Backblast

by Candace Irving

  The man's smile managed to cling to his lips—barely. "If this is all the damage I suffer at the infidel's hand, I shall consider myself fortunate. After all, not all who enter your country's custody have fared so well, yes?"

  Abu Ghraib?

  If so, there was no need to try and shame her with an oblique allusion or even a direct reference to that heinous debacle. She had no illusions. Not all her fellow soldiers were as fair and honorable during the heat of battle as she'd like, much less in the quieter, more subdued moments before and after—especially during those moments that were well out of eye and earshot of the rest of the troops. It was why she had a job. Her own set of Army-honed, mission-oriented skills.

  Unfortunately, the impetus of that remark hadn't been distant and sweeping. It was close and intimate.

  Personal.

  She was certain when that dark stare shifted across the compartment, toward the 1MC speaker hanging in the corner of the overhead.

  "And how is my brother in Allah faring this evening?"

  For a moment, she wondered if Brandt truly had spoken out of turn, or even Riyad or Corporal Vetter.

  But, no, the bastard seated two feet away might be a mass murderer and a terrorist, but he wasn't an idiot.

  Not only had Durrani graduated from Harvard medical school, he'd done so with honors, despite a rocky start during his undergrad years while he'd been fine-tuning his English. His later academic success wasn't surprising, since the man had also proven capable and cunning enough to steal a unit of blood donated by Captain McCord during a rare down moment at Bagram Airbase in Afghanistan months earlier. If another physician hadn't wondered about the absent plasma proteins in a forensics report, they might never have figured out that Durrani had frozen that stolen unit, only to thaw it out four weeks ago so he could plant McCord's blood inside that Pakistani cave during the murders.

  Someone that clever could easily have heard the announcement that ordered Riyad and the ship's doctor to the conference room shortly after her arrival and put the rest together.

  "Agent Chase?"

  She paused in the middle of retrieving her voice recorder. "Hmm?"

  "Do you require my assistance with Tamir? After all, I am a qualified physician."

  Now that was debatable, wasn't it? Especially since a physician's leading dictate was do no harm. Something at which this so-called physician had failed.

  Profoundly.

  "Thank you, but no." She set the recorder on the table beside her folder. "Doctor Mantia and his assistants have everything in hand." She didn't bother adding that the latter had included a master-at-arms petty officer with a body bag. "I am glad that you're in the mood to be helpful, though. You see, I have a lingering mystery regarding that cave. One I'd appreciate your assistance in solving."

  One of those sleek, dark brows rose.

  She leaned forward to switch the recorder on, offering up the standard who, what, when, why and where as she sat back in her chair.

  Initial legalities out of the way, she turned the manila folder around so he could view the contents as she opened it.

  "Ah, you've brought pictures. I presume they pertain to this…mystery of yours?"

  "They do." Regan tapped the uppermost one, suppressing the bile that churned up each and every time she viewed it and the succession of photos that followed. Namely, the close-ups of the slaughtered victims from that cave. "As you know, although Jameelah Khan was married to a man from Pakistan during the months that she worked at the laundry on Bagram Airbase, she was having an affair with Captain McCord. The child you sliced from her womb was his. As I'm sure you also know, Jameelah died as a result of the horror you inflicted on her. But her baby did not. She survived. The little girl will be heading to the States soon to live with her biological father, Captain McCord."

  "Pity."

  "That his child survived? Or that we discovered her parentage?"

  "Both." Those dark eyes remained as cold and emotionless as they had in that safe house as Durrani stared at the grisly eight-by-ten glossy. But his mouth didn't. His lips curved into a distinct, shit-eating smirk that took every ounce of restraint she possessed to ignore as he leaned back in his metal chair and shrugged—as much as those steel cuffs would allow. "Of course, there was always the risk the latter would come out."

  "Her parentage?"

  "Yes."

  "You're lying." She didn't need that sanctimonious smirk to know it either. It was the paternity itself. "After all, why go to the trouble of kidnapping Jameelah in the first place if you didn't want her daughter's true parentage to come out?"

  Another shrug, and another smirk.

  Good.

  She wanted them. Needed them.

  The more this man wallowed in his smug superiority, the greater the odds that she'd reach her goal before he caught onto it—and her. "I think Jameelah was crucial to your plans. It's the other women who weren't. After all, you simply reeled the remaining women in while you were making your rounds in Kabul when you volunteered at the Malalie Maternity Hospital. Once you identified a potential victim, you merely told her that you were worried about her baby. That she needed further tests. Tests her fundamentalist husband was likely to balk at. But not to worry—you would handle everything. At least, that's what one of my fellow CID agents discovered when he spoke with a nurse from Malalie." One who'd overheard Durrani with two of his victims. "The remaining women followed you out of the hospital to wherever you held them, before you drugged them and took them to that cave."

  The proverbial lambs to the slaughter.

  In their defense, why wouldn't they go? Durrani had been their doctor; they'd trusted him. And they'd paid with their lives.

  Along with those of their children.

