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

God only knew where the bastard was headed. Nor did she think Webber would have entrusted his remaining plans to Scott. He hadn't with Durrani.

But Hachemi?

The translator must have known something.

Hachemi had worked with John and his men in Afghanistan. Had he worked with Webber and the SEALs, as well? Was that where they'd find the nexus between the two?

Because it did exist—somewhere. Why else had Webber gone to such lengths to murder the man once it looked as though Hachemi was willing to make a deal?

"As much fun as this has been, I'm done talking, Prez."

She nodded. This really wasn't the place for this anyway. Or the time.

She'd done her damned job. She could take a minute to sit down and curl up on that couch and stare at those empty sheets until they were filled with the only man she wanted to see right now. Yes, Webber was still out there.

But Riyad was on the hunt.

She'd have to leave it to him. At least for today. Especially since the AWOL senior chief was firmly within NCIS' jurisdiction, and not CID's—and hers.

"Staff Sergeant Tulle, switch the cuffs to Agent Walburn's front. Fold his suit jacket over his hands and get that bastard out of here—quietly." While she didn't give a buck private's ass about preserving Scott's dignity, "We don't need any more attention focused on the embassy or its employees today." She tipped her head toward the coffee table across the room. "I'd also appreciate it if you'd take my laptop and kit with you and hit up the RSO's hospitality one more time." Now that she'd closed her case, at least this part of it, "I'd rather they were locked up while I'm here…distracted."

She finally turned back around to address a surprisingly subdued Jeffers while Tulle followed through on her instructions. "You're driving them." Because he was not staying here with her.

For once, the asshole didn't argue.

Within minutes, save for her and her gnawing personal terror, the room was empty.

Desperate to kill the quiet that had set in, she returned her call to Palisade and filled the general in on Scott, then hung up and made several more calls to arrange for someone from the Shifa's morgue to pick up Tom Crier's body. Since the embassy had no way to store it, Crier would remain here in the basement of the hospital until Colonel Tarrington finished with his suicide in Bahrain and made his way to Islamabad.

Given everything else she had left to do to wrap things up, she'd still be around to view the postmortem.

The morgue tasking finally checked off, she phoned Fort Campbell's Blanchfield Community Hospital next and spoke with Gil.

During this call, she discovered that although Fort Detrick's makeshift chimeral cure wasn't due to land at Islamabad International for hours yet, the baby upstairs in this very hospital was holding his own. Danyal had also already been given half of the treatment Gil had used on her, including the varicella vaccine and a course of acyclovir. Gil was hopeful. While Danyal was woefully young, the infant brain was more resilient in many ways than adult ones. All they could do was wait.

As for her, she needed to hang in there. Gil had spoken with the surgical section of the Shifa, too. John should be out of surgery soon.

She just needed to be patient.

The admonishment in mind, Regan severed her second call and sank onto the couch to endure the most painful wait of her life. Just when she was ready to venture out to find the surgical section of which Gil had spoken, there was a tap on her door.

"Come in!"

She sprang up from the couch and headed across the room, anxious to greet her visitor, only to realize it wasn't Sitara Chaudhry…it was her husband.

She returned the chief justice's traditional greeting, grateful she'd re-donned the now thoroughly crushed dupatta after her shower. This was one man who did not deserve slighting, however unintentionally. "Sir, I—"

"Harun, please. We are friends, no?"

That, they were. "Yes. Please call me Regan—or Rae."

Heck, this man and his wife could call her whatever they wanted. The two could also call on her for the rest of her life.

She'd be there, ready to assist, very few questions asked.

"My wife phoned me. Your husband's surgery is complete. He is in recovery now, and they should be bringing him to your room shortly. All went very well. Most importantly, I am to tell you that a graft was not required."

Oh, thank God.

Both her hands trembled along with her entire body as the relief seared in. "Thank you so much for letting me know." But as to that misconception of his, the one she'd accidentally perpetuated with the rings she still bore, "I need to tell you, though. I'm not—that is…Major Garrison and I, we're not married." She held up her steadier hand. "These were necessary for our recent covers."

But Harun simply smiled and shook his head. "The formal ceremony will not be long in coming. For the major, he is already wed in his heart…as I suspect you are, as well. And from the brief exchanges my wife and I were honored to witness in your embassy conference room and after, there will be no going back, for either of you."

Yeah, she wasn't touching that one.

Not even with him.

But there was something else she needed to clear up. "I have another confession, too—well, a correction really. I've spoken with someone who saw the shot being set up. The one that injured John. The shooter, he wasn't aiming for you. I heard what you did for John and what you said this morning when you donated blood on his behalf. You deserve to know the truth."

This time the man shrugged. "Perhaps. But if this bullet had been fired at me, the major would have stepped in to shield me. So…no matter. We shall keep this to ourselves, yes?"

Leave it to a lawyer to split that hair.

This time, she smiled. Nodded.