Regan tried to contain her shock as she stared at John.
It was impossible.
This was bigger than either of them had feared, and getting more complicated with each moment. One dirty SEAL was bad enough. But two, possibly working in tandem? One of whom—if Riyad was dirty—was now not only firmly embedded inside NCIS's foreign counter-intel division, but also had Admiral Kettering's ear?
Except… "What do you think?"
This shrug was as slight as John's earlier one; the implications it supported, just as heavy. "Jury's still out."
Yeah, with her too. Everything John had revealed actually pointed toward the spook not being dirty. But Riyad was still hiding something.
Damned if she could figure out what it was.
"There's more."
Despite all the possible ramifications that were swirling in, hope flared. John might be in the midst of slowly cataloguing her micro-expressions, but she already had a solid bead on pretty much all of his. "You got a name."
“Possibly.”
"Who?"
"The embassy's senior political officer."
"Tom Crier?"
"You seem surprised."
She was, and then again, she wasn't. "I don't know. I haven't had a chance to sit down with the man. He was away from the embassy this afternoon. But I did make some headway with two other potentials. But first, what did you get on Crier?"
And from whom?
"After we parted this afternoon, Tulle and I flew to Abbottabad. He took care of a few things, while I made some calls and hit up a few sources for information on that Russian name you got out of Durrani. I don't have anything on Aleksi Skulachev yet. But after I finished my calls, I had a face to face with another contact."
"From their military academy?"
"Yes." John loosened his tie and tugged the knot down a few inches. "Guy's a Pakistani army colonel who's also on the ISI's payroll…and Karl Goethe's. They—we—met a few years back when I was in Yemen. Since the coalition forces relied on German arms and tech, it was an easy enough cover to construct and maintain. I was able to get my foot in the door with the guy, and I've been able to keep it there. Basically, Goethe's with the German army and, naturally, the ISI doesn't know about Goethe."
Naturally.
The Inter-Services Intelligence was Pakistan's version of the CIA, Gestapo and KGB rolled into one. Not only did their interrogators consider waterboarding child's play, they saved their more horrifying techniques for those they perceived as traitors to Allah and the Pakistani state, which to the ISI were one and the same.
"Let me guess; the ISI's been tailing Crier." After all, Crier was the senior political officer at the American embassy in their capital city. She'd be shocked if they weren't following him—along with every other staffer in that compound. "What do they have on the man?"
"Crier's having an affair. According to the colonel, the ISI hasn't acted on the information yet. They were saving it for a rainy day."
"Who's the woman?"
"He doesn't know her name. Wasn't told. All he knows is she's a local. Does that mesh with what you've got?"
"Yes and no." According to her research, Crier and his wife recently celebrated fourteen years of connubial bliss. Seven longer than the purported itch. The fact that Mrs. Crier happened to be the cherished daughter of US Senator Jack Hawthorne may have helped to extend the timeframe.
After all, what would Senator Hawthorne—a ranking member of the Senate intelligence committee—do to Crier's future with the State Department if he found out?
"Rae?"
"It's solid blackmail material, yes. But I don't—" She shook her head. "Hang on. I've got something to show you." She reached down to retrieve her crime scene kit from beside the desk, only to come up empty as her fingers lost their grip midway up. The kit landed at her feet with a humiliating thump.
Her humiliation increased as John hooked one of those massive arms down and up, effortlessly sweeping the case onto the desk.
She stared at her hand as the tremor moved up into her arm. Within seconds, the entire limb was trembling. Not as badly as it had in her stateroom on the Griffith the night before when John had pulled her out of that shower, but it was noticeable.
Her conversation with Gil filtered in. His warning.
Was Gil right? Was she making it worse? Risking everything on what might well turn out to be her final assignment?
But if not her, here, dealing with this—who? She trusted John, and he was more than capable. But Riyad? All she had there was one seriously vague maybe.
But in her determination to see this through…what if her newfound shortcoming endangered the lives of others?
"Stop." She flinched as John's fingers found her chin, forcing it and her gaze up. "I mean it, Rae. You and your arm aren't dragging anyone down. You just need time."
Great. He was working his way through her expressions.
And that wasn't necessarily a good thing—let alone what was increasingly becoming an outright handicap.
