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

they entered and moved deeper through the corridors. Gleaming marble, stainless steel and glass were everywhere, along with an overabundance of men and women. The men were dressed in everything from executive suits and silk ties to the most modest of shalwar kameezes, complete with short, round topi skullcaps up high and callused, sandaled feet down low. The majority of the women were wrapped—often head to toe—in endless, wisping yards of bright blues, peacock greens and lush purples, as well as vibrant yellows, burgundies, oranges and reds, many with silver and gold threads stitched throughout. And right next to these women—at times even chatting with them—the coarser, drab drapes of the completely obscuring shuttlecock burqa.

But almost every single woman—sack-clothed, or gilded and silked—wore some version of the dupatta or a completely concealing veil.

John was right. She and her CID-blue suit did garner a few stares as they headed through the maze of corridors, but the somber dupatta attracted even more attention in the way of approving glances and nods, as well as the occasional outright smile.

Fortunately, the signs directing everyone were in Urdu and English. Within minutes, she and Scott had reached the waiting room outside the intensive care. She spotted Mrs. Sadat immediately. The woman was in her early-to-mid-twenties and dressed in gorgeous eggshell blue. The intricate silver floral design that edged her veil was delicate and stunning. The thickly lashed, caramel features within were more so.

Regan had no idea what the woman's husband was wearing. Mr. Sadat was nowhere to be seen. Hopefully, the man's tail had him firmly in sight.

If not, they were screwed.

Worse, Regan quickly discovered that his wife did not speak English. Odd. Not only had Inaya Sadat been married to a Pakistani Foreign Service National for several years, Staff Sergeant Brandt wasn't fluent in Urdu.

Had her husband translated?

Scott murmured something to the woman as he sat down a respectable seat away. Mrs. Sadat's response was equally soft.

He glanced up as the woman dropped her focus to her folded hands. "I told her we came from the embassy to check on her family, see if they needed anything. The boy appears to be holding his own for the moment, and his blood sugar's stable, which is why her husband isn't here. He left the hospital to honor a scheduled appointment at their bank. She remained behind for their son."

"He didn't arrange for someone to sit with her?" Regan took in the woman's reddened eyes, the dried traces of tears on Mrs. Sadat's otherwise perfect cheeks. Biological father or not, abandoning the woman to her fears was cold.

Scott's sigh mirrored her thoughts. "Nope. And since she doesn't know when he'll be back—or if he's stopping anywhere afterward—I doubt we'll be able to explain away hanging around as long as it may take for him to return."

Double damn. "Does she know about Brandt?"

The woman glanced up at that name. Actually made eye contact with Regan. Spoke. In English. "Brandt?" Well, one, gently murmured word. The rest was a stream of still soft, but very rapid Urdu that Regan had no hope of translating.

She waited for the woman to finish.

Scott glanced over. "She wants to know when he's returning from his trip."

Oh, boy.

Not the best of ways to reveal this, much less the right time or place. But word regarding Brandt's unexpected death had been released that afternoon while the Sadats were here at the hospital. Mr. Sadat, wherever he was, was bound to learn of it soon. As much as she hated to push this woman while she was already distraught over her son, she had no choice. Mrs. Sadat was going to find out soon enough. She might as well offer it up now and catalogue the reaction.

They needed answers.

"Rae?"

She nodded. "Tell her."

He did.

Regan might not speak Urdu, but after three years as an Army MP and another five with CID, if she was fluent in anything at all, it was death notifications and grief. She could feel the news sear in on that sharp, swift gasp, watched as the subsequent denial shook the woman's veiled head until it coalesced and settled into quivering lips. Dark, reddened eyes turning redder still as they filled with a wave of fresh tears.

But that was it. They never spilled over.

And, then, they evaporated.

Less than half a minute later, Inaya Sadat sat there in her chair in the waiting room, staring at her hands once again. Silent. The quivering in those lips had long since ceased, her aura more subdued and remote now than it had been upon their arrival.

Gentle stoicism didn't begin to cover this woman.

The father of her child was dead, and this was it?

Suspicion prickled in.

Regan was about to suggest that Scott prod the woman with a few choice questions, when a slender, blond nurse interrupted. The lightly veiled British woman leaned down to whisper something in Mrs. Sadat's ears. A split second later, a high-pitched wail reverberated throughout the waiting room as Inaya stood and grabbed onto the nurse for support before both women half stumbled, half hurried across the room and through the door from whence the nurse had come.

Scott came to his feet as well. "Her son's taken a turn for the worse."

Regan nodded. She'd gathered that. But really? That was the reaction she'd expected over the notification of the staff sergeant's death.

Before she could share her suspicion with Scott, her phone rang. She glanced down at the caller ID.

Karl Goethe.

The wave of emotion Regan had expected to hit Inaya Sadat crashed into her instead. Riding the crest: relief so intense, it burned. She closed her eyes to absorb it, then glanced at Scott. "I need to take this."

She headed out into the corridor, turning so she had a view of all who passed as she accepted the call. "Yes?"

"We need to meet. Off embassy grounds. The Serena Hotel. Do you know it?"

"Yes." They'd passed the graceful, stone colossus on the drive here, though the hotel was closer to the embassy compound than the