Chapter 11 #2
"Sir, with all due respect, 'MarinesRBest' is not a secure password. It's the digital equivalent of leaving your front door open with a welcome mat." She types something on her laptop. "I've just run your password against a standard dictionary attack algorithm. It cracked in seconds. Seconds."
The Colonel's face reddens. "That's—"
"A serious security vulnerability, yes." Nox's tone doesn't soften. "I've already flagged it in my preliminary report. You'll want to change it to something that doesn't include your birth year, your branch of service, or any dictionary words. Preferably before I finish this sentence."
Rivera clears her throat. "Ms. Bradshaw—"
"It's Nox. And before you tell me to be more diplomatic, consider that someone hacked your entire inventory system while everyone was using passwords like 'Password123' and thinking they were secure.
" She closes her laptop. "I'm not here to make friends.
I'm here to find your hacker before they do more damage. "
The room goes silent. I pull out my phone under the table.
Your friend has zero chill.
Thatcher's response comes seconds later: a laughing emoji and
Told you.
After the briefing wraps, Thatcher walks me to the secure NCIS wing where Nox will be working. He stops at the entrance, checks the badge reader and security checkpoint with the same thorough assessment he gives everything.
"You'll stay in this building?" he asks.
"Just checking on Nox, then I'll be in the conference room reviewing case files with Rivera's team."
His jaw works for a moment. "Briggs is still out there."
"And this is a secure facility with armed NCIS agents on every floor." I touch his arm. "I'll be fine for a few hours."
"Keep your phone on you. Text me when you move between locations."
"Yes, sir." I say it with enough bite that his mouth curves slightly.
"Smart ass." He kisses me quick, mindful of the cameras. "I need to brief my team on the Garrison operation. I'll find you when we're done."
By midmorning, Nox's set up in a borrowed office down the hall, three monitors running simultaneously while she digs into the base network. I stop by to check on her progress and find the door propped open.
"Knock knock," I say from the doorway.
"Come in if you must." Nox doesn't look up from her screens. "Though if you're here to ask if I've found anything yet, the answer is no."
"Actually, I was going to ask if you needed coffee."
That gets her attention. "Coffee would be lovely. Black, no sugar."
I grab two cups from the break room and return to find her scowling at code on the center monitor.
"Problems?" I ask, setting her mug down.
"Not problems. Admiration." She leans back, takes a sip. "Whoever built this hacking infrastructure is brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Which is infuriating because I'd like to strangle them but also means tracking them down will be satisfying."
"How bad is it?"
"They compromised everything. Inventory systems, security logs, even camera feeds were being monitored." She pulls up another screen. "Multiple access points, sophisticated operation. This wasn't some amateur with a laptop. This was planned, executed, and maintained over months."
My stomach drops. "They were watching us."
"They were watching everyone." Nox's expression sharpens. "Which means they knew exactly when to move, who to avoid, how to cover their tracks."
The door opens behind me. I turn, expecting Thatcher or Rivera, and instead find a man in fatigues with EOD insignia on his sleeve. He's tall, built solid, with dark eyes that take in the room with the same assessing intensity Thatcher uses.
"Bradshaw?" he says. "I'm here to check your equipment. Make sure nothing's been tampered with."
Nox's entire demeanor shifts. "I'm perfectly capable of checking my own equipment, thank you."
"Standard protocol for anyone accessing classified systems." His tone stays professional but there's an edge underneath. "Won't take long."
"I'm sure it won't, because I've already verified everything." She turns back to her monitors. "You're wasting both our time."
"Protocol isn't negotiable."
"Neither is my patience, and you're testing it."
He moves into the office without waiting for permission, starts examining the equipment setup with methodical precision. Nox watches him like a hawk, fingers drumming against her desk.
"Those are expensive monitors," she says when he leans in to check the connections. "If you break one, you're buying the replacement."
"I know how to handle equipment."
"Do you? Because you're hovering over military-grade hardware like it might explode."
"It might. That's why I'm checking it." He straightens, meets her glare with calm professionalism. "Someone with your level of access is a prime target for tampering. I'm making sure no one's compromised your setup."
