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

Shit.

"What's wrong?"

Mira held up the photo, drawing Jerry's attention to the impressive diamond on the woman's left ring finger as the ME cut the second scarf from their victim's wrist. The JAG's swollen fingers came into view as the ME drew her arm down from the headboard.

The rings matched.

Disappointment bit in as Mira realized she'd lied to Ramsey on the phone earlier, albeit unwittingly. Not that it would matter. Nor would Riyad's procedural gaff. She'd lost this case all on her own and not because of what she'd done right here and now—but because of what she hadn't done…seven years ago.

"Mir?"

"She got married."

"Who?" Jerry jerked his chin toward the victim. "Captain Corrigan?"

Mira nodded.

"That a problem?"

And then some. "You remember the kid that damned near killed your first career?"

"Yeah?"

Mira stared at the obscenely mutilated body on the bed. "This is the woman that obliterated mine."

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Choke Point

Book 4 in the Deception Point Military Thriller Series

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Book 1 in the Hidden Valor

Military Veterans Suspense Series

Chapter 1

Soft. Cold. Wet.

Wrong.

Kate jerked away from the insistent jabbing at her neck and jackknifed to her feet, instinctively reaching for the 9mm strapped to her thigh twenty-four/seven as she clawed through the sleep still clogging her brain.

The SIG Sauer was missing.

Along with its holster.

Confusion seared in, her pounding pulse skyrocketing as she spun around to search the tan, battle-worn canvas of her Army cot. Bright blue sheets greeted her instead.

How—? Why—?

Where?

Kate shook her head, fighting the fog. The growing panic. A muted whine filtered through her scrambled thoughts. Reality joined in.

Ruger.

The German Shepherd was on the far side of the bed—her bed. Her house. Seven thousand miles from that sweltering hell.

Evidently not far enough.

She pulled the crisp, early-morning Arkansas air deep into her lungs. It didn't help. Her heart continued to slam against her ribs. Worse, the gray Braxton Police tee she'd donned the night before was plastered to her torso, saturated with that distinctive blend of salt and fear.

Night terror. She hadn't had one in weeks. Before that, almost a year.

So much for progress.

Kate sank onto the clammy sheets, automatically reaching for the dive watch strapped to her wrist. Max's watch. It was like having a piece of him, still with her. Sometimes—if she was lucky—it was enough. She turned the oversized band around and around, drawing strength from the familiar friction as she attempted to drag the ghostly impressions into the cold light of day. It was no use; they'd evaporated. She had no idea which of her many demons had taken fresh delight in plaguing her nights. But for once, she knew why they'd appeared.

Grant. The man just couldn't leave well enough alone, could he?

As much she was loath to admit it, it was probably time to end things. She'd miss Grant's company, yes. The occasional, no-strings-attached sex they shared filled a void too. But no one—old friend and fellow combat vet or not—was worth the suffocating sludge that had been churned up from her gut.

Even now, less than five minutes into her spanking new, God-Bless-America day, it threatened to swamp her.

As if he sensed her thoughts, Ruger padded around the bed, his questioning whimper filling the room—her—as he tucked his muzzle into her lap. Kate released the watch and wrapped her arms around the dog, burying her face in Ruger's fur as she pulled him closer. There she remained, clinging to the German Shepherd's solid, familiar warmth until, finally, the band on her chest began to loosen...and the sludge began to ebb.

She stared into those soulful brown eyes as she straightened. "No, buddy; I'm not leaving you."

How could she?

Canine or not, Ruger was the only one who understood. He was there for her—had been there for her—for three years now. Strong. Steady. Best of all, silent. He didn't ask questions, much less demand answers. He simply loved. In a strange way, saving Ruger's life had given her own meaning. Purpose. There were days—weeks, even—when focusing on his needs was the only thing that got her through.

Ruger whined on cue.

She ruffled his ears. "I know—time to go outside."

His tail thumped against her old oak dresser as he backed away from the bed to give her room to stand.

"Just let me turn on the shower, okay?"

The thumping increased as Kate followed Ruger out of the room where she'd spent her high school years. She passed the sealed door to her father's room, still unable to use his bath, let alone commandeer the master bed. Perhaps if she'd come home sooner—if she'd had a chance to say goodbye—it would've been easier to fill his proverbial shoes, in and out of the police station. Or not.

Kate paused in the hall bathroom to turn on the shower, then headed for the kitchen to unlatch the dog door. She still couldn't sleep without securing it at night. Fortunately, Ruger didn't seem to mind. She waited for him to push through the flap, then headed for the shower, taking care to avoid that damning reflection in the bathroom mirror.

Twenty minutes later, she felt almost human. The fresh Braxton PD tee helped. Her hair was still damp, but the sweat had been scrubbed away. If only she'd succeeded in rinsing the lingering muck down the drain as well.

Unfortunately, she could still feel it, simmering low, ready to slosh up at a moment's notice.

Damn Grant Parish and his relentless slicing. Though he'd chosen a psychological scalpel, she'd have thought the surgeon in him would've operated with more patience and finesse.

Kate retrieved her coffee tin and scooped a generous serving of grounds into the filter of her machine. As breakfast began to perk, she scraped her shoulder-length hair into a ponytail, then headed out to the rustic porch her father had added to the