Backblast

by Candace Irving

  Unable to massage the tremors into submission, Regan removed the scarf from her hair and dumped it on the desk. She headed for the connecting bath to splash water on her face, only to stop short as she heard the main door close. John had already set her suitcase and gear down beside the desk before she finished swinging back around.

  He was staring down at her. Intently.

  But not as he'd done on the tarmac before they'd parted that afternoon.

  Worse, the longer this stare lasted, the more those three shrapnel scars that cut through the cultivated thicket on his jaw and down into the side of his neck tightened. The pulse point within was barely visible from this angle, but it was throbbing.

  Shit.

  "You have something." And it was bigger than big.

  She stepped closer, meeting up with him in front of the desk.

  John nodded. "Confirmation."

  "Regarding your suspicion that Riyad's a former SEAL?"

  His brow kicked up over that.

  She wasn't insulted.

  Mostly because the gleam that joined in let her know he was also impressed. He knew she hadn't had an inkling as to Riyad's credentials when they'd parted at the airport. Though she would've deserved that flare of respect more if she hadn't stumbled into the information while Jeffers had been spewing garlic and disgust in her face.

  Silence crowded in, thickening the air between them.

  When John didn't push through it, she knew this was worse than she'd feared. It was also clear from the regret that gradually replaced the respect that he was loath to pin whatever he'd discovered on a former fellow operator. Even a bastard like Riyad.

  So she did it for him.

  Equipment. "What went missing?"

  John's sigh was heavy. Harsh. "An SDV."

  "A SEAL delivery vehicle?" As in, one of the multimillion-dollar, covert submersibles that the teams use to infiltrate enemy ports and beaches?

  "Yes." John turned to lean back into the desk, hooking the heels of his palms over the edge as he shook his head. "I don't have all the details. I put in the call to Palisade shortly before you arrived. I haven't heard back yet."

  "What do you know?"

  "It was a working prototype. It had new capabilities that the government does not want out there. I also know Riyad was on the mission when it disappeared. The SDV carries six men. Four are dead. Their bodies washed up. I'm not at liberty to pass on where."

  That wasn't what bothered her. "With Riyad, that only accounts for five."

  This nod was stunted. Beyond reluctant.

  "Who's the missing man?"

  "Senior Chief Zakaria Webber. His body never turned up—with the others…or elsewhere."

  That, in and of itself, was not unusual. An SDV could be air dropped into open ocean or launched from a submarine or an amphibious warship. But without knowing where and from which platform this one had been launched, she had no idea how likely or unlikely it should've been for Webber's body to have washed up with the others.

  But John knew. And the slight flattening in his lips, not to mention that jarring pulse point, told her the rest.

  "You think he survived, don't you? Along with the SDV." And then Webber and that classified, multimillion-dollar prototype had gone off the grid.

  Deliberately.

  John's shrug was slight. The implications were not.

  They were devastating.

  They had a dirty SEAL out there. And there was the rather distinctive pronunciation that John had given to the man's name: Zakaria. It was either Arabic or Persian. No wonder John hadn't wanted to speculate until he'd found out more.

  And, somehow, Sam Riyad was tied up in all this. "You know Webber, don't you?" Or rather, John had known him. And well.

  With Riyad's almost fanatical zeal in trying to railroad John into murder charges over Hachemi, at the very least John had worked with Webber somewhere along the way. Had possibly been friends with the guy.

  "Yeah, I know him—and, no, Webber and I are not friends."

  She kept her brow from hiking in the nick of time. How had he figured out what she was thinking? She hadn't been deliberately altering or concealing her expressions; she hadn't needed to. Her speculation had been that deep. That private.

  "I didn't add the rest—"

  "Didn't have to. It's taken me a while, but I'm getting to where I can read you too." He reached out, traced the tip of one of those callused fingers along her brow, then tapped her nose as that crease cut in beside his smile, along with a healthy dose of the man's congenital arrogance. "I told you the truth when we met in that bar. I'm persistent. And when it comes to you, I am seriously motivated. Getting more so by the day."

