Backblast, Candace Irving [i love reading books .TXT] 📗

the shitholes they end up sending us to. Hell, sometimes relaxed grooming standards are the only perk."

Oh, she was lucky, and about a lot more than just that cultivated scruff. But speaking of SF, "I need you to work with me when we get back. On the range."

His fingers came up, hooking beneath her chin once more, lifting it. "I told you I spoke to Tulle. You did not cause this. In fact, you saved my life. Twice."

"So he said." And, yes, she would be grateful to her rattling arm for the rest of her life. But if that rattle planned on coming and going when she was exhausted and/or under stress, she'd have to learn how to work around it. Immediately.

Because the next time, things might not turn out so well.

And that, she would not allow. "I need to qualify with my left hand—just in case."

He nodded. "The range it is. Though that's gotta be the strangest place to spend a honeymoon."

True. But they wouldn't be spending their nights there.

That thought had slipped through his mind too, as evidenced by his returning twinkle. He opened his mouth to say something when her phone rang.

John reached out and snagged the phone instead, passing it to her.

She didn't recognize the number. "Agent Chase."

"Hey, Prez."

Jelly? She knew all his numbers, including his wife's. Had he gotten a new phone? "Thanks for getting back to me, but I don't think—"

"You've got reason to be concerned."

"What?" About the spook? "Just a second." She glanced up at John. "You remember Agent Jelling from Hohenfels?"

John nodded.

"I texted him when you went to take a shower at the Serena. Asked him to poke around, see what Riyad was doing when we were in that parking lot." She shifted the phone back to her ear. "Jelly, I'm with Major Garrison. Can I put you on speaker?"

"Might as well. This concerns you both."

She clicked the phone over. "We're here."

"So, as I was saying. I think you both have reason to be concerned about Riyad. As requested, I did some digging as to the man's whereabouts on a certain date."

"Are you saying he was there?" In that parking lot, listening to them?

"No idea. All I know is Riyad was not stateside, because I tracked him leaving on an off-the-books flight out of Langley the day before. And, get this: my poking raised a serious flag. As in, admiral level. I got a call a few minutes ago. The Big Bubble himself."

"Kettering called you? Why?"

"To tell me to stop poking around and to keep my fucking mouth shut about anything I might have come across during my initial search…up to and including chatting about the matter with General Palisade. Anyway, that's all I got. And all I'm likely to get. Sorry, but I got my wife and kid to consider."

"I know. For what it's worth, I'm sorry I asked."

"Don't be. You didn't know. But don't memorize this number, Prez. I'll be ditching this phone just as soon as I hang up. Bye."

She stared at her own phone as Jelly severed the call that had been made from what she now realized was a burner, then looked up at John.

Holy shit.

Webber.

The name ripped through her gut. Somehow, whatever Jelly had just accidentally stepped into on her behalf was connected to the former, dirty SEAL.

And Sam Riyad.

But there was more. There had to be. Why else was Admiral Kettering shutting everyone else out—including General Palisade?

"John, what the hell is going on?"

Both his arms came up, locking firmly around her, as if to protect her. Something that, given who appeared to be involved in all this, might not be possible. "I have no idea. But we will be finding out."

Damned straight they would.

The only question was, who would be left standing once they did?

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Deception Point Military Thriller?

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Book 4 in the Deception Point Military Thriller Series

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Book 4 in the Deception Point Military Thriller Series

Prologue

He should've killed himself when he had the chance.

A bullet to the brain, a makeshift noose about his neck—hell, even standing hip-deep in water and smashing his fist into a light socket. Anything would have been preferable to this. Definitely quicker. His left leg was broken. At least, he was pretty sure. He'd lost count of the number of times that goddamn iron pipe had slammed into his shins, but he was fairly certain he'd felt the bone crack a minute ago.

Or was that an hour?

How long had he been dangling from his wrists inside this sweltering box?

Days? Weeks?

Months?

He no longer knew. All he knew was the pain. He welcomed it. It gave him something to concentrate on in place of their incessant questions.

One of the bastards was at his ear again, the man's foul breath spilling over his face. If only the fucker would whale that pipe into his stomach instead of his kidneys for a change. He just might be able to puke on him. He settled for second best. Gathering the saliva he'd hoarded, he spewed it into that yammering mouth. Too bad his eyes were swollen shut. What he'd give to see the turd's expression.

He felt it instead as another rib went the way of his shin. He inhaled sharply, then wished to heaven he hadn't.

Breathe!

Can't. Goddamn it, he'd lost a lung. No, wait—it was there. Merely collapsed, the air knocked halfway to Mecca.

The haji was in his face again. Taunting. "Save yourself, kafir. No one else will. Surely not Allah."

It was true. He had no illusions. They'd been shattered long before his leg and his ribs. Nor would God—this asshole's or anyone else's—deign to help. When push came to shove, the good Lord couldn't be bothered to save his own son.

No, it was up to him. And her.

Time.

It was all he had left to offer. To her and his country. He'd be damned if he'd held on this long, only to blow it now.

"This is the