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

this case day in and day out from the moment Garrison came aboard, he might've gotten results. Tamir Hachemi would still be alive—and we'd have the names of that blasted traitor. The real one."

She reached out and snagged the voice recorder she hadn't bothered to turn off when Brandt left. Nor did she have any intention of turning it off now.

Not until the spook left.

"Now, Agent Riyad, you are right about one thing. It's time for me to do my job. I'm headed down to the brig to interview Dr. Durrani. You are not invited. Not even to stop in to let me know the ship is sinking. Furthermore, you will not speak to Durrani again until I am finished with him. Have I made myself clear?"

His final nod was clipped.

Curt.

"Excellent. While I'm in the brig with that bastard, make yourself useful for a change. Get an update on the medical examiner's flight to that carrier, as well as the autopsy. If they've managed to move up the time, pass the info to Chief Yrle. She can inform me."

Like it or not, she had one more job to accomplish before she departed the Griffith for good.

Unless a miracle occurred during that autopsy and exculpating evidence came to light, she was going to have to charge John with murder.

9

By the time she'd reached the brig, Nabil Durrani was already seated at a small rectangular table in the center of an otherwise bare holding cell.

Tucking the folder she'd prepared in Chief Yrle's office beneath her arm, Regan paused just outside the cell to study that dark, sleek profile and the deceptive bastard that came with it. Yet another pretty boy. One who risked pissing her off a helluva lot more than the one she'd recently sparred with in her stateroom.

Then again, Riyad might be a grade-A asshole who still had her fantasizing about emptying her SIG into his backside, but at least the spook didn't cause her skin to crawl.

Not like this one did.

The shalwar kameez Durrani had been wearing when they'd last met was gone. The black silk pants and tunic had been replaced by a set of the sturdy, dark blue coveralls she'd seen on several of the Griffith's sailors since her arrival. Durrani didn't appear fazed by the downgrade in attire or his spartan surroundings, much less the prospect of yet another grilling. If anything, the Afghan doc appeared excited, expectant even, as he watched Staff Sergeant Brandt use a set of steel cuffs to lock his wrists to the security bar, which ran parallel to the interrogation table, a few inches from its edge.

Durrani knew she was aboard the ship.

Had the Marine informed him?

Either way the element of surprise was gone.

She bit back her irritation and stepped over the bottom lip of metal at the base of the oval, watertight doorway as Brandt pocketed his cuff key.

Given everything Durrani had done, she'd have enjoyed shackling the bastard to the table herself.

No matter. Their coming chat wasn't about revenge. Hell, it wasn't even about those pregnant women who'd been slaughtered in that cave, much less the soldiers and wives who'd lost their lives to that demonic psychological warfare agent. Nor was it about her old mentor and fellow CID agent's death.

It was about the deaths she was here to prevent. The ones she suspected would put the doc's current toll of victims to shame if she couldn't discover the identity of that final, not pregnant woman in time to prevent the remainder of his plot from unfolding.

Regan focused on that need as she pushed everything else that had happened these past few weeks aside, including the events of this morning—and, yes, John too.

It was the only way she could do this.

She nodded to Brandt as he approached her. "I'll take it from here, Staff Sergeant. Go ahead and post yourself in the outer compartment with Corporal Vetter."

Instead of complying, Brandt stared at her.

For a moment, she thought the Marine was about to suggest that he remain inside the cell for whatever reason he could think of. In light of what had happened in the ship's conference room that morning—and that Brandt had been unable to prevent those events—she forgave the silent insubordination. But she did insist.

"I'll be fine. We both will."

"Yes, ma'am. I'll leave the door open, in case you need me."

She wouldn't. But she took pity on the Marine's nerves and nodded.

The moment Brandt cleared the lip of metal, she crossed the compartment and rounded the short end of the table to face the remaining occupant square on.

"Good evening, Agent Chase. How kind of you to visit."

The smooth smile that curved those downright sensual lips was identical to the one the doc had offered her back in the bathroom of his terror safe house in Charikar two short weeks ago. Only here, now, the effect was marred somewhat by the fresh bump high on his nose, as well as the fading yellow and green bruise surrounding it—and, of course, the three-inch crescent-shaped scar that rode along the ridge of bone that formed the man's left cheek. The scar that still bore stitches due to complications.

A bump, bruise and scar that she'd put there.

She smiled back. "Hello, Doctor. How could I resist? That was quite an invitation you extended via my chain of command. I understand you have something to say to me?"

He ignored her question as he tipped his head toward the empty chair opposite his. "Please, do have a seat. I would stand to assist as manners dictate, but—" The cuffs clicked against the steel bar suspended above his lap, momentarily overtaking the steady thrum of shifting metal that surrounded them as he lifted his wrists in lieu of explanation. "However, if my wearing these helps to put you at ease, who am I to protest?"

"Really, Doctor. If I remember correctly, the last time we spoke, I was wearing a pair of those and you weren't. Though not for long."

That irritating smile was slightly less smooth