Backblast

by Candace Irving

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

  But she had. And the life-weary detective pulling a set of protective booties from the pocket of his own JC Penney's special had known it too. Mira had 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 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 that it mattered. Nor had her own subsequent exoneration. She'd still gotten the 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.

  Like Jerry, she'd finally bailed. He'd landed at the MPD's detectives' desk. Three years before his rude awakening, she'd turned her back on the Fleet and applied to 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 for thinking she could abuse that pain now to snag a case…no matter how desperately she needed 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, and 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 DC. At the very least, she'd have made the time to check in on him when she'd been back this way for a few months to work a joint investigation nearly a year and a half ago.

  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 alone in the captain'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 five 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 experienced detective. Closer to 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 some of it's marked NOFORN. If there's higher 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. But unlike Jerry, she still answered to the brass at NCIS. She had no choice but to grab an oar along with her fellow mystery agent and start paddling.

  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 back out into the dark. Another uniformed cop stood guard at the third floor, just outside the JAG's 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 up the hall in question.

  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 buck-naked, swarthy hand reaching for a sheet of paper on the desk and stiffened. "What the hell are you doing?"

  The owner of the hand froze as he retrieved the sheet. Turned. A split second into her first glimpse of the equally dark, distinctive features above that neatly cropped, mosque-ready mustache and beard—and the man's surname and coloring made sense: Saudi.

  Disdain tossed another log onto the fire of her fury.

  The source appeared impervious to both as he reached into his suit jacket with his free hand so he could flash his badge. "Special Agent Sam Riyad, NCIS. I'm assisting—"

  "Wrong. What you're doing is blowing this for us."

  "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 isn't part of the crime scene—"

  "Yes, it is." The whole damned condo was. Meaning every single item within every single room was evidence, until Jerry deemed otherwise.

  As for the sheet of paper that had made it into Riyad's naked hand, one look at the fingers holding it, and the compromising prints they were 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 suit pocket and tossed them to her de facto partner. "Hurry."

  She'd deal with the fallout of extraneous prints 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, and 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 door. "Yup."

  Jerry nodded. "Let's get in there then. The ME's ready to do his thing. By the way, this one prefers to work in silence, even at crime scenes. Talking's okay—just not to him. At least, not until he's finished."

  Curiosity piqued, Mira abandoned Riyad to the study and followed Jerry down the hall. They passed a meticulously pristine galley kitchen and followed the increasingly nauseating 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 public bathroom Mira had woken in almost two weeks earlier, skull throbbing, ears ringing and her entire body covered in blood—and worse. The fallout had been everywhere.

  Then…and now.

  Mira swallowed the bile that threatened as the rooms and victims merged. One male, one female. One Marine, one Navy. Both so senselessly dead. Her increasingly tenuous hold on the present must've shown, because Jerry's hand found her shoulder once more. A solid squeeze infused with a bald, but reassuring been there, survived that, and you will too followed.

  She dragged in an icy, death-laden breath as she cupped her hand over Jerry's to better cling to his support. To her surprise and relief, his simple touch worked a heck of a lot better than some shrink's endless questions and rambling, esoteric platitudes.

  For the first time in two weeks, she managed to shake loose the past. Jerry's hand fell away with it.

  The present remained.

  This room, this blood.

  It was 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 dark arterial spurts. Damned near a hundred tented, yellow crime scene numbers were scattered about the room, some nestled in amid the blood, others marking remaining evidence of interest. But those weren't what drew her attention.

  It was the body.

  The victim was naked and tied spread-eagle atop a rumpled, once-white 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. Their victim had been violated in at least two orifices. In the mouth—and lower. A filthy gag spilled from 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.

  The sheer amount of blood confirmed that the JAG had been alive for damned near all of it.

  She 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'd lay odds, the bastard also had a serious issue with women in general or this woman in particular, too.

  Given that the woman was a lawyer, her instincts were leaning toward the latter.

  Jerry nodded.

  "But judging from the contusions—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 smudged paper lay folded up beside it. But as she stepped forward to get a better look at the square of paper, the photo shanghaied her attention. The paper's mysteries on hold, she took another step. Like the rest of the room, the glass covering the photo was splattered with blood. She could make out the outline of a man and woman beneath, striking the standard hand-in-crooked-arm pose snapped at the beginning of countless formal military functions. Both the man and the woman posing within wore Navy Dress Blues.

