She skirted past a wall of plastic covering a hole made by a mortar round the week before. The goal was to keep the impromptu morgue cool, but it wasn’t working quite well enough to beat back the creeping stench of decay.

“The cargo hold of a plane. Nothing like spending endless hours bouncing around with nothing but ten thousand bottles of water to keep you company.”

She shook her head sympathetically and wandered up to a gurney containing a body covered with a bloodstained sheet. “I specifically told them first class.”

“I’m a doctor, Randi. I work with live people.” He pointed to the tag wrapped around a toe that was starting to darken from the bacteria working on it. “And while I want to be clear that I’m not an expert in this particular area, the guy on this table doesn’t seem to qualify.”

“Come on, Pete. You’re a genius and I trust you to be discreet. That’s why you’re here.”

His expression softened perceptibly. Mailen had always been a sucker for flattery and beautiful blondes—weaknesses Randi had no qualms about exploiting. Besides, it was true. He really was a genius. The fact that he hated doing something he was so good at was just a nasty twist of fate. And not her problem.

“Tell me what you found out and I promise you more legroom on the way home.”

“And a stewardess?”

“Long legs and pouty lips.”

Other than a suspicious frown, he didn’t move—obviously wanting to display a respectable amount of defiance before caving. She’d flashed another sparkling smile and waited for him to decide when honor had been served. It was the least she could do after dragging him from his cushy gig in DC to a crumbling morgue in the middle of nowhere Afghanistan.

They stared at each other for longer than she would have predicted, but he eventually let out an exasperated breath and whipped back the sheet. The chest cavity of the headless body had been opened up and Randi crinkled her nose as the smell intensified.

“I can’t believe you flew me out here for this, Randi. Did they tell you we took fire on the way?”

The story she’d gotten from the pilot was that they’d seen a rocket contrail a good thirty miles away, but she still managed to conjure an expression dripping with empathy.

“I could have been killed,” he mumbled to himself as he scanned a pad full of his own illegible handwriting. “Saw my life pass right before my eyes…”

“The body, Pete?” she prompted.

“Well, if you look very closely you’ll see that his head is missing and there’s a bullet in his chest.”

“Everyone’s a comedian. Which killed him?”

“The bullet. He was dead when he was decapitated.”

“Toxicology?”

“Spotless. Not so much as an aspirin.”

“You’re sure,” she said, still bothered by the strange behavior she’d reconstructed from the battlefield. Killing field, really.

“I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t sure. And why are you so interested in this guy, anyway? It’s not like the Afghans have never decapitated anyone before.”