What the hell. She offered John what he couldn't read in her face, because she was too terrified to let it that close to the surface. "That's what Gil keeps preaching. Time. Patience. For over a week now. Only it's not getting better; it's getting worse. And I—" She pulled her breath in deep and just said it. "I'm scheduled to re-qualify."
She didn't add that it was for her SIG Sauer. At the moment, it was the only qual at risk. The only one that mattered. This man, of all men, would know that.
"When?"
"Eight weeks." Sure, she could get it pushed back. But not indefinitely.
And doing so would invite questions. More of those damned neurological tests to which Gil and his ilk had already subjected her. Along with the very real potential for additional, follow-up tests that she just might be forced to take…as a civilian.
John stroked those enviably steady fingers of his along her cheek. "Then we have time."
"We?"
That dent flashed in. "You do know I'm SF?"
"Yeah, I heard that. So?"
"So, there are techniques. Ones I've trained more than few indigenous folks to use, along with our own troops—all of whose lives depended on success. So relax. Trust me. When we get home, we'll head to the range. I'll get you sorted in time."
What if he couldn't? Worse, what if she needed to fire her weapon before he even had a chance to try? Not on the practice range, but in the field. Here, in Pakistan.
While she was supposed to be protecting this man's back?
The answer to that question was slowly taking over her dreams and twisting them into nightmares.
His fingers found her chin again. They wouldn't let go. "Rae?"
She sighed, met that steady stare. "Fine."
She thought he was going to push it, but he didn't. He simply lowered his fingers and turned to tap her crime kit. "Now, what's in here?"
He waited patiently as she fumbled with the tiny tumbler dials on her kit's lock twice before she was able to open it. She tugged on a set of gloves and retrieved the electronic frame, removing it from its paper bag.
She switched the frame on and flipped through the photos until she reached the group shot that also showed the baby's face.
"I found the frame tucked underneath Brandt's bed. Take a look at this image of Brandt and the Sadats three, and tell me what you see."
John's low whistle said it all, as did the scarred hand that came up to rub his cheek—directly over the groove that slashed down into his now cultivated thicket.
"Yeah." She returned the frame to the bag, resealed and re-annotated it before securing it inside her case and resetting the tumbler. "But here's the thing. When Scott told Mrs. Sadat about Brandt's death, she was upset—but she wasn't devastated."
"You think it's Crier's kid?"
"I don't know." Yet. The photo she had of Crier hadn't contained a cleft chin. But it could've skipped a generation in his bloodline—or Inaya's. Along with the Type 1 diabetes the boy carried. That was hereditary too. Either way, "It's possible. I also know that Crier requested Brandt's presence on the Griffith detail. But if the request was significant, how?" Had Crier wanted Brandt away from Mrs. Sadat for some reason?
Were the men involved in a sex triangle? It wouldn't be the first time she'd come across one in her line of work. And a triangle was definitely grounds for blackmail.
Or had Aamer Sadat set out to use his wife to play the two off each other?
Because even if Crier was the father, that didn't mean that Brandt hadn't slept with the woman too. All she knew for certain was that Brandt had administered the poison that killed Tamir Hachemi. Brandt was definitely being blackmailed about something. Something big enough that he'd murder to keep it hidden.
But what?
Damn it, she needed more. Knowing who'd fathered that kid would get her closer to why Brandt had done it—and who had provided the strychnine at Al Dhafra.
"John—"
He held up a finger as his phone vibrated from within his suit jacket. "Just a sec." He retrieved his phone from an inner pocket and clicked into his text app. "It's from one of Ty's men. The guy just followed Aamer Sadat back to the hospital. Seems Sadat had stepped out to visit his banker. He took a call when he returned to his car, then stopped by his older brother's place on the way back to the hospital. Sadat's in the ICU now."
Inaya Sadat had been telling the truth then. At least about that.
Regan checked her watch as John texted his contact.
It was nearing 2100. The woman she met with tonight might've been willing to kick the memory of Brandt to the curb and quickly, but she was not leaving her baby. Inaya Sadat would be in that waiting room too.
Unfortunately, Regan couldn't risk dropping by twice in one night, let alone this late. It would kill the embassy-employee, compassionate visit excuse she and Scott had set up.
Much as she hated to admit it, other than reviewing the backgrounders and the case files, there wasn't a damned thing she could do to further her part in the investigation until the embassy reopened in the morning.
Hopefully Riyad and Agent Castile were having more luck in their search for the identity of the final victim from that cave.