  But something about the dimpled, sweetheart curve to the woman's jaw 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.

  Shit.

  "What's wrong?"

  Mira held up the photo, drawing Jerry's attention to the impressive diamond 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. "Captain Corrigan?"

  Mira nodded.

  "That a problem?"

  And then some. "You remember the kid that damned near killed your first career?"

  "Yeah?"

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

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  Book 1 in the Hidden Valor

  Military Veterans Suspense Series

  Chapter 1

  Soft. Cold. Wet.

  Wrong.

  Kate jerked away from the insistent jabbing at her neck and jackknifed to her feet, instinctively reaching for the 9mm strapped to her thigh twenty-four/seven as she clawed through the sleep still clogging her brain.

  The SIG Sauer was missing.

  Along with its holster.

  Confusion seared in, her pounding pulse skyrocketing as she spun around to search the tan, battle-worn canvas of her Army cot. Bright blue sheets greeted her instead.

  How—? Why—?

  Where?

  Kate shook her head, fighting the fog. The growing panic. A muted whine filtered through her scrambled thoughts. Reality joined in.

  Ruger.

  The German Shepherd was on the far side of the bed—her bed. Her house. Seven thousand miles from that sweltering hell.

  Evidently not far enough.

  She pulled the crisp, early-morning Arkansas air deep into her lungs. It didn't help. Her heart continued to slam against her ribs. Worse, the gray Braxton Police tee she'd donned the night before was plastered to her torso, saturated with that distinctive blend of salt and fear.

  Night terror. She hadn't had one in weeks. Before that, almost a year.

  So much for progress.

  Kate sank onto the clammy sheets, automatically reaching for the dive watch strapped to her wrist. Max's watch. It was like having a piece of him, still with her. Sometimes—if she was lucky—it was enough. She turned the oversized band around and around, drawing strength from the familiar friction as she attempted to drag the ghostly impressions into the cold light of day. It was no use; they'd evaporated. She had no idea which of her many demons had taken fresh delight in plaguing her nights. But for once, she knew why they'd appeared.

  Grant. The man just couldn't leave well enough alone, could he?

  As much she was loath to admit it, it was probably time to end things. She'd miss Grant's company, yes. The occasional, no-strings-attached sex they shared filled a void too. But no one—o
ld friend and fellow combat vet or not—was worth the suffocating sludge that had been churned up from her gut.

  Even now, less than five minutes into her spanking new, God-Bless-America day, it threatened to swamp her.

  As if he sensed her thoughts, Ruger padded around the bed, his questioning whimper filling the room—her—as he tucked his muzzle into her lap. Kate released the watch and wrapped her arms around the dog, burying her face in Ruger's fur as she pulled him closer. There she remained, clinging to the German Shepherd's solid, familiar warmth until, finally, the band on her chest began to loosen...and the sludge began to ebb.

  She stared into those soulful brown eyes as she straightened. "No, buddy; I'm not leaving you."

  How could she?

  Canine or not, Ruger was the only one who understood. He was there for her—had been there for her—for three years now. Strong. Steady. Best of all, silent. He didn't ask questions, much less demand answers. He simply loved. In a strange way, saving Ruger's life had given her own meaning. Purpose. There were days—weeks, even—when focusing on his needs was the only thing that got her through.

  Ruger whined on cue.

  She ruffled his ears. "I know—time to go outside."

  His tail thumped against her old oak dresser as he backed away from the bed to give her room to stand.

  "Just let me turn on the shower, okay?"

  The thumping increased as Kate followed Ruger out of the room where she'd spent her high school years. She passed the sealed door to her father's room, still unable to use his bath, let alone commandeer the master bed. Perhaps if she'd come home sooner—if she'd had a chance to say goodbye—it would've been easier to fill his proverbial shoes, in and out of the police station. Or not.

  Kate paused in the hall bathroom to turn on the shower, then headed for the kitchen to unlatch the dog door. She still couldn't sleep without securing it at night. Fortunately, Ruger didn't seem to mind. She waited for him to push through the flap, then headed for the shower, taking care to avoid that damning reflection in the bathroom mirror.