Eighty-seven minutes later, Regan opened the watertight door to the Griffith's brig. Both Nabil Durrani and Special Agent Riyad were waiting for her as she stepped inside. The former sat shackled to the table inside his cell as per her instructions, his dark blue, coverall-clad back infused with a palpable air of serenity. The latter was pacing the far end of the brig's outer compartment and, based on the strength of that perpetual scowl, decidedly less at peace with himself, not to mention her.
But the spook was adhering to her orders. He was firmly out of the doc's line of sight.
Even better, once she entered the cell and walked around the table to commandeer the empty seat across from Durrani, Riyad would still be in hers.
"Evening, ma'am."
Regan nodded to the Marine as he stood. "Corporal Vetter."
Upon her arrival, the corporal had been seated at the duty desk. His posture had been—and still was—considerably more relaxed than even Durrani's. Given the possibility that the dregs from that cup of coffee might indeed contain traces of strychnine, she found that particularly telling. If Vetter had orchestrated the translator's poisoning, the corporal appeared to be neither afflicted with guilt, nor worried that he'd be caught.
She filed the information away as she turned to close the watertight door. Skirting the metal ladder that led up to the hatch in the overhead of the compartment, she approached the desk to hand the Marine the gift she'd brought.
"Why, thank you, ma'am." Vetter's cheeks turned ruddy as he accepted the coffee, matching the tint to the island of Marine Corps stubble topping his head.
He centered the melamine mug on the duty desk. Since the course change from earlier had ceased dampening the severity of the ship's rolls halfway through the midnight meal and copious supply of caffeine that she'd shared with Chief Yrle, she wasn't sure the placement was wise. But the cup, and its sloshing contents, held.
Riyad's temper, not so much.
The spook fairly seethed with annoyance. Unfortunately for him, the listen-only mode she'd stressed in the master-at-arms shack earlier involved his ears alone…not that fixed jaw and tightly compressed mouth.
She ignored both as she turned right and entered the occupied cell.
Durrani didn't bother looking up as she walked around the table to stand beside the empty chair. She knew full well the open Qur'an and that rapt, pious pose were for show. There was no way Vetter would've been shuttling in here every two minutes to turn the pages. And that was a task the doc had long since lost the ability to accomplish on his own. His wrists were neatly cuffed to the security bar suspended several inches above his lap and just past the edge of the table; the Qur'an wasn't. Due to the ship's motion, the book and its eye-straining print had inched all the way across the table. Another good roll or two, and the Qur'an would be landing on her boots.
"Am I interrupting? I can always return tomorrow."
She knew his answer. As did he.
Still, the doc waited for several moments, then glanced up as if he'd just finished reading a lengthy passage and politely shook his head. "Not at all, Agent Chase. I have been biding my time and my patience with the words and wisdom of Allah."
Yeah, she doubted that.
Had that print been larger or the book closer, she still wouldn't have bought it. Not when this man had clearly managed to skip over most of the words in that tome. Particularly those pertaining to understanding, coexistence and peace.
"Would you like me to move the Qur'an to your rack?"
"No, but thank you."
She shifted her attention past Durrani's head, toward the entrance to the cell where Vetter was patiently marking time. Riyad had ceased pacing. He stood well behind the Marine and to his left, watching.
She ignored the spook in favor of the Marine. "Go ahead and enjoy your coffee, Corporal."
"Ma'am, I'm not sure if you're aware—"
"Of the incident earlier? I am. And I'll be fine. I can take care of myself, even when I'm the one who starts out cuffed." The placid glance she flicked across the table rivaled Durrani's. It landed on that three-inch pink scar. She'd assumed it would look better without the stitches. It didn't. He really should've waited until the corpsman had applied that cream before he'd taken out his temper on the woman. "Right, Doc?"
Durrani's smile held. Barely.
Vetter's deepened. "Yes, ma'am. I heard that about you." He tipped his head toward the duty desk as he backed out of the cell. "I'll be right here if you need me."
"Sure thing." But she wouldn't.
Nudging the Qur'an into a less precarious location, she set her manila folder on the table and seated herself in the only remaining chair. Since her favorite recorder was running low on power, she retrieved her phone and switched on her backup recording app, quickly running through the standard who, what, when, where and why.