If Riyad had even linked up with Castile as ordered.
She tucked her fingertips into the tripled-up braid at the nape of her neck, feeling around for the oversized bobby-pins that kept it in place. It took forever to get a decent enough grip to pull the first pin free. She was reaching for the second when John set his phone down and turned her around so that her back was to him.
"I can do it."
"Yes, you can." He located the three other pins and slipped them free with embarrassing ease, then removed the elastic band from the base of the braid and began unraveling it until her hair fell down her back. "But even you'd have trouble doing this."
This?
She bit back a groan as his fingers dug deeply into her hair, slowly, but firmly massaging the tension and worry of the day from her scalp, before those magic fingers and palms moved down to engulf her neck and shoulders. She had no idea how long she stood there, strangling her subsequent groans and sighs, but by the time he finished, she realized what he'd really accomplished and why.
The tremors were still there, but they were subtle now. Her arm had somehow relaxed right along with the muscles in her scalp, neck and shoulders.
Satisfaction gleamed down at her as she turned.
"They teach you that in the big bad snake-eater course too?"
He shook his head as he tugged at the knot on his loosened tie until it was completely free. "Internet. I looked it up today during a down moment." He tossed his tie on the desk and reached out to smooth several strands of hair from her cheek. "Now go take a shower. Or a bath. Either will help, too. I'll order dinner while you relax."
She shook her head.
"You're not hungry?"
Oh, she was hungry. And, as he slid those daunting arms from his suit jacket, then tossed it on the desk so he could remove his shoulder holster, she was getting hungrier by the second. Damn, this man looked good in a suit. ACUs, too.
But he looked even better naked.
His brow quirked questioningly as she continued to watch while he tossed his holster and the 9mm tucked inside onto the desk, before starting in on his backup firearms and concealed knives. The final nest of weapons could've outfitted a third-world junta.
She ignored the weapons and stepped closer, her intention clear.
Those proprietary hands she'd missed so damned much slid in around her waist, coming to rest at the small of her back as he eased her the rest of the way in.
"Rae? You sure you're ready for this?"
"Are you?"
His laugh was short and satisfyingly frustrated—for her. "Honey, I've been ready since the moment I woke up in that bed in Germany and realized you weren't in it."
That earned the man a kiss. She pulled his head down as she stretched up.
"Wait. I need my bag."
His bag?
"Access to the internet isn't all I managed today. I've got condoms—"
"You don't need them." And she hoped to hell Tulle hadn't purchased those little gems along with the cover-story rock on her hand, or she'd never be able to face the staff sergeant again, much less look him in the eye.
But John was already reaching up to ease her hands from his neck. "I'm serious. I am not playing roulette with your life again. Ever."
He wouldn't be. "Gil gave me a shot a few days ago. I was annoyed that I'd started my period while I was stuck in the hospital. It was light, but still. Anyway, he reminded me that they'd likely stop if I got on the shots. And, well, there are other benefits." Benefits she'd already been thinking about with John back in her life.
Benefits that eagerly resumed as he guided her hands back up, so that she could link them behind his neck as he brought his forehead down to touch hers.
"So, no condoms…ever?"
"Nope." Just another birth control shot every three months. "Of course, if you really want—"
His swift kiss answered that one, but then he pulled away to finish removing his clothes. He probably intended for her to do likewise, and she did get her suit jacket and holster off. Even got her slacks unzipped. And that's when and where she got waylaid—standing there, watching him do the same.
He finished his mouthwatering striptease in under a minute.
Socks, shoes, slacks, shirt and underwear, they were all gone now. What was left was simply glorious. Even with that horrific collection of scars and occasional stretches of mottled flesh, the man's body could grace the cover of any muscle magazine.
And, yet, there was no vanity in him. Not about his body.
Like that scarf, those condoms and the nest of weapons on the desk—and even that paranoid habit he had of securing her seatbelt for her in cars—John's extreme physical conditioning was simply the embodiment of his personal, deep-seated motto.
Control what you can; be prepared for the rest.
His brow rose. "You plan on joining me?"
"Why?" Her brow mirrored his. "You did that so well, I thought you might want to put those particular skills to use again…over here with me."
Instead of answering, he stepped forward and let his hands and that smile do it for him. Her socks, shoes and slacks followed. But when his fingers slid down to her waist to begin unbuttoning her dress shirt, she flinched.
