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

deaths was part of a sick, two-pronged terror plot to provide one hell of a stressor to allow an unknown biological warfare agent to kick in, decimating Captain Mendoza's Special Forces team by sending the infected soldiers home to their loved ones in the States as violent, hallucinating human IEDs—while simultaneously framing Captain McCord's SF team to take the fall for the cave slaughter.

Nabil Durrani—the Afghan-born, so-called physician responsible for the depraved plot—had hoped to translate the resulting frame into a renewed burst of hatred for all things American within the Islamic world, and especially within Pakistan. For who would fail to avenge the death of innocent Muslim children?

But if two of those infants were twins…

Regan leaned forward, needing the caffeine the general had provided more than ever. She took several scalding sips before returning the Styrofoam cup to the table as she voiced the only possibility that made sense given everything else she'd uncovered while working the case. "One of the women was never pregnant. At least, not during the murders."

Palisade nodded. "Yes. By the time the medical examiner had a chance to confirm that the mismatched mother from that cave showed signs of a late-term miscarriage and nothing more, you and the others had been kidnapped."

And then she'd been infected with the psycho-toxin. The moment she and John's men had taken down Durrani and his stooges in Afghanistan, she'd been medevacked back to the States where she'd succumbed to her own nasty bout of hallucinations—and, finally, coma. By the time she'd woken in the ICU across post, she was part of the crime. Durrani's latest victim. The case had been handed to someone else.

To whom, she still had no idea. Nor did it matter. Because, once again, the case belonged to her. That much she could see in the general's eyes.

Gil's parting words finally made sense.

As did her rapidly intensifying suspicion. "Do we know who she is? The woman with the mismatched twin?"

"No."

"What about the rest of the women?"

In lieu of answering, Palisade leaned forward. He dragged the accordion folder past her cup of coffee and flipped through the contents. He culled the crime scene close-ups of the victims' faces and splayed them across the coffee table. In each photo, the women's lashes were thrown wide, each vacant and glassy gaze offering testimony to the collective horror of their final seconds in that remote cave.

Regan pushed through her compassion as Palisade tapped the first picture. "Her name, you know."

She nodded. "Jameelah Khan." The local they'd discovered who'd once worked in the laundry on Bagram Airbase. Jameelah was also the mother of the massacre's sole surviving child…as well as the former, married lover of Captain McCord, the leader of the SF team framed for the murders. That Jameelah's child had been fathered by an American soldier had sealed McCord's fate—and his team's—in Durrani's eyes.

Palisade tapped a callused finger over five more crime scene photos. "We've identified these women as well. You were right—Durrani trolled for his victims while volunteering at the Malalie Maternity Hospital in Kabul. Agent Castile assumed lead on the case following your exposure to the psycho-toxin. Castile was able to uncover evidence that proves these women were also patients of Durrani at Malalie. Their names are now in the file."

Regan nodded. She leaned forward as well, tapping the final photograph. "And this one? Are we even close to identifying her?"

But she knew.

"No. And, yes, she's the woman who never carried a fetus to term. Miscarriage or not, there's no connection to Malalie. Not one Agent Castile has been able to unearth."

"What about Durrani? I assume he's been interrogated?"

Palisade nodded.

And, again, Regan knew. Nothing had come of those interrogations in the thirteen days they'd had the bastard in custody. There was something else in the general's stare. An odd, almost palpable mix of hesitation and anger.

"What's wrong?"

For a split second the anger intensified, then it was gone. Masked. "Durrani. He knows you survived the psycho-toxin. An interrogator let it slip."

For a moment she, too, was pissed.

How the hell did a trained interrogator just let something slip? Especially something as crucial as the survival of a detainee's intended, final victim?

That was information best held close to an interrogator's chest, deliberately tossing it out onto the table when, and only when, it was likely to yield maximum effect and gain. But from Palisade's expression, they'd gained absolutely nothing.

Then again—

Just like that, her fury fled. She could feel the tug of an honest-to-God grin curving her lips as she sat back in the chair. Her first in nearly a week. She allowed the grin to deepen as the thrust of the confrontation she and Durrani had shared in that darkened bathroom set in.

"I bet he's livid."

Palisade returned her grin and raised her a hearty chuckle. "Oh, that he is." A moment later, the man sobered.

His hesitation returned.

Regan suppressed a sigh. What was it with officers?

They just couldn't seem to impart what they perceived as negative news, at least not cleanly. "Sir, just spit it out."

Respect edged out the pique in the man's faded blue stare. Palisade's own, deeper sigh escaped. "Durrani wants to speak to you. In fact, he's demanding it."

Okay, not negative news. Not to her.

Still, there was no way the Army would let her meet with Durrani, alone or otherwise. Much as she craved a second face-to-face with the perverted shitbag, Gil was right. Durrani had murdered her fellow CID agent. And then the good doctor had injected her with that charming chimeral virus he'd gotten off the Russians—personally.

There was no way her CID chain of command or the lawyers in the Judge Advocate General's Corps would sanction a meeting.

Or would they?

Palisade shifted in his seat as Regan let the silence stretch out, waiting.

Watching.

And there it was. The evidence she sought had moved down the general's weathered features and into the slight but unmistakable clenching of his jaw. The man hadn't spilled everything he'd come to say.

Even better, just as surely as she was certain she needed to