Backblast by Candace Irving (brene brown rising strong .TXT) 📗

John's glower strengthened as he strode into the room, pausing at her side to take in the corpse still seated in the executive chair several feet away. His glower turned downright caustic as it moved on to the visible rattling of her arm.

He was about to say something about one or the other, when his gaze fell to the papers in her hand. "Is that—"

"The security review for Embassy Islamabad?" She reached into her pocket and retrieved the purple nitrile gloves she'd taken from the Shifa's ICU earlier that evening, passing them over. "You tell me. Is this as bad as Riyad and I think it is?"

John donned the gloves and accepted the sheaf of papers.

The curse that escaped as he flipped through the stack was filthier than Riyad's had been. "Yeah. These are the plans Webber and I worked on. And these—" John held up the smaller, stapled sheaf that had been tucked beneath. "—are copies of my personal notes concerning our contingency plans for securing Pakistan's nuclear arsenal."

Oh, Jesus.

Both Chaudhry and his son were definitely targets. Even if they weren't, she couldn't take the chance that Webber didn't have Colonel Chaudhry in his sights as well as the chief justice's. But was Webber simply trying to foment hate and discontent for the US within the colonel's mind and heart? Or was there something else going on? Something truly horrific, as suggested by the presence of John's notes?

If so, how the hell did they stop it?

John caught her glance. "Rae, you've got a visitor."

At the embassy?

Other than Palisade, Kettering and select members of the embassy staff, no one outside their team even knew she was in the city.

She glanced at her watch. It had taken her and Riyad longer than she'd thought to process the scene. All she had left was to test the Glock, and the envelope and papers for prints—and arrange for the disposition of Crier's body pending autopsy. "Who wants to see me at 0258 in the morning?"

"Chief Justice Harun Chaudhry and his wife are waiting in a conference room one floor down. I was near the back gate when their car pulled up. I called the ambassador, then escorted them inside and got them comfortable. Justice Chaudhry seems to think you're expecting them. He also said that he and his wife have seen the news, and now they want to hear what really happened to their daughter—from you."

She turned to Riyad.

He shrugged. "You told me to call Kettering. I called."

Yes, but she'd fully expected to go to Chaudhry. The man was here—at this hour? And with what was going on outside? And he'd brought his wife along? Then again, it wasn't as if the woman—or her husband—would be able to sleep. Nor was the unruly mob outside the gates a danger to the Chaudhrys.

At least, not yet.

Regan shoved Crier's hidden envelope at John so he could tuck the incendiary evidence back inside. If that was even possible—even with steady hands.

She headed for the wood-grained conference table and the plexiglass box containing the GSR field test results to give herself something to do while her brain continued to work through the latest developments.

As for the chemical one inside the plexiglass, that development was downright anticlimactic. The brown specks now staining the square of white cotton proved that Thomas Crier had indeed taken his own life in this very room, leaving the rest of them to clean up his personal and professionally traitorous shit.

"Rae?"

John had followed her to the table. She slipped the used GSR container into the evidence bag Riyad had already prepared and sealed it, as well as the one containing the Glock, then turned to face both men. Prints on the 9mm, as well as the envelope and papers, would have to wait. Not to mention her pending call to the local morgue. "Sam, I need you to swap out your NCIS cap for that SEAL one. You know better than anyone here how Webber operates. I think we'll all be better off if you head back to the security office to assist Maddoc." Based on what they'd found in that desk, the RSO and his men would need new contingencies, and fast. "Major Garrison will be with me…and the Chaudhrys."

"Agreed." The spook peeled off his gloves and shoved the latex into his pocket as he headed for the door. "I'll keep you posted."

"Ditto." She turned to John. "You were there in that cave when it went down. Trust me, they're going to want to hear from you, too. Don't leave anything out. And don't try to be vague or use euphemisms to spare their feelings. When I call on you, tell them exactly what happened. They've already seen the worst of it: the photo of their daughter's mutilated corpse. If you try and tone it down, they'll know. And that risks them believing we're not being honest about the rest of it."

And that they could not afford.

Frankly, John's testimony and the files on her laptop were all they had to go on, quite possibly all that stood between this country and hers…and war.

John glanced at Crier's body, shifting as he turned back, deliberately using that massive torso of his to shield her from the death scene he'd realized was uncannily similar to her mother's the moment he'd entered the office.

His fingers came up to smooth a strand of hair that had slipped out of her braid, tucking it back under the dupatta she hadn't even realized she'd forgotten to remove upon her return to the embassy.

So much for claustrophobic.

As for the compassion that had begun to simmer within John's stare, however… "Are you okay?"

She shrugged. Really, what else could she do?

"I have to be."

The glower he'd worn upon entering returned. She knew he wanted to argue with her, but he didn't. Nor could he. Because he knew she was right.

"How bad is it outside the gates?"

His sigh was dark. "Bad. And it's getting worse."

Somehow, she managed a smile. But it was stunted,