"Ma'am?"
Regan would never know how she managed to calmly turn and face Staff Sergeant Brandt as if her entire world hadn't imploded. Or perhaps she hadn't. The Marine took one look at her face and abandoned his post, closing the distance between them to comfort range as he reached out to grasp her arm.
"Agent Chase…are you okay?"
She nodded. Again, she could only hope her head had moved. It was difficult to be sure of anything after being ruthlessly drop-kicked out of the back of a C-141 at twenty thousand feet. Her scrambled brain was still flailing around, struggling to find the ripcord to a parachute that just wasn't there.
Or was it?
Regan pulled herself from the Marine's grasp and slowly turned around. She needn't have bothered. She was free-falling for the count—and her so-called partner on this case didn't care. If anything, she had the distinct impression Agent Riyad was looking forward to the splat. The glint in that murky ice confirmed it. Not only did Riyad know of her salacious history with John, the bastard had known John was aboard the Griffith well before she'd arrived.
And he'd said nothing.
Granted, neither had General Palisade. But that—she also realized—was because from what Palisade knew of the situation at the time, there shouldn't have been anything to tell. John was supposed to have left with Riyad via the Super Stallion that was still lashed to the ship's flight deck. If John had departed within minutes of her arrival as scheduled, there wouldn't have been a need for her to have knowledge of what was essentially a classified troop assignment.
But John hadn't left. And now, not only did the need to know exactly why John was aboard exist, it burned.
Regan sent her own blast of icy fury toward the man she now knew was no simple NCIS counterpart. "Agent Riyad, inside the conference room—now."
She didn't wait for Riyad to answer. Instead, she turned to the visibly nervous master-at-arms chief. Corporal Vetter had joined Chief Yrle, the crime scene kit Regan had requested from her stateroom in hand.
She retrieved her gear. "Thank you, Corporal. Post yourself at the end of the passageway and remain there until I exit the crime scene. Speak to no one else about this case—and I mean no one—unless I personally grant you leave to do so, understood?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Good. Chief Yrle?"
"Yes, Agent?"
"Does Major Garrison know I'm aboard the Griffith?"
"No."
"Keep it that way. Wait until I've entered the conference room, then escort the major back to his stateroom and detain him there, in a complete communications blackout, until I arrive."
"Yes, ma'am."
The fact that John had been in isolation across the passageway since before she and Riyad had preceded the ship's medical personnel into the conference room confirmed her worst fears. It also explained Agent Riyad's subsequent disappearance while the ship's doctor and corpsmen were still desperately attempting to save the translator's life.
The bridge hadn't been Riyad's first stop during the crisis. That nearby compartment had.
It took every ounce of self-control Regan possessed to keep from crossing the corridor and entering that same compartment now. Much as she needed to speak to John—for her case as well as her sanity—she wouldn't. Not until she'd had time to examine the body at length. Gather her thoughts. Because whatever had gone down in that conference room, John had been at the center of it.
The nausea that had plagued her since the beginning of that hour-long chopper flight had returned—with a vengeance. And it had nothing to do with the ship.
Regan closed her mouth and pulled air in through her nose for several moments as she corralled her jangled nerves and forced them to settle. The Griffith's relentless rocking didn't help.
Damn it, if John was involved in Hachemi's death, there had to have been extenuating circumstances. She knew the man. His strengths and his flaws. John Garrison might be a Special Forces soldier trained to kill with his bare hands, but he did so only in the defense of his country. And even then, only under direct orders and within the context of an officially sanctioned, albeit often classified, mission.
He was simply not capable of outright murder. Not even of a known terrorist.
Not even a terrorist whose crimes had led directly to the deaths of seven men under his command, several of their wives and very nearly her own.
She was certain.
But would her new, clearly reluctant partner be able to put his obvious bias aside long enough to entertain the possibility?
Regan turned back to the conference room. The door was still closed and Riyad was still standing beside it.
And she was still so much more than merely pissed over this entire situation—and his part in it.
"Agent Riyad, I issued a direct order. As case supervisor, I expect you to obey it. Immediately."
The fire in his stare threatened to melt the surrounding steel. But he turned.
Riyad shoved the door to the conference room open. If he'd hoped to stay her own ratcheting fury by waiting for her to precede him, he'd misjudged her.
