Backblast

by Candace Irving

  "Rae, what—"

  She sprinted for the door of the ICU. Not only was she certain John would follow, there was no time to explain. Nor did she have time for the heated stream of Urdu that came out of one nurse's mouth or the Arabic that came out of the doctor's, as she blew past both and straight into the ICU room, right up to the clear-plastic medical bassinet with "Sadat" written in Urdu and English on a card slotted in at the end.

  Regan ignored everything but that sweet, innocent face as she leaned all the way over the side of the bassinet, until she was an inch away from those cherubic lips.

  She inhaled deeply.

  Her foster sister's breath had smelled sweet when her blood sugar levels were in the red. The boy's breath didn't smell sweet.

  The air was distinctly…fetid.

  "Fuck." The expletive had come from John. He was standing right beside her, leaning over the crib too.

  She didn't have to ask if John had recognized that odor; the curse had confirmed it. Whoever they were after wasn't just a traitor, he was an utter monster.

  One who'd deliberately infected an innocent baby with that psycho-toxin.

  22

  Regan caught John's tortured stare as she straightened and stepped back from the ICU bassinet to grip his arm. "You've got to convince the doctor that there's more going on here than just diabetes." Though she'd wager that the stress of the little guy's condition had activated that damned chimeral psycho-toxin. "Give him Gil's number. Gil speaks Arabic, too. Make sure the doc calls him—before you leave his side. Then meet me in the waiting room. I still need your help with the mother."

  More so than ever.

  As for Gil, he would need to arrange for an emergency shipment of his makeshift chimeral cure to be flown to Islamabad before the hour was out.

  Even then, there was no telling if the boy would receive it in time.

  They were dealing with a baby for Christ's sake. Who knew how that would affect the treatment? If that tiny, innocent body could even handle it.

  Leaving John to his task, Regan spun around and headed into the waiting room to make sure Inaya Sadat didn't pull the same disappearing stunt that her husband had before John had a chance to assist her in grilling the woman.

  She paused just inside the door to the ICU and retrieved a pair of sterile, purple nitrile gloves from the box atop a stainless-steel rolling table, then kept moving out to the nurses' station. There—with Inaya's eggshell-blue shalwar kameez and veil firmly in her sights—she stopped as she pocketed the gloves. Listened.

  Studied.

  The devastated woman was still sobbing amid the trio of nurses, but she was quieter now, calmer. And unquestionably not faking her grief.

  Good. As much as it pained Regan to use that profound anguish against a young mother, she absolutely would. She had no choice. There was an excellent chance that whoever Inaya was sleeping with had infected that boy—including her husband.

  Especially if Brandt was the father.

  If Aamer Sadat was their traitor, he could've blackmailed Brandt into murdering Hachemi to prevent his name from crossing the translator's lips and then chosen to clean up his own life—and extracted the revenge of the cuckolded in the process—by taking out the child that wasn't his, as well as the boy's biological father.

  Either way, she wouldn't rest until she caught the bastard capable of sentencing a baby to the hell she and John's men had endured weeks earlier. Most of those men were now dead. Of the lucky four who'd survived a full facing-off with that chimera, she'd been left with a dominant gun hand she could no longer trust to do her bidding. Staff Sergeant Hudson and Sergeant Welch were also dealing with issues surrounding fine motor coordination, as well as memory in Welch's case. Sergeant Gutierrez was the only one who'd come through his bout relatively unscathed.

  Even if the boy survived, what handicap would he be left to endure? And how much worse would it be because his brain wasn't fully developed yet?

  And there was the traitor/terror angle to consider. If Riyad's rogue SEAL had been the one to infect that baby, Zakaria Webber had been slipping in and out of Islamabad for a lot longer than just today.

  What else had Webber been doing while he was here?

  "Rae?"

  She turned to John, ignored the lingering frustration and fury still threaded within his dark gray eyes. "I need you to scare the shit out of that woman."

  "What?"

