—"

 

Someone cleared a throat. Loudly.

 

Not Jerry.

 

And that decidedly insolent sound hadn't come from her either.

 

Her old partner's hand fell away as they turned in unison to confront the FCI agent they'd both met in Corrigan's blood-drenched condo hours earlier.

 

Sam Riyad.

 

Open suspicion tinged the agent's stare, darkening it as Riyad closed the remaining distance to the autopsy suite—and them. "I'm not interrupting a...private moment, am I?" Judgment settled in, confirming the FCI agent's sordid assessment.

 

Asshole.

 

Jerry's icy snort answered for the both of them. "Just old partners catching up. You know how it is, Agent. If not, you will—if you're lucky."

 

Touché, Jerry. Especially when the surrounding air was still frosted with the comeback the detective had wanted to offer, but—for the sake of professionalism and their presence outside an autopsy suite that, from the sound of the rattling instruments and muffled voices within, was now occupied—hadn't.

 

She and Jerry had never stepped over the line, on the job or off.

 

Not now and not back then.

 

Not that any aspect of their relationship should concern the man who'd taken it upon himself to butt in so very rudely.

 

Riyad reached the trio of chairs that hugged this side of the corridor and bent down to retrieve the empty coffee cups. He studied the stacked Styrofoam for a moment, as though he had something to add regarding their supposed intimacy too. But then he shrugged and stepped around the chairs to toss the cups into the waiting bin.

 

Mira spotted the swift, sidelong quirk to Jerry's bushy brows, the last three years falling away as she caught the silent query embedded within.

 

Did you invite him?

 

The micro-shake of her head telegraphed her answer.

 

Curious.

 

If neither of them had phoned Sam Riyad, why was he here? When she'd left the condo six hours earlier, the FCI agent had been holed up back inside the JAG's home office, sifting through the papers still strewn from one end to the other, as was his job. Albeit, during that pass, Riyad had been wearing gloves.

 

So, who'd told the agent when and where this morning's activity would be going down? He didn't intend to actually view the autopsy, did he?

 

But he must. Why else show?

 

Either way, unless Riyad had found something in those papers that changed the course of the case, he'd made yet another procedural error. This one in not phoning the homicide detective who owned this case to ask permission to view the postmortem, or at the very least, to politely suggest that he should be here.

 

Had Riyad found something in those papers then? Something that bore a heftier classification than CUI/NOFORN?

 

Better yet, had he come across something that could explain the utterly obscene carnage in that condo…if that was even possible?

 

Before Mira could ask, a male voice within the suite increased in volume. A split second later, the door opened.

 

A stocky Hispanic diener waved them inside.

 

Ivan Zanchetta, a tall, distinguishedly graying forensic pathologist she'd worked with on a case shortly after her arrival in DC, stood at the opposite end of the room, just past the head of the slanted, stainless-steel autopsy table. Zanchetta's nod encompassed all three newcomers to the suite as he continued to offer up his opening monologue toward the grille of the microphone suspended from above, detailing the results of his external examination of the body and a description of the specimens that had already been collected for toxicology.

 

She, Jerry and Riyad waited as the diener paused beside a rolling table to retrieve a trio of protective masks. The diener passed a mask to Jerry, and another to her as she and her once-again, if temporary partner headed up the right side of Theresa Corrigan's still naked, but now thoroughly cleaned body.

 

Riyad received his mask where he'd chosen to remain, at the commander's feet.

 

The ubiquitous squat blue jar appeared next, and that was handed off to Riyad first. Her fellow NCIS agent stared down at the jar for several awkward moments, as if he couldn't quite figure what he was supposed to do with it.

 

The diener tapped the lid. "It's Vicks." He shifted his finger, sliding the tip across his upper lip, just beneath his nose. "Slather it here, and it'll help combat the odor."

 

For despite the chill in the room, there was an odor. Not surprising since a brutalized body that had lain on a bed and decayed for nine days tended to carry one. And in this case, it was particularly nauseating.

 

Riyad waved off the jar.

 

Mira did the same. Experience had taught her that inhaling Vicks for several hours would lead to a jackhammer of a headache that even the emergency ibuprofen packet in her wallet wouldn't be able to quell. And that was a distraction she could ill afford while actively working a case. She'd rather deal with that stench.

 

Jerry waved the jar off too, because—bless him—he knew if he sported the salve this close to her, the jackhammer would still find its way inside her skull.

 

"Thanks."

 

He shrugged as they stepped up in unison to the raised lip of the table, instinctively closing off their nasal passages from within as they studied the darkened, abused and bloated flesh that had once belonged to Theresa Corrigan.

 

The pathologist wrapped up his initial comments and stepped closer as well to reexamine the split in the flesh riding the crest of the woman's right cheek before reaching out to manipulate the zygomatic beneath.

 

Mira already knew from Dr. Zanchetta's recorded monologue that the bone had been shattered. The facial damage dovetailed in with the smear of dried blood that she and Jerry had noted roughly five and a half feet up the wall from the floorboard just inside the door to Corrigan's bedroom. That smear and the damage to the bone, along with the lack of tool marks in and around the locks at the condo's front door—when added to the phone call the JAG's sister had received in San Antonio—suggested the rest.

 

Corrigan had entered the condo after work to pack. But her killer had been waiting for her in the bedroom, where he'd already unfolded and gleaned the details of that flight itinerary, as Mira had. Once he'd slammed the commander's face into the wall, Corrigan would've been motivated to make the call to her sister and offer up a convincing recitation of the excuse the killer had demanded.

 

But was that killer Frank?