The formalities out of the way, she leaned back, taking in the full measure of the remainder of those deceptively tranquil features seated across from her, just as their owner took in hers.
"I trust your meeting went well, Agent Chase."
"It did. Thank you."
"And your flights? Were they uneventful?"
She nudged a slight curve to her lips. "What makes you think I left the ship?"
"Please, I am not a stupid man."
True. But he was arrogant. And worried.
It was in his hands.
They'd been decidedly loose and relaxed during their previous meeting. They weren't now. Oh, his shackled wrists were resting on that steel bar lightly enough. But his palms were pressed a bit too closely together. His index fingers were also steepled toward her, with his remaining digits knitted up as if ready for prayers.
Except, Muslims didn't pray like that. Sunnis or Shias.
And their fingers generally weren't taut.
The doc was worried. About Hachemi. About the current state of the translator's potentially precarious health. About what his cohort had and hadn't given up today. And, more importantly, to whom Hachemi might or might not have not given it.
In light of everything that had happened aboard this ship since she'd arrived, and everything Durrani had to have overheard, she was fairly certain the man believed the CIA had finally been called in. That she'd taken his cohort to another ship to be "questioned". And since Durrani hadn't seen John or Agent Riyad all day either, he probably assumed the men were with the translator, assisting in his "questioning".
"So, where are your two friends this evening?"
And that confirmed it.
"Oh, here and there."
"And how is my friend?"
She shrugged. "He's been better."
She refined her assessment as the knit to those fingers tightened. Yeah, the doc was definitely worried. But not for his cohort. In fact, Durrani didn't give a damn about Hachemi. He was concerned for himself.
Durrani believed he was next.
She offered the bastard her first sincere smile of the day. "I understand you've been anxious to speak with me."
"I would not use the word anxious."
Yeah, she'd received the reports from Chief Yrle and Corporal Vetter. Heard the bellowing over that sound-powered phone herself. "I would."
He matched her shrug. "I have been…concerned about you."
"Concerned?" Now there was a first.
But he nodded solemnly. "Indeed. For many reasons."
Many?
Why not? She had the rest of the night.
She bit. "And those are?"
He tipped his head toward the manila folder. The one she'd tucked in front of her to keep it from sliding onto the deck. "How is your hand?"
For once the appendage in question complied with her will and remained motionless. Thank God. "It's fine."
"And the tremors?"
What the hell. He might be the devil incarnate, but he was also a Harvard-educated physician. It wasn't as though he wouldn't know. Plus, he'd been playing with that diabolical psycho-toxin for a while, recording his observations and his notes. The ones they'd found in that safe house in Charikar, and others they might not have.
"They come and go."
This nod was sage, compassionate even. So much so, she might've actually believed he felt the emotion behind it…had she not seen the photos of those pregnant women and their innocent babies in all their mutilated horror. Walked that cave where it had all gone down. Dodged those murky pools of frozen blood in the flesh…and in her current, all too crystal-clear nightly dreams.
The faux compassion strengthened. "It has not been long since your coma, Agent Chase. These things take time. You will heal."
She didn't doubt it.
Okay, she did doubt it. Particularly in the darkest, loneliest part of the night. Right around the time when she began to wonder if she'd be able to control those tremors long enough to pass her looming weapons qualification without one hijacking her grip and knocking her aim off at the last millisecond.
And if she couldn't control them?
Her undercover career had already been demolished. Thanks to Germany and Evan LaCroix, being an investigator was all she had left.
If she couldn't pass her quals, what would that do to the remainder of her career with CID? Any future livelihood?
The possibility of a real relationship with John?
Not only did she not have the answers. She wasn't even sure she wanted them. But there was no way she was confessing any of that to this asshole, let alone seeking medical advice from the man. For a career obliterating and potentially permanent neurological condition he'd caused, no less.
Even so, his reassurance wasn't what intrigued her. It was the effort behind his phony concern. The doc was genuinely attempting to connect with her.
Why?
What did he have up his sleeve? "You said many reasons. What else bothers you…on my behalf?"