The second he closed the door behind them and opened his mouth, she lit in. "Don't bother explaining. Just nod at the right spots and offer correction when required, understood?" From the grudging nod of respect as his mouth snapped shut, she knew he'd finally realized it was best not to cross her. "You and Major Garrison have been interrogating Dr. Durrani and Tamir Hachemi for nearly a week now, correct? In fact, you conducted the interrogations alone for several days before the major arrived aboard the Griffith—and got nowhere. That's why Major Garrison was ordered to leave Fort Campbell and was flown here to assist."
The slight flush she'd noticed twice before tinged the base of the spook's dusky neck. "Yes."
It made sense. Riyad's answer, his embarrassment and especially the motivation behind the mid-interrogation tasking shift. John had served with Tamir Hachemi on multiple missions during his tours in Afghanistan. The brass had clearly hoped the long-standing connection would serve to loosen the translator's tongue after Hachemi had arrived aboard the Griffith and clammed up.
But it hadn't.
Regan continued her assessment. "You were also the one who let the fact that I was still very much alive and recently cured of that goddamned psycho-toxin slip during one of those interrogation sessions, correct?"
"Yes."
The tinge faded, answering Regan's next question before she could voice it. The slip had not been accidental. It had been deliberate.
Her temper surged along with the bow of the ship, effectively supplanting any nausea. "Why?"
Riyad shrugged. "We weren't getting anywhere with the standard fare. I decided to change tactics." The flush might have faded, but the shadow in those eyes had returned and this one was not tinted with respect.
He was lying. The micro-expressions on his face confirmed it. Unfortunately, now was not the time to call him on it. Unlike this man, she needed more first.
"You speak fluent Arabic, possibly with an upper-crust Saudi accent, when you choose to use it, don't you?"
Another shadow flickered amid the murky black, and she could have sworn this one was personal.
"Agent Riyad?"
"Yes."
And yet Durrani had still refused to open up. Interesting.
Or not. "Did you use Arabic with the doctor?"
Riyad nodded. "During our first few meetings, he refused to answer my English, Dari or Pashto. So I switched to Arabic."
Ahhh.
A third shadow slipped in, this one solidifying into pure curiosity—Riyad's—confirming what she'd suspected from the beginning. The spook was attempting to read her too; he had been since the moment she'd arrived aboard this ship. He just hadn't been as successful. It wasn't his fault. After all, she had her father's corrupt DNA, as well as the bastard's ability to lie convincingly, on her side. But the curiosity burning in that murky stare didn't concern her. It stemmed from the connection she'd made.
Why not? It wouldn't hurt to voice it.
It might even help.
"You miscalculated." Especially with the Arabic. Durrani got off on power. Everything she'd learned about the doc—from his official records, as well as their conversations when he'd had her isolated in the bathroom of that terror house—supported the assessment. The moment Durrani had heard what was clearly the real Royal Saudi deal from Riyad's lips, the Afghan son of a goatherd turned medical scholarship winner's own lips had been sealed. "Durrani will never open up to you. You won't even get him to speak if you're tucked silently in the corner of the same room."
The bastard would be too worried about being found out. Labeled as the lowborn that, deep down, Durrani feared he still was.
"You can't know that."
Oh, she could and she did. "I may look young, Agent Riyad, but I've been at this game a long time. Granted, I might not have a degree in psychology or whatever's stamped on that piece of sheepskin you've got hanging in your office. I don't need it." Not to become an Army warrant, and she sure as hell didn't need a four-year degree to grill the scum of the earth for a living. "Interrogations are in my blood."
Whether she wanted them to be or not. Her own father had lied to the Washington, DC, Metropolitan Police Department for five years, and no one had figured it out. Not until it was too late.
From the fresh glint off that rapidly refreezing ice, this man knew the entire tawdry story too.
Then again, Riyad was a spook. She could only pray his loyalties weren't as divided as her dear ol' dad's had been.
Regan re-zeroed her attention, returning it to the opening comments Riyad had offered up in her stateroom. "Major Garrison was supposed to accompany you on that chopper flight you missed, correct?"
"Yes."
"Where were you headed, and why?" She didn't bother reminding him of the captain's directive in the passageway. According to Armstrong, the Pentagon had blessed her handling of the murder, meaning nothing related to this case was off limits—classified or not.
If Riyad's current frown was any judge, he was still ticked with the decision, too. But he complied.