 

Mira took in the contusions that covered the woman's chest. To create those, Corrigan would have to have been punched in both breasts repeatedly, while she'd been alive. Without the bedcovers bunched against her torso and hips, it was clear the kidneys had sustained a vicious beating too. The gaping slice at the front and sides of the neck accounted for the arterial spurting at the scene. And there was the damage to the wrists and above the ankles from where Corrigan had been bound to those iron bedposts, not to mention the marks from the gag that'd been in her mouth. Finally, the bruising between the woman's inner thighs—and higher—from that damned bottle.

 

Was Frank Nasser capable of this much hate?

 

Mira returned her attention to the right hand inches from her.

 

There was something odd about the fingers. They appeared more swollen than even this horrific bloating would've allowed for—or should.

 

She glanced up to see if Jerry had noticed, only to catch sight of Riyad's intense focus out of the corner of her eye. Strangely, that murky stare of his was leveled not on the body, but on her. For a split second she could've sworn that the level of anger she'd been attempting to align within Frank was simmering inside the agent just off her right.

 

It was mixed with disgust too—and directed at her.

 

But…that was insane. It had to be.

 

The stark lighting in here had to be affecting her eyes. That, and she was exhausted. Her all-nighter at the Field Office had come on the heels of twelve previous nights of stunted sleep. She hadn't logged a decent stint since she'd confronted Umber.

 

That's all this was.

 

Mira turned her head to her left. But as she attempted to shake off the sensation that she was being watched, she realized that Jerry was looking past her—to Riyad.

Her old partner's attention shifted, zeroed in on her.

 

And she knew.

 

It wasn't the stark light. Or her exhaustion. Jerry had seen Riyad staring her. That anger and disgust she'd spotted within the agent's glare had been real.

 

But why? What the devil had she done to offend him?

 

Usurped a slot in an investigation he'd thought was his?

 

But that was insane too. Riyad's expertise lay in counterintelligence.

 

Oh, shit. The files and papers. The ones that had been yanked out of the breached safe in the condo's office and scattered about the room. Had Corrigan kept her old notes regarding the accusation of the not-missing laptop? Had the JAG added to them over the years? If so, what the hell had Corrigan written about Frank?

 

About her?

 

"Mir?" There was a wealth of warning in that truncated version of her name. Along with a pointed assessment, and an even more pointed question from Jerry to her. First Riyad's asinine comment out in the corridor. And now this?

 

What the hell was going on?

 

Mira shook her head, telegraphing a message of her own. Later. This was not the time for them to get into it. Much less to press into Riyad.

 

Jerry nodded—and let it go.

 

She, however, was forced to clench her fingers to control the anger still simmering within. The motion reminded her of where she was; of what she'd noted earlier. Corrigan's fingers. They were definitely more swollen than they should be.

It was almost as if—

 

"Yes. They were dislocated."

 

Mira glanced up to find the pathologist's attention settled on her. "All of them?"

Zanchetta nodded solemnly, before tipping his head toward the pair of x-rays still hanging in the glowing light box on his left. "As you can see, each digit was dislocated at the base of its metacarpal, then returned to its normal, anatomical alignment."

 

"What?" Riyad.

 

Mira glanced past the woman's legs to find the agent's stare finally fixated on the body on the table, and not her. And in place of the anger and disgust?

 

A fierce glint she couldn't quite decipher.

 

It seared straight up the body and into the pathologist. "You're saying all ten of the woman's fingers were dislocated at the knuckle and then wrenched back into place?"

 

Zanchetta nodded. "Yes."

 

With that confirmation, the FCI agent clipped a nod of his own, then abruptly turned on his heel—and strode out of the suite. Just like that. No explanation, let alone an excuse me or a muttered goodbye. Riyad didn't even bother closing the door behind him.

 

The diener was forced to do that.

 

What the hell?

 

She turned to Jerry. But he'd already shrugged off the bizarre departure and refocused his attention on those hands. From the terse pinch to his frown, Mira not only knew why, but she knew also what the detective was thinking.

 

Because she was thinking it too.

 

The lack of tool marks and other forensic evidence that the killer should have left behind at the scene, but hadn't? The lowering of the temperature inside the condo, most likely to screw with the determination of the time of death? The coerced phone call to Corrigan's sister, which provided just enough of an explanation to keep the sister from calling Corrigan back—or informing others? The repeated blows to the JAG's kidneys and breasts? The gag that had muffled her screams?

And now this? The deliberate, double whammy of excruciating pain that would've come as each joint had been snapped out of place and then ruthlessly shoved back in…as questions were undoubtedly asked and quite possibly answered?

 

"He's a pro."

 

Jerry nodded. "Yep."

 

But what the hell had the bastard wanted?

 

Because her boss had been right about one thing during that call he'd made to assign her this case. For the past several years, Corrigan had been stationed at the Pentagon, working anti-terror almost exclusively. Had the JAG's killer been after classified and/or compromising information from one of her cases? If so, given the carnage in that condo—not to mention the anger and frustration revealed by the savage insertion of that wine bottle—Mira didn't think the bastard had gotten it.

 

And the surface warfare insignia that had been shoved down the woman's throat? Had those water wings been planted to throw off the investigation, after all?

 

Or had Frank simply been in the room, a cold-blooded spectator enjoying his sick, belated revenge?

 

"I'm guessing your night's research into your old classmate suggests that this—" Jerry waved his hand over those abused fingers. "—isn't in Nasser's wheelhouse."

 

Despite the water wings, her brain and her gut agreed with him.

 

Before Mira could share the assessment, her phone vibrated.

 

Excusing herself, she stepped back from the table, noting the international numerical prefix for Japan as she checked her caller ID.

 

Ishida.

 

She excused herself again, this time as she headed across the room, half expecting to find Riyad growling into his phone just outside.

 

But the corridor was empty.

 

She closed the door and accepted the call. "Special Agent Ellis, how may I help you?"

 

"Agent Ellis, this is Carl Bremmer. I work at Ishida." The crisp, decidedly American twang continued, "You called this afternoon asking about Frank Nasser?"

