Page 108 of It's Always Been You

“I’m saying you shouldn’t have been so impulsive in destroying your laptop.”

“Oh, now, because it’s more money than you can ever imagine you’re taking the side of the people who want to use me?”

“Stop twisting my words,” Travis rose from his chair and towered over her. “We’re not sure oftheirmotives. They may be trying to prevent the plutonium from falling into the wrong hands.”

She glared up at him, not backing down. “Or this could be a shady side of the agency. I’m not naive Travis. The CIA likes to manipulate the power landscape of organized crime and political conflicts to further their objectives.”

“You shouldn’t let what happened to your team cloud your judgment.”

“Excuse me, it didn’t happen to you!” Caitlin yelled into his face. “Sometimes I’m thankful I don’t remember. Because it would kill me to know that some of my friends died and I lived.”

“Don’t you dare say it happened only to you, Caitlin.” Travis gritted his teeth. “I thought you died, remember? Can you imagine how I felt when I came back from a fucking mission, having already lost one of my men, only to be informed that my wife was dead?” His eyes turned bleak. “It fucking broke me, Cat. My life shattered that day. I don’t think I’ve pieced myself back together yet. So don’t fucking tell me it didn’t happen to me, because I lived that nightmare.”

The indignant righteousness that was fueling her resistance slowly dissipated and was replaced by the urge to wrap her arms around him. She took a deep breath, reached out, and linked her fingers with his, giving him a tug to draw him closer.

His eyes flared with an unnamed emotion. His arms came around her as he buried his face in the curve of her neck, burrowing his nose as though he was inhaling her, absorbing all that was her.

Moments passed as they just stood there, until Nate cleared his throat, reminding them that they were not alone.

“So what’s the plan?” His friend asked.

Travis leanedon the doorframe to his bedroom, sipping his Scotch as he stared at his wife, fast asleep on his bed. The night had been draining. He’d been tempted to turn Caitlin over his knee and blister the daylights out of her for even thinking of holding that letter knife to her throat. Even if she were bluffing, it was no small matter. And she pulled it on him—her husband, damn it.

He’d also seen the distrust in her eyes. That hurt him the most, but he understood her. The impact of seeing all that information probably transported her back to her days on the run. She had not met with Dr. Lester in a while. When all this shit was over, she probably needed to see her again.

The laptop was a complete loss. Apparently, when Caitlin flung it on the floor, she stomped on it as well. They could probably reload the files from the backup drive, but some software was proprietary to the CIA and compatibility might be an issue. However, he wouldn’t be surprised if the contents hadn’t been ghosted over spyware.

He took another sip of his drink. The confrontation also dredged up an unwitting flashback of the day he was told of her death three years before. Just when he thought he’d pieced himself back together, those memories chipped away at him all over again.

Travis made his way back to the kitchen bar to pour himself another finger of Scotch. Nate had left and returned with a change of clothes. He was staying the night. Sam had retired to bed after making sure all the CCTV cameras and alarms passed testing. There was a possibility with the loss of the laptop that whoever was after Caitlin would come for her.

Damn it, there was another reason Travis wished she hadn’t destroyed the laptop. Ever since they returned from Iron Ridge, Travis had a distinct feeling in his gut that something really bad was about to happen. He didn’t share this with anyone, because he didn’t want to raise any undue concern. If it wasn’t the files, then what was it?

He heard his phone vibrate loudly on the granite countertop. He picked it up to check caller ID.

Porter.

“Admiral.”

“Blake. We need to talk.”

It waslate evening of the following day when Travis finally made it to his meeting with Ben Porter. Caitlin had argued with him all day, adamant that she wasn’t going to work further on the files. Her exact words were, “Porter can go fuck himself.”

Travis had reasoned with her to have him at least hear Porter out. Nate, thankfully, was behind him on this, which frustrated Caitlin more. Sam, the only other person who was privy to the information, was quiet, but Travis knew he was siding with Caitlin. His new recruit had not served in the military. Keeping the peace was not a simple choice. It was not black and white, good or bad. In most cases, it was about choosing the lesser evil.

He wasn’t going blindly into this. Seven tons of weaponized plutonium was a disaster waiting to happen. At the hands of terrorists, it could mean thousands of lives lost, but Porter had to convince him that there was no other hidden agenda.

He parked his Escalade, exited the SUV, and mounted the steps to Porter’s colonial brick home. A man dressed in cargos and a black tee with a comm device and wireattached to his ear opened the door before Travis even hit the bell.

“The Admiral is waiting for you in his study,” the man said. “It’s—”

“I know where it is,” Travis replied. He had been to Porter’s home countless times for dinner and late-night drinks, and it always had a comfortable feel. Not so tonight. The air was charged with tension.

Travis walked the narrow hallway lined with landscape paintings and colonial furniture. A musty smell invaded his nostrils. He wasn’t a big fan of antique furnishings, but he was used to them because many of his business associates were collectors. At this moment, the smell was oddly suffocating.

The light filtering through in the slightly open door to Porter’s study illuminated a triangular section in the otherwise darkened corridors. He spied the admiral puffing his pipe, his leather swivel chair turned toward the window. He was deep in thought.

Travis rapped on the door to announce his arrival before stepping in. The admiral’s chair squeaked as he turned. He snuffed his pipe and motioned Travis in. “Blake.”

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