  It took every shred of self-control she possessed to mask her rage as Regan lifted the photo of Jameelah from the folder to reveal the close-up of the woman beneath. This one was just as horrific as the first. "Zimal trusted you too. Along with Asali, Ilma, Yalina and Shaima."

  With each new photo, that goddamned smirk deepened.

  The bastard was getting off on the evidence of what he'd already done—along with his strengthening belief that she had no clue regarding the rest.

  Even better.

  She laid the corresponding photos out along the table, then tapped the final one. This close-up was of the woman they'd yet to identify.

  Regan waited.

  The rhythmic creaking of the surrounding metal grew louder in the silence that followed.

  Durrani finally broke it. "You have no name for that one, do you? This is your mystery."

  "Correct. It seems this woman wasn't a patient at Malalie. What's even more interesting is that she wasn't pregnant either. At least, not when she was murdered."

  "Really. You are certain of this?"

  "Hmm." She moved her hand back to the beginning of the line, tapping the second photo more forcefully than she'd intended to mask the sudden tremble in her fingers. "Forensics has since proven that Zimal was carrying twins. You placed one of Zimal's babies—" Control over her fingers reestablished, Regan returned them to that final, horrific photo. "—on this woman's corpse. After you'd mutilated her, of course."

  "Of course."

  His voice was still smooth. Controlled. That smirk still infesting the man's dusky features. But he couldn't take his eyes off that final photo.

  He was mesmerized.

  Utterly.

  She was right. That final victim's identity was crucial to whatever this bastard still had up his sleeve.

  "Who is she, Doctor?" And was her identity also connected to the traitor Agent Riyad was really seeking?

  That dark stare finally shifted. To her. It lingered on her face for several moments, then slid down her right arm. It stopped at her hand.

  Narrowed. Assessed.

  "You appear to be well, Agent Chase. Quite recovered from what must have been a difficult time in hospital…but you do have a slight tremor in your domin
ant hand. Of course, that tremor could be a simple manifestation of nerves over speaking with me. But given your general demeanor today and your self-assurance at our last meeting, I suspect not. Therefore, it must be related to your recent…illness. A lingering repercussion if you will. But is it permanent?"

  Shit.

  Then again, he'd changed the subject, not her. In doing so, he'd shown his own not-quite-steady hand. More importantly, he'd given her the confirmation she needed.

  That woman was the key.

  She smiled. "I am doing well. Thank you for noticing."

  "Perhaps you would care to…satisfy my curiosity?"

  "About my hand or the overall positive state of my health?"

  "The latter first, please. You must admit, it is…unexpected."

  Not to mention the reason she was here, aboard this ship.

  He wasn't just curious; the man was consumed.

  So much so, he'd played his best card to get her here. No surprise there. He'd injected an entire vial of that shit into her veins personally. She should be dead. And yet, as far as he could tell, here she was, sitting across from him, back in an American Army uniform with little more than a finger wiggle to show for it.

  He might have schooled those smooth, dusky features, but he couldn't kill the fire that was finally warming up that stare, until it was all but smoldering.

  He was dying to know why.

  That same burning professional need to know had been this man's downfall in Afghanistan, allowing her the time she'd needed to clear her head after she'd woken from that anesthetic gas and freed herself from those handcuffs. Only then, the twisted doc had been demanding to know why John and his fellow SF soldiers were still alive.

  Why be surprised that he'd risk everything for an answer about her health now? Because that was what it was going to take for him to get those answers.

  Everything.

  She shrugged. "Actually, the current state of my health's not all that unexpected. No offense, but I've got an outstanding doctor of my own. He's quite the miracle worker." Even if Gil had spent the past week pissing her off. "As you said, I'm good to go…along with several of the other men you injected that chimera into."

  That dark stare narrowed thoughtfully. "You mentioned Major Garrison's immunity in Charikar. And that of another…Sergeant Tulle."

  "I did. Major Garrison and Staff Sergeant Tulle are immune to the chimera. But I'm not. Or, rather, I wasn't…along with several others."

  That got his attention. "There are more survivors?" His fingers actually tightened to fists as he leaned all the way into the bar, just off the edge of the interrogation table. "How many survived? Did any succumb to coma? What course of treatment was administered to them while they were ill?"

  She waved her hand. "Oh, I don't know the particulars, Doctor. I'm just a simple criminal investigator. The explanation was all medical mumbo jumbo to me when I woke in the ICU. Of course, I can give you the layman's version—which, granted, won't amount to much. Or, I can give my doctor permission to initiate a ship-to-shore call and share all the gory details of my case with you. Heck, I'll even toss in a copy of my recent medical records for your lengthy perusal…for a name." She reached out and gently tapped the final photo that still lay between them. "Her name. You tell me who this woman is and I'll grant you full access to the documentation detailing my bout with that chimera. Naturally, I'll need to clear the deal with my chain of command. But until then, I can offer up something else. Think of it as a good-faith swap."

  Fire sparked within that stare once more as he straightened up from the steel bar. This glint was born of suspicion. "And what precisely do we…swap?"

