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

Durrani didn't bother looking up as she walked around the table to stand beside the empty chair. She knew full well the open Qur'an and that rapt, pious pose were for show. There was no way Vetter would've been shuttling in here every two minutes to turn the pages. And that was a task the doc had long since lost the ability to accomplish on his own. His wrists were neatly cuffed to the security bar suspended several inches above his lap and just past the edge of the table; the Qur'an wasn't. Due to the ship's motion, the book and its eye-straining print had inched all the way across the table. Another good roll or two, and the Qur'an would be landing on her boots.

"Am I interrupting? I can always return tomorrow."

She knew his answer. As did he.

Still, the doc waited for several moments, then glanced up as if he'd just finished reading a lengthy passage and politely shook his head. "Not at all, Agent Chase. I have been biding my time and my patience with the words and wisdom of Allah."

Yeah, she doubted that.

Had that print been larger or the book closer, she still wouldn't have bought it. Not when this man had clearly managed to skip over most of the words in that tome. Particularly those pertaining to understanding, coexistence and peace.

"Would you like me to move the Qur'an to your rack?"

"No, but thank you."

She shifted her attention past Durrani's head, toward the entrance to the cell where Vetter was patiently marking time. Riyad had ceased pacing. He stood well behind the Marine and to his left, watching.

She ignored the spook in favor of the Marine. "Go ahead and enjoy your coffee, Corporal."

"Ma'am, I'm not sure if you're aware—"

"Of the incident earlier? I am. And I'll be fine. I can take care of myself, even when I'm the one who starts out cuffed." The placid glance she flicked across the table rivaled Durrani's. It landed on that three-inch pink scar. She'd assumed it would look better without the stitches. It didn't. He really should've waited until the corpsman had applied that cream before he'd taken out his temper on the woman. "Right, Doc?"

Durrani's smile held. Barely.

Vetter's deepened. "Yes, ma'am. I heard that about you." He tipped his head toward the duty desk as he backed out of the cell. "I'll be right here if you need me."

"Sure thing." But she wouldn't.

Nudging the Qur'an into a less precarious location, she set her manila folder on the table and seated herself in the only remaining chair. Since her favorite recorder was running low on power, she retrieved her phone and switched on her backup recording app, quickly running through the standard who, what, when, where and why.

The formalities out of the way, she leaned back, taking in the full measure of the remainder of those deceptively tranquil features seated across from her, just as their owner took in hers.

"I trust your meeting went well, Agent Chase."

"It did. Thank you."

"And your flights? Were they uneventful?"

She nudged a slight curve to her lips. "What makes you think I left the ship?"

"Please, I am not a stupid man."

True. But he was arrogant. And worried.

It was in his hands.

They'd been decidedly loose and relaxed during their previous meeting. They weren't now. Oh, his shackled wrists were resting on that steel bar lightly enough. But his palms were pressed a bit too closely together. His index fingers were also steepled toward her, with his remaining digits knitted up as if ready for prayers.

Except, Muslims didn't pray like that. Sunnis or Shias.

And their fingers generally weren't taut.

The doc was worried. About Hachemi. About the current state of the translator's potentially precarious health. About what his cohort had and hadn't given up today. And, more importantly, to whom Hachemi might or might not have not given it.

In light of everything that had happened aboard this ship since she'd arrived, and everything Durrani had to have overheard, she was fairly certain the man believed the CIA had finally been called in. That she'd taken his cohort to another ship to be "questioned". And since Durrani hadn't seen John or Agent Riyad all day either, he probably assumed the men were with the translator, assisting in his "questioning".

"So, where are your two friends this evening?"

And that confirmed it.

"Oh, here and there."

"And how is my friend?"

She shrugged. "He's been better."

She refined her assessment as the knit to those fingers tightened. Yeah, the doc was definitely worried. But not for his cohort. In fact, Durrani didn't give a damn about Hachemi. He was concerned for himself.

Durrani believed he was next.

She offered the bastard her first sincere smile of the day. "I understand you've been anxious to speak with me."

"I would not use the word anxious."

Yeah, she'd received the reports from Chief Yrle and Corporal Vetter. Heard the bellowing over that sound-powered phone herself. "I would."

He matched her shrug. "I have been…concerned about you."

"Concerned?" Now there was a first.

But he nodded solemnly. "Indeed. For many reasons."

Many?

Why not? She had the rest of the night.

She bit. "And those are?"

He tipped his head toward the manila folder. The one she'd tucked in front of her to keep it from sliding onto the deck. "How is your hand?"

For once the appendage in question complied with her will and remained motionless. Thank God. "It's fine."

"And the tremors?"

What the hell. He might be the devil incarnate, but he was also a Harvard-educated physician. It wasn't as though he wouldn't know. Plus, he'd been playing with that diabolical psycho-toxin for a while, recording his observations and his notes. The ones they'd found in that safe house in Charikar, and others they might not have.

"They come and go."

This nod was sage, compassionate even. So much so, she might've actually believed he felt the emotion behind it…had she not seen the photos of those pregnant women and their innocent babies in all their mutilated horror. Walked that cave where it had all gone down. Dodged