Backblast by Candace Irving (miss read books TXT) 📕

"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 interrogators 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