Backblast by Candace Irving (miss read books TXT) 📕

Nguyen over her lack of interest in his flirting, much less his arrest back in Charikar and present incarceration aboard the Griffith—and pending lengthier incarceration elsewhere.

Nor had the Afghan doc been obsessed with any coming "physical" questioning. There was no reason. He'd already decided on his out.

His new, impromptu plan would get him out of any manmade prison and send him straight to Paradise for his first face-to-feet with Allah—seventy-two virgins and a river of milk and honey included, or not. Either way, Durrani had bided his time, waiting until the last possible moment, and then he'd distracted the corpsman with panic and pain. If the corpsman had discovered the scissors' absence in her kit, she probably assumed she'd dropped them as she'd hurried back to sickbay.

Durrani had then used the ensuing commotion to hide the scissors inside his sleeve. He'd been praying over that Qur'an, all right. Praying that no one would notice that the modest blades were missing and circle back to his cell before he was ready to use them.

That was why he'd begun demanding her presence before she'd even made it back aboard the Griffith. He'd planned on ripping through his carotids and bleeding out in front of her all along. One last fuck you to the States—and her.

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