Backblast Candace Irving (classic novels to read .txt) 📖

"Same team?"

The woman snorted as she sealed the evidence bag. "Not even close. Brandt's a Longhorn fan. My brother's a Cornhusker."

A Cornhusker? Regan had no idea what that was, but a Longhorn? "Brandt's brother goes to UT—in Austin?"

Yrle nodded. "Is that important?"

It might well be. According the records she'd read on her flight to Bagram over two weeks ago, Captain McCord had received his commission from UT's Reserve Officer Training Corps program.

Coincidence?

Possibly. The University of Texas was a huge school. And the connection appeared to be solely through Brandt's younger brother…so far.

But if it panned out, Riyad might be right about the motive behind the poisoning after all; he'd just attributed it to the wrong soldier. During her interrogation of McCord at Bagram, the captain had begged her to slip him the name of the man who'd murdered the mother of his child. McCord had vowed to come back from hell to extract his revenge.

Surely a US warship in the Arabian Sea provided slightly easier access?

Except how would McCord—who was currently in Landstuhl, Germany, with his newborn daughter—have contacted the Marine, much less have gotten strychnine to the man?

Fortunately, with Brandt attached to an IV in sickbay, she'd be able to make her meeting with Palisade and still have time afterward to pull the staff sergeant's records and begin the search for another tie between him and McCord.

A tie strong enough to account for murder.

One thing was certain, the smell of vomit exculpated Brandt from lying about his nausea. Nor was the cause of that vomit poison, at least not with any self-induced strychnine Brandt might've had left over. While nausea was a potential symptom, there were too many others and all were more definitive.

And there was the timing.

If Brandt had ingested pure strychnine before he'd gone to sickbay, he wouldn't be ill right now, he'd be dead. At the very least, he'd be convulsing and about to be.

Yes, the possibility existed that Brandt had been set up. But, until she ruled it out, he was her leading contender—and nothing more.

A contender she'd sat two feet away from the day before while she'd interviewed him…and hadn't suspected a thing.

Of course, she hadn't known yet that there was anything to suspect, but still.

After that fiasco with Durrani, she was in no mood to cut anyone slack, least of all herself. The case was getting too damned dicey. And definitely more ominous.

Brandt was a Marine security guard, currently attached to one of the nation's critical embassies in the War on Terror. As such, the man should've been above reproach. Brandt sure as hell shouldn't have been up for murdering a terrorist on anyone's behalf, for any reason. Especially a terrorist who had yet to give up a critical name.

Unless, of course, Staff Sergeant Stephen Brandt was that name—and the terrorist she was after.

17

Regan stared at the evidence in Chief Yrle's hands as she absorbed the full implications of Brandt's possible guilt—and shifted her priorities accordingly.

She closed up her crime kit and reset the tumbler, then nodded to the sealed evidence bags. "Thank you for your assistance, Chief. Please take those to your office and finish logging them in. Then get them locked into the safe. I'll be down after my meeting with General Palisade to perform the chromatography tests. Under no circumstances is Agent Riyad to run them. Lock the microTLC up in the safe, if you have to. But first, contact Dr. Mantia directly and enlist his aid. I want Brandt kept in sickbay and in ignorance until I give the word that he's to be released."

"Yes, ma'am. Do you need an escort to the wardroom?"

Regan shook her head as she peeled off her gloves and shoved the expended latex in her upper right trouser pocket. She remembered the wardroom's tack number from the day before, along with the briefing Yrle had given her regarding how those numbers corresponded to the Griffith's deck and frame numberings, effectively providing her brain with an interactive, three-dimensional map of the ship.

All she had to do was keep moving forward as the second number lowered in value, and then down, and she'd get there.

If not, "I'll ask someone if I get turned around."

But first, her stateroom.

Regan located her temporary quarters easily enough and stowed her kit within. She headed for the wardroom next and managed to arrive there unassisted as well. But as she reached for the handle of the door, however, she was forced to pause.

The tremors had returned. And they were visibly noticeable.

Really? Now? With a general on the other side of the door? The general in charge of USASOC, no less?

Even if she'd wanted to beat feet back up to her stateroom to try to massage the quivers into submission, it was too late. Someone had opened the door from the other side. An enlisted sailor stood amid the empty frame. Deeper inside, and to the young man's right, she could see Agent Riyad seated at the far side of the table. And, well, well, what do you know? He was glaring at her.

Another day, another scowl.

That spook could win the War on Terror single-handedly if he ever figured out how to weaponize them.

"Is that Agent Chase?" Palisade.

Great. She was trapped now.

"Yes, sir." She flashed a smile she didn't quite feel as the sailor stepped back so that she could enter the compartment, then turned toward her right.

The general was seated at the head of the long dining table, an empty seat to his right, then Riyad. A blond, ACU-clad male she didn't recognize and then John were slotted down the table on Palisade's left.

"Have a seat, Chief. There's one beside the major."

As embarrassing and heavy-handed as that comment and accompanying amused twinkle were, she was grateful for the suggestion. While both seats flanking the spook were open, she wouldn't have taken either one, general's orders or not.

Fortunately, John's military manners were more ingrained than his boss'. He settled for a sedate nod as she claimed