"How well do you know the men with whom you work?"
Ah, so that was where this was headed. Divide and conquer. He planned on impugning her colleagues' integrity. Shaking her faith. It was a solid, time-tested tactic. But it wouldn't work. Not only was that tactic an Army CID agent's bread and butter, she knew John. Warts and all. Accepted them.
Riyad, however…
But while she admittedly knew the spook a fraction as well as she knew John and trusted him even less, her so-called partner still ranked above the bastard seated across from her. The one still gauging her micro-expressions and reactions just as closely as she was gauging his.
Durrani was definitely trying to get into her head, any way he could. And she was more than curious to see just how far the doc was willing—and able—to go.
Know thy enemy, know thyself.
Sun Tzu had been dead on with that one. Even if Durrani wasn't a proponent of ancient military philosophy, she suspected he'd taken the Chinese general's advice to heart years before. How else had the doc succeeded in decimating nearly all of Captain Mendoza's A-Team and slaughtering the women in that cave, and then nearly succeeded in blaming the entire, grisly crime on Captain McCord and his men?
Not that Durrani's implied offer wasn't tempting. If Agent Riyad had made it onto Durrani's radar before she, John and the rest of John's men had managed to take the doc down in Charikar, there was an outstanding chance Durrani had dirt on the spook. Unfortunately, anything Durrani placed on the table would, at the very least, be tainted by association and definitely suspect, especially since the man was clearly intent on trying to use it against her.
So…why had the spook tensed? And why was Riyad shifting closer to the entrance to the cell? It couldn't be in an attempt to hear better. Not with the recording app on her phone still ticking away, sucking up their conversation for posterity.
Good Lord, Riyad was in the doorway now. For a moment, she actually thought he was going to stalk all the way inside.
Evidently Corporal Vetter thought so too, because the Marine came to his feet and moved up to grip the spook's arm and pull him back.
Riyad jerked his head to his left. He stared at the Marine. Hard. For a split second, she suspected he was going to take the corporal down, right then and there. Even more startling, in that moment she had the distinct impression Riyad was more than capable of doing it. Despite the fact that the Marine had a good two inches and roughly forty pounds of honed muscle on the spook.
Just who the hell was he?
To her shock, the Marine backed down—and off.
Riyad remained in the doorway, once again utterly focused on the man within.
"Agent Chase?"
She snapped her attention back to the table and fused it on the lying, pretty boy seated across from her and not the one lurking just outside that door. Waiting.
For what?
"Is something amiss?"
It took every ounce of discipline she possessed to keep her thoughts from seeping through as she shook her head. Smiled. "It's nothing."
"Are you certain?"
Not by a long shot. "Absolutely."
Was it her imagination, or had the ship's motion grown worse while she'd been watching the corporal and the spook square off? Even the creaking in the venting and pipes was more pronounced. The Qur'an slid into the upper edge of her folder, jamming in firmly enough that a folded-up sheet of paper jarred loose. It was now peeking out from between the pages at the back of the book.
Curious, she tugged the square free and unfolded it.
It was the photo of the seventh woman from the cave.
"I placed it there to keep it safe. After all, it is far too easy to lose that which is important to us, is it not? Especially equipment."
Equipment? This was an image. Of a murdered woman with someone else's child lying atop her violated abdomen, no less.
What on earth was he alluding to? Because he was definitely alluding to something. That word was not a missed attempt at a thought lost to translation. Nabil Durrani's store of English nouns was as vast as his overblown ego. Unless—
Shit.
Apprehension prickled up her spine. Had the doc heard Riyad earlier, before she'd arrived? Did Durrani suspect the spook of remaining in the outer compartment? Or was he simply hoping Riyad would review the recording on her phone later? Was that odd phrasing meant to convey something known only to the two of them?
If so, what?
She was about to expose Riyad and invite him into the cell, if only to study the interplay between the two men, when a powerful wave hit the ship, jolting the entire compartment upward, before causing it to plummet straight down, along with the table between them. The Qur'an went flying over the edge, landing with a thud on the deck beside the metal legs of her chair, along with the manila folder and her phone.