  She had no idea how to respond to that. Personally or professionally.

  So she ignored it.

  "The SDV? Do you think Webber sold it to the highest bidder?" Or was it stolen with a specific new owner in mind? Russia? China? Turkey?

  Iran?

  There was the inherent ethnicity in that first name. …Or did Webber already have plans to use it himself?

  John shook his head, his frustration finally spiking. "I don't know. Nor does my source."

  His source. With what John had just brought to the table, that source was another SEAL. A SEAL who respected Riyad about as much as Riyad respected John.

  A SEAL who had enough on Riyad that he was worried—or he wouldn't have confided in John.

  She pulled her breath in deep and just said it. "And this source of yours…does he think Riyad is dirty, too?"

  "Yes."

  20

  Regan tried to contain her shock as she stared at John.

  It was impossible.

  This was bigger than either of them had feared, and getting more complicated with each moment. One dirty SEAL was bad enough. But two, possibly working in tandem? One of whom—if Riyad was dirty—was now not only firmly embedded inside NCIS's foreign counter-intel division, but also had Admiral Kettering's ear?

  Except… "What do you think?"

  This shrug was as slight as John's earlier one; the implications it supported, just as heavy. "Jury's still out."

  Yeah, with her too. Everything John had revealed actually pointed toward the spook not being dirty. But Riyad was still hiding something.

  Damned if she could figure out what it was.

  "There's more."

  Despite all the possible ramifications that were swirling in, hope flared. John might be in the midst of slowly cataloguing her micro-expressions, but she already had a solid bead on pretty much all of his. "You got a name."

  “Possibly.”

  "Who?"

  "The embassy's senior political officer."

  "Tom Crier?"

  "You seem surprised."

  She was, and then again, she wasn't. "I don't know. I haven't had a chance to sit down with the man. He was away from the embassy this afternoon. But I did make some headway with two other potentials. But first, what did you get on Crier?"

  And from whom?

  "After we parted this afternoon, Tulle and I flew to Abbottabad. He took care of a few things, while I made some calls and hit up a few sources for information on that Russian name you got out of Durrani. I don't have anything on Aleksi Skulachev yet. But after I finished my calls, I had a face to face with another contact."

  "From their military academy?"

  "Yes." John loosened his tie and tugged the knot down a few inches. "Guy's a Pakistani army colonel who's also on the ISI's payroll…and Karl Goethe's. They—we—met a few years back when I was in Yemen. Since the coalition forces relied on German arms and tech, it was an easy enough cover to construct and maintain. I was able to get my foot in the door with the guy, and I've been able to keep it there. Basically, Goethe's with the German army and, naturally, the ISI doesn't know about Goethe."

  Naturally.

  The Inter-Services Intelligence was Pakistan's version of the CIA, Gestapo and KGB rolled into one. Not only did their interrog
ators consider waterboarding child's play, they saved their more horrifying techniques for those they perceived as traitors to Allah and the Pakistani state, which to the ISI were one and the same.

  "Let me guess; the ISI's been tailing Crier." After all, Crier was the senior political officer at the American embassy in their capital city. She'd be shocked if they weren't following him—along with every other staffer in that compound. "What do they have on the man?"

  "Crier's having an affair. According to the colonel, the ISI hasn't acted on the information yet. They were saving it for a rainy day."

  "Who's the woman?"

  "He doesn't know her name. Wasn't told. All he knows is she's a local. Does that mesh with what you've got?"

  "Yes and no." According to her research, Crier and his wife recently celebrated fourteen years of connubial bliss. Seven longer than the purported itch. The fact that Mrs. Crier happened to be the cherished daughter of US Senator Jack Hawthorne may have helped to extend the timeframe.

