Backblast

by Candace Irving

  And why her? Because he knew it would affect her more than most.

  And it was.

  She might be kneeling back on the heels of her boots, using the leg of the interrogation table for balance against the rolling ship as she stared into that smooth, pretty-boy face, somehow even smoother and prettier in death, but she was focused on another face, one that had also been covered in blood. A downright beautiful face with dark, glassy and sightless eyes that had looked so very much like Durrani's did now the last time she'd seen them. As she'd cried and begged their owner to stay with her.

  Don't leave her alone.

  "Agent Chase?"

  The image evaporated.

  Regan blinked up at the master-at-arm chief standing beside her. When had Yrle entered the cell? And was it her imagination, or had helo ops been called yet again?

  Surely they weren't preparing to transport the body already?

  She left those mysteries alone and settled for a simpler, more manageable query. "Yes?"

  The woman extended a hand.

  "Thank you." But she could stand on her own. To prove it, she tightened her grip on the edge of the table and used it for leverage as she stood. "I'm fine."

  "No, ma'am, you're not. You're in shock. And you're covered in the deceased's blood."

  She stared at her hands, her camouflaged sleeves and trousers. The chief was correct. She and her ACUs were saturated with blood. Evidence.

  Shit.

  She drew on more raw experience than any death investigator should ever want as she pulled herself together long enough to manage a nod. "Chief, please accompany me to my stateroom." She turned to the spook, grateful the ship's rolls had lessened in strength while she'd been dazed. Someone up on the bridge must've ordered another course change, possibly for that chopper. If they hadn't, shaky as her legs were, she'd have fallen flat on her face. "Agent Riyad, take charge of the scene. Have the duty master-at-arms meet the chief and me at my stateroom with a crime scene kit. The chief will photograph me and take my uniform into evidence. You do the same with Corporal Vetter."

  As much as it burned to release the scene to the spook, she had no choice.

  Despite her questions and suspicions about Riyad's loyalties, it wasn't as though she could work the coming investigation. Especially, as the chief had so forthrightly pointed out, with the deceased's blood still covering her. And there was the crucial matter of her part in that blood's current location.

  To her surprise, Riyad nodded, but remained silent.

  Then again, if the man was dirty, he was unquestionably looking forward to operating without her peering over his shoulder—as he'd done with that microTLC.

  Fortunately, she had a plan for that too. "Chief?"

  "Yes, ma'am?"

  "Let's go."

  Riyad and the ship's doctor stepped aside so she could pass.

  She paused briefly beside the Marine to offer a quiet, "Thank you," for the corporal's assistance and support with Durrani…and Riyad's inexplicable, accusatory rage.

  The corporal nodded, and she left.

  It was a good thing the chief was accompanying her, because her brain was so rattled she wasn't sure she'd have made it through the maze of dimly lit passageways and ladders to reach her stateroom, now gently rolling ship or not. The red lighting was a boon though, since it effectively obscured the blood on her uniform and body.

  But it was still there. She could feel it.

  Pretty soon, she'd be forced to see it.

  Watch it turn pink and circle down the drain, as it had when she'd taken that other, fateful shower when she was six.

  If the bridge had ordered up a new course because of their latest helo ops, she prayed the Griffith stayed on it. Her gut was clenched tightly enough as it was. She was freezing now, too. And her hand was trembling. Badly.

  Whether she wanted to admit it or not, Yrle was right.

  She was in shock.

  Fortunately, the duty master-at-arms had beaten them to her quarters.

  Both the pretty Latina petty officer and the chief waited patiently as she fumbled past her sidearm and into her upper right ACU trouser pocket to locate the key to the stateroom's door. She could feel both women trying not to stare as she made her first, then second unsuccessful stab at the lock. Her third attempt failed as well, and so spectacularly that she was forced to bring in her left hand for backup and support.

  The key seated on the fourth try…eventually.