 

"I did." Though the query had taken place during the night—for her in DC. "I apologize for taking up your time, Mr. Bremmer, but I'm tying up a loose thread on something. Is Mr. Nasser available? If so, may I speak to him? Afterward, I'd like to speak to his supervisor if possible, so I can verify something."

 

Namely, Frank's story.

 

"I'm sorry, I'm afraid Frank's not in the plant today. But I am his direct supervisor. Is there something I can help you with?"

 

Damn. She'd really wanted to start with Frank; give the man a chance to lie. To see if he would.

 

At least she'd gotten his supervisor on the line.

 

Mira turned to pace down the hall, then stopped short. Given the timeline they'd been able to establish, Corrigan had been murdered during the evening of the nineteenth. But Japan was thirteen hours ahead of Washington, DC, so, "Sir, can you tell me if Frank Nasser was at work on March the twentieth?"

 

"He was not."

 

Oh, boy. Were her research and her gut wrong?

 

It wouldn't be the first time, would it?

 

She headed up the corridor, coming to a halt beside the chairs. "Mr. Bremmer, do you know if Mr. Nasser was in Japan at all that day?"

 

"I can't say for certain, but I don't believe so. Frank took emergency leave that entire week. Something to do with a break-in at his grandfather's house in the States. The old guy was in intensive care for several days. I don't recall the hospital or the city. Sorry."

 

Well, shit. Professional torture session or not, she definitely needed to question Frank—in detail, and in person.

 

Barring that, "Sir, do you have Mr. Nasser's home address in Japan?" She could have a fellow NCIS agent from Yokosuka knocking on his door within the hour.

 

"Well, now. I do. But it won't do you much good, Agent. Frank's not in Japan at the moment. He flew straight from the States to France. He's visiting a facility in Marcoule with another member of my team. I can give you Frank's number, but it may be a few days before he's able to return your call, possibly longer."

 

Frank would be out of touch for several days or more? To the extent that he couldn't even take a phone call?

 

What was Bremmer not saying?

 

Unfortunately, given that the facility Bremmer had mentioned was located in Marcoule, she was better off not pressing her curiosity. Not over the phone. Instead, she asked Bremmer to text her Frank's number, then thanked him for his assistance.

 

The door to the autopsy suite opened as she hung up.

 

Jerry joined her in the corridor, closing the door behind him. "What's going on?"

 

She shook her head. "I'm not sure."

 

Yet.

 

She recapped her conversation with Bremmer, nodding at Jerry's low whistle as she reached the part about Marcoule.

 

His brows shot up. "Marcoule…the nuclear facility?"

 

She nodded slowly. Carefully. Although neither she nor Jerry would ever be savants like Frank, they were both more than capable of adding up all the seemingly disparate facts they'd spent most of last night and this morning gleaning.

 

A murdered JAG who worked anti-terror cases for the Pentagon, who was also married to the commanding officer of a nuclear-powered and nuclear-capable, Ohio-class submarine? A less-than-stellar-performing, former Navy nuke who—though he'd been part of the surface-ship side of the Fleet—was now employed by a Japanese nuclear-powered electric plant? The fact that that same former nuke's old water wings had been shoved down the JAG's throat? Water wings that could've easily been stolen by whoever had broken into his grandfather's home back in the States?

 

And now, that former nuke's presence at a French nuclear site that any terrorist worth his IED-construction skills would be champing to slip inside…quite possibly to gain access to the radioactive material that was stored within?

 

"Jerry, I think I need to fly to France."

 

His answering nod was swift, and even more decisive. "Let your chain of command know, and go."
 

 

 

Mira caught the attention of the civics teacher, who stepped into the conversation she and three of his fellow instructors had been sharing in the teachers' lounge. "Did you say that Chief Umber hosts the after-school biology club on Mondays now? So he's here today?"

 

The heavily freckled man nodded. "He had to switch the timing, something to do with his schedule at Bethesda, I think. But the chief still finishes at four. Traffic."

 

Mira nudged the cuff of her suit jacket aside as the teachers began to collectively argue over just how long it took to get from Creighton Middle School to the northwest side of the capital and Chief Umber's second shift position at the Walter Reed National Military Medical Center at this hour of the day.

 

Not that the answer mattered to Mira. The hands of her watch revealed twenty-two minutes after four. She'd missed Umber completely, though not by much.

 

Probably for the best. This was a fact-finding mission.

 

As much as her instincts pointed to it becoming more, she was determined to remain patient and impartial. In any NCIS investigation, there tended to be at least one military career at stake. A career that could be shredded, and so very easily, if the agent wasn't careful. She knew better that most just how swiftly the shredding could occur.

 

And most of the time?

 

Well, there was no stitching it back together.

 

As for this investigation, if the accusations within the anonymous letter that had been addressed to her and mailed to the Field Office were true, the shredding would be more vicious than most.

 

All the better to tread slowly and meticulously, especially in this lounge, with this savvy bunch.

 

The civics teacher tilted his mass of freckles to the side. "You were just here on Friday. Couldn't you have asked us about the chief then?"

 

In short, no.

 

While she had given her toned-down, "a day in the life of an agent" presentation to the sixth-to-eighth graders in this very school three days ago, the letter that contained the accusations against Ronald Umber hadn't shown up until this morning. The choice of words by the author had pegged him as a young, possibly still prepubescent male.

 

And since the auditorium she'd spoken in last Friday had been brimming with two hundred plus eleven-to-fifteen-year-olds, half of whom were male, she'd decided it was prudent to return here first.

 

She couldn't offer the truth though, so she smiled. Lied. "You know how it is. One hand never knows what the other's doing, especially when both are welded to the anvil of bureaucracy. My boss tapped me to give your presentation last week. Another agent was asked to verify a write-up we received this morning." She pushed forth a light shrug, just enough to enhance her lingering smile. "I was stopping by to drop off the agency brochures I promised to your librarian anyway, so I offered to vet the write-up, too."

