She should've swallowed one of those pills.
Regan stared across the CH-53E's cavernous belly, zeroing in on the rectangular window opposite her flip-down seat. She searched in vain for a glimpse of land amid the distant, hazy horizon as each pulse of the helicopter's yawning seventy-nine-foot main rotor reverberated through her body. For the moment, her stomach was holding its own against the thunderous rhythm, despite the coffee and oversized chocolate muffin she'd consumed prior to liftoff.
But for how long would it last?
Though the muffin had served as her first meal since she'd left the States, consuming anything at all might have been a mistake—along with her decision to not interrupt General Palisade's phone call long enough to ascertain her present location.
The Arabian Sea.
Given the view through every one of the Super Stallion's windows, it contained a hell of a lot more water than she'd imagined. And for some sadistic reason, the pilot had been all but skimming the surface of said water for over an hour.
Shouldn't they have arrived by now?
Regan peeled back the grosgrain cover of her combat watch and noted the time. 0734. Seventeen hours in the air and a nine-hour time-zone change had added an entire day to her life. Gil would be thrilled. If only because during the initial leg of her flight, the C-141's droning engines had piggybacked onto the knowledge that she now had a case she needed to be rested for. The combination had finally seduced her into nodding off somewhere over the Atlantic. By the time she'd woken, they'd landed in Ramstein, Germany.
To her surprise, she'd logged another marathon, near-dreamless nap during the next leg to Al Dhafra Airbase in the United Arab Emirates.
There'd been no sleep on this final bird, however, dreamless or otherwise. Worse, the tang of the sea air laden with the stench of jet fuel had finally gotten to her. The meager contents of her belly had begun to slosh.
Regan turned toward the Super Stallion's cockpit and caught the crew chief's knowing grin. He tapped the dive watch strapped to his wrist and flashed a trio of fingers.
Three more minutes.
Hallelujah.
God willing, the churning in her belly would ease upon landing—though not likely. According to the classified orders she'd been handed after touching down in Al Dhafra, as well as the fascinating footnote from the crew chief still beaming at her, she was headed not for dry land, but the constant pitching and rolling of roughly twenty thousand tons of Navy steel.
The USS Griffith.
She'd worked with the Fleet before, had even been aboard a warship for almost a week to pursue a joint Army/Navy lead in an investigation a few years back, but this would be her first case aboard a ship currently at sea.
Curiosity clamored in from several fronts, the most pressing of which concerned Nabil Durrani and his hidden agenda. Because he did possess one. Even if she hadn't spent the better part of a night ferreting out the details of the twisted doctor's life, she'd know there was more to their pending confrontation than a congenial chat with his final, intended victim.
If she still even held that dubious honor.
After her conversation with General Palisade concerning Durrani's cohort, Tamir Hachemi, Regan was beginning to doubt her exalted status.
Why else involve the anomalous, murdered mystery woman?
Religious significance her ass. Durrani hadn't entered the terror game because of Allah. Allah was simply his excuse.
The proof was in the man himself.
Every action Dr. Durrani had taken over the past few months had been meticulously scripted, right down to the bloodstained shawl he'd used to cover Jameelah Khan's—and only Jameelah Khan's—face and torso. It was that act that had caused Regan to initially suspect that Captain McCord had simply murdered the other six women in the cave to throw investigators off track, only to display remorse—albeit unconsciously—at the last moment. Instead, it turned out Durrani had planted the shawl in an admittedly ingenious attempt to effect the ultimate misdirection.
A man that clever didn't toss in an extra victim to equate for the inclusion of twins, no matter when he'd learned of those twins' existence. No, Durrani had sought out and selected a woman carrying twins to mask the significance of an otherwise anomalous woman's identity for as long as possible.
But why?
And what, if any, connection did the mystery victim's identity have to their remaining traitor?
Regan was still pondering both questions when the crew chief caught her gaze. He flashed a thumbs up before directing her attention to the section of chopper window visible between the pilot and copilot as the men began flipping a series of switches in the cockpit's overhead. There—the Griffith.
The crew chief hadn't been exaggerating. The amphibious dock landing ship was massive. Even so, the Griffith's flat-gray silhouette nearly blended in with the atmospheric haze and the increasingly angry waters of the Arabian Sea. The warship's jutting superstructure loomed impressively as they flew down the port side.
Her flight deck did not. Nor did that deck appear particularly stable as the helicopter swung a hundred eighty degrees around.
At least to this Army ground pounder.
Chopper pilots in general tended to impress the hell out of her. She'd seen them perform some amazing maneuvers at times, including an honest-to-God barrel roll. But to land a solid chunk of metal on the equally unforgiving deck of a ship violently riding the waves as the Griffith was currently doing?
Her stomach lurched at the thought. It lurched again as the flight deck disappeared beneath the belly of the bird.