  Humiliation singed her cheeks as she led the way into the stateroom. Unable to handle the stark condemnation that the glare of bright, white light would bring, she bypassed the overheard switch near the door. The desk flap was still down from her interview with Staff Sergeant Brandt, the bulk of her clothing and gear packed in the tan duffel she'd dumped on the lower of the bunkbeds upon her arrival that morning.

  She reached into the void exposed by the desk flap and switched on the significantly softer, dimmer glow within.

  It was still too much.

  She could clearly see the blood staining her entire left hand as she tossed her keys onto the bottom mattress beside her duffel, then reached for her SIG Sauer.

  Her pride took another knock as she attempted to slide the 9mm from its holster—and failed. She pulled her air and her determination in deep and tried again.

  Relief seared in with her admittedly wobbly success.

  The 9mm followed the keys to the mattress. By the time she'd managed to remove her holster and retrieve her CID credentials, and set those on the bed as well, the duty petty officer was heading out of the stateroom, the door closing behind her.

  Chief Yrle moved up to the desk flap and readied her gloves and gear. She snapped several photos of Regan while she stood quietly beside the desk, fighting the urge to reach out and use the flap for support.

  Photographic documentation complete, the chief tucked her phone in her pocket. "Would you like me to remove your boots?"

  As awkward and embarrassing as that was bound to be, "Please."

  She'd clearly taxed her hand and shredded nerves enough, because the former was now shaking so hard, the tremors had spread into her upper arm.

  Regan sank into the chair she'd used to interview Brandt and Vetter and closed her eyes against the shame of it all as Yrle knelt to deal with the laces of her boots before removing both with a steady swiftness she envied. "Thank you, Chief."

  The woman stood. Nodded.

  Regan came to her feet and allowed Yrle to assist her in peeling away her ACU top and trousers, as well as the bloodstained tee shirt and bra beneath. She was left standing in her socks and underwear and trying to shield her scarlet-smeared breasts as the chief finished placing her clothing in separate evidence bags, then sealed them.

  "Ma'am? Would you like me to remain for a bit? At least until you've showered?"

  The request was gentle, and for once, the pity simmering within those soft green eyes didn't piss her off. Possibly because it was genuine and coming from another woman. But more likely, it was because she simply needed it.

  Either way, Regan shook her head. Then wished she hadn't. The sharp motion had affected the roiling in her gut.

  Damned if the spook wasn't right. She should've skipped dinner.

  For a blinding moment, the coffee, eggs and toast appeared bent on returning from whence they'd come. Fortunately, the moment—and urge—passed.

  "Thank you, but no. I need you bird-dogging Agent Riyad. Watch that man, Chief, every second. Tell him I ordered you to assist him. I need to know if anything unusual occurs during the investigation or with his procedures. Anything."

  The woman didn't bat an eye.

  "You don't seem surprised."

  "Nope."

  "Why?" There. Nice and open ended. And with the tremors that had overtaken her entire arm and the numbness that had settled in everywhere else—including her sluggish brain—it was also all she could manage. But she needed an answer.

  She needed to know if she
could trust the chief.

  "Ma'am, Agent Riyad's hiding something."

  So Yrle felt it, too. More importantly, given that clear gaze and supporting micro-expressions, the chief was telling the truth.

  "What?"

  Frustration furrowed Yrle's brow. "I can't put my finger on it. But it's there. And it's big."

  Agreed. But dare she risk doing so out loud?

  Regan was prevented from making a decision when a round of quiet raps reverberated from the other side of the stateroom door.

  A low voice penetrated the metal. "Agent Chase? Are you in there?"

  Mantia.

  She couldn't face another doctor. Not now. She doubted she'd have been able to face Gil tonight, let alone a physician who had the ear of the Griffith's captain. Not with her entire arm haphazardly jolting under its own stubborn steam.

  Worse, her father's DNA had failed her for the first time in a long time. The proof was in that fresh round of compassion swimming through those sharp green eyes.

