Backblast

by Candace Irving

  His fingers came up, hooking beneath her chin once more, lifting it. "I told you I spoke to Tulle. You did not cause this. In fact, you saved my life. Twice."

  "So he said." And, yes, she would be grateful to her rattling arm for the rest of her life. But if that rattle planned on coming and going when she was exhausted and/or under stress, she'd have to learn how to work around it. Immediately.

  Because the next time, things might not turn out so well.

  And that, she would not allow. "I need to qualify with my left hand—just in case."

  He nodded. "The range it is. Though that's gotta be the strangest place to spend a honeymoon."

  True. But they wouldn't be spending their nights there.

  That thought had slipped through his mind too, as evidenced by his returning twinkle. He opened his mouth to say something when her phone rang.

  John reached out and snagged the phone instead, passing it to her.

  She didn't recognize the number. "Agent Chase."

  "Hey, Prez."

  Jelly? She knew all his numbers, including his wife's. Had he gotten a new phone? "Thanks for getting back to me, but I don't think—"

  "You've got reason to be concerned."

  "What?" About the spook? "Just a second." She glanced up at John. "You remember Agent Jelling from Hohenfels?"

  John nodded.

  "I texted him when you went to take a shower at the Serena. Asked him to poke around, see what Riyad was doing when we were in that parking lot." She shifted the phone back to her ear. "Jelly, I'm with Major Garrison. Can I put you on speaker?"

  "Might as well. This concerns you both."

  She clicked the phone over. "We're here."

  "So, as I was saying. I think you both have reason to be concerned about Riyad. As requested, I did some digging as to the man's whereabouts on a certain date."

  "Are you saying he was there?" In that parking lot, listening to them?

  "No idea. All I know is Riyad was not stateside, because I tracked him leaving on an off-the-books flight out of Langley the day before. And, get this: my poking raised a serious flag. As in, admiral level. I got a call a few minutes ago. The Big Bubble himself."

  "Kettering called you? Why?"

  "To tell me to stop poking around and to keep my fucking mouth shut about anything I might have come across during my initial search…up to and including chatting about the matter with General Palisade. Anyway, that's all I got. And all I'm likely to get. Sorry, but I got my wife and kid to consider."

  "I know. For what it's worth, I'm sorry I asked."

  "Don't be. You didn't know. But don't memorize this number, Prez. I'll be ditching this phone just as soon as I hang up. Bye."

  She stared at her own phone as Jelly severed the call that had been made from what she now realized was a burner, then looked up at John.

  Holy shit.

  Webber.

  The name ripped through her gut. Somehow, whatever Jelly had just accidentally stepped into on her behalf was connected to the former, dirty SEAL.

  And Sam Riyad.

  But there was more. There had to be. Why else was Admiral Kettering shutting everyone else out—including General Palisade?

  "John, what the hell is going on?"

  Both his arms came up, locking firmly around her, as if to protect her. Something that, given who appeared to be involved in all this, might not be possible. "I have no idea. But we will be finding out."

  Damned straight they would.

  The only question was, who would be left standing once they did?

  Are you ready for the next

  Deception Point Military Thriller?

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  Book 4 in the Deception Point Military Thriller Series

  Sneak Peak - CHOKE POINT

  Book 4 in the Deception Point Military Thriller Series

  Prologue

  He should've killed himself when he 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 goddamn 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 the 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 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 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 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 blood and sweat.

  "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 words he'd been holding back left the fog of his splintered brain and invaded his tongue. He was pleading with them now. Shamelessly.

  Another jolt, and the truth 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 words. "كيلل هيم."

  Kill him.

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

  Chapter 1

  Her reprieve came early. Two days, six hours and fourteen 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 cellphone out of the bedroom of her Washington, DC, sublet. The phone rang 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 split second, guilt battled with her own 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, it's almost midnight there. Odd time to work out…especially since you're supposed to be on vacation."

  Vacation her ass. Try fourteen days of forced leave. And the man who'd ordered 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 shortly thereafter that was slowly driving her insane—despite the mandatory shrink sessions this man had also ordered her to attend.