"How thoughtful. Tell me, do you subject every civilian contractor to this level of scrutiny, or am I special?"
"Everyone gets the same treatment."
"Somehow I doubt that." She waves a hand dismissively. "Fine. Check whatever you need to check, then leave me to do actual work."
They face off, the air practically crackling between them. He's methodical, thorough, completely unfazed by her attitude. She's bristling, protective of her workspace, but there's something else underneath the irritation—interest, maybe, or at least grudging respect for someone who won't back down.
"Griff," the man says, not extending a hand. "EOD."
"Charmed." Nox's tone suggests she's anything but. "Lennox Bradshaw. Cyber security. Though I suspect you already knew that."
"I read the briefing."
"How comprehensive of you."
He finishes his inspection, makes notes on a tablet. "Everything checks out. You're clear to proceed."
"Oh, what a relief. I was so worried without your approval." The sarcasm drips. "Now if you're quite finished interrupting—"
"Just doing my job."
"As am I. The difference is mine requires concentration and yours apparently requires bothering people who are trying to work."
Griff's expression doesn't change, but I catch the faintest hint of amusement in his eyes. "Good luck with the investigation, Ms. Bradshaw."
"It's Nox. Luck has nothing to do with it."
"Noted."
He leaves. Nox stares at the closed door for a long moment, then turns back to her screens with more force than necessary.
"Insufferable," she mutters.
I bite back a smile. "He seemed professional."
"Professional. Right." She pulls up another window of code. "Professional and patronizing and entirely too calm for someone who just barged into my office uninvited."
"He was checking for security threats."
"I know what he was doing." Nox's fingers fly across the keyboard. "Doesn't mean I have to like it."
I slip out while she's still muttering about EOD protocols and overbearing military men, pull out my phone in the hallway.
Spotted your next team dinner entertainment. EOD guy and Nox are about to kill each other or something else entirely.
Thatcher's response:
Griff? Good luck to both of them.
I'm heading back to the conference room when Rivera intercepts me.
"Dr. Abernathy. We got a location on Garrison. Off-base rental property, twenty minutes out. NCIS is coordinating with Captain Caine's team for arrest." She pauses. "Briggs is still at large. Last confirmed sighting was on base yesterday."
My pulse kicks up. "So Garrison ran but Briggs stayed."
"That's our assessment. Which means he's either waiting for orders or planning something on his own." Rivera's expression hardens. "We're increasing security around the hospital. Captain Caine wants you to stay here at NCIS during the operation."
"Of course he does."
I find Thatcher in the tactical operations room, maps spread across the table, his team gathered around. Sullivan, Garcia, Hayes and Santos all look up when I walk in.
"Gentlemen," I say. "Can I borrow the captain?"
They exchange looks. Sullivan grins. "He's all yours, Doc."
Thatcher follows me into the hallway, already reading my expression. "Rivera told you."
"She did. And apparently you've decided I'm sitting this one out."
"It's a tactical operation. You're a civilian."
"It's my investigation." I cross my arms. "I found the evidence, documented everything, nearly got killed for it. I'm not sitting in some safe room while you finish this."
"Gwen—"
"Don't you dare tell me to stay behind because you're worried."
"I'm always worried about you." His voice drops. "That's the problem."
The words hit harder than they should. We're standing in a hallway on a military base, where people could walk by any second, and all I want is to close the distance between us.
"I know the risks," I say quietly. "I'm not asking to be on the entry team. But I need to be there. I need to see this through."
"You've already seen it through. You did your part." He steps closer, voice lowering further. "This is the dangerous part. The part where trained operators with body armor and weapons go after armed suspects. You're a surgeon, not a tactical asset."
"I'm also the person who knows this case better than anyone except you and Rivera." I hold his gaze. "I can help. I can monitor communications, provide intel on Garrison's patterns, identify—"
"You can do all of that from here."
"But I won't be there when it matters."
"Exactly. You'll be safe."
"I don't want safe." The words come out sharper than intended. "I want to finish what I started."
Muscle jumps in his cheek. "You're asking me to let you walk into a situation where Briggs is still at large, Garrison's location might be compromised, and we have no idea what kind of resistance we're facing. You're asking me to do my job while you're potentially in harm's way."
