Backblast by Candace Irving (miss read books TXT) 📕

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 Agent 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