"Hon?"
He'd whispered it, because he knew. Even before her eyes began to burn. That flinch wasn't due to him. Or her shirt. It was what was beneath.
The scar.
Given the plethora of marks that crisscrossed his entire body, including the one that started at the left side of his torso and cut rudely all the way down and around his ass to end at the base of his calf, it was crazy to be worried about what he'd think. But the scar he was about to see, it didn't belong to him or even to her. It belonged to them.
He might've even seen it back at Campbell when she'd been unconscious in the ICU, and he definitely had to have seen it last night when he'd pulled her out of the shower on the Griffith. But she'd never shown it to him. Shared it.
Much less the pain.
Whether she was ready or not, she was sharing it now.
His fingers returned to her shirt, dwarfing the buttons as he released them from their holes one by one. It still amazed her how this man and these hands could be so nimble and gentle, but they were. And so was he as he opened her shirt and slid it down her shoulders. He turned to lay it over the rest of their clothes on the desk, then came back to peel away her bra and underwear just as slowly and gently.
Those too were carefully set aside.
And then he was smoothing those callused fingers down her abdomen. Tracing. Absorbing.
The more he touched, and the longer he stared, the more his eyes glistened.
By the time he'd lowered that enormous body down and settled onto his knees, they were spilling freely over his cheeks and onto her.
He kissed every inch of the scar, just as she'd kissed his many, many marks that night in Germany. When he finished, those powerful arms slid around her body, quaking softly as he pulled her close. She threaded her fingers into his hair and held him there for some time. How long, she couldn't be sure. Holding. Soothing.
And then his grip changed.
It became softer and lighter, and yet, somehow firmer. Determined.
Passion had gradually overtaken his sorrow, and he was intent on sharing that with her too. He slowly kissed his way up her curves, feeding the desire between them until it was alive and electric, and had begun to arc between them.
He gripped her waist and lifted her as he stood, his smoky murmur filling her ear. "Wrap your legs around me."
She laughed. She had to. It was what he'd said that first time, as he'd pressed her into the wall. But there was no wall close by, and the bed was across the room.
"Now, you're just showing off."
"Not yet, baby." That gorgeous dent cut in. "But I will be."
His hands dug into her ass, anchoring her to him. Before she could draw her next breath, he was crossing the room and pressing her down onto the bed to make good on his promise. The man was relentless. He used those callused palms and nimble fingers along with his hungry mouth to drive her to the point of insanity—or, at the very least, to the point of begging. It wasn't until she was balanced on the razor's edge, desperate for him to take her over, that she realized he was deliberately withholding what she really wanted. What they both wanted.
She was so ready for him, she caved in and pleaded.
His smile widened as that damned dent deepened.
She reached down between them and got even. His hoarse, needy groan reverberated through her as his control finally splintered. He pushed in, shuddering as he filled her to the brim for a brief, blinding moment, before he took up a relentless pace that had them clinging to each other as they climbed higher and higher. All too quickly, she reached the ascent. But he was right there with her, wrapped tightly around her as they tipped over together, sealing her to him as they tumbled through the abyss.
She had no idea how long she lay in his arms afterward.
Worried that he was crushing her, he ignored her protest and rolled onto his back, taking her with him. She reached up, but that was all she could manage. The fingers of her right hand nestled in amid the cultivated thicket on his jaw, as boneless and placid as the rest of her. Worse, she could feel that ego of his swelling up, even before her fingers slipped into the dent already forming beneath them.
"You are such an arrogant ass."
The dent deepened as he laughed. "I didn't say anything."
"You're thinking it."
"How do you know? You're not even looking at my face."
"I would, but I still can't move, you jerk."
That colossal chest rumbled as he laughed harder. "Hey, I was just following orders. Military and medical. Fourche said you needed to de-stress." Those callused fingers left their home at the curve of her ass to come up and rasp lightly over hers.
Fingers that weren't trembling any more. At all.
She managed to move then. She lifted her head just far enough to take in what was fast becoming a permanent crease in his left cheek.
His twinkle joined in. "Mission accomplished."
She used those same fingertips to pinch the growth covering his jaw and tugged until he winced. "Like I said, you're an ass."
The twinkle faded. The crease disappeared as well. "Are you upset that I called him?"
Yes and no. Though right now, decidedly more no. But if John ever shared the details of this remedy with Gil, she'd kill him. Slowly.