  Mira stared at the bottle of scotch that'd taken up residence on the closest end table following her first session. At least the glass beside it 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—it came from Bill, the closest thing to a father she'd ever truly known.

  Somehow, that made it worse.

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

  At least on the outside.

  Mira concentrated on the disembodied voice of a stewardess running through preflight checks as it spilled out of the phone and into her right ear. It beat listening to the piercing wail that'd been haunting her days and nights for almost two weeks.

  "Hon—"

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

  The silence returned—even with the droning stewardess—and this time it was terse. Bill had left. Special Agent in Charge 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. Captain Teresa Corrigan. She was a Navy JAG. Worked out of the Pentagon, 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'd been investigating the scourge of the Fleet for six years now, but that didn't mean she'd met every lawyer in the Judge Advocate General's office, especially those working espionage. Even before Ramsey had taken over the DC field office, she'd tended to work violent crimes and for good reason. She appeared to have a knack for solving them.

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

  "Not much. It's not even our case. Yet. The captain's body was found earlier this evening—in her bed. Her townhouse is a couple 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 Washington Navy Yard, the closest naval facility. Not only did jurisdiction for the captain'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.

  The disembodied voice of the stewardess 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 use 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 grabbed a suit from her closet. The plane's engines cut in as she tossed the dark-blue jacket and slacks on her bed. "Who caught the case?"

  "Detective Dahl."

  "Jerry Dahl?"

  "The one and only."

  Mira grinned. She knew exactly why Ramsey had called her. It had nothing to do with a preemptive whine-fest from some agency shrink and those four remaining psych sessions. But it did have to do with her. She and Jerry had history. The kind that made a cop grateful. Indebted even.

  "I'm on it."

  Mira filed the JAG's address into her brain, hanging up as she headed into the bathroom to turn on the shower. By the time Ramsey's plane touched down in DC, the JAG's case would be hers—and she did not plan on letting go. Because if she worked the resulting investigation hard enough, she just might not have time for those final shrink sessions…mandatory or not.

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

  Mira eased her black Chevy Blazer in behind the dozen 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 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 in the nearest Explorer, 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, smoothing the protective booties, latex gloves and a few other crucial items into her trouser pockets as she bailed out of the Blazer and into the freezing night.

  At least the snow and ice from the freak Christmas storms that had hit the entire eastern half of the country had finally melted.

  She suppressed a shiver as 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 rough-and-ready Irish form bounded through the townhouse's gaping door and down its half-dozen 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 inside, 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 stress had begun to carve in during the fiasco that had heralded the twilight of Jerry's own career with NCIS. "I see that mouth and
those manners haven't improved."

  "Nope."

  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 arm about her shoulders and gave her another squeeze as they headed up the stone steps. "I'd heard you were back in town. Meant to holler sooner but the murder biz kicked into hyperdrive this fall. Winter hasn't been any slower, especially with that weird rash of snow and ice. Then the news broke on New Year's Day about that goddamned Marine." Jerry shifted his hand to the back of her neck and gently nudged her into the townhouse's narrow, empty foyer, his voice scraping low as they halted. "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 a couple weeks off."

  Whether she'd wanted to, or not.

  "That's what I figured." He gave her arm a final squeeze, then dropped his hand. "How you holding up?"

  "You know me."

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

  "Yup."

  "Don't fight it."

  She blinked.

  "Yeah, I know. Blame it on Shelli. I never told you, but things weren't all that great between us before that little shit accused me of tugging on his pecker. And after they found the photos he planted on my hard drive? Let's just say they got worse."

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

  "She did. Shell and I had other issues, ones there weren't easy solutions to. That lying shit's antics just made it all worse. And I don't have to tell you that exoneration counts for piss in this field. Suspicion lingers—even after your electronic sleuthing blew Internal Affairs out of the water. Hell, it got so bad that I seriously considered bailing on nineteen years and heading off to parts unknown."