Regan sucked in her breath as the Super Stallion's wheels rudely kissed those twenty thousand tons of Navy steel the crew chief had touted, releasing the air from her lungs only when she was certain the mechanical embrace had held. The pilot powered down the blades as several members of the Griffith's crew converged on the chopper to lash it to the deck. The side door slid open and the crew chief bailed out, motioning for Regan to follow. She removed her ear protection and life vest and left both on the canvas seat before vaulting out onto the non-skid surface of the flight deck.
Another mistake.
The void deep in her inner ears instantly registered the brunt of the ship's motion as the Griffith rode out the waves beneath her combat boots, whipping the paltry contents of her belly into a full-blown roil.
"Agent Chase?"
She spun around. Yet another mistake. Regan fought to regain her equilibrium as an approaching naval officer tugged a pair of rabbit ears down around her neck.
No, not an officer, or even a chief warrant officer like herself—but an enlisted sailor. The center placket of the shorter woman's camouflaged working uniform sported an embroidered anchor, pegging the woman's rank equivalent to that of an Army sergeant first class. Confusing to some outside the military, since she and this Navy non-commissioned officer that she outranked were addressed by the same title: Chief.
The woman popped a salute, then stuck out her hand to offer a firm shake. "Master-at-Arms Chief Michelle Yrle. Welcome aboard. I'll be serving as your escort and right hand for the duration of your stay."
That wide smile would've been infectious if Regan's stomach hadn't chosen that moment to crank up the churn to a near-humiliating level. She forced a weak curve to her lips. "Glad to be here. Just need my gear, and I'm ready to get to work."
A glass of water wouldn't hurt either…so she could swallow the entire box of pills she'd stashed in her bag.
"Here you go, ma'am." The Super Stallion's crew chief held her tan duffel in one hand, her stainless-steel crime scene kit and black, nylon laptop bag in the other as she turned back to the bird—carefully.
"Thanks." Regan retrieved her crime scene gear and laptop, but her new right hand beat her to the tan duffel and pills.
Yrle tipped her cap of sleek raven curls toward the ship's lurching superstructure. "This way. I'll show you to your stateroom. It's got a small bath ensemble, so you can freshen up before we feed you to the head shark—er, captain."
"Wonderful." Forget the pills. Three steps across the rising, then dipping deck, and she'd decided on an immediate visit to the latrine.
"Dying to check out one of our heads, eh?"
Regan offered a limp smile as they moved up the port side of the ship. "That obvious?"
"You've got the proverbial green about your gills. Don't worry; it'll pass—one way or the other. For what it's worth, I prefer the 'other'. Once the genuflecting's over, I feel great. Until then, I do my best to keep my gaze fixed on the horizon." Yrle shrugged. "Either way, hang in there. We'll be riding smoother in about an hour—midway through our rendezvous and pending underway replenishment with the Tippecanoe. We're low on fuel and, hence, riding high. The current sea state's not helping either." A soft laugh floated between them as Yrle stopped beside an oval watertight door with a black 'Z' painted in the middle, inside a larger 'D'. "Welcome to the Arabian Sea in January, Soldier. The Navy part."
Another intimidating wave struck the bow of the Griffith and Regan wished herself anchored firmly on the Army portion as the ship rocked it out.
Her hundredth slow breath of the morning helped—until Chief Yrle swung the door open and waved her over the metal lip protruding up from the deck. The sloshing in her belly returned full force as she passed through the skin of the ship, intensifying as the chief led her down a claustrophobic corridor and up a skeletal ladder. As with the ship's exterior, everything inside was gray, albeit several shades lighter: the walls, the floor, even the ceiling—or bulkhead, deck and overhead, if she remembered correctly.
By the time they'd reached a succession of slim, darker gray doors that were lined up along both sides of the passageway like soldiers awaiting inspection, the acid in her stomach had breached the base of her throat.
Shit. "I gotta—"
"Step aside."
The chief had the door at the end unlocked and open in three seconds flat. Regan shot through the second, slimmer door just inside the stateroom and slammed it shut, her knees hitting the steel deck of the tiny bathroom in the nick of time. A solid minute of heaving commenced, ending only when the makeshift breakfast she'd consumed had completely reversed course along with a belly full of froth.
Eventually, she was down to dry heaves and then…nothing.
The chief was right. She felt fine now.
Better than she had in days, in fact.
She wasn't sure what she expected as she abandoned the bathroom, but it wasn't a pissed-off male in civilian clothes.
Except…that wasn't a civilian. Not with a twelve-round, .40 caliber SIG Sauer 229 holstered at the right hip of those black cargo pants and matching, long-sleeved polo. The six-foot, dark-haired and neatly bearded Arab wearing both was halfway into the narrow stateroom when Chief Yrle spotted him—and blanched.
