Backblast

by Candace Irving

  Her fingers were still quivering off and on, but the tremors were subtle now. So much so, she could almost pretend they didn't exist.

  Almost.

  "You okay?"

  The words rumbled against her forehead, cheeks and lips. She refused to open her eyes, but she did shake her head in answer as she resigned herself to the truth. She had no choice. She could lie to the entire world with ease, even lie to herself.

  But not to this man. Never again.

  "I fucked up."

  "You did not."

  She appreciated the support. But, yeah, she had.

  More than she'd ever feared possible.

  Nor had she needed that verbal accusation Agent Riyad had flung in her face when he'd vaulted into the brig, because she'd already internalized it.

  John shifted, allowing just enough air between them so that he could hook his fingers beneath her chin and use them to gently force her to meet his stare.

  The determination had returned. And it was darker and more firmly entrenched than before. "You did not do this. There was no way you could've known that bastard had those scissors. This is on Brandt and Vetter. And, trust me, they know it. Vetter's already taken responsibility. The corporal knew Durrani was getting his stitches out. But he was so focused on getting that rattled corpsman out of the cell after Durrani slammed into her, he didn't even think about scissors until he was laying the man's body out on the deck—just as that bastard of a doc intended."

  Silence settled in as John finished.

  She left it lying between them, punctuated by the rhythmic creaking of the piping and venting in the compartment.

  "I mean it, Rae."

  That much was clear by the insistent storm that had overtaken his stare. But how had John even found out about Durrani and those scissors? Hell, why was he even here, in her stateroom and not his? He hadn't left on his own, had he?

  For a split second, trepidation reigned.

  John shook his head. "Palisade."

  Great, first Yrle, and now this man was reading her mind. Frankly, she preferred the former. Because there were far too many things she never wanted John to discover, much less from her.

  Still, the panic eased.

  "I assume the general came aboard during that last helo ops?" The one the bridge had called away while she'd been standing over Durrani's body, definitely more rattled than the suture-removing corpsman had been.

  John nodded. "His plane had just touched down at Andrews Airbase when he got the word about what I'd done to Hachemi. Palisade had it refueled and a fresh pilot and crew brought onboard, and immediately took off for Al Dhafra. The ship sent their second Super Stallion out to grab him while you and Riyad were on the carrier for Hachemi's autopsy."

  Hachemi's autopsy—

  But John had not only read her mind again, he was already nodding. "Strychnine." Disgust filtered through the gray, blackening it as he shook his head. "Hell, I never denied wanting to shut that bastard up so badly that I snapped. I admit I intentionally cracked his face into that bulkhead. But poison? There is no way I'd feed anyone that cowardly shit. Palisade knows it, too. When he found out that Riyad still had me confined to quarters, he went ballistic. Ordered my release on the spot."

  From there, John had headed directly here.

  That was churning through the black clouds too. Along with the rest. John being told what Durrani had done in front of her tonight…and how he'd accomplished it. Thank God John hadn't arrived before she'd managed to scrub the blood from her face. She wasn't sure she could've handled his seeing her like that.

  Though really, finding her on the floor of the shower, cowering in the corner, couldn't have been much better, could it? For either of them.

  "You know…I've never killed a man before."

  Oh, after nearly nine years in the Army, she'd seen plenty die. And as an MP and then CID, she'd dealt with the fallout of far too many additional deaths. She'd even shot two men over the years. But, somehow, she'd managed to never actually kill one.

  Until tonight.

  "Rae, that bastard killed himself. Even Riyad was forced to admit that Durrani intentionally committed suicide."

  Part of her wanted to believe him, desperately. The rest just couldn't quite get there.

  If a lie of omission was still a lie, surely failing to notice that a man was primed to slit his throat and bleed out in front of her—and had obtained the means to do it—was just as bad as wielding those scissors herself. Especially since she'd had the training and know-how to prevent it. And then there was that mood of Durrani's tonight.