"We'd decided to rendezvous at Bagram Airbase with a soldier detailed to one of Major Garrison's A-Teams, a Staff Sergeant Tulle. The three of us planned on dropping in on Hachemi's maternal uncle, the one who runs goats on the Afghan side of the mountain, near the cave where those women were murdered. No one outside the investigation knew for certain Dr. Durrani and Hachemi were arrested because we never released the information. Major Garrison felt he'd be able to abuse that fact. He and Staff Sergeant Tulle were to knock on the uncle's door under the guise that Hachemi went MIA during a military mission and that we feared he'd been kidnapped. We'd hoped to parlay that meeting into an introduction with another uncle who runs goats on the Pakistani side of the border—the one who actually owns that cave."
A solid plan. It might've worked, too. But only if the Afghan uncle wasn't in on the cave slaughter with the Pakistani one. Hell, the Afghan uncle might've clammed up even if he was innocent. He wouldn't even have to share Durrani's deep-seated inferiority complex. More than a few Afghans still despised Saudis for their crucial role in creating and funding the Taliban regime for so many years.
Regan turned away from Riyad to set her crime kit down beside the conference room's door, automatically glancing at the numbers on the lock. Her old mentor Art Valens had once confessed that he reset his tumble to one of several combinations every time he closed his kit, so he'd know if it'd been tampered with. With her thing for digits, she'd gone a step further, landing on a new random sequence each time she wrapped up a session.
Confident that no one had screwed with her kit while it had been stowed aboard the various aircraft she'd been in and out of that day—some of which she'd slept on—Regan opened the kit to withdraw two sets of paper booties and latex gloves, as well as a stack of numbered evidence markers. She hooked the stack of tented plastic in her right cargo pocket and handed a set of gloves and booties to Riyad as she stood.
Surprise lit his gaze, forcing a momentary thaw.
He'd obviously expected her to pull a tasking from his operational plan and relegate him to guarding this side of the door. He couldn't have been further from the truth. She might not respect, much less like the asshole, but she wanted him with her every step of the way on this investigation, two inches from her backside—or closer.
Who better to prove that she was, as Captain Armstrong had asserted, Impartiality Incarnate?
It was the only chance John had. All she could do was pray it was enough.
Regan slipped her booties over the soles of her tan combat boots and donned her gloves before retrieving her digital camera and a fresh memory card. Riyad studied her intently as she snapped several overviews of the room.
She finally paused to sigh. "What?"
"I've got a question."
She turned away to snap a photo of the conference room door. It was still closed. "Fire away."
"Why did you order Chief Yrle to keep Major Garrison in the dark?"
She whirled back to Riyad, widening her stance to compensate for the sudden surging of the ship as well as the renewed sloshing in her belly.
Was it her imagination, or had the Griffith changed course?
"Because the CO was right. Not only do I know my job, Agent Riyad, I'm damned good at it. My investigation will reflect what happened in this compartment today. Nothing more, nothing less. No matter who is waiting to speak to me."
He clipped a nod. But the suspicion and disbelief were still there, in the subtle clenching of his neatly whiskered jaw. And something else.
Something she wasn't going to like.
She clamped down on her own jaw. "What?"
"You look like you could use another trip to the head."
He didn't pull any punches, did he? Not now, and not while Tamir Hachemi had been lying on the deck with those Marines, and then the doc and his corpsmen, still fighting for the translator's life. The proof was in Riyad's disappearing act.
The moment the spook had realized John had tangled with the translator and come out on the winning side, Riyad had run straight to the bridge to corner the ship's captain and whine about her impartiality.
Because of one simple purging.
What was it about men and nausea? As if there could be no other reason for a woman to experience it. For example—a ship that, for some reason, truly did feel as though it was riding the waves higher and harder…or dealing with the even more unsettling discovery that the man she'd been unable to banish from her mind since the moment they'd met appeared to be guilty of murder?
Regan pushed the latter, truer, reason aside and concentrated on Riyad's. It was easier—for her and her case.
"Kill the euphemisms, Super Spy, and voice what's really on your mind…unless you don't have the nerve?"
The lock on Riyad's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
"Well?"
He stepped closer. "Are you pregnant?"
"No." Nor was she likely to become so any time soon, and not without significant medical intervention and high-tech assistance. But there was no way she was telling him that. The status of her sole remaining ovary was none of this jerk's business.
But as much as she hated to admit it, her current relationship with John Garrison was. "How much do you know?"
Riyad's jaw relaxed a bit at the question, and he shrugged. "More than the rest of the world."
Meaning that, at the very least, he'd followed her humiliation in the news the year before.
