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

bout with that chimera. Naturally, I'll need to clear the deal with my chain of command. But until then, I can offer up something else. Think of it as a good-faith swap."

Fire sparked within that stare once more as he straightened up from the steel bar. This glint was born of suspicion. "And what precisely do we…swap?"

"Oh, nothing too painful. Just another name." One that should be significantly easier for him to cough up. But one that would begin to break down his resistance and also provide her with a litmus test of sorts to verify his level of truthfulness. "You give me the name of the Russian operative who provided the chimera…and I'll tell you why the major and his staff sergeant were already immune back in Charikar."

The creaking of the ship returned full force, overtaking the silence that followed. Then again, it could have easily been a result of her nerves.

The Army needed this name too.

And she needed this first step from him…toward the potential for more.

The pipes and ductwork in the overhead grew louder, oddly enhanced by the sound of the watertight scuttle handle being spun open at the top of the ladder in the outer compartment. Boots clipped down the metal steps, though not as loudly as hers had when she'd arrived via a separate entrance earlier. Whoever that was, they were trying to be quiet.

Riyad?

If it was the spook, she didn't give a damn how stealthy his approach. If he stuck his face in here against her direct order and blew this moment—

"Agreed."

Relief swept in. It was twofold. Because of the answer—and the glimpse she'd caught of the form that rounded the bottom of the ladder.

That wasn't Riyad. It was Chief Yrle.

Even better, from the brief nod the woman tipped her way just fading into the shadows of the outer compartment, Yrle had news about the postmortem.

It was a go—and soon.

Regan shifted her full attention to the doctor. "Well?"

"Aleksi Skulachev. I believe he obtained the chimera from his father who works at Bioprepart, but that will be up to you to verify…somehow."

Oh, she'd manage just fine. Because not only had the deputy chief of the Russian biological warfare agency defected to the States back in '92, he was still hooked in through another Bioprepart scientist who was currently contemplating a permanent stateside change of scenery as well. Within hours of her passing that name to Palisade, they'd know if she could trust the rest of this bastard's answers.

"Thank you." She reached out to scoop up all but that final photo, tucking them into her manila folder as she stood.

The fists returned. "You cannot leave now!"

"I'm sorry, but I must. I have a meeting to attend." One where the guest of honor would be silent…and lying on a slab.

Durrani's snarl overtook the rhythmic creaking as he attempted to come to his feet as well—and failed. "I knew—"

"Relax, Doctor. I have every intention of holding to my side of the bargain. As for Major Garrison and Staff Sergeant Tulle, the men are alive today for two reasons. The first involves a vaccine that was developed by scientists at Fort Detrick to combat another nasty creation by Bioprepart. The second involves a preexisting immunity to a rather common childhood illness in my county, and I suspect yours."

"And you and the other soldiers who were not immune prior to your exposure?" Tension eased from the man's body as he sank back into his chair. "How were you treated?"

She retrieved the final photo as she shrugged. "Now you're getting into all the medical mumbo jumbo I mentioned. If you want a crack at the mumbo jumbo and my medical records—" She folded the photo lengthwise. Stepping around the table, she lifted the flap of the right upper pocket of the man's coveralls and tucked the photo within. ''—you're going to have to cough up this woman's name. And you'd better be able to prove it. Now, if you don't mind, I really must leave." She had a flight to make.

An autopsy to attend.

One last chance to find something, anything, that would save John's life—or at the very least, mitigate his coming sentence.

Unfortunately, miracles were about as common in her world as a welcomed Christmas present from Santa Claus himself.

10

Regan stared across the belly of the CH-53E, focusing on the distant chunk of metal barely visible through the Super Stallion's portside window. To think, she was named after the same person as that aircraft carrier, the USS Ronald Reagan.

Irony didn't escape her.

But was it a good omen…or bad?

She'd lost count of the number of autopsies she'd attended over the years, but one thing was certain. Add them all together, and the result didn't come close to equaling the level of ice-cold dread she felt over this coming one.

How the hell was she going to do this—and remain impartial?

Unfortunately, she didn't have a choice. They were still in the middle of the Arabian Sea. There was no one else.

Not if she wanted the job done right.

She'd managed to distract herself from her chaotic and admittedly conflicting emotions during her interview with Durrani. But the reprieve had only lasted so long. Once she'd left the brig, the desperation had returned, and it was damned near debilitating now. Upon boarding the Super Stallion, she'd donned the hearing protection the crew chief had provided and promptly sunk into the nearest webbed seat to close her eyes and shut out the entire world as she allowed herself to wallow in the excoriating inevitability of where this helicopter was headed…and what she would be forced to do upon her return to the Griffith.

John.

He'd all but told her he was relieved the case was hers. He truly wanted her to be the one to record those damning witness statements, examine the crime scene, attend the translator's postmortem, fill in the charge sheet…and finally, formally, inform him of his present—and future—all-but-nonexistent rights and freedom.

It didn't help to have his blessing. Not one damned bit.

Nor did the stare from