 

"The chief has been nominated for another commendation, then?"

 

Mira held fast to her smile, allowing the assumption within the fifty-something English teacher's query to hold as she met the woman's stare. Despite the distinct glow of admiration within the blue, Mira couldn't quite manage an accompanying nod. During the cursory research she'd done to tailor her canned "day in the life" presentation to this specific school, she'd discovered that a good portion of the students who attended were sons and daughters of active-duty military personnel. A number of Creighton's staff also had service connections. More than most, those kids and staff members understood what simply being tapped for a Navy Cross meant, let alone receiving it.

 

As Chief Umber had already done.

 

According the medal's write-up, then Petty Officer First Class Ronald Umber had been serving as an independent duty corpsman with a Marine platoon in Iraq four years earlier when, while pinned down by enemy fire, he'd transferred more than a pint of his own blood via a direct, arm-to-arm transfusion to a Marine with minutes to live—while Umber and other Marines were actively taking and returning that fire.

 

Though First Sergeant Malcolm McCabe had eventually lost his right leg, Umber's actions on the battlefield had saved McCabe's life, along with the lives of three additional Marines that day.

 

But had that act of heroism over there, and the meritorious medal that had resulted from it, provided the chief the necessary moral cover to conceal a viper's nest of nauseating crimes back in the States, right here in the nation's capital?

 

According to the anonymous letter she'd received, yes.

 

And when Mira had phoned the school and discovered that not only did Umber volunteer at Creighton, but the chief also mentored several boys through the school's biology club…one of whom appeared to be the son of the same first sergeant whose life Umber had saved?

 

That's when her hackles had gone up—and when she'd headed here.

 

Mira turned toward the door to the lounge as a short, thickly muscled man strode in. The physical education teacher, Tim Modrcin, if she remembered correctly.

 

The PE teacher nodded to her, returning the round of greetings from his co-workers as he headed for the refrigerator at the far end of the room. The civics teacher split off, briefing Modrcin on the purported reason for her follow-up visit as the man opened the fridge. But instead of reaching inside, Modrcin turned back to her.

 

"You're here about the chief? He's still here. I just saw him. You'd better hurry though. The kids and I finished batting practice. We pass the biology room on the way in. Umber and his assistant are wrapping things up as we speak."

 

"Umber has an assistant?"

 

Modrcin nodded. "A sixth-grader. Caleb McCabe. He always stays behind to help. I think today was Frog Dissection Day, so there's bound to be a mess."

 

Shit. Not only was Chief Umber on the premises, he had a twelve-year-old boy within in his reach? The same boy whom she suspected had written that note?

 

And the two were alone?

 

"Where?"

 

"Excuse me?" The coach's confusion was mirrored by the other teachers in the lounge. Probably because of her tone.

 

She hadn't been able to keep the panic entirely suppressed.

 

Mira forced herself to calm down. Even managed to push forth another polite smile. "Where is the biology room? Since he's here, I'd like to speak to the chief too."

 

Speak, hell. If the accusations she'd read were true, she might not be able to resist the temptation to nail the bastard to the nearest wall and use him for batting practice.

 

Her latest smile might not have been as smooth as Mira had hoped, because the English teacher turned to pull the door open.

 

"I'll show you."

 

Given the clipped pace the older woman set as they exited the lounge to pass the dormant lunch room before turning down an equally desolate hall, Mira's suspicions increased. It was a challenge to keep up.

 

But she did.

 

The teacher led them through a second turn and stopped short. A gently labored breath escaped the woman's tightened lips as she pointed to a dark wooden door several feet further down the hall and just shy of the exit that most likely opened onto the school's sports yard.

 

"That's the biology room."

 

Mira stepped forward, peering through the rectangle of glass embedded above the knob to assess the layout inside. Fifteen black lab tables were arranged in a platoon formation of three tables across and four rows deep. A denim-and-blue sweater-clad adult male of roughly five feet six and a lanky, dark-haired young boy closer to four feet even, wearing the school's ubiquitous white Oxford and tie, stood facing each other in the first row, behind the centermost table. A pair of stainless-steel trays crowded its surface. Though she could only make out the right side of that head of cropped, sandy curls and ascetic features, she recognized them from the photo she'd pulled at the Field Office.

 

Chief Hospital Corpsman Ronald Umber.

 

As for Caleb McCabe, she could see him perfectly. Caleb's dark brown stare was fused to the chief's face—and there was a glimmer of tears within.

 

For a split second, she wasn't sure what bothered her most.

 

Those tears, or the chief's hand.

 

Umber's left palm was cupped to the boy's rigid shoulder, trapping Caleb in place as a chillingly adult thumb stroked across a portion of hidden collarbone before moving up the exposed flesh of that vulnerable, twelve-year-old neck.

 

The stunted swallow that clogged the boy's throat screamed no.

 

Everything else bellowed inappropriate—especially within Mira.

 

This would not happen again. Not on her watch.

 

She directed a murmur toward the woman behind her as she reached for the knob. "Ma'am, it would be better if you remained here."

 

Easing the door open, Mira stifled a curse as the English teacher ignored the suggestion and followed her into the room.

 

But at least the woman had hung back by the door.

 

Caleb met Mira's stare as she stepped closer to the desks.

 

The boy flinched.

 

Umber yanked his hand away and whirled around. "Who—"

 

"Special Agent Mira Ellis, NCIS." She reached inside her suit jacket with her left hand to retrieve her credentials, calmly flipping the leather bifold open as it surfaced. "I dropped by the office a few minutes ago to vet an item on a security clearance for a former student. Heard there was a sailor in here, so I came by to say hey."

 

She could feel the teacher stiffen behind her.