  "John, listen to me. We don't know who infected that boy in there, much less Staff Sergeant Brandt. Yes, given that both Brandt and the baby were infected, it's looking as though Brandt was the father, and that a guilty Aamer Sadat was getting revenge and cleaning house. But what if that's what we're meant to see? If your source is right, and Crier is seeing a local, that kid could just as easily be his."

  If Tom Crier was the father and their traitor, what better way to obscure his trail? Crier could've just as easily gotten the chimera from Riyad's dirty SEAL. If she hadn't walked into that ICU and deliberately leaned over for a whiff, the boy would most likely have continued having seizures—confusing the hell out of his doctors—until he was dead, seemingly of complications from his diabetes.

  And, once the boy was dead, no one would be looking to connect him to a father outside of Aamer Sadat.

  Nor would this be the first case of infanticide that she'd come across in her time with CID. And as dastardly as this particular method would be—if it succeeded—it wouldn't even be the worst. She didn't have to tell John that either. After the hell his father had subjected him to growing up, it was a miracle John had survived long enough to grow into his body and take his survival into his own hands.

  All that baby had was them. She needed to get to the bottom of this now. For so many reasons. And, frankly, she would use whatever she could to get there.

  If that offended John, or tarnished her in his eyes, so be it.

  "Just repeat what I say, no matter what. And remember—" She laid her hand on his arm, pressing into the hard layer of muscle to reach the surprisingly tender man hidden beneath. Whether John admitted it or not. "—you are not hurting her. It's me."

  Nor would this be the first time.

  That familiar gray stare studied her, much as she'd studied Inaya from across the room. Its owner finally nodded. "Okay. But you can't fool me. Not any longer. You don't like what you're about to do any more than those you're forced to do it to."

  He was right.

  But she wouldn't admit it. She couldn't afford to.

  So she did the only thing she could. She ignored it. "We passed a consult room just outside this waiting area. It's empty. Tell Inaya I have news about her son's condition and that I'll speak with her in there. I'll be waiting."

  There was no way a married woman in the Near East would admit to what they needed Inaya to admit to in a public waiting room, Muslim or not.

  As John turned to fulfill her request, Regan headed for the consult room. Fortunately, it was unlocked. Unfortunately, there were only two black, plastic-and-metal chairs inside. The room was also more a claustrophobic booth.

  It would have to do.

  She scooted the shoulders of one of the chairs into the corner of the tiny room and placed the other facing it, in the center. When John opened the door, she motioned the petite, veiled woman inside toward the cornered chair, John to the other in the center of the room. Regan took in those wide, reddened eyes amid that delicate, silver-edged wisp of eggshell blue as she took up her spot, standing behind John.

  Emotionally, Inaya Sadat was on the edge.

  Excellent. It would help.

  She and Mrs. Sadat waited as John leaned down to tuck her laptop on the floor beneath the metal legs of his chair. Evidently, he'd done this before, because he remained silent as he straightened, listening for her cue as to when and what to speak.

  "Mrs. Sadat, my name is Special Agent Regan Chase. I lied to you when I stopped by the hospital earlier this evening with Agent Walburn. I wasn't here to offer my co
ndolences. For that, I apologize. But there was an important reason for my lie. I'm investigating a case that involves soon-to-be mothers who were murdered in a cave in the Hindu Kush less than a month ago. Have you heard the news?"

  Regan paused and waited for John. She could hear his deep voice, translating her words, but she didn't focus on it, or him. She stared over his imposing shoulders instead, completely focused on Inaya Sadat.

  Black, white, European, Pakistani or Russian, it didn't matter. Micro-expressions were universal to humans, man or woman.

  She needed to see this woman's.