Year, hell; it was going on sixteen months now.
It was also becoming clear that she'd never live that case down. Especially among her fellow agents—Army and otherwise.
Regan offered up her own shrug infused with an insouciance she'd never feel. Not about this. "I'm going to say this once, Agent Riyad, so listen closely. Yes, Major Garrison and I knew each other in Germany. And, yes, we met while I was undercover working a case to take down his houseguest before the sergeant could blow a certain Turkish general's remaining offspring to hell and back. Things got dicey—and, yes, we also crawled into bed together before he discovered I was CID. But then I crawled out of his bed before the main event—because it was my job. Lives were on the line, including those of innocent children. As I'm sure you know, Major Garrison was still pissed over my actions, even after he discovered why I'd been undercover. We parted ways and didn't meet up again until just over two weeks ago, after I arrived at Fort Campbell. We spent the next several days in and out of each other's company as we worked to figure out why the men on one of his A-Teams were alternately killing their wives, falling deathly ill or committing suicide. Just what sort of unprofessional relationship the major and I were supposed to have resumed in between our near constant visits to the hospital, the morgue and that Pakistani cave, I have no idea. Or perhaps you think the major slipped into my own ICU bed sometime during the three hours after I woke from my coma back at Fort Campbell and before he was shipped here?"
Dead silence filled the compartment as she finished. It was broken only by the ever-present creaking of metal and embarrassment.
Hers and his.
"I trust I've satisfied your curiosity—or at least soothed your concerns—about what is, or is not, inside my abdomen?"
This nod was stiff.
"Excellent. And is there anything else you'd like to know, or perhaps should share with me, before we get this show on the road?"
To her surprise, the man offered another nod before jerking his neatly groomed beard toward the body still lying on the deck just past the conference table. "You might as well know now; he did it. According to Corporal Vetter, the translator got in Major Garrison's face while Garrison was questioning him. Next thing Vetter knew, the major had slammed Hachemi into the bulkhead, face first. Just one smack, but between Garrison's training and an inch of rolled steel, that was all it took. The Marines laid the body out on the deck and started CPR while Chief Yrle took Garrison into custody and escorted him out of the compartment. You know the rest."
She did.
She simply refused to buy that that was all there was to this. At least, not until she'd had a chance to examine the scene and question everyone involved—including John.
The pulse beating steadily at the base of the spook's jaw told her Riyad was of no such opinion. As far as Super Spy was concerned, John was guilty. End of case.
Worse, she had the distinct impression Riyad believed John meant to kill Hachemi, and had even planned it.
But why?
That was a question she wasn't prepared to press. Yet.
Regan nodded. "Message received. Now if it's all the same to you, Agent, I prefer to get my facts from the victim. Do us both a favor and stay out of my way. Don't approach the body without permission and do not, under any circumstances, touch so much as a speck of dust in this compartment—even when properly gloved—unless I give direct instruction. Understood?"
She didn't wait for confirmation, verbal or otherwise. She headed across the room, stopping to remove one of the numbered evidence markers she'd tucked in her cargo pocket. She set the marker on the floor beside the splattered coffee and snapped a photo before moving on to the four chairs in the room, the table and the two Styrofoam cups. Retrieving two more markers, Regan placed one beside the cup of cold coffee, the other near the upended cup.
The latter rolled several inches to the right atop the table, then to the left, repeating the pendular motion with each progressively more powerful surge of the ship. But for the lipped edges of the conference table, it would've hit the deck a while ago.
Had the Griffith changed course, then?
The speaker hanging from a corner of the overhead sparked to life. The piercing trill from a boatswain's pipe filled the compartment, followed by a disembodied voice briefing the crew on what appeared to be the imminent underway refueling Chief Yrle had mentioned upon Regan's arrival. The announcement ended with an admonishment that the smoking lamp was out throughout the ship.
Regan could only hope they relit that lamp soon. She might not be yearning for nicotine, but the resulting course change was playing havoc with her newfound equilibrium. At least her stomach was holding fast. That was something.
Given the bloodied and shattered features of her pending photographic subject—and who appeared to be responsible—it was everything.
To her horror, her right hand visibly shook for the first time in almost two days as she raised the camera to snap her opening shot of the body.
So much for her brag to Gil. And damn him for getting it right. Because there was no escaping the obvious. That tremor might be in her hand…but it was also in her head.
And it was back.