 

Unfortunately, her contradiction to the attaboy assumption that she'd let stand in the lounge was necessary. Not only would a Navy chief know damned well that special agents didn't vet routine military commendations and medals, she needed the man to remain calm. Because this Navy chief was also the child rapist she sought.

 

If the panic that had sparked in Umber's eyes upon hearing her title hadn't convinced her, the recognition and terror now wracking his victim did.

 

Not to mention the guilt.

 

Twelve years old or not, Caleb knew exactly who she was and why she was here—because he'd asked for her.

 

Mira closed her credentials, willing the terror, remorse and shame that were still pulsing through those huge brown orbs to ease as she pocketed the badge's bifold. If Umber swung back to the kid and realized that NCIS was on to him—

 

Too late.

 

The chief shoved his right hand into the tray of instruments on the desk. A split second later, Mira shoved hers inside her jacket, this time to grab the butt of the SIG Sauer P239 that was tucked into the shoulder holster within.

 

But by the time the persuasive end of her 10mm pistol had surfaced, Umber had wrenched Caleb's slight body around and squarely in front of his…and a gleaming, stainless-steel scalpel from that tray was now pressing into the side of the boy's throat, directly over his carotid.

 

A near-silent whimper escaped those trembling lips as she leveled the SIG's sights directly between the eyes of bastard above and behind them.

 

The chief responded by pressing the scalpel deeper.

 

A scarlet line of tiny droplets beaded up, connecting together as they coated the scalpel's razor edge, drawing another strangely subdued sob from the boy.

 

"Chief Umber, you don't want to do this."

 

Hell, she didn't want him to do this. For a number of reasons. Not the least of which had to do with the fact that she was not a marksman. She was damned lucky to simply pass her weapons qualification every quarter—and she knew it.

 

Yes, she'd take the shot if she had to. But there was a very real chance that she might not hit that magic T-box between the chief's eyes, even from this distance.

Not cleanly enough to save the trembling boy who was still staring at her. Those huge damp eyes of his begging her to save him.

 

"Chief?"

 

The scalpel pressed deeper as the man scowled at her, causing the line of beads to double up and swell. "Lady, you don't know what I want."

 

Oh, but she did. She'd read that letter. She knew the exact level of filth that this cowardly piece of shit desired.

 

And now, that same stinking ball of dung was using the innocent child he'd been visiting all that filth upon for four goddamned years as his living shield.

 

Some hero.

 

But as much as Umber truly was a monster, he was also trained to use that zealously honed blade.

 

One slash in the right spot, and the boy would be dead within seconds.

 

With the level of panic that had to be closing in and suffocating any remaining logic in the chief's mind, Umber might even believe that without Caleb alive to testify at his court-martial, describing in detail what had been done to him and what he'd been forced to do, the extent of his depravity would remain hidden.

 

Or he might just slit the boy's throat out of revenge.

 

If there was any logic left in that twisted brain, Umber had to know that both his illustrious naval career and phony beard of a marriage were over.

 

Nor could she rule out the snap decision of suicide by agent.

 

Mira could hear the English teacher behind her, sobbing quietly as she tried to keep it together. She prayed the woman had the sense to remain silent—and inside the room. Hell, even approaching the door might tip the chief over the edge.

 

But the door swished open. The panic in Umber's gaze evaporated.

 

Deadly determination replaced it.

 

Shit.

 

Umber had made his choice. The proof came as the scalpel sliced deep, causing scarlet to spurt over the back edge of the blade and down the side of boy's throat.

 

She took the shot.

 

Relief and disbelief seared in as the chief's body fell away from Caleb, only to surge into shock as someone grabbed onto her shoulders and shook firmly.

 

 

 

Mira came up swinging, her fists slamming into camouflaged fabric stretched over twice the depth of muscle that Umber had honed during his stint with the Marines.

 

Confusion pummeled through her brain, along with a surrounding rumble so heavy and persistent that it was vibrating through every bone in her body as she fell back against a metal seat.

 

The classroom disintegrated, leaving a cavernous steel belly in its place.

 

Airplane.

 

She wasn't back at the Creighton Middle School in DC; she was in the air, aboard the US Air Force C-17 Globemaster she'd caught at Joint Base Andrews.

 

And the brawny British SAS captain she'd chatted with off and on for several hours before she'd apparently succumbed to exhaustion?

 

Well, he was looking at her as though he was afraid she might need to be committed. Medically. "Agent Ellis, it's me, Kipp Styles. Are you okay?"

 

"Yeah. Sorry." She shook her head as she attempted to purge the vestiges of her confrontation with Umber and that shot she'd taken, not to mention those stricken eyes that were once again haunting her brain.

 

It all still felt so damned real.

 

The knowledge that went with it made it that much worse. Carotid arteries ran barely an inch and a half below the surface of the skin of an adult neck. She didn't know how deep Caleb's left carotid ran, only that the ER doctor who'd stitched the boy's throat back together had said that mere millimeters deeper, and it would've been severed.

 

His official assessment? If she'd waited so much as a split second later to take that shot, Caleb McCabe would've followed Umber into death within five to fifteen.

The doc had probably phoned to pass that tidbit along because he'd thought it would help her deal with it all—and it had. Until the rest had come to pass.

 

The surfacing of the chief's burner phone and those foul videos and photos on it.

That damned bottle of oxycodone.

 

She sucked up the ache and the guilt that came hand in hand with that memory and nodded to the British captain. "Thanks for waking me. And, again, my sincere apologies. I didn't mean to strike you."

 

The man shook his head, his grin wide and forgiving. "Not a problem. I've had a few rotten dreams myself."

 

Dreams. Right.

 

Only that hadn't been a dream, had it? That had been a memory. The same excruciating memory she'd been reliving for two weeks now.

 

Had she really believed it would fade simply because she was working a new case?

"Anyway, you asked me to let you know when we hit the coast. According to the crew chief, we crossed over it a few minutes ago. We should be landing shortly."