Regan grabbed the folder before the contents could spill out, then the phone and book. Fortunately, the recording app was still running. She set the phone and the Qur'an on top of the folder and laid all three on the table between them.
"I apologize." That tome might not be holy to her, but it was to a significant percentage of the world's population, including the monster seated across from her.
To her surprise, the monster shrugged. "All is well—and as Allah wills."
Whatever.
She wasn't impressed with his take on anything with respect to that book, any more than she'd been with her grandfather's rigid interpretation of the Bible, let alone how dear ol' papaw had used that interpretation as an excuse whenever he'd decided to take out his anger and frustration on her backside.
Neither her grandfather, nor this man, was truly religious. Both simply used whoever was upstairs for their own rationalizations and ends.
"And how is your lover faring?"
Her stomach lurched—and it had nothing to do with the newfound rhythm of the ship.
Durrani didn't know she and John were involved, did he? Much less that John was still aboard the Griffith and confined to his quarters?
"Pardon?"
That irritatingly smooth smirk returned. "I was given to understand that you and Major Garrison had renewed your relationship. Am I incorrect?"
So he did know. But he was also fishing for more.
Neither was surprising.
Durrani had chosen two of John's captains and their respective A-Teams for his heinous plans. He would've been a fool to skip investigating John as well. And though the doc might be a monster, a fool he was not.
Sixteen months ago, the salacious relationship she and John shared in Hohenfels had made the international news. CID and all of Special Forces had been privy to details that even the media hadn't managed to ferret out. As an Afghan translator employed by the US Army at the time, Hachemi might have known some of her fellow agents, and Hachemi had definitely worked closely with SF. Hachemi would've eagerly shared any dirt he'd gleaned on John with Durrani as the men had plotted that two-pronged terror attack on those pregnant women and John's men.
And then there was her presence with John on that mission to flush out Durrani in Charikar. The bastard was simply connecting the dots.
Hoping she'd choke on them.
She matched that smooth twist with her own. "The major's fine."
"Excellent. I offer my congratulations on repairing an…unusual relationship. And my sympathies, of course. To have called you a whore in that parking lot. Well, a Mata Hari, but—" That twist of his finally shifted into a deep, disapproving frown. "—it was clear what he really meant, was it not? And so…humiliating. But you two have managed to work through your differences, yes? He trusts you in his bed now? This is good. Still, the major's mood has been dark this past week. Are you completely certain he has forgiven you?"
Okay, Hachemi could have shared a lot of the above. But not that name.
Mata Hari.
There'd been two people in that parking lot outside CID that night—John and herself. And John wouldn't have spoken about what transpired. Ever. She sure as hell hadn't told anyone, not even Mira or Gil. Which meant someone else had been there.
Watching John. Listening. Deliberately gathering intel on him.
Sixteen months ago.
The traitor she was after?
Riyad?
She had no idea. But two things were clear, and the second was even more chilling than the first. One, whoever had overheard the conversation in that parking lot had shared it damned near verbatim with Durrani. And two, given what she'd just learned, there was an excellent chance that Durrani and their unknown traitor had been plotting that cave massacre, the chimeral attack on John's men and whatever was still to come for a lot longer than anyone suspected.
But what Durrani failed to realize was that here, now, he'd tipped his hand. If she continued to play her cards right—and kept her own bent and battered aces out of sight—she just might be able to use the first mystery to solve the second.
She deepened her smile until she could feel it. "As I said, the major and I are fine, as is our relationship. Though I do appreciate the free shrink session."
"Ah, you have been checking up on me. Investigating my life."
No. But she'd read the reports during the flight to Al Dhafra from the agent who was. Nate Castile had included quite a bit of truly intriguing information.
"I admit, I was curious, Doctor. Especially with regard to your academic studies, given that chimera you injected into me. Though I'm not sure I feel comfortable with your mental assessments." She held up a hand as his mouth opened. "I know, I know. You got your bachelors in psychology. But really? With those grades?" Her pointed tsk, tsk briefly overtook the rolling and creaking of the ship. "They weren't the best, now were they? It's a wonder they awarded you that degree at all, much less let you into medical school. You must have licked and polished the boots of just the right admissions administrator."