"Rae?"
"At least the call was private…unlike this morning's display."
"Ah."
"Don't ah me. And, for the record, I can defend myself."
"Agreed."
"Then what the hell was that gorilla arm all about?"
The twinkle returned. "Gorilla arm?"
"The one that landed across the back of my chair and refused to move."
"Gorilla?" He appeared to be stuck on that word as he stared down at the limb in question as though offended—which they both knew full well he wasn't. He was too bloody arrogant. "You do know I can't help my size, right? It's mostly genetics."
"John—"
"Besides—" The twinkle took on a glow that put the north star to shame. "—a few minutes ago, I seem to remember you openly appreciating the size of a certain…appendage."
Okay, she had. And, yes, she planned on appreciating it again. Most likely before the night was out. But, "Not when that titanic ego of yours is in charge."
In front of a general, no less.
The twinkle evaporated, leaving that steady stare behind. His following nod was clipped. "It was necessary."
"Necessary?"
"Things were said."
She could just image what things were said, and by whom.
About whom.
John was clearly in no mood to repeat them. But he did offer up a shrug. "I was making sure he'd gotten my message."
Oh, they'd all gotten the message, including General Palisade. There'd been no missing it. But what had been the point? The things that were said were the same things John himself had said to her—or implied—in that parking lot in Hohenfels.
Whore.
Silence oozed in, saturating the air within the bed.
Suddenly, she wanted to escape his arms and slink off into the bathroom for that shower he'd suggested earlier. Scrub away the insecurity and ugliness that had begun to bubble up inside. If she could. But the second she started to move, his arms tightened.
His sigh was the only thing that slipped free. It filled the silence, easing it.
And her.
Still, she kept the left side of her face sealed to his chest, staring across the bed at the striped wallpaper, pretending a fascination she did not possess with those dark green lines.
"Love at first sight?" He shook his head. "As I'm sure you know, I'd hit thirty a few months before we met. I certainly didn't believe in fairy tales anymore, if I ever did. Not after the shit I've lived. Lust? Absolutely. But love?" Her cheek lifted along with the slab of muscle beneath as he shrugged. "And, yet, there it was. Though I freely admit, both those L's were there in equal parts, right from the start in that bar."
His fingers slid up her body and threaded themselves into her hair. He smoothed the strands past her shoulder and down her back, but he made no move to shift so that he could look into her eyes. Perhaps it was easier for him this way.
It was certainly easier for her. It allowed her to close her eyes and absorb his raw confession and just…listen.
"When you followed me into that parking lot, I was livid. I wanted you to hate me, so I could hate you. But it blew up in my face. I didn't hate you. I couldn't. Oh, I was still angry. And hurt. More than I've ever been in my life, before or since. And I've been in and out of combat for over a decade, so that's saying something. But I didn't stop caring. I couldn't."
She did move then. She raised her head just far enough to meet the stark truth in that gray, steady stare.
His firm nod followed. "I was already falling for you in that bar when you made me work so damned hard just to get your name. I fell deeper over dinner and then in my driveway. By the time you showed up the next night and starting talking me down from Stubbs' death, I'd hit bottom. I was completely in love before I got your bra off. Everything that happened after just sealed it. And then you walked into that interview room, and my world imploded. By the time I walked out, I truly believed you'd come over and slept with me to get to Evan. That you'd have slept with him as easily."
She started to protest but he shook his head.
"I know. I was wrong. About so damned many things. But one thing's true. I really don't know how to make a relationship work. And the way I was raised? Baby, it wasn't pretty. But I took it because I was so desperate for that man to care. Until I woke up one day, and I just couldn't take it anymore—so I cut him out of my heart. I did the same thing with you, or I tried to. I wanted the pain to stop. And I couldn't risk crawling back for more. And, yeah, I would have. So I said the one thing I could think of to get you to hate me—and then I implied the rest of what I couldn't quite say. At the time, I needed you to despise me. And now…I am terrified I succeeded."
Lord, what was it about this man?
He was making her cry again. One moment, the tears were still trapped in her eyes, burning in at the corners, and the next, they were spilling over and coursing down her cheeks. His fingers came up again, this time to wipe the moisture away.
It didn't help. They both just got wetter.