  "Oh, nothing too painful. Just another name." One that should be significantly easier for him to cough up. But one that would begin to break down his resistance and also provide her with a litmus test of sorts to verify his level of truthfulness. "You give me the name of the Russian operative who provided the chimera…and I'll tell you why the major and his staff sergeant were already immune back in Charikar."

  The creaking of the ship returned full force, overtaking the silence that followed. Then again, it could have easily been a result of her nerves.

  The Army needed this name too.

  And she needed this first step from him…toward the potential for more.

  The pipes and ductwork in the overhead grew louder, oddly enhanced by the sound of the watertight scuttle handle being spun open at the top of the ladder in the outer compartment. Boots clipped down the metal steps, though not as loudly as hers had when she'd arrived via a separate entrance earlier. Whoever that was, they were trying to be quiet.

  Riyad?

  If it was the spook, she didn't give a damn how stealthy his approach. If he stuck his face in here against her direct order and blew this moment—

  "Agreed."

  Relief swept in. It was twofold. Because of the answer—and the glimpse she'd caught of the form that rounded the bottom of the ladder.

  That wasn't Riyad. It was Chief Yrle.

  Even better, from the brief nod the woman tipped her way just fading into the shadows of the outer compartment, Yrle had news about the postmortem.

  It was a go—and soon.

  Regan shifted her full attention to the doctor. "Well?"

  "Aleksi Skulachev. I believe he obtained the chimera from his father who works at Bioprepart, but that will be up to you to verify…somehow."

  Oh, she'd manage just fine. Because not only had the deputy chief of the Russian biological warfare agency defected to the States back in '92, he was still hooked in through another Bioprepart scientist who was currently contemplating a permanent stateside change of scenery as well. Within hours of her passing that name to Palisade, they'd know if she could trust the rest of this bastard's answers.

  "Thank you." She reached out to scoop up all but that final photo, tucking them into her manila folder as she stood.

  The fists returned. "You cannot leave now!"

  "I'm sorry, but I must. I have a meeting to attend." One where the guest of honor would be silent…and lying on a slab.

  Durrani's snarl overtook the rhythmic creaking as he attempted to come to his feet as well—and failed. "I knew—"

  "Relax, Doctor. I have every intention of holding to my side of the bargain. As for Major Garrison and Staff Sergeant Tulle, the men are alive today for two reasons. The first involves a vaccine that was developed by scientists at Fort Detrick to combat another nasty creation by Bioprepart. The second involves a preexisting immunity to a rather common childhood illness in my county, and I suspect yours."

  "And you and the other soldiers who were not immune prior to your exposure?" Tension eased from the man's body as he sank back into his chair. "How were you treated?"

  She retrieved the final photo as she shrugged. "Now you're getting into all the medical mumbo jumbo I mentioned. If you want a crack at the mumbo jumbo and my medical records—" She folded the photo lengthwise. Stepping around the table, she lifted the flap of the right upper pocket of the man's coveralls and tucked the photo within. ''—you're going to have to cough up this woman's name. And you'd better be able to prove it. Now, if you don't mind, I really must leave." She had a flight to make.

  An autopsy to attend.

  One last chance to find something, anything, that would save John's life—or at the very least, mitigate his coming sentence.

  Unfortunately, miracles were about as common in her world as a welcomed Christmas present from Santa Claus himself.

  10

  Regan stared across the belly of the CH-53E, focusing on the distant chunk of metal barely visible through the Super Stallion's portside window. To think, she was named after the same person as that aircraft carrier, the USS Ronald Reagan.

  Irony didn't escape her.

  But was it a good omen…or bad?

  She'd lost count of the number of autopsies she'd attended over the years, but one thing was certain. Add them all together, and th
e result didn't come close to equaling the level of ice-cold dread she felt over this coming one.

  How the hell was she going to do this—and remain impartial?

  Unfortunately, she didn't have a choice. They were still in the middle of the Arabian Sea. There was no one else.

  Not if she wanted the job done right.

  She'd managed to distract herself from her chaotic and admittedly conflicting emotions during her interview with Durrani. But the reprieve had only lasted so long. Once she'd left the brig, the desperation had returned, and it was damned near debilitating now. Upon boarding the Super Stallion, she'd donned the hearing protection the crew chief had provided and promptly sunk into the nearest webbed seat to close her eyes and shut out the entire world as she allowed herself to wallow in the excoriating inevitability of where this helicopter was headed…and what she would be forced to do upon her return to the Griffith.

  John.

  He'd all but told her he was relieved the case was hers. He truly wanted her to be the one to record those damning witness statements, examine the crime scene, attend the translator's postmortem, fill in the charge sheet…and finally, formally, inform him of his present—and future—all-but-nonexistent rights and freedom.

  It didn't help to have his blessing. Not one damned bit.

  Nor did the stare from the sanctimonious spook seated across the belly of this bird help her simmering mood. It didn't matter that she was still focused on the growing wedge of Navy steel that now filled the window beside him. She could feel his glare, as she had during the entire flight. From the tension gripping the upper ridges of the NCIS agent's shoulders, Riyad still believed she didn't want him tagging along.