Lord knew, it wouldn't have been a woman's.
The smile evaporated. The thin line left behind was as acerbic and as pissed as Durrani now was. "Perhaps I would have fared better had I had you to study back then. For you, Agent Chase, are a truly fascinating subject. While I suspect there are several detectives within your army with police officers for fathers, how many have fathers who were so dishonest, they were murdered by a fellow policeman? And your mother?" This tsking was his and considerably louder than hers had been. "The shame of it. It is no wonder she committed suicide. In front of the family's final Christmas tree, no less. As a child of Allah, I sympathize with her. And you?" No tsk this time. Just the return of that chilly smile and his phony compassion. The latter of which was fairly oozing from the man now. "How do you bear the pain and the disgrace of both of them?"
Really? That was all he was going to lob at her?
While she wasn't thrilled with having this particular conversation with this particular man, let alone in this particular place with none other than the spook listening in, it wasn't nearly enough.
Not for what she needed.
She pushed forth a light shrug. "Oh, it's not as difficult as you'd think. And it does get easier with each case I work and every bastard I bag. Especially the intelligent ones and their equally challenging investigations, unlike you…and yours."
She waited for the explosion, but it didn't materialize. The faux serenity returned instead. Despite the creaking of pipes, the air nearly pulsed with it.
Impressive.
He followed it up with another one of those sage nods that would have made Freud himself proud. "Yes, that is understandable. Your passion for the difficult and the complicated. I suspect both are born of your childhood as well. The physical and emotional abuse from your grandfather. All those foster homes. Perhaps this is why you chose to repair your fractured relationship with the major, hmm? Your determination to see at least one through? But it won't work, I'm afraid. You are too damaged, Agent Chase. Profoundly defective, in fact. In your mind and in your body. " He paused with that, as if to assess how successful he'd been in landing those blows.
Considerably less than he believed.
Nor did she need this bastard ripping off the lifelong scabs that barely covered her innumerable insecurities so he could trowel in a fresh load of doubt.
It was already there.
And he'd made a mistake. A serious miscalculation.
She had no intention of letting him know. She needed him to continue. The more he said, the more he revealed…and the closer she would get.
To the most important of those names.
She pressed her lips together. Allowed her chin to tremble. Just barely.
It was enough.
He was certain he was getting to her. The fresh wave of oozing concern confirmed it, as did that soft, sympathetic sigh. "That man will never see you as an equal. Nor will a relationship with the major ever last. How can it? You put your career first, Agent Chase, and in doing so, you killed his child. Eventually, he will find someone else. Someone worthy. And he, too, will leave you. Deep down, you know this."
Mind fuck. She'd heard the term years ago.
This man defined it.
She had to give the doc credit. Psychologically speaking, he'd managed to make up for those less than stellar undergrad grades with bruising, real-world experience. Experience he'd honed and learned to inflict upon others. He was a damned site better at screwing with her head than she'd given him credit for. Though really, she shouldn't have been surprised. He'd had plenty of time to prepare for this round.
But where the hell had he gotten his intel?
Because it was solid. Extensive.
Even Riyad hadn't been able to unload as many armor-piercing rounds at her that afternoon in her stateroom. As much as she hated to admit it, this particular bastard had succeeded in piercing her painstakingly forged protective shell.
Her right hand had begun to shake.
She slipped it into her lap as nonchalantly as she could, but it was too late. Those dark eyes were fairly gleaming. Nor could he resist flaunting that shit-eating grin.
Bastard.
She met his glee with an insouciance she definitely didn't feel. "Thanks for the advice, Doc. I'll keep it in mind while I'm working on my intimate relationships in the years to come—and you're in prison, working on your own intimate relationship…with your eager brute of a cellmate." After all, even with that scar, he was so very pretty.
As for herself, Durrani might even be right, especially with regard to John.
Hell, he probably was.
It wasn't as though she hadn't already run through the possible scenarios on her own—and come up with the same, inevitable outcome for her and John.
But she couldn't afford to worry about that now.