"John—"
He pressed a damp finger to her lips as he shook his head, then lowered his hand to cup her shoulder, rubbing gently, as though he was afraid what he'd said and still had to say would cause the tremors to resurface. "It's okay. You don't have to respond. You just needed to know. I also know you're not ready. Given how you grew up, it's understandable. But I meant what I said in that bar and earlier tonight. It's never been more true than it is with you. I am patient and I am persistent. And, honey, I am so damned motivated when it comes to you, that you should probably run like hell and never look back. But if you don't hate me…if you can get past what I said, that's all I need for now. So, take your time. I am not going anywhere. Certainly not in my mind and in my heart. Yeah, the Army's bound to send my body off somewhere else soon enough. But, Rae, I'll keep coming back to you until I'm dead."
She pulled her breath in deep and tried not to shudder as she let it out. Intense sex with this man was one thing. But intense emotions?
He was right. She wasn't ready.
She didn't know if she ever would be. If she even had it in her. And she certainly couldn't deal with it all right now, in the middle of this case.
She needed to focus.
So she did the only thing she could. She changed the subject. "Then…you're not taking that slot at Homeland?"
The sharp furrow that pinched through his brow wasn't powered by anger, but surprise. "Who told you about that?"
"Warren Jeffers. Well, 'threw it' would be more apt." In her face. "Jeffers worships at the Shrine of Riyad. I think he's furious that anyone would dare to equate you two."
"The man can rest easy. I already turned it down."
She struggled to escape John's arms so she could sit up and glare down at him. "Homeland? It's an amazing opportunity." Yes, he'd have to leave the Army. But, "Think of the effect you could have; the good you could do. Why would you even—"
"Are you getting out?"
Her?
"No." Unless her hand screwed up her career, she planned on putting in her full twenty. Thirty, if the swamp of rotting crap that went with her job didn't drag her under and suffocate her first.
"There you go." John folded those thick arms behind his head. "I told you. I'm staying put, and they absolutely know it."
Good Lord. "You told them why?"
"Damned straight I did. It was the only way they'd believe I was serious." He unfolded his right arm so he could brush his thumb across her chin. "Now stop frowning. Trust me; Palisade's thrilled. He was afraid I was going to take it. He knows I don't love him enough to stick around."
There was that word again.
John knew it too, because he unfolded his other arm and sat up with her. This time, he changed the subject. "It's almost twenty-two hundred. We've got just over an hour before the restaurant stops serving. Why don't you take that shower while I order?"
She appreciated the reprieve, but she shook her head. "You go ahead. I'll order. But I need to call Agent Castile first; see if Riyad ever linked up with him. If so, how it went." If they'd made any progress on identifying the final victim from the cave.
Though she was worried for another reason, too.
Nathan should've phoned her by now. Had something happened to the man? He was supposed to have spent the afternoon and evening with Riyad.
John reached out to tuck her hair behind her ear. "Okay. But make your call soon. Meanwhile, I'll make my shower last. I might still be in there when you've finished."
From the wink he shot her as he stood, he was counting on it.
She waited until he'd crossed the room and closed the bathroom door behind him before she abandoned the bed. She was too lazy to rifle through her suitcase, so she stopped at the desk and donned John's shirt as the shower turned on.
Last night, his tee had hit her mid-thigh. The white tails of his dress shirt skimmed the tops of her knees. She finished buttoning it and rolled up the cuffs, then retrieved her phone.
As much as she wanted to call Mira, she still couldn't. There was no way she'd risk putting the woman in the middle of the situation with Riyad and that missing SDV. Not after the rocky start—and near career-ending insinuations—that had caused Mira to switch her focus from a budding Navy career years earlier to join NCIS instead.
She could, however, enlist the aid of another good friend, this one Army CID.
Regan pulled up Agent Jelling's text stream on her phone and typed in her request—as well as a warning to pursue it carefully. Fortunately, Hohenfels was four hours behind Islamabad. Jelly was just sitting down to dinner, but if it worked for her, he'd be happy to head back to the office in a few hours and do his digital snooping while no one was around to glance over his shoulder.
Regan texted her sincere thanks and backed out of her text app.
She was about to hit Nathan Castile's number when several knocks reverberated from the opposite side of the hotel room's door.
Neither she nor John had ordered dinner, so who—
More knocks. These were louder, heavier. Seriously pissed.
And then, "Open the fucking door!"
Riyad.
How the devil had he found them?
Why?