"Agent Riyad. I thought you'd left along—"
"Obviously not." The frown leveled on Yrle could've been chiseled from a block of Arctic ice. "If you'd performed your duties correctly this morning, Chief, I'd have been able to depart. But then, you know that, don't you?"
Yrle opened her mouth—and that was as far as she got. Riyad's right hand lashed out, connecting with the chief's left elbow and visibly clamping down as he propelled the woman out into the passageway. The stateroom door closed so quickly and firmly, there was no doubt in Regan's mind the barrier was meant for her, along with the mystery agent's unspoken order: Stay put.
She would.
For now.
She had no clue as to her counterpart's beef with the master-at-arms chief, let alone which combination of letters from the government's vast bowl of alphabet soup were attached to his name, nor did she care. She was here to see Durrani, and she had no intention of greeting that particular ass with the vestiges of her previous meal saturating her breath.
Regan turned away from the stateroom's door and its flanking drab, modular steel wall unit. Two steps away, a set of bunk beds abutted the opposite bulkhead. Like almost everything else she'd seen of the ship, their frames were painted a flat, haze gray.
Retrieving her shaving kit from the duffel Chief Yrle had dumped on the bottom bunk, she carted her toothbrush and paste to the tiny sink outside the shower and toilet area. Her teeth cleaned, she took the time to splash water over her face, then smooth several errant wisps of hair into the French braid she'd crafted and tucked under twenty-four hours earlier. The navy-blue suit she'd packed was bound to be wrinkled, so yesterday's camouflaged uniform would have to suffice.
Then again, it wouldn't hurt that ACUs were the last thing Durrani had seen her in…just before she'd taken the bastard down.
By the time Super Pissed-Off Agent shoved the stateroom's outer door inward again, she was more than ready to face the doctor.
But first, a few ground rules given this man's boorish behavior with the chief. She didn't care if he was the Islamist expert to whom General Palisade had referred. "They don't knock aboard ships?"
Riyad had the grace to flush. Barely. The slight tinge might've served to humanize the man, had his dark stare not settled on her smoothed braid and damp, unmade face—insolently. "Didn't realize you wanted to primp for the terrorist."
Touché.
Still, what was his problem? Yes, he'd probably heard the tail end of her heave session. So what? As if that hadn't happened on a ship before. Or did he have issues with breasts in general—or simply hers and Chief Yrle's in particular?
Don't. She was here to grill Durrani. Given this was a warship, the doc was probably housed somewhere down below in the bowels of the ship, most likely in the brig.
She tamped out a smile polite enough to get this jerk to take her there. "I take it I lost my escort?"
"Correct."
"Care to explain that moment you two shared?"
"Nope."
The hell with him. "Aren't you the welcoming committee?" And so chatty, too. Must be the salt air.
The man shrugged. "Don't believe you belong here."
She could respect that, albeit grudgingly. If he was here, he had to have read the entire case file—including her shift in roles from investigator to intended victim near the end. On the other hand, "Yet here I am. Perhaps you should take a moment to bring me up to date, Agent Riyad. Or should I head up to the bridge and see if I can't get the guy driving this boat to place a ship-to-shore call to USASOC? General Palisade appears to have left a few facts out of our briefing. For one, your rather uncooperative take on my presence."
That sparked a reaction. One moment those glowering eyes were murky brown and the next they were black. The Arctic ice had returned as well and, with Chief Yrle missing, it was directed solely at her.
Regan didn't bother attempting a thaw. Instead, she leaned into the metal stanchion supporting the upper bunk—to preserve her tenuous balance against the constant rocking of the ship if nothing else—and offered up her own insolent shrug.
Riyad stared her down.
For a good half-minute, the only sounds in the stateroom were their slow, steady breaths, along with the soft, rhythmic creaking of the shifting metal of the insulated pipes and exposed venting running through the overhead and along the bulkheads. The man was going to call her bluff. She was ninety-nine percent certain.
And then, "What do you want to know?"
Everything. Beginning with why he was still so pissed. But something told her the source of his mood was not on the table.
Table, hell. Before she fired her opening salvo, she had to deal with this constantly shifting deck. Her inner ears might've made the transition to shipboard life, but her sea legs had yet to make an appearance. She was in danger of falling flat on her face while simply standing.
Regan pulled away from the bunk beds, deliberately widening and squaring off her stance until her combat boots were planted well apart, as Riyad's were positioned. It worked. She had solid control over her balance, even as the deck continued to roll beneath her feet. It was time to extend that control to her case.
"Why is Dr. Durrani here, aboard a warship?"
Why put him in Navy custody at all?
Given the almost fanatical drawdown on current Gitmo detainees, she wouldn't have thought he'd end up there. But why not a black site prison in another country? A country that would look the other way during questioning…and provide local agents to direct any harsher verbal or physical Q&A sessions on US behalf.
Though that wasn't the way she operated, it had been known to happen.