She shifted her phone and the copy of the Qur'an to the side of the table, willing both to remain in place and not hit the deck as she opened the manila folder. Bypassing the creased photo she'd left with Durrani earlier, she drew a fresh copy from the file and laid it on the table between them. As she reached out to re-stack the phone and the Qur'an on top of the folder, she caught sight of Riyad just past the doctor's head.
The spook's posture had relaxed.
Even more curious, he deliberately avoided her stare as he stepped back into the outer compartment. She couldn't see him anymore.
A moment later she realized why, as the quick-acting watertight door to the outer compartment groaned in ferric protest and opened. She caught Chief Yrle's soft apology for the interruption, followed by a pair of boots moving quietly toward the door. She could still see the Marine's left profile, so…Riyad's boots.
Several more moments, and she caught a second groan as the door closed.
Had something happened to John?
She forced herself to push the burning personal question aside and concentrate on the equally searing professional one in her hands. The question she might actually be able to answer before she left this cell. Regan turned the image of the seventh, desecrated victim from the cave around so that it faced her killer square on and gently tapped the woman's bloodied hair.
"Who is she?"
Those dark, rising brows feigned ignorance. "You tell me."
Both she and this monster knew full well that she still couldn't.
But she had learned a few inescapable truths about their mystery woman—truths that pertained to her killer. Truths that were rapidly coming into focus. Especially when Regan added up Durrani's polite, yet insolent behavior with herself today and back in Charikar; his sneering attitude at Bagram Airbase with his fellow Afghan-born and professional equal, Dr. Soraya Medhi; as well as the bastard's flirtatious, then violent behavior with the ship's female corpsman earlier that evening. Together, they added up to an intriguing—and damning—hypothesis. And, given Tamir Hachemi's motive for drawing Captain McCord in their heinous plot, one that was seriously ironic.
"You were in love with her."
Durrani's entire body flinched. A split second later, those dusky features flushed until they nearly matched the pink of his scar, then bled all the way down to a pasty gray.
Pay dirt.
Her smile grew, the one pinned to her lips and the other one. The one she'd kept tightly reigned in and stored deep in her gut. The one that had been fueling this conversation of theirs for the past half an hour. For all his airs, Nabil Durrani wasn't so different from the cohort he'd sneered upon after all, now was he?
But the real reason for both those growing smiles? His flinch. With the distinctive tell had come something truly promising.
A lead.
She had a decent chance at uncovering their mystery woman's identity now. Because somewhere—in the US, in Pakistan, or in Afghanistan—there would be a record or a witness of Nabil Durrani and this woman, interacting.
Given the nature of the photo, she also knew, "This woman rejected you. In fact, I suspect she not only wanted nothing to do with you, but she also went so far as to tell you to your face." With that level of violence against the woman, she must have. "Why? Did you work with her, then harass her when she refused your overtures?"
No flinch this time. But the flush was back, and this time it surpassed the newborn pink in that scar.
Regan allowed her visible smile to stretch and deepen into an outright grin. "Thank you."
"I did not tell you her name."
And he wouldn't. That much had become obvious over the course of their conversation tonight. Specifically, his side of it. Not a single question from the doc since she'd entered the room regarding her newfound immunity to that chimera. There was only one explanation possible: this woman and her identity were too important.
Durrani had no intention of identifying her.
Ever.
Regan shrugged. "It doesn't matter. I'll figure out who she is soon enough. I'll begin with every doctor, nurse and lab tech you ever worked with, while a few of my associates start in on everyone you came in contact with before, during and after medical school—in Afghanistan, Pakistan and the States." She held up the photo. "Keep in mind, we have an infinite number of copies of this to bring with us, and to distribute if need be. In person, in the papers, online, and on TV. Someone will recognize her." Regan shook her head as she reached out to tap the cover of the Qur'an beside her. "And when they see all that blood and that baby, it won't matter which book they hold while they pray. They will come forward. And then, we'll know what you have planned next."
"That will take time."
She shook her head. "Not as much as you'd think. After all, we've got a lot of boots on the ground in the States and spread out among other countries, now that we've pulled them out of that hellhole you came from. Those boots are attached to hands that are ready, willing and able to carry copies of this picture around the globe. And as I said, as soon as we identify her, the battle will be over. We'll have won the war."