  After all, what would Senator Hawthorne—a ranking member of the Senate intelligence committee—do to Crier's future with the State Department if he found out?

  "Rae?"

  "It's solid blackmail material, yes. But I don't—" She shook her head. "Hang on. I've got something to show you." She reached down to retrieve her crime scene kit from beside the desk, only to come up empty as her fingers lost their grip midway up. The kit landed at her feet with a humiliating thump.

  Her humiliation increased as John hooked one of those massive arms down and up, effortlessly sweeping the case onto the desk.

  She stared at her hand as the tremor moved up into her arm. Within seconds, the entire limb was trembling. Not as badly as it had in her stateroom on the Griffith the night before when John had pulled her out of that shower, but it was noticeable.

  Her conversation with Gil filtered in. His warning.

  Was Gil right? Was she making it worse? Risking everything on what might well turn out to be her final assignment?

  But if not her, here, dealing with this—who? She trusted John, and he was more than capable. But Riyad? All she had there was one seriously vague maybe.

  But in her determination to see this through…what if her newfound shortcoming endangered the lives of others?

  "Stop." She flinched as John's fingers found her chin, forcing it and her gaze up. "I mean it, Rae. You and your arm aren't dragging anyone down. You just need time."

  Great. He was working his way through her expressions.

  And that wasn't necessarily a good thing—let alone what was increasingly becoming an outright handicap.

  What the hell. She offered John what he couldn't read in her face, because she was too terrified to let it that close to the surface. "That's what Gil keeps preaching. Time. Patience. For over a week now. Only it's not getting better; it's getting worse. And I—" She pulled her breath in deep and just said it. "I'm scheduled to re-qualify."

  She didn't add that it was for her SIG Sauer. At the moment, it was the only qual at risk. The only one that mattered. This man, of all men, would know that.

  "When?"

  "Eight weeks." Sure, she could get it pushed back. But not indefinitely.

  And doing so would invite questions. More of those damned neurological tests to which Gil and his ilk had already subjected her. Along with the very real potential for additional, follow-up tests that she just might be forced to take…as a civilian.

  John stroked those enviably steady fingers of his along her cheek. "Then we have time."

  "We?"

  That dent flashed in. "You do know I'm SF?"

  "Yeah, I heard that. So?"

  "So, there are techniques. Ones I've trained more than few indigenous folks to use, along with our own troops—all of whose lives depended on success. So relax. Trust me. When we get home, we'll head to the range. I'll get you sorted in time."

  What if he couldn't? Worse, what if she needed to fire her weapon before he even had a chance to try? Not on the practice range, but in the field. Here, in Pakistan.

  While she was supposed to be protecting this man's back?

  The answer to that question was slowly taking over her dreams and twisting them into nightmares.

  His fingers found her chin again. They wouldn't let go. "Rae?"

  She sighed, met that steady stare. "Fine."

  She thought he was going to push it, but he didn't. He simply lowered his fingers and turned to tap her crime kit. "Now, what's in here?"

  He waited patiently as she fumbled with the tiny tumbler dials on her kit's lock twice before she was able to open it. She tugged on a set of gloves and retrieved the electronic frame, removing it from its paper bag.

  She switched the frame on and flipped through the photos until she reached the group shot that also showed the baby's face.

  "I found the frame tucked underneath Brandt's bed. Take a look at this image of Brandt and the Sadats three, and tell me what you see."

  John's low whistle said it all, as did the scarred hand that came up to rub his cheek—directly over the groove that slashed down into his now cultivated thicket.

  "Yeah." She returned the frame to the bag, resealed and re-annotated it before securing it inside her case and resetting the tumbler. "But here's the thing. When Scott told Mrs. Sadat about Brandt's death, she was upset—but she wasn't devastated."

  "You think it's Crier's kid?"