Another one of Riyad's insolent shrugs greeted her query. "This is as good a place as any. In many ways, better."
Much as she hated to admit it, his half-assed response rang true. As interrogation venues went, this one was moveable, easily concealable, away from the preying vultures of the world's press and—as an absolute caveat—Durrani was separated from other terror detainees. Hell, if they wanted, they could weigh the bastard down when they were done and dump him overboard in the dead of night and no one would be the wiser—most significantly, the unnamed traitor she was now seeking.
Or was there more to it?
Was it possible that physical Q&A sessions involving Durrani were occurring even now—aboard United States sovereign property?
That, she found difficult to believe, much less stomach. "Exactly which agency are you with?"
"NCIS."
Naval Criminal Investigative Service: Army CID's Fleet counterpart. For the most part, the revelation tracked. This was a warship. But something had flickered in that murky stare when she'd pressed. Something that suggested there was more to this particular agent's presence aboard this unruly piece of iron than simple jurisdiction.
Please, God, don't let it involve the physical.
Before she could press the matter, the impression vanished. Riyad's foul mood had not.
She went with her gut. It had rarely steered her wrong. Even when she'd wanted it to. "What happened this morning?"
To her surprise, Riyad blinked.
Odd. She wouldn't have thought she'd be able to surprise him that easily. "The cause of your delay? The delay to which Chief Yrle supposedly contributed? It has you pissed. Even now, with me."
"I'm not—"
"You are."
The silence returned. The overhead pipes and vents continued to creak, not quite filling it. "Doesn't matter."
But it did. She'd stake her next meal and a Gil-sized thermos of steaming black coffee on it. "Look, Agent Riyad, if we're going to work together—"
"We're not."
This time, the surprise was hers. "I beg your pardon?" They were both investigators. She had no idea whose authority had sent the NCIS agent here, but she'd been assigned to this ship and her old case via the very general in charge of the Army's Special Operations Command. She was not getting edged out without a fight.
And then she remembered. Of course. "You're leaving."
He'd said so himself.
Riyad surprised her again by shaking his head. "Was. As in, I am now remaining aboard the Griffith for the duration of this case. You, Agent Chase, are not."
She clamped down on her ire. "If this is some asinine version of an inter-service pissing contest—"
"It's not."
"Good. Because I'm not leaving." And not because it had taken her an entire day to get here. "I was told Durrani specifically request—"
"I don't care what you were told. And I could give a royal shit what Durrani wants. You, Agent Chase, are aboard this vessel for the sole purpose of getting that asshole to speak. That's it. Once Durrani opens his mouth, I step in—and you step out. Permanently. Have I made myself clear?"
It was her turn to blink. The hell with Durrani, what was this asshole's problem?
Before she could demand an explanation, the ship-wide, 1MC loudspeaker hanging in the overhead at the far end of her stateroom sparked to life.
"Doctor Mantia, Special Agent Riyad, lay to the main deck conference room. I say again, Dr—"
The remainder was lost amid the combined thunder of their boots as Riyad yanked the stateroom door open and vaulted out into the passageway with Regan all but welded to his heels. He shot her a tight glare as they reached the head of an angled ladder near the one she and Yrle had used earlier.
Regan ignored the glare, focusing instead on the stiff set of the NCIS agent's shoulders and the relentless pace of his boots as Riyad gave up trying to shake her off, double-timing down the metal steps and along the passageway with her still in dogged pursuit.
If something was happening that required this man's zealous attention, she would be tagging along to bear witness.
They were both thinking it. Durrani. What had happened to require the urgent need for a doctor?
God help her, she was beginning to reconsider the possibility of a Navy-sanctioned physical interrogation session.
She followed Riyad into a sparsely furnished conference room. One glance at the body lying on the blue speckled, linoleum-covered deck at the far end, and it appeared her worst fear had been spot on. There was a twelve-inch slick of scarlet blood beneath a man's dark hair, and the slick was spreading out, due at least in part to the life-saving actions of the Marines in the compartment. There were two—a corporal and a staff sergeant—both in camouflaged utilities.
Had one of them caused the injuries?
There was no way to tell from here.
She did know the Marines were doing everything in their current power to reverse their patient's condition. The staff sergeant had taken command of the torso, the heels of his palms braced together over the prone man's chest, steadily working to kick-start his heart. The corporal knelt on the linoleum beside the patient's head, attempting in vain to staunch the copious flow of blood frothing forth from a shattered nasal cavity in between three-round bursts of his own breath.
Both Marines had to be cognizant of the inherent biohazard in all that blood. Yet they'd refused to wait for protection.
That didn't surprise her. What did—what stunned her as she caught her first clear view of the patient's face—was his identity.
That wasn't Nabil Durrani lying on the deck, clinging to life.
It was his cohort, Tamir Hachemi.