 

"Thank you, Captain. I appreciate the update."

 

Mira watched the SAS officer's trek across the belly of the bird. Once there, he sank into the flip-down seat beside the plane's only other passenger. She had no idea the nature of the business that Captain Styles and Major Hunt had had at the Pentagon, much less why it had been so important for an SAS squadron commander and his second in command to confer on site and in uniform, but she was grateful.

 

Those two Brits were the reason this American C-17 had filed a flight plan to RAF Lakenheath.

 

While this hop wouldn't get her as far as she needed to go, the Globemaster had been slotted to take off from Andrews less than two hours after her conversation with Jerry, making it well worth the detour she'd made to the Field Office to grab her go-bag. With the Royal Air Force base located firmly on British soil and leased out to the US Air Force, she'd been able to request a second, shorter hop from Lakenheath and over the channel to Orange-Caritat in France minutes before the C-17 had gone wheels up.

 

Heck, the next pilot could drop her off at the French airbase of his choice. She could always rent a car to Marcoule.

 

As for Jerry, her once-again, if temporary partner was back in their country's capital, dogging the case from that end and looking into the story of Frank's grandfather and the supposed break-in at the man's house that led to his hospitalization. She also knew from working across a pair of abutted desks for nearly three years in San Diego that Jerry would be taking the time to poke into Sam Riyad as well.

 

Because something was off with that man.

 

Not even those FCI credentials could explain, much less excuse Riyad's behavior in that autopsy suite. She still had no idea who'd told the agent about the postmortem, much less which link in NCIS' lengthy chain of command had ordered him to the condo in the first place. But if it had been Ramsey, surely he'd have mentioned it?

 

Speaking of which—

 

Mira fished her phone from her trouser pocket. She cleared the low power warning, then tapped into her text messages. The C-17 had been in the air for over seven hours and there were still none from her boss. No missed calls, either. Surely the voicemail she'd left Ramsey about Corrigan's dislocated knuckles, along with the other evidence that suggested the JAG had been murdered by a pro, would've rated a response? Not to mention the information she'd added regarding where she was currently headed—and why.

 

Then again, Ramsey was her boss. And the paperwork for her to make this flight had been approved—so he was definitely up to date. Unfortunately, he was also mired so deep in his own current tasking that he hadn't even had time to send a got it text.

 

What the devil was Ramsey dealing with?

 

Hopefully, they'd connect before she reached Marcoule.

 

Mira rubbed the vestiges of her nap from her eyes. Noting the local time at the top of her phone's screen, she pushed up the left sleeve of her suit to expose the watch her brother had gifted for her birthday years ago, then spun the hands around until they settled on 0037. If her hop was waiting for her as requested, she just might be able to catch another nap—in a bed, this time—and still be able to greet Frank Nasser at Marcoule's main security gate when he arrived in the morning to accomplish…whatever the man had been sent to France to accomplish.

 

Her watch reset, Mira tapped into the first of the texts she'd missed from Jerry.

 

She could feel the C-17 dropping in altitude as she scanned what little evidence the pathologist had been able to glean during the remainder of the autopsy. Other than the fact that the stomach contents matched a meal of egg foo young that Corrigan had consumed over lunch on the nineteenth of March, there wasn't much. With any luck, the toxicology report would offer more when it came back. Though Mira doubted it.

 

From the scowling emoji he'd added, so did Jerry.

 

Tapping into the detective's subsequent missed text, however, did reveal—and suggest—more than the internal portion of the JAG's autopsy had.

 

The document her old NCIS mentor had tracked down and attached was a police report from Nashua, New Hampshire. Frank hadn't been lying about the reason for his request for emergency leave. The write-up Jerry had forwarded detailed the break-in to Abdul Nasser's modest brick home on the eleventh of March. According to the report, Abdul heard a noise in the middle of the night and had come downstairs to check it out with a shotgun in his hands. There, Abdul had discovered two men upending his living room. He'd raised the weapon and ordered them to stop.

 

Instead, the two advanced.

 

Within seconds, Abdul's shotgun was in the hands of the closer perpetrator, who then proceeded to beat the shit out of the old guy with the stock of his own gun.

 

It had taken three days of treatment in Nashua's intensive care for Abdul to regain consciousness. By then, the thugs who'd assaulted him were long gone. Though Mira doubted that Abdul regaining his wits sooner would've changed anything.

 

Both assailants had been wearing balaclavas.

 

And from the way the entire house had been systematically searched, before and after the old man's beatdown? The assessment in the police report was clear.

 

Pros.

 

Jerry's final text contained the most intriguing information yet. Jerry had called Nashua around the time that Mira had nodded off on the plane and had spoken at length with Abdul Nasser. The old man had been so very proud that Frank had sought and received a commission in Abdul's adopted country's Navy. He'd been prouder still when his grandson had stayed in, despite what had happened at nuke school, and had gone on to complete his surface warfare qualifications so he could pin on those gold water wings. But with Frank thoroughly disillusioned by the time he'd resigned that same commission—to the point that he'd talked of tossing his warfare insignia into the trash—Abdul had requested it.

 

Abdul had planned to return the insignia once his grandson had had a chance to cool off and reflect on the years of service he'd given to their country.

 

Alas, upon returning home from the hospital, Abdul realized that the water wings had been stolen along with his deceased wife's jewelry.

 

She and Jerry were in agreement. Yes, Frank's history with the JAG made him the perfect patsy. And learning that his insignia had been stolen should've gone a long way to exonerating him. But with the man now working for Ishida and in the middle of a hush-hush visit to the nuclear site at Marcoule, they were forced to wonder.

 

Was there more to Frank's part in this than a savvy setup?

 

That wine bottle said yes. Corrigan might've been tortured by someone well versed in man's most heinous art. But the insertion of that bottle had been personal.