  Regan watched as the shock set in, caught the woman's slight nod, confirming that she'd heard of the murders, then continued. "Mrs. Sadat, I know what's wrong with your son. He's been infected with a new and very deadly virus. I recently survived the same virus. Your son's doctor is speaking to mine in the United States right now. I arranged that call. The cure will soon be on its way here. I'll be honest; I don't know if it will help. Your son is very young and his medical condition will most likely complicate his treatment. Now, I need something from you for my efforts. I need the truth." Even if it meant that she'd be getting it by implying that the boy's critical medical treatment was tied to his mother's willingness to answer questions from the strange Americans who'd brought her into this room.

  The tactic might be heinous and brutal, and Regan might hate herself for it, but it was a time-proven producer of results. And with that mob closing in on the embassy and growing larger and more violent by the minute, it was more than necessary.

  It was vital.

  She waited until John paused his stream of gravelly Urdu, then drew in her breath and finished it. "I know your husband did not father your son. I'm not judging or condemning you—and there is no need for me to share your answer with anyone outside this room." At least, not at the moment. "But I must know; was Staff Sergeant Brandt the father?"

  As John's gravelly Urdu filled the tiny room once again, Regan watched the horror, confusion and continued shock play out in the muscles in and around the woman's forehead, eyes and mouth.

  Inaya's softer, insistent response followed.

  "She swears Brandt's not the father. She also swears on the Qur'an that she never slept with him."

  The micro-expressions in Inaya's face combined with the trembling tension in her hand as she reached out to grip John's scarred fingers and repeat her words. The woman was telling the truth. As if she'd realized what she'd done—that she'd touched yet another man who was not her husband—Inaya snatched her fingers from John's and knotted them tightly in her lap.

  It didn't help. They were still shaking.

  Regan knew the feeling.

  It was the rest that confused her. If Inaya Sadat was telling the truth about her level of intimacy with Staff Sergeant Brandt, what had she missed during her initial canvass of that electronic photo? Regan anchored her palm against the wall of John's back, hoping to use the support to ratchet down the increase in her own tremors as she pulled the memory of the photo and its frame into the center of her mind.

  There, she studied it. Considered the possibilities.

  There was only one explanation left.

  Brandt hadn't been staring at the woman on his right in that photo, he'd been gazing past her to the man on her right. The staff sergeant hadn't been having an affair with Inaya, he'd been having it with the woman's husband, Aamer Sadat.

  "Tom Crier. He's your son's father, isn't he?" Lord, she hoped so. Because she'd just lobbed her last grenade. She was completely out of ammo, at least any that was capable of reaching their true target in time to take him down.

  John's shoulder tensed beneath her hand, but he quickly translated.

  This time there was no insistent denial. Just a fresh crop of very telling tears. They filled the woman's dark eyes, turning them darker and more luminous. And then, an ever-so-slight nod. The tears slipped free, filling the silence, drowning it out.

  More tears followed.

  "Do you need me to press her for a verbal yes?"

  She shook her head, then realized John was still focused on his duties. He was staring at the sobbing woman in front of them, not up at her. "No. But I could—"

  She stopped as the door opened.

  Before Regan could turn around, Inaya jumped to her feet, slipping around a now standing John so that she could throw herself into the newcomer's arms.

  Aamer Sadat.

  It appeared Regan was going to get a crack at the woman's husband after all.

  She swiftly catalogued the man's dark hair and eyes, full lips and neatly trimmed beard accenting all that dusky skin as he took the time to soothe his wife's tears before quietly conversing with her. Aamer's backgrounder photo had not done him justice. His wife might be gorgeous; this man was downright beautiful.

  No wonder Brandt had fallen hard enough to risk his career.

  Aamer also appeared to truly care for his wife. Though the soft pats to her back and gentle soothings of her cheek were decidedly brotherly, they were genuine. As much as Regan hated to admit it, Aamer's sincere affection for his wife provided even more leverage to use against him and his family.

  She didn't argue when Aamer opened the door to the tiny room and sent his wife back to the ICU's waiting area.

  Silence swirled in as the door closed, pulsing through the air with anticipation.

  Regan could feel John standing behind her, supporting her personally and professionally, but ultimately leaving this new interview to her.