  The compassion and the green disappeared as the chief turned toward the tiny connected shower and toilet area, and stepped inside. A moment later, the shower's spray kicked in. The chief stepped out and headed across the short end of the stateroom, stopping behind the door's hinges and in front of Regan as she cracked the portal open just far enough for her to hook her short crop of inky curls and face through the opening. "She's fine, Doc. Just stepped in the shower. But I could use your help carrying a few things, if you don't mind. I need to get back to the scene."

  "Absolutely. I must return, too. But I wanted to make sure I wasn't needed here."

  "The agent's good to go. Just a sec, please." Yrle closed the door, pressing a silent index finger into her lips as she headed down the length of the stateroom. She paused beside the bunkbeds and unzipped the duffel. The woman evidently found what she was looking for—the shower kit—because she opened it as she stood, then traded the kit for the evidence bags she'd left on the desk.

  Yrle returned to the door and passed the bagged clothing through to the doc, then went to the desk to retrieve the crime scene kit the duty master-at-arms had left behind. Kit in hand the chief caught Regan's eye and murmured, "You have my office and stateroom extensions. Please feel free to use them. Anytime."

  "I will." But she wouldn't, and they both knew it. "Five, four, six, two. That's the passcode on my phone. You'll need it to access the voice recording from tonight's…session."

  Those numbers would be used, however, which they both also knew.

  The chief offered a crisp nod and left.

  Cognizant of that running, potable water, a commodity that was surely in rationed supply aboard a warship, Regan retrieved her opened shower kit and headed for the small sink just outside the bathroom. With her hand and entire arm still quivering freely, she opted for dumping the contents directly into the sink and fishing out the bar of soap and her loofa rag, then glanced up into the mirror.

  It was a mistake.

  The chief hadn't been lying. She was covered in blood. It was in her hair, smeared across her forehead, her cheeks, her chin—all the way down her neck and over her shoulders and breasts. Hell, it was even on her lips and in the corner of her mouth.

  Durrani's blood.

  Her stomach lurched. Even now, the bastard was touching her.

  Everywhere.

  The shaking in her hand and arm grew worse. Hell, her entire body was quaking now. Violently. Even her teeth were chattering.

  It seemed Yrle had been spot on with her first aid assessment, too. She was in definitely in shock. And it was getting worse.

  Regan was certain as she grabbed her travel-sized bottle of shampoo with her normal hand and headed straight into the shower without testing the temperature.

  Yet another mistake. The water was so hot she could feel it scalding her skin—and yet she was freezing. Somehow, she managed to release her braid from its confines and peel away her socks and underwear, then set about scrubbing every inch of her body with the loofa rag until her flesh was raw.

  It didn't help.

  She could see the final vestiges of the bastard's blood swirling down the shower's drain. Just as it had that day two decades ago. The day her mother had blown her own brains out with her dad's .38 backup revolver.

  Durrani was right. Her mom had chosen to end her pain and misery in front of the towering fir that they'd finally decorated together that morning.

  Throughout the years, she'd wondered if her mom had thought the location of her demise through. Surely, she had to have realized her six year old would find her there? Though even if the woman had realized it, Regan doubted her mother would've known that same six year old would also find her still alive, though barely—and be utterly, frantically, desperate to stop the flow of blood as she'd tried to put the pieces of her mother's face back together.

  She'd failed then too.

  She'd thought confronting and working John's first sergeant's suicide back at Fort Campbell had been bad. Tonight was far worse.

  Regan leaned back against the wall of the shower as the memories shredded in once again. It wasn't enough to keep her already shaking legs from buckling completely. She slid down the wall and huddled into the corner, closing her eyes as she fought the renewed agony and horror of it all. She had no idea how long she sat there, cowering beneath that scalding spray, in the darkness of her own making, praying the water would heat up that much more and scorch away the layers of skin and the gnawing, empty pain that had overtaken her world, until there was nothing left to feel.