 

So how did it all connect?

 

Locating Frank and talking to him was the first step to figuring it out. That conversation would involve detailed answers, too—his. Because if Frank clammed up, in light of where he worked, not to mention his current location, his civilian nuclear career would end up just like his military one had. Dead in the water.

 

Mira retrieved the ends of her seatbelt and clicked the metal together as the Globemaster commenced its final shedding of altitude.

 

Within minutes the plane's wheels had embraced British cement.

 

Several more, and the C-17 had taxied off the runway and come to a halt. The engines cut out as the rear ramp began to lower.

 

Mira released her safety belt. Hefting her leather suit bag and smaller canvas duffle, she followed the two SAS officers out the aft end of the plane.

 

There wasn't a star in sight as they reached the edge of the tarmac. The moon was AWOL too, smothered out by a thick blanket of clouds that were threatening to open up and release a heavier dose of the steady drizzle that had soaked the waiting British—not American—airman who appeared to be her welcoming committee.

 

No, the camouflaged sergeant wasn't waiting for her.

 

At least, not completely.

 

The man's ebony hand came up, silently requesting that she mark time where she stood, while he and the two other passengers from their flight moved far enough away to conduct a private, but palpably intense conversation.

 

Bemused, Mira watched as the SAS squadron commander retrieved his phone and initiated not one, but two equally subdued, yet tense calls. Major Hunt hung up from the second, clipped a nod to his second in command and immediately took off down the tarmac with the sergeant in tow, leaving Captain Styles to return to her.

 

"What's wrong?"

 

Because something had gone to shit.

 

It was in that slow swipe of fingertips making a pass across the captain's forehead, just shy of the bottom of his sand beret. "Your intent in flying to Lakenheath was to catch a second flight to Marcoule so that you could question one of your country's former naval officers about a murder—a Frank Nasser?"

 

Oh, boy. While she and Styles had chatted at length during the first half of the flight, she hadn't shared that information with the captain. Not a single piece. Even as she wondered who'd relayed it to him now, and why, she knew the why was the more significant question. Almost as significant as the tense of the verb Styles had used.

 

Was.

 

"Yes, that was my intention, Captain. And I'm asking again. What's wrong?"

 

"Nasser's not in Marcoule."

 

She held her tongue. Because there was more to come.

 

It was in that second, slow swipe.

 

She could feel the SAS officer weighing what he wanted to tell her against what he'd been ordered to relay. "Until a few days ago, Nasser was in Cherbourg. He's now aboard a ship in the Atlantic, one soon to turn south to travel down the northwest coast of Africa before swinging up and around the capes and the bulk of Southeast Asia to head for Japan."

 

Cherbourg? And that particular voyage?

 

She released the strap on her duffle to cross her fingers. Hard. "Which ship?"

 

"The Pacific Tern."

 

The duffle slid off her shoulder and smacked onto the tarmac.

 

Styles nodded. "The Tern was originally scheduled to depart Cherbourg this coming Saturday, but Greenpeace had arranged a protest. Since an unusually large number of ships were to be present in the flotilla, Clearwater Transport felt it prudent for the Tern and her escort ship, the Kittiwake, to get underway as soon as they were able."

 

Clearwater Transport?

 

There was a word missing in there. A rather heavy-hitting descriptor. The full name of the company that owned and operated the Pacific Tern and her purpose-built sister ship, the Pacific Kittiwake, was Clearwater Nuclear Transport.

 

An important fleshing out, since that single word was the reason she and Captain Styles were having this conversation.

 

And why Major Hunt had made those calls.

 

Clearwater and its dedicated class of nuclear transport ships were also hardlined to the UK. And, given what must've been relayed to the company—and higher—Clearwater wouldn't care that Frank was an American citizen currently employed by Japan. The company wanted Frank's suddenly very questionable ass off that ship and away from the radioactive cargo the Tern was undoubtedly carrying.

 

"You're taking a helicopter out to get him, aren't you?"

 

The wide grin Styles had given her after she'd woken up on the C-17 returned. "Would you like to accompany us, Agent Ellis?"

 

Now there was a no-brainer.

 

"When do we leave?"

 

The grin deepened as the captain reached down to hook her duffle off the tarmac and sling it over his camouflaged shoulder. She had her answer.

 

Now.

 

* * *

 

She no longer knew where she was.

 

Mira turned to peer out of the oversized ballistic window embedded within the helicopter door to the left of her seat.

 

Heck, she couldn't even be certain about the time. It was still dark out, but the battery on her phone had given up the ghost in the middle of the unsent, heads-up text she'd been typing to Jerry as she and the SAS captain had followed the same path down the tarmac that his commander had taken. As for the watch her brother had gifted her? As lovely as its minimalistic face and luddite hands were, it was as old-fashioned as Nate's taste in women—and just as emblematic. It didn't light up.

 

Mira did know that the thundering British Wildcat she and Captain Styles had climbed aboard had already stopped to refuel at Bordeaux-Mérignac in France, then again in Lisbon, Portugal, putting their total time in the air at well over four hours.

 

But that was it. Whether there would be a third pit stop on this leg of their rotary-winged journey remained to be seen.

 

Since they were flying over open ocean now, that wasn't likely.

 

As for the purpose of their impromptu, joint mission?

 

From what Styles had been able to relay before the helicopter's blades had spun up enough to make lengthy conversation impossible, Clearwater would be happy to welcome her aboard the Tern—so long as she took Frank Nasser with her when she left. Though she still had no idea who'd informed the company's upper tier of Corrigan's murder, she did know that by the time they'd learned of it, she and that C-17 had departed Andrews.

 

Discovering that two SAS officers well-versed in executing dicey missions were aboard her flight had been a boon, at least to Clearwater. They'd simply asked that the men be re-tasked to accompany her.