  From the moment she'd entered the cell and up until almost the very end, he'd been relaxed, content. Almost…happy. If she hadn't been so determined to a get a name—any one of those names—she'd have understood why in time to stop him.

  Yeah, she'd killed him. And, deep down, she was left wondering if she'd wanted to.

  John slid a finger beneath her chin and tipped it up. "Stop—and that is an order." But it wasn't from the major lying in her bed, holding her. It was from the man.

  Before she could argue with either one, both had pulled her in again.

  The arm beneath the right side of her head held her close. The hand attached to the other slid slowly up and down her spine. Soothing, comforting. Because he believed she needed it. The worst part was, she did.

  She buried herself deeper into his chest, thoroughly embarrassed that she'd let her guard down so completely. That she'd let this man, of all men, see her as weak.

  And then it sank in.

  She was holding him, too, comforting him. When she felt his body quake, she knew exactly what had caused it—who.

  Hachemi.

  Less than an hour ago, John had discovered that he wasn't guilty of outright murdering the man. But the raw, deep-seated knowledge that he was truly capable of it would haunt him for the rest of his life. Because there was a profound difference between being willing to kill for your country and wanting to.

  The line that separated the two was wide and dark, and distinct.

  Even so, far too many civilians would never see it, much less understand it. But every single soldier did—especially the honorable ones.

  Because they lived and worked squarely on top of it.

  "We don't have a damned thing, Rae, do we?"

  This time, she pulled away. Just far enough to smooth her palm over the unruly whiskers that shadowed the right side of his jaw. The trio of shrapnel scars that cut into the thicket at the edge and down into his neck tightened, causing the pulse point within to throb. Despite their current position and location, that uptick hadn't been caused by passion, but a deep, leaden resignation.

  That, at least, she could soothe, and perhaps offer a bit more.

  Something akin to hope.

  "Actually, we do have something." And wouldn't Durrani have been horrified and livid to discover that she'd gotten it all from him?

  John added to the slight distance between them so that he could focus on her face. His was wreathed in shock. "Are you telling me that you got a name?"

  "No. But I did get the next best thing. Three separate avenues of investigation." Or culling clues, as Agent Castile would term them. First up, "The seventh woman from the cave. We already knew she was crucial to whatever's still scheduled to go down. Durrani's fixation on her—and the fact that he carefully tucked the photo I gave him of her earlier today in his Qur'an to keep it safe—proves it." For all the man's heinousness, Nabil Durrani wasn't some serial killer who'd been polishing a trophy, at least not in the traditionally morbid sense. "I developed a suspicion that there was a personal connection between the two. A suspicion Durrani confirmed when I tossed it in his face—and he visibly flinched. Not only did Durrani know the woman, he was in love with her. I'm also certain they worked together in some capacity."

  She'd stake the future status of her hand tremors on it.

  John nodded. "This is good. Great, in fact. Plus, we've already got Age
nt Castile working the medical clinics and relief organizations on both sides of the border."

  "I know. But he's going to need a lot more help." Beginning with those boots on the ground with which she'd taunted Durrani. "They need to be armed with that photo from the cave; the one that shows the deceased baby. It'll help people talk." Especially those inclined to protect a radical Muslim at all costs. "Also, while there is a traitor mixed up in all this, Tamir Hachemi never had his or her name."

  "Are you sure?"

  Doubt had elbowed into his stare, knocking up against the relief.

  She understood why.

  As much as John was afraid to believe in Hachemi's ignorance, he desperately wanted to. It would mean his actions in that conference room this morning hadn't obliterated their final chance at obtaining that traitor's name. John had to be wondering—just as she had during the autopsy—that if Hachemi had experienced the full brunt of those agonizing, strychnine-induced convulsions and realized he was about to die, would he have had a come-to-Allah moment and given up that name?

  Unfortunately, wallowing in what ifs wouldn't get them anywhere. Much less a blessed inkling of what was scheduled to go down…and when.

