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

A scarf?

Where on earth had he obtained that? When?

Her bemusement must've shown, because that distracting dent of his slipped in. "I bought it off a woman in Al Dhafra. You and Riyad were checking out the male latrines to see where Brandt might've been infected."

Unfortunately, they hadn't been successful in their quest. Unlike John.

"Surely you don't—"

But he nodded. Worse, he'd lifted the swath of silk and was carefully draping it over the top of her French braid, completely concealing it. He crossed the trailing ends beneath her chin and tucked them over her shoulders. "Wear the dupatta when you're not on the embassy compound. It'll deflect attention, help you blend in as just another expat. One with male ties."

He was correct. About all of it. But she still had an issue with the whole cover up the woman aspect of the thing. Ten seconds in, and she was already suffocating. Mentally, at least. She sighed. "I know. The mission's critical. I'll—"

He shook his head.

He wasn't debating the mission's importance, and she knew it. It was the rationale. The scarf, and the protection it offered, was personal…to him.

"Sir? Hate to push, but I got that lift fired up three birds over, burning through fuel."

That intense focus didn't shift. "Be right there, Tulle."

John held her gaze for another few seconds, then inclined his head. Turned.

She reached out without thinking, pressing her fingers into the sleeve of his dark gray suit, feeling the solid warmth beneath. The man.

He stopped, turned back. Waited.

Well, crap. She'd started this round. Now what?

"Be careful."

He flashed that dent once more, and then he was gone.

She drew her breath and her nerves in deep and held them for several beats before releasing both. It helped. She bent down to retrieve her suitcase and gear. Scott was grinning like the proverbial village idiot as she returned to his side.

"Well, I'll be…the Prez finally found herself a First Man. Uncle Ronnie would be so proud." He added insult to injury as he chortled over his own sorry joke.

"Shut up."

When he refused, she swung the suitcase into his midsection, grinning herself at the sharp oomphf the blow produced.

Corporal Vetter joined them, his duffel and gear in hand. She was still smiling as they followed Scott across the tarmac, taking Riyad's path instead of John's. Ten minutes later, she was sitting in the rear seat of a black, bullet-resistant Volvo with Scott and headed out of the airport and toward the embassy on the opposite side of the road than they would've been had they been driving in the States. Vetter was up front and catching up with the driver on what he'd missed while he was aboard the Griffith.

She was tempted to use the time to pump Scott for information as well.

The moment she'd spotted her old friend and his pinstripe suit on that tarmac, she'd realized she had an in with the embassy staff. A potential source of office gossip, and more, for the names on her list. Hence, she'd immediately accepted his offer of a late dinner. Unfortunately, she'd also since realized the odds that she'd discern anything actionable were not on her side.

It turned out Scott was temporarily assigned to the embassy. Not only was he nearly as new to DSS as Riyad was to NCIS, Scott had been snagged from his newbie DSS stateside posting to assist with an intricate and extensive human trafficking racket out of Islamabad because of his proficiency with Urdu. The arrests had gone down the day before. Once the wrap-up was finished, he'd be heading back to Arlington, Virginia.

Which, of course, was why Scott had been roped into his current chauffeur and Army-CID liaison duties. Still, the man was sharp. Though he wasn't working directly for the embassy's regional security officer, he had met the RSO on a number of occasions. Scott might've gleaned something these past two months that she in turn could glean—and use.

Either way, Vetter and the driver's presence would hamper their conversation. Scott wouldn't feel it prudent to dish on his fellow co-workers with others in earshot.

She'd need to tread carefully over dinner, too. Scott had been fed the same cover story that nearly everyone would receive: she was in Islamabad following up on the untimely death of Staff Sergeant Brandt while Brandt had been away from embassy grounds, nothing more. Only Vetter—by virtue of his personal involvement—and the ambassador—knew the truth…along with the embassy's hidden, terror-cell connection.

Regan settled for catching Scott up on the lives of several mutual friends, including Agent Jelling, as the Volvo turned onto Islamabad's Srinagar Highway and headed northeast toward the embassy. The endless, tree-filled expanse that bordered both sides of the road could've resembled the outskirts of any number of large cities in the mid-southern US, but for the daunting rugged peaks and slopes of the Margalla Hills that formed this section of the Himalayan foothills.

Scott was more impressed with her gossip. "Wow. I knew the guy wanted to join CID, but married? Jelly?"

She grinned. "Yep. And with a kid."

Jelly Jr. would be two in a few months. With all the numbers that tended to rattle around in her head, she still couldn't quite believe that one. And she'd presented Jelly with the box of hideously blue stogies he'd handed out on the big day.

"What about you, Rae?"

"Kids?" She shook her head firmly, before the memories could filter in, along with the ache that was still too raw to accept, much less discuss. "Nothing to see here."

"I don't know. That goodbye looked an awfully lot like see you soon."

She shrugged.

Really, what else could she do? Except pray her expression was as impassive as she needed it to be. For once, she wasn't quite sure.

"Prez?"

She finally located one of the deceiver's smiles and slotted it into place. "I'm just tired. Last night was a long one." One spent dealing with an utter bastard who'd thrown that same aching memory into her face, before he'd gone on