  "I don't know." Yet. The photo she had of Crier hadn't contained a cleft chin. But it could've skipped a generation in his bloodline—or Inaya's. Along with the Type 1 diabetes the boy carried. That was hereditary too. Either way, "It's possible. I also know that Crier requested Brandt's presence on the Griffith detail. But if the request was significant, how?" Had Crier wanted Brandt away from Mrs. Sadat for some reason?

  Were the men involved in a sex triangle? It wouldn't be the first time she'd come across one in her line of work. And a triangle was definitely grounds for blackmail.

  Or had Aamer Sadat set out to use his wife to play the two off each other?

  Because even if Crier was the father, that didn't mean that Brandt hadn't slept with the woman too. All she knew for certain was that Brandt had administered the poison that killed Tamir Hachemi. Brandt was definitely being blackmailed about something. Something big enough that he'd murder to keep it hidden.

  But what?

  Damn it, she needed more. Knowing who'd fathered that kid would get her closer to why Brandt had done it—and who had provided the strychnine at Al Dhafra.

  "John—"

  He held up a finger as his phone vibrated from within his suit jacket. "Just a sec." He retrieved his phone from an inner pocket and clicked into his text app. "It's from one of Ty's men. The guy just followed Aamer Sadat back to the hospital. Seems Sadat had stepped out to visit his banker. He took a call when he returned to his car, then stopped by his older brother's place on the way back to the hospital. Sadat's in the ICU now."

  Inaya Sadat had been telling the truth then. At least about that.

  Regan checked her watch as John texted his contact.

  It was nearing 2100. The woman she met with tonight might've been willing to kick the memory of Brandt to the curb and quickly, but she was not leaving her baby. Inaya Sadat would be in that waiting room too.

  Unfortunately, Regan couldn't risk dropping by twice in one night, let alone this late. It would kill the embassy-employee, compassionate visit excuse she and Scott had set up.

  Much as she hated to admit it, other than reviewing the backgrounders and the case files, there wasn't a damned thing she could do to further her part in the investigation until the embassy reopened in the morning.

  Hopefully Riyad and Agent Castile were having more luck in their search for the identity of the final victim from that cave.

  If Riyad had even linked up with Castile as ordered.

  She tucked her fingertips into the tripled-up braid at the nape of her neck, feeling around for the oversiz
ed bobby-pins that kept it in place. It took forever to get a decent enough grip to pull the first pin free. She was reaching for the second when John set his phone down and turned her around so that her back was to him.

  "I can do it."

  "Yes, you can." He located the three other pins and slipped them free with embarrassing ease, then removed the elastic band from the base of the braid and began unraveling it until her hair fell down her back. "But even you'd have trouble doing this."

  This?

  She bit back a groan as his fingers dug deeply into her hair, slowly, but firmly massaging the tension and worry of the day from her scalp, before those magic fingers and palms moved down to engulf her neck and shoulders. She had no idea how long she stood there, strangling her subsequent groans and sighs, but by the time he finished, she realized what he'd really accomplished and why.

  The tremors were still there, but they were subtle now. Her arm had somehow relaxed right along with the muscles in her scalp, neck and shoulders.

  Satisfaction gleamed down at her as she turned.

  "They teach you that in the big bad snake-eater course too?"

  He shook his head as he tugged at the knot on his loosened tie until it was completely free. "Internet. I looked it up today during a down moment." He tossed his tie on the desk and reached out to smooth several strands of hair from her cheek. "Now go take a shower. Or a bath. Either will help, too. I'll order dinner while you relax."

  She shook her head.

  "You're not hungry?"

  Oh, she was hungry. And, as he slid those daunting arms from his suit jacket, then tossed it on the desk so he could remove his shoulder holster, she was getting hungrier by the second. Damn, this man looked good in a suit. ACUs, too.

  But he looked even better naked.

  His brow quirked questioningly as she continued to watch while he tossed his holster and the 9mm tucked inside onto the desk, before starting in on his backup firearms and concealed knives. The final nest of weapons could've outfitted a third-world junta.