  "Yeah, I'm sure. Hachemi did not know who the traitor is. Durrani's suicide proves it. The doc's imagination was working overtime today. He added my appearance on the ship this morning to the sudden spurt of subsequent helo ops and connected them to Hachemi's apparent disappearance, as well as my subsequent departure from the ship this evening for the autopsy. His result: CIA. Durrani believed Hachemi spent the day being interrogated—and tortured—aboard another, nearby vessel by a bunch of viciously determined spooks. Yet, he wasn't worried about what Hachemi may or may not have given up—because he knew the man had nothing to give up. Durrani also believed that he was next. And although Hachemi didn't know the traitor's name—"

  "Durrani did."

  "Exactly." But Hachemi had known something. Something worth killing for. Otherwise, why risk so much just to shut him up? Unfortunately, with Hachemi now dead, they might never know what the man had been privy too.

  Just one more frustratingly, potentially critical mystery to solve.

  Damn.

  Regan arched her neck to work out a kink that had set in from holding her head aloft to meet John's gaze.

  "Okay. Durrani was terrified he'd talk under torture, and he was willing to die to ensure he didn't. That's explains why he killed himself. But I'm not sure how knowing that helps us get the information we need." John brought his right hand up to her neck to rub the affected side for a few moments, then shifted his left arm to support her head better. Both helped more than her stretching had. "You mentioned three lines of investigation. If this is one of them, as near as I can tell, that bastard succeeded in killing it, along with himself."

  That he had. But Durrani had left another clue on the table. Though this one was more than a bit humiliating. "Mata Hari."

  John stilled, then blanched. He shook his head.

  But she nodded. "Once I got him spun up, the doc lobbed a lot of crap in my face, including that name. He was also a bit…gleeful…as he accurately relayed why that name and the implication behind it were significant to me."

  Whore.

  Just over two weeks ago, when John had been on the psyche ward at Fort Campbell along with his remaining, chimeral-infected men, she'd assured him that she'd gotten over the tawdry insinuation he'd smeared her with that night in Hohenfels' CID parking lot. She'd lied.

  She truly didn't care if the entire world spewed that word directly in her face.

  But John? With him, even the implication managed to burn a hole through her confidence and her heart…every single time she thought about it.

  She'd worked to mask the pain that had come with the memory when they'd been back at Campbell on that psych ward. But here, now? Even before she caught the hurt reflecting back at her from John, she knew she'd already failed.

  She was too raw to even try.

  His fingers came up to smooth a damp strand of hair from her cheek. By the time he'd tucked it behind her ear, his fingers were trembling more than hers. "Hon—"

  "Don't. Please. I don't want to talk about that right now. I just…can't."

  It didn't matter that her voice had quavered at the end. His nod wasn't all that steady either.

  "Okay, we'll table it. But we will come back to this. Soon."

  Not if she could help it.

  The heaviness in their sighs merged, underscored by the subdued creaking of the ship, the combined humming of all that machinery.

  Somehow, the Griffith had become white noise on steroids.

  "John…you know what this means, don't you?"

  This sigh was sharper and curt enough to cut through any noise. "This plot's been in the works a helluva lot longer than we thought."

  "Yup."

  And for some reason, John was at the center of it.

  As near as she could tell, the only person left who had an inkling as to why was the spook—and Riyad's mouth was locked up even more tightly than those of their two recently deceased prisoners had been, combined.

  "Did Durrani give a clue as to who might've overheard that conversation?"

  She shook her head. At the time, she and John had assumed they were alone. After all, it had been three in the morning. But the CID lot had also had police vehicles and half a dozen massive Humvees slotted in that night, offering plenty of cover. And the section they'd been in had been dark. "I don't even know if he or she was Army." Hell, they ran Marines through the Joint Multination Readiness Center at Hohenfels, too. And there was the whole "multinational" aspect to consider.