That got a response.
His fingers fused into a single, tightly knitted fist as he lunged as far forward as he could get. "Never will it be over! Not until we have won. Nor did you pull out of my country. You were chased out like the jackals you are, with your tails tucked between your legs as you scurried back to huddle up beside your cowardly president. No concessions were needed. If you think that with you gone we will forsake our brothers in Al Qaeda and elsewhere, you are mistaken. If you think we will accept the rule of the puppets you left behind in Kabul, you are doubly so. We will prevail, again and again. And unlike you, we are in no hurry. It is as it has been said: you have the clocks, but we have the time. All we needed to do was wait. And so we did. Soon enough, it will be truly over—everywhere. You will be forced from all lands where Allah smiles. You are, in fact, already defeated; you simply have not recognized it. This so-called democracy you tried to seed in my country and others has been strangled at birth. By the time you and your army recognize the noose, it will be too late. Until then, everything is as Allah wills, in Allah's time—as it should be."
With that, he jerked back in his chair, then fell forward over his hands with the motion of the ship. He landed so hard, his forehead smacked into the edge of the table, directly in front of the steel bar. The top of his head and his body jerked once, twice, then stilled.
"Doctor? Are you okay?" She snapped her stare to the doorway, but couldn't see Riyad. Nor had she heard the outer compartment's watertight door reopen. The Marine was still in front of his desk, standing guard. "Corporal! Get Dr. Mantia! Now."
She was dimly aware of Vetter yanking the sound-powered phone off its hook and barking into it as she vaulted up onto the table, her knees slamming into the manila folder. By the time she'd grabbed the doctor's shoulders to shove him up and away from her, Marine Corps camouflage was already thundering in on her left.
If Durrani had been poisoned—
Twin, thick jets of hot blood instantly drowned that possibility as they squirted up and out from two mangled holes at opposite sides of the man's neck, splashing across her forehead, over her cheeks and damned near into her eyes.
Instinct combined with relentless training and the time-tested reality of combat as she shoved her thumbs into Durrani's neck, digging in at his pulse points.
A fresh round of scarlet burst forth regardless, this time coating her jaw and neck as it arced down into her ACU top. She could feel the blood dripping beneath her tee shirt and soaking into her bra as she dug her thumbs in deeper. But Durrani's neck was also with slick with blood, forcing her to readjust her grip.
"Damn it, Doc, stop pulling away!"
The bastard just stared at her—and smiled. That blasted serenity had returned too, and it was directed solely at her.
"Vetter, get his cuffs." If he could get Durrani free and laid out on the deck, she could turn the physics of gravity and pressure into their favor.
The Marine worked as rapidly as he could, but the blood was still squirting out through those mangled holes with each beat of the man's heart. There was less and less force behind each jet, too. Less and less blood splashing into her neck and chest.
Shit.
She didn't need Colonel Tarrington's vaunted skills, much less a formal autopsy, to confirm that Dr. Durrani had managed to shred both his carotids. The proof was in his blood. Most of it was outside the bastard's body now—coating her.
Slicking those damned cuffs.
Between slippery steel and the scarlet stain still spreading out over the rolling deck, it was impossible for the Marine to keep his grip.
What the hell had Durrani used to cut himself with anyway?
But, deep down, she knew. Just as she knew this entire, senseless fiasco was her fault. She should have made the connection sooner. Before the doc's lap had begun to fill with his own blood.
The cuffs finally clicked open and fell away. A split second later, half the ship's medical department barreled into the brig, and then the cell. Dr. Mantia and the beefy corpsman from the conference room that morning were in the lead.
Behind them, and coming up fast, a livid Riyad.
She ignored the spook and concentrated on the splatter of red now barely bubbling forth as Vetter worked around her hands, hooking his arms behind Durrani's neck and knees so he could lift and lay the man out into the ocean of his own blood. But she could tell—even before the Griffith's physician reached her side and knelt to assess the situation, shook his head, resigned himself to the reality—it was too late.
The bastard beneath her thumbs had already given her his last fucking smile…and died.