  She waited patiently. From the gamut of emotions that had passed through Aamer's dusky features during that soothing session with his wife, Inaya had filled him in on everything that had happened since his latest departure from the hospital.

  Frankly, she was curious which element Aamer would respond to first. His choice would reveal a hell of a lot, and set the tone for more.

  "This treatment of yours. It is coming here soon?"

  "Yes."

  Relief flooded those same dusky features, cementing Regan's instincts regarding the man and his priorities. "What do you want to know?"

  Anything and everything that would help her find the bastard who'd infected that sweet baby lying in the ICU. Because that flood of relief had also confirmed that Aamer Sadat was not a traitor or Webber's contact at the embassy.

  But if she was lucky, his answers would lead them to whoever was. "You and Staff Sergeant Brandt were lovers."

  She could feel the slight tension behind her as the surprise rippled through John. But that was it. John remained standing where he was and quiet. She was grateful.

  It allowed her to focus on Aamer's face and body language. Aamer had not been surprised by her comment.

  Wary? Yes.

  And, intriguingly, more than a bit relieved.

  Or, perhaps, not so intriguing.

  As huge as the risk to Aamer would be should his sexual orientation come out in any Muslim country, let alone this one, she understood the urge to shout it anyway. Or at least to whisper it. After all, she'd grown up with her own insidious secrets. Her own dual identity as she'd struggled with what she could share and, more importantly, what she couldn't with her closest friends…including now, as an adult, with Gil and Mira.

  And, yes, even John.

  As for Aamer, the man finally sighed. He nodded firmly. "Yes. We were in love. Neither Stephen nor I expected it. And with our careers, perhaps we should have resisted. But we did not. We could not. And now—" The man fisted his palms as though for support as he swallowed hard, then continued. "—he is dead."

  "Do you know who killed him and why?"

  "No. But Stephen feared this outcome. He called me."

  "From Al Dhafra?"

  "Yes. He told me I should be prepared. That things were not as they seemed at the embassy. People were not as they seemed. He said that if something should happen to him, I was to take my wife and son and leave Pakistan. Disappear. He believed that soon it might not be safe here…for any
one. After you visited earlier, Inaya called me to tell me that Stephen was dead. I knew then that what he feared had come to pass. I begged Inaya to leave with me. I told her it would be safer for the boy if we left without him, appearing to abandon Danyal to my brother for a time. She told me she would consider my plans, so I went to my brother's house to begin to make the arrangements."

  Not only did the micro-expressions in Aamer's face back up his words, so had his actions this evening. According to the intel John had received via Ty, Aamer had followed up his bank appointment with a visit to his brother's house. His older brother's house.

  That relationship was everything to a Pakistani man.

  Aamer's nod confirmed it. "Imran is the head of our family. I wanted him to understand why we would be disappearing, to assure him that it was not my choice…and ask that he and my sister care for my son in my stead and to find a way to send Danyal to us once he was well. My brother agreed. I left the hospital again a short while ago and returned to my brother's home to complete the arrangements and to sign the necessary papers so that he could make medical and financial decisions for my son."

  Except Aamer was here, not finalizing those arrangements. Especially with the riots and the rest of Brandt's prediction playing out.

  "Mr. Sadat, why did you return to the hospital?"

  Aamer's palms came up as he sighed. "Danyal. Though I did not father him, he is my son. I thought I could do as Stephen requested. But while I trust my brother, I find I cannot go without Danyal. And, now, with this new illness that has befallen him, Inaya will not leave him either—and I cannot abandon her. You must understand; Inaya and I grew up in the same village. She knows what I am, yet she married me anyway. It is true; her family was poor, so they asked no questions. But she knew I must have a wife to have the job I wanted. She has been the best of companions. And so, when she fell in love, I did not stand in her way, just as she did not stand in mine. All I asked was that she be discreet and not leave me. Given her lover's career, and his family connections and obligations, she knew Crier would not want more than the affair. Danyal was a blessing both of us would have once her lover—and mine—moved on."