  Not to mention that during the week in question, the JMRC had been training roughly twenty-two hundred soldiers a day.

  According to John's terse frown, all of the former had been tallied up by him, too. "Talk about a needle in a haystack."

  And not only was the haystack camouflaged, so was the needle.

  Fortunately, Durrani had slipped up more than once tonight. And this "culling clue" was a seriously revealing one.

  "We have a leak."

  John's frown deepened. "Who?"

  "I don't know. But he or she knows me. Or, at least, my background. I'm guessing I attracted attention that night by extension when they saw me with you, because whoever was watching decided to go snooping. In the classified arena. A lot of the crap Durrani lobbed could only have come from my background investigation. How else would he have known about my mom's suicide—in front of the damned tree—and my dad's desire to walk on the dark side of the law while he was still employed by it?"

  "Jesus." John's frown had mutated into a dangerously filthy scowl that put every one of Riyad's to shame. "Even I didn't know some of that until you told me."

  She nodded. Even with his Special Forces connections, John hadn't known the truth about her bastard of a father until he'd spotted her dad's old police badge on her coffee table and run the number through the internet the following day during a down moment at Bagram. John hadn't known the tawdry details of her mother's death at all, until she'd told him. How could he? Her mom had reverted the two of them to her maiden name shortly before she'd checked out in front of that Christmas tree.

  The tree that John also hadn't known about.

  Nor should anyone else in the Army—or any other branch of the military. Because she'd never shared that particular tidbit. "That's not all. Because of Durrani's arrest and then my coma, I didn't have a chance to follow up on something. But the night before we arrested Durrani, I interrogated Captain McCord."

  "I know."

  "But what you don't know is that McCord threw those three orange hairs in my face during the interview." Hairs that had been found in that cave. Hairs that belonged to one of McCord's men. Except, the soldier who'd grown those hairs had died two weeks before those women had been massacred. Like her, McCord believed the presence of those hairs in the cave proved that he and his men had b
een set up. While that was true…she'd never mentioned those hairs to McCord during their interview.

  But someone had.

  "Rae, I did not tell him about the hairs."

  "I know that." She might've doubted John's integrity weeks ago, at the beginning of this investigation, but she didn't now. Nor would she again. Not after everything that'd happened since. And she sure as hell couldn't doubt John's integrity when he'd been willing to go to prison because he believed he'd killed Hachemi in anger.

  "So, who told Mac? Do you know?"

  She shook her head. "I have no idea. But if whoever leaked those hairs and the traitor are one and the same, we can track him or her through my BI."

  Whoever had shared the contents of the background investigation that'd been run on her prior to the granting of her top secret clearance, had either pulled her BI and read it personally…or knew the person who had.

  John scrubbed at the growth on his jaw as he blew out his breath. "What else did you get? Though I gotta say, that's a hell of a lot more than either I or your NCIS counterpart were able to ferret out, and we worked on those two bastards for a week."

  And therein lay the rub. She still wasn't convinced that Riyad had wanted answers. Though his reaction tonight had gone a long way to refuting the suspicion.

  If the spook was dirty, why had Riyad been so livid when he'd found Durrani dead in that cell tonight? He should've been relieved.

  But he definitely hadn't been.

  One thing was still certain, "Riyad thinks you're the traitor."

  Of all the times for that dent of John's to carve into his cheek, this was not one she'd have figured was in the running. Then again, the smile it flanked was decidedly grim. "Yeah, I figured that out this past week. Would've said something to you earlier this morning but the man was standing right there. By the time he left to take that call, I figured I'd already tossed enough rotten meat onto your plate."

  "Why would he even suspect you? For that matter, why would he risk entering that cell tonight when I was making progress with Durrani? Because he nearly did. Durrani pretended to make some offhand comment—but it was deliberate—about equipment, and Riyad almost vaulted through the door. I thought he was going to take Vetter down when the Marine moved in to stop him."