 

Since the Tern was a British ship, Styles and Hunt would be responsible for actually ejecting Frank from the vessel—by force, if necessary.

 

Mira was in agreement with the overall tasking though, and its timing.

 

Better to remove Frank now, days into what was scheduled to be an eight-to-nine-week voyage to Japan due to the Tern's and the Kittiwake's slow speeds, than to wait. Why give the situation time to fester?

 

Especially since the longer this murder investigation dragged out, the less certain Mira was becoming about Frank and his oblique involvement in it. There were too many damned coincidences. And they were multiplying.

 

That said, everything appeared normal with the Tern's and the Kittiwake's current voyage to deliver a shipment of reprocessed plutonium and uranium in the form of mixed-oxide fuel assemblies bound from Cherbourg to Ishida's nuclear reactor in Japan.

 

According to Captain Styles, ship-to-shore communications were online as well. In fact, one of those calls that Major Hunt had made on the tarmac at Lakenheath had connected with the satellite phone of the senior nuclear constable stationed aboard the vessel actually carrying the MOX assemblies—the Tern.

 

Since the constable was in charge of the two dozen men responsible for the vessel's security, he ought to know if something was amiss with Frank—or anyone else currently aboard the ship.

 

Styles had assured her that the entire class of purpose-built container ships was unmatched in safety too. Not only had the engines, propellors and rudders been doubled up during their construction phases, the Tern's and the Kittiwake's automatic voyage monitoring systems had been transmitting each ship's exact position, speed and heading to the report center in the UK since they'd left Cherbourg. Styles had gone on to extol the fact that the massive casks that had been designed to contain those MOX nuclear assemblies were bolted to the ship's structure.

 

Finally, there was the Royal Navy submarine that would've been tasked with shadowing the sister ships from Cherbourg all the way to Japan.

 

Despite those measures, Mira was on edge—because those two SAS officers taking up two of the three passenger seats across the compact belly of this rumbling Wildcat were on edge. While she hadn't been around many soldiers in the SAS, she had dealt with her fair share of US Navy SEALs and Army Special Forces. These two British special forces soldiers were of the same ilk. And yet, both those SAS jaws were clenched.

 

The cause? Again, she had no clue.

 

Shortly after they'd taken off following their refueling at Lisbon, an intense discussion had sparked between the SAS officers and the Wildcat's pilot and co-pilot over the comm link all four men shared. Following that discussion, those SAS jaws had been locked down. Unfortunately, while she had been handed a pair of rabbit ears at Lakenheath to dull the constant thumping of the helicopter's blades, she was not privy to the military party-line inside this bird.

 

Nor could she whine about the exclusion.

 

This wasn't her Navy.

 

Mira turned to check the window to her left. The sky was just beginning to lighten. She could make out the barest hint of red glistening along the distant, curved rim of the Atlantic Ocean. She stared at the faint glow, allowing the rhythm of those powerful blades above to combine with two solid weeks of inadequate shut-eye to seduce her down to the edge of sleep.

 

She hovered there, debating the wisdom of sinking all the way into the abyss when something—someone—tapped her left knee.

 

Styles.

 

The man leaned back into his seat and pointed toward the cockpit behind her.

Following the captain's silent directive, she twisted around to her right to look through the cutout between the pilot and copilot.

 

There, in the distant dark. The faint glow of running lights.

 

The Tern?

 

Styles nodded as she twisted back. Three raised fingers followed.

 

Definitely the Tern then. And in three minutes, they'd be touching down on one of those massive, cargo-hold hatch covers on her deck.

 

Mira twisted once more, this time catching the hint of a second set of running lights well ahead of the Pacific Tern and offset from the Tern's port side. Since nuclear transport ships traveled in pairs, another set of lights that close would have to belong to the Pacific Kittiwake.

 

Except…there was a third vessel visible now.

 

Since this one didn't have any lights configured, the vessel was more shadow than solid form. The unexpected vessel was also significantly smaller than the Tern and directly abeam of the MOX transport ship's starboard side.

 

Dangerously so.

 

Had there been a collision?

 

Adrenaline folded into dread as the thundering helicopter closed in on the Tern. They were just off her stern now. The white paint of the container ship's superstructure stood out against the dark blue of her lower hull and the inkier hue of the ocean below. But that smaller vessel abeam of the Tern wasn't one vessel, but two.

 

Both smaller ships also appeared to be painted mostly white.

 

No, not ships; those were offshore fishing boats.

 

Neither boat appeared to have suffered a collision with the Tern. In fact, both were definitely, deliberately, steaming alongside her.

 

Pirates?

 

Mira swung back to the center of the helo to find herself the odd one out of yet another terse, four-way tense discussion over the helicopter's comm headsets.

She could feel the Wildcat climbing in altitude as they swooped up over the top of the Tern's superstructure to get an unobstructed view of the transport ship's main weather deck and the offshore fishing boats, as well.

 

Styles shouted and pointed forward.

 

Mira swung around. This part of the world's still slumbering sky filled the cockpit's windows. And in the middle—the telling trail of ragged, fiery smoke.

 

Missile.

 

It was headed straight for them.

 

A split second later, the helicopter banked sharply to the left—and the world exploded.

Chokepoint. 

 

 

Also by Candace Irving. Have you read them all?

Deception Point Military Detective Thrillers:
Aimpoint
Blind Edge
Backblast
Chokepoint

Hidden Valor Military Veterans Suspense:
The Garbage Man
In the Name Of
Beneath the Bones - 2023

Military Romance/RS:
(writing as Candace Irvin)

Mission: Undercover:
An Unconditional Surrender
For His Eyes Only
In Close Quarters
Just Beyond Reach

Sisters in Arms:
Crossing the Line
A Dangerous Engagement
Irresistible Forces
Sisters in Arms Box Set

The Impossible Alliance
Triple Dare

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