Fortunately, Riyad was behind her.
Regan waited for the tremor to pass, then raised the camera again. This time she managed to hold the camera steady and photograph the body. Intent on completing the task before her hand started shaking again, she adjusted the lens for a close-up, only to shift her attention as the door to the compartment opened behind her.
The ship's doc entered.
"Ready for the bag?"
"Not yet. But we are ready for you."
The doc nodded. Unlike Riyad, Lieutenant Mantia had been through the death drill at least once before, because he set the plastic body bag on the deck just inside the space. He also had his own booties and latex gloves in hand and paused to don both sets before he bent to retrieve the thermometer and several paper evidence bags from her kit. Regan snapped a succession of close-ups of the body as she waited for Mantia to reach her side. Riyad wisely remained at the table.
"Finished?"
She nodded. "Go for it, Doc."
They hunkered down together. Regan opened the largest of the evidence bags and waited as Mantia eased the O2 mask, balloon and tubing from Hachemi's face. She bagged the medical gear and labeled it as the doc inserted the thermometer into Hachemi's liver, waited for, then recorded the results.
"Done."
Fortunately, her hand remained steady. Regan quickly photographed the translator's battered face without the obscuring O2 mask—and bit down on her shock. If Corporal Vetter was correct and John had landed just one blow, it had been a doozy. Unfortunately, it had also been more than enough to kill him. Even she—sans four-year college and follow-on medical degree—knew that.
She tamped down on her dwindling hope. There was always a chance she was wrong. "Well, Doc?"
"It's as bad as it looks." He drew his gloved fingers alongside what was left of Hachemi's features. "The nose has been shattered. As have several teeth. I'm also fairly certain—" Mantia slipped his fingers lower and gently manipulated the coarsely bearded lower jaw. "You hear that crunch?"
"Yes."
"The chin feels as though it's been fractured too—right here, and clean through."
She resisted the urge to close her eyes and pray. "Recently?"
"Yes. However—" Mantia drew her attention to the three middle fingers of the translator's right hand. They were splinted. "These fractures are older by a good—"
"Two weeks."
Mantia nodded. "You have good instincts, Agent Chase."
Not instinct, memory. She'd been nearby when those three fingers had been broken, too. Again, by John.
At the time she'd been handcuffed to a sink in a darkened bathroom while John and half a dozen Special Forces soldiers and her two fellow CID agents had been fighting off the effects of the anesthetic gas that Hachemi had used to knock them out. John had recovered first. He'd methodically snapped those now-splinted digits one by one as Hachemi had refused to offer up her whereabouts and other intel.
Given that her mentor Art Valens had never regained consciousness, Hachemi had been lucky that she hadn't been the one asking questions.
Though if she had, they wouldn't be here now—with John's career, freedom and quite possibly his very life on the line.
"Cause of death?" Riyad.
Regan bit down on her tongue as the doc stiffened. Surprise furrowed Mantia's brow as he twisted around to focus on the spook leaning against the edge of the conference table. It appeared she should've added ill-timed queries to his "don'ts" list.
Riyad shrugged. "I won't hold you to it. I'm just looking for a best guess, given the injuries in front of you."
"Injuries can be misleading, Agent Riyad."
Mantia might have voiced the rebuke, but she was in complete agreement.
Riyad was not. The murky frost had returned, and this time it was blowing toward the doc.
Regan mirrored Mantia's movements as he came to his feet. There was no need. Not only did the doc have no need of backup, he'd definitely been through this drill before—complete with interfering, impatient rubberneckers—because he held firm.
"We'll wait, Agent Riyad. I received word that, in an effort to keep a lid on the situation as long possible, the Pentagon has decided against shipping the body to Bahrain. We'll be flying it to one of our aircraft carriers. A pathologist from Detrick has been rerouted to the carrier to conduct the postmortem. You may have your answer by tonight, possibly tomorrow."
The murky frost shifted as Mantia returned to the body. It settled on her. As with the stateroom door Riyad had shut in her face following her arrival, her fellow agent's message was clear. Riyad might not have more homicide investigations under his belt than he could count, but he was aware of basic procedure. He'd simply intended on lancing her hope.
Unfortunately, the evidence had beaten him to it.
She watched as Mantia manipulated the translator's head, examining the back. The skin was intact. The two-foot slick of blood beneath Hachemi's body had come from his shattered face. A shattered face that, according to Corporal Vetter, was the direct result of the single blow John had landed.