  Nothing left of her.

  But the water didn't get hotter. It vanished, instantly and completely.

  Her unwelcome reprieve continued in the form of a pair of scarred, oversized hands attached to thick, muscular arms. Before she realized what was happening, they'd reached into the shower stall, wrapped themselves around her shaking body and lifted her up to set her on her feet.

  John?

  Either she was dreaming, or she'd finally lost it, because the mottled, roping scar crawling up the arm that supported her waist definitely belonged to the man she'd been missing for the past eight days. Hell, the past sixteen months.

  She knew John wasn't really there. He couldn't be.

  Not with Riyad calling the shots.

  Crazy or not, she gave herself up to the fantasy of having the one man on this earth that she not only trusted, but needed, guide her out of the tiny bathroom before enveloping her shivering torso in the white terrycloth towel that'd been hanging from a ring beside the sink all day. All too quickly, John shifted the cloth and used it to dry her face and limbs. The towel fell away, and then her arms were being lifted and threaded through a tan uniform tee that, for some reason, fell midway down her thighs.

  Not only was the tee too long, it was seriously baggy and it smelled like John.

  He was definitely there, towering over her. As the numbing mist began to clear from her brain, she could make out that massive, naked torso, along with the dozen other thick, snaking scars where molten shrapnel and jagged metal had ripped through his flesh—as well as the five rounder, even more chilling, cicatrices created by the barrage of bullets that had nearly ended John's life the night his team's chopper had been shot down, then ambushed in Afghanistan eight years ago.

  "What—"

  "Shhh. Let me finish." He pressed his lips to her damp forehead, then turned her around, guiding her quaking fingers down to the edge of the sink for support before he retrieved the towel and used it to soak up the excess water from her hair. He plucked the wide-toothed comb from the nest of items in the sink next and carefully worked the tangles from the strands that hung more than halfway down her back.

  Tangles dealt with, he tossed the comb into the sink and engulfed her shaking fingers in his steady grip as he led her to the bunkbeds. Once there, he shifted her duffel down onto the deck with his free hand. Clipping her sidearm, holster, keys and credentials from the lower mattress, he set those on th
e temporary desk, then turned to tug the sheet and blanket to the foot of the bunkbed.

  "Hop in."

  "I don't—"

  The determination in his eyes intensified, deepening the gray as his hand came up to snag her chin. "Am I going to have to pull rank?" That deep dimpled fold she'd missed so very much slipped in amid his two weeks of unruly beard, softening the query.

  But the determination held.

  He followed up both with a gentle nod and gentler nudge toward the mattress. "In you go."

  That stubbornness wasn't about to bend, and she didn't have the strength left to argue. Not after the barrage of memories that had pummeled in during her shower.

  She crawled into the bed.

  To her surprise and shamefully profound relief, John followed, carefully shifting her body over as he wedged his titanic frame in beside her, trousers, size-fifteen combat boots and all. He was using his body as he had in his driveway when his irate houseguest had shown up after dinner. Only here, now, he was deliberately shielding her from the ship and what had happened aboard it tonight…as best he could.

  It was working.

  Her back was to the outer bulkhead of the vessel, her face pressed up against his battered chest as he pulled her close, wrapping those solid, cocooning arms around her. All she could see was that endless expanse of muscle and those crisscrossing scars.

  Damn, she'd missed them.

  She closed her eyes and melted into his support. Given what they were and were not wearing, and more importantly, where they were, this should have felt wrong. But it didn't. If anything, it felt so very right it was terrifying. She was as human as the next soldier, female or not. She'd needed another before. But lately?

  She'd needed him.

  She had no idea how long she remained there, cradled against the length of his body, absorbing the soothing drum of his heart and the musky, lulling warmth of his skin. Eventually, the shards of ice that had begun to splinter into her bones before she'd even reached the stateroom began to thaw. The trembling eased. Even her arm relaxed.