"I'm asking you to trust me to follow orders and stay out of the line of fire."
"I do trust you. I don't trust the situation." His thumb brushes my cheekbone. "If anything happened to you—"
"Nothing will happen. I'll be in the tactical vehicle. Communications only. Not even close to the action."
"Tactical vehicles can become targets."
"So can hospital parking lots, apparently." I lean into his touch. "I'm going to be at risk until Garrison and Briggs are in custody. At least in the tactical vehicle, I'm surrounded by trained agents with armor and weapons... and I'll be closer to you and your team."
He studies me for a long moment. I watch the conflict play out across his face, the commander who makes hard calls warring with the man who wants to protect me at all costs.
"Tactical vehicle," he says finally. "Comms only. You stay in the vehicle, you follow orders, and if anything goes sideways you get the hell out."
"Deal."
"You'll have an agent assigned to you. If anything happens, his job is to get you to safety. Your job is to do what he says." He meets my eyes. "I can't do my job if I'm worried about you being in the line of fire."
"I'll stay in the vehicle." The distance between us shrinks. "But I'm going."
His hand cups my face. "You're stubborn as hell."
"You knew that going in."
"I did." He kisses me, quick and hard. "Briefing's in ten. Gear up after."
The briefing is efficient. Rivera outlines the operation: NCIS and Thatcher's MARSOC team hitting Garrison's location simultaneously, coordinated entry, secondary teams securing the perimeter. Briggs is still unaccounted for, so base security is running extra patrols around critical infrastructure.
Thatcher shifts into mission mode, all business and tactical precision. This is what he does, who he is. And knowing he's about to walk into a situation that could go bad makes my throat constrict.
Afterward, while his team gears up, he pulls me aside into an empty office.
"Hey," he says quietly.
"Hey yourself."
"I need you to promise me something."
"Depends what it is."
"If anything goes wrong, if Briggs shows up or the situation deteriorates, you leave. You don't wait for me, you don't try to help, you do what the agent tells you and go."
"Thatcher—"
"Promise me." His hands frame my face, forehead pressing against mine. "I can handle a lot of things. I can't handle losing you."
This thing between us is still new, still being figured out, but it's real. Real enough that the thought of him walking into danger makes my throat tight.
"Come back to me," I say instead.
"Always."
He kisses me like he's memorizing the taste, the feel, everything about this moment. When we break apart, his eyes are dark and determined.
"Time to move," he says.
I follow him to the staging area where his team waits. Sullivan hands me a comm unit, shows me how to work it with patient precision that suggests he's done this before for civilians.
"One channel for command. Another for team comms. You stay on command unless Captain tells you otherwise." He adjusts the earpiece. "Someone talks to you, you respond. Someone gives you an order, you follow it. No heroics."
"Got it."
Santos gives me a tactical vest that's way too big but will stop a bullet. He helps me adjust the straps, makes sure it sits properly despite the size difference.
"Stays on the whole time," he says quietly. "Even in the vehicle. Even if it's uncomfortable."
"Understood."
Garcia just nods, professional and focused, but there's something almost protective in the way he double-checks my vest before moving on to his own gear.
Thatcher checks my vest himself, makes sure it's secure, then meets my eyes. "Stay in the vehicle. Follow orders. Don't be a hero."
"Same to you."
His mouth curves slightly. "I'm always a hero, Doc. It's in the job description."
"Ego and everything."
"You love it."
I do. God help me, I really do.
We load into separate vehicles. I'm in the tactical van with NCIS agents and a communications specialist. Thatcher's team takes the lead truck. Rivera's team follows in unmarked SUVs.
The drive takes us through residential areas that get progressively more run-down. Garrison picked her hiding spot well—off base, low profile, easy to disappear from.
We park blocks away. Thatcher's team moves on foot, shadows in tactical gear. I watch through the van's monitors as they approach the target building, weapons ready, moving with the kind of synchronized precision that comes from years of training together.
Rivera's voice crackles through the comm. "All teams in position. On my mark."
I hold my breath.
"Execute."
They move. Through the monitor, I watch Thatcher disappear into shadow, and my heart hammers against my ribs.