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

Or it should be.

Minutes later, they were wheels down, cruising along the tarmac as the C-130's pilot headed for their pre-arranged parking slot on the military ramp near Pakistan's haphazard collection of older, Soviet-era aircraft.

Several more minutes passed before the bird stopped moving. Within moments, the C-130's giant turbofan engines had begun to power down.

By the time Regan had unbuckled and bypassed her half-full duffel to retrieve the small civilian suitcase Chief Yrle had procured from one of the Griffith's generous sailors, Riyad had already hefted his civilian suitcase and was heading down the aft ramp. Regan shouldered her laptop case and grabbed her crime scene kit as well, before joining John and the corporal. She expected to catch up with Riyad out on the tarmac to exchange polite goodbyes, but the spook wasn't there.

As he had the night before up on the flight deck of the Griffith, Riyad had taken off across the tarmac—alone.

John slipped her suitcase from her right hand before she could stop him, then shouldered the black leather suit bag he'd had the foresight to bring to the ship. Since advertising US military status wasn't advisable in their host country at the moment, his own uniforms and duffel remained stowed in the plane alongside hers.

John swung his chin toward the spook's retreating back. "I need to make a few calls about that man, ASAP."

Amen to that.

"I'll phone Mira as soon as I get a moment alone, too." Only that call might be some hours from now, given that she could make out the silhouette of another man on the tarmac, and this one was passing Riyad and heading toward her.

Even better, that short, wiry build and sandy hair were distinctive enough to place.

"Scott?" She moved up the right side of the plane to set her crime kit and laptop down on the tarmac beside her suitcase and John's leather bag, then continued on toward the nose of the bird, eager to whittle away the remaining distance between an old friend and herself. "You're the DSS agent I've been assigned?" She glanced at John. "Scott and I went to MP school together; did our first tours over in Iraq with Agent Jelling." Though, granted, every time this guy had gotten roped into an IED/human-remains collections and cleanup, Scott had threatened to bail on the Army.

It looked as though he'd made good on that threat.

Though if Scott was with State's Diplomatic Security Service, he hadn't gotten very far, had he? Protecting embassies and their personnel was an equally rough gig.

In a lot of ways, far rougher.

"Good to see you, Prez. It's been too damned long." Scott grinned as he hauled her in for a wonderfully familiar hug. One that nearly crushed her ribs.

The man was definitely still in shape for the job.

He stuck out a hand to John. "Scott Walburn, DSS. Will you be needing a lift to the embassy, too?"

John's scarred hand engulfed Scott's significantly smoother one. "John Garrison, SF. Thanks, but I've got my own welcoming committee. He's right behind you."

Regan glanced past Scott's dark gray pinstripes to see yet another familiar face, similarly suited up and marking time, just beyond the edge of the tarmac.

Tulle.

The Nordic giant who'd shadowed her off the official books for Palisade back at Fort Campbell at the start of it all nodded to John, then her. She should've expected that John would be linking up with his staff sergeant. He and Tulle would have done so yesterday, had it not been for the situation with Hachemi.

John's staff sergeant remained at the edge of earshot, patiently waiting for his commander to wrap things up with them.

"Rae, you ready? I've got an embassy car and driver just off the tarmac."

She glanced at Scott, then tipped her head toward the plane. "I just need to get my gear and let Corporal Vetter know we're leaving."

As she and John headed back down the C-130's belly, she spotted Vetter conversing with a member of the security detail near the aft ramp. In light of the on-again/off-again relationship their country shared with the country that owned the tarmac beneath her shoes—and the reality that the relationship was currently tilted toward off—the detail would remain in place and on alert until she, John and Riyad returned to the plane that Palisade had left at their disposal, just in case.

Well, she and John. Lord only knew what the spook's plans were beyond hooking up with Castile, and whether or not he'd ever deign to share them. At least with her.

"Ready, Corporal?"

"Yes, ma'am. Just gotta grab my duffel. It's still inside."

She nodded as Vetter headed for the plane's rear ramp.

The tension had returned—inside her. She knew it was time to turn around and retrieve her own suitcase and gear. But for once, she didn't want to. Not yet. Not with the harsh reality of it all scraping back in and refusing to let go.

John. He was leaving too. The man was a minute, perhaps two, from Tulle and that mystery bird of theirs, and wherever it was scheduled to land. The suits they'd both donned suggested that there wouldn't be a lot of backup. Not close by, anyway.

What if something went wrong?

"Rae?"

She forced herself to turn. John was staring down at her, intently. The way she'd worked very hard to not stare at him on that Super Stallion as they'd left the Griffith behind, then again during their brief wait at Al Dhafra and aboard the C-130 on the way here. The scruff that had taken over his jaw these past few weeks was still there. With his current mission, going barefaced wouldn't have been prudent. But he'd cleaned it up after he'd left sickbay. Trimmed his mustache and beard into something downright sleek and cultivated. The result was disturbingly touchable. Missable.

Along with the rest of him.

Damn it, what if he didn't make it back?

She was pushing through the fear, reminding herself of those who were waiting, as John reached into his suit jacket