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

focus. Especially when Regan added up Durrani's polite, yet insolent behavior with herself today and back in Charikar; his sneering attitude at Bagram Airbase with his fellow Afghan-born and professional equal, Dr. Soraya Medhi; as well as the bastard's flirtatious, then violent behavior with the ship's female corpsman earlier that evening. Together, they added up to an intriguing—and damning—hypothesis. And, given Tamir Hachemi's motive for drawing Captain McCord in their heinous plot, one that was seriously ironic.

"You were in love with her."

Durrani's entire body flinched. A split second later, those dusky features flushed until they nearly matched the pink of his scar, then bled all the way down to a pasty gray.

Pay dirt.

Her smile grew, the one pinned to her lips and the other one. The one she'd kept tightly reigned in and stored deep in her gut. The one that had been fueling this conversation of theirs for the past half an hour. For all his airs, Nabil Durrani wasn't so different from the cohort he'd sneered upon after all, now was he?

But the real reason for both those growing smiles? His flinch. With the distinctive tell had come something truly promising.

A lead.

She had a decent chance at uncovering their mystery woman's identity now. Because somewhere—in the US, in Pakistan, or in Afghanistan—there would be a record or a witness of Nabil Durrani and this woman, interacting.

Given the nature of the photo, she also knew, "This woman rejected you. In fact, I suspect she not only wanted nothing to do with you, but she also went so far as to tell you to your face." With that level of violence against the woman, she must have. "Why? Did you work with her, then harass her when she refused your overtures?"

No flinch this time. But the flush was back, and this time it surpassed the newborn pink in that scar.

Regan allowed her visible smile to stretch and deepen into an outright grin. "Thank you."

"I did not tell you her name."

And he wouldn't. That much had become obvious over the course of their conversation tonight. Specifically, his side of it. Not a single question from the doc since she'd entered the room regarding her newfound immunity to that chimera. There was only one explanation possible: this woman and her identity were too important.

Durrani had no intention of identifying her.

Ever.

Regan shrugged. "It doesn't matter. I'll figure out who she is soon enough. I'll begin with every doctor, nurse and lab tech you ever worked with, while a few of my associates start in on everyone you came in contact with before, during and after medical school—in Afghanistan, Pakistan and the States." She held up the photo. "Keep in mind, we have an infinite number of copies of this to bring with us, and to distribute if need be. In person, in the papers, online, and on TV. Someone will recognize her." Regan shook her head as she reached out to tap the cover of the Qur'an beside her. "And when they see all that blood and that baby, it won't matter which book they hold while they pray. They will come forward. And then, we'll know what you have planned next."

"That will take time."

She shook her head. "Not as much as you'd think. After all, we've got a lot of boots on the ground in the States and spread out among other countries, now that we've pulled them out of that hellhole you came from. Those boots are attached to hands that are ready, willing and able to carry copies of this picture around the globe. And as I said, as soon as we identify her, the battle will be over. We'll have won the war."

That got a response.

His fingers fused into a single, tightly knitted fist as he lunged as far forward as he could get. "Never will it be over! Not until we have won. Nor did you pull out of my country. You were chased out like the jackals you are, with your tails tucked between your legs as you scurried back to huddle up beside your cowardly president. No concessions were needed. If you think that with you gone we will forsake our brothers in Al Qaeda and elsewhere, you are mistaken. If you think we will accept the rule of the puppets you left behind in Kabul, you are doubly so. We will prevail, again and again. And unlike you, we are in no hurry. It is as it has been said: you have the clocks, but we have the time. All we needed to do was wait. And so we did. Soon enough, it will be truly over—everywhere. You will be forced from all lands where Allah smiles. You are, in fact, already defeated; you simply have not recognized it. This so-called democracy you tried to seed in my country and others has been strangled at birth. By the time you and your army recognize the noose, it will be too late. Until then, everything is as Allah wills, in Allah's time—as it should be."

With that, he jerked back in his chair, then fell forward over his hands with the motion of the ship. He landed so hard, his forehead smacked into the edge of the table, directly in front of the steel bar. The top of his head and his body jerked once, twice, then stilled.

"Doctor? Are you okay?" She snapped her stare to the doorway, but couldn't see Riyad. Nor had she heard the outer compartment's watertight door reopen. The Marine was still in front of his desk, standing guard. "Corporal! Get Dr. Mantia! Now."

She was dimly aware of Vetter yanking the sound-powered phone off its hook and barking into it as she vaulted up onto the table, her knees slamming into the manila folder. By the time she'd grabbed the doctor's shoulders to shove him up and away from her, Marine Corps camouflage was already thundering in on her left.

If Durrani had been poisoned—

Twin, thick jets of hot blood instantly drowned that possibility