Backblast

by Candace Irving

  Riyad opened his mouth again, closing it as the captain's hand came up to forestall follow-up argument.

  "The decision's been made—at the Pentagon, no less. That's why I'm late. Just got off the horn. Agent Riyad, your concerns regarding Agent Chase's objectivity have been noted and negated at the highest levels—Army, Navy and beyond. She's got the lead on the translator's death. You're to assist. Understood?"

  There was a swift undercurrent cutting through that last, though damned if she could discern its source.

  But Riyad had.

  He offered the captain a brusque nod.

  If Armstrong recognized Riyad's lingering displeasure, he ignored it. The captain's answering nod encompassed them both. "Agent Chase, Agent Riyad, I'll be on the bridge should you need me. Keep me appraised."

  She'd definitely misjudged the man. "Yes, sir."

  Riyad stood fast as the captain left, his foul mood now directed solely upon her.

  Regan forced herself to ignore it. "FCI?"

  "Foreign Counterintelligence."

  A spook? He was a goddamned spook? He wasn't the only one now pissed. And when she added on that he'd spent the bulk of the earlier crisis in the CO's cabin, whining about her?

  Regan scoured her soul for patience. "You said you were with NCIS."

  "I am."

  Right. Some specialized Navy/FBI/CIA-ish/Homeland Security offshoot most likely. One look at the man's features was enough to confirm that, along with his last name: Riyad. "Sam" might be an American citizen, but a significant percentage of the blood flowing through his veins was of Saudi origin. "Just how long did you work crime scenes before you specialized?"

  "Six months."

  She pulled her breath in deep. "And in that time, how many death investigations did you pursue?"

  "One."

  "Let me guess—vehicular manslaughter."

  To her bemusement, the same slight flush that had tinged Riyad's cheeks after he'd barged into her stateroom earlier returned.

  Jesus. She'd been joking. But that flush wasn't. No wonder he'd made a grab for that airbag. The man wasn't incompetent—he was utterly and completely inexperienced.

  And he wanted her gone?

  Regan opened her mouth and promptly closed it as the remaining thread of patience she'd been clinging to snapped. She no longer trusted herself to stand here and talk to this so-called agent. Not until she'd had a chance to calm down and get a handle on exactly what lay on the floor of that conference room. She whirled around and headed across the ever-shifting deck, stopping beside the door as the corporal returned.

  A swift perusal of the Marine's uniform allowed her to collect Corporal Vetter's name, but revealed no evidence of coffee or high-velocity blood splatter concealed amid the digital camouflage. Just the larger bloodstains marring the fabric at his knees, wrists and upper torso. The sort he'd have acquired during his zealous efforts at CPR.

  Had Riyad been attempting Good Cop/Bad Cop after all, right before he'd confronted Chief Yrle in that stateroom?

  She'd have been forced to consider the possibly after all, but for the fact that Riyad's black polo, cargo pants and boots weren't sporting coffee or high-velocity blood splatter either. And while the man's hands were callused and scarred in several spots, they were devoid of recent injury. Nor would he have had the time to change his clothes in between dragging Chief Yrle from the stateroom and returning to spar with her before the medical emergency had been passed over the loudspeaker.

  Regan caught the corporal's waiting gaze. Captain Armstrong must have briefed him as to her status as lead case agent, because the Marine had automatically deferred, not to the spook she'd left behind, but her. "Corporal Vetter, head to the master-at-arms shack and have your uniform bagged for evidence. While you're there, please tell Chief Yrle I require her presence and a death scene kit. Have her stop by my stateroom. There's a stainless-steel suitcase on the lower bunk. I'll need both ASAP as well as a complete statement from you upon your return. I need to know exactly what transpired in that conference room before I arrived."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  She turned to the staff sergeant and carefully examined his uniform as well. As with the corporal, there was some evidence of larger bloodstains at the wrists and upper torso, but no coffee and no high-velocity splatter. The lack of the latter on both Marines told her all she needed to know. A third person had fled before her arrival.

  She nodded to the senior Marine. "Staff Sergeant Brandt, I'll need your uniform bagged as well, though you can wait for the chief's supplies. Until then, position yourself outside this door. No one—and I mean no one—enters without my permission. This conference room is an active crime scene; I expect you to treat it as such."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  She spun back to Riyad as the staff sergeant took up his post. "Who's missing?"

  The spook's jaw locked. Almost imperceptibly, but the tension was definitely there.

  Why? Why would an FCI agent care who—

  Regan instinctively shifted her attention as another door opened two yards down the passageway, on the opposite side. Curiosity sparked, then swelled as Chief Yrle stepped into the corridor—sans obvious signs of splattered coffee or blood—and immediately turned to reseal the dimly lit compartment she'd vacated…as if she too was attempting to conceal something. No, not something.

  Someone.

  For a single, blinding moment, Regan had caught a glimpse of a massive camouflaged form with a distinctive trio of two-inch shrapnel scars just beneath the edge of the man's roughly whiskered jaw, and then they were gone. As was he.

  It didn't matter.

  She'd already recognized their owner.

  John Garrison. The recently reunited lover who'd been ordered from her bedside eight days ago, less than three hours after she'd woken from her coma in Fort Campbell's ICU. The same lover General Palisade had sworn was safe just yesterday morning.

  But he wasn't.

  Because John was here, aboard the Griffith. He had been since he'd left her hospital room. She was certain. Just as she knew that, deep down, John was the missing man she sought. The one whose uniform would reveal signs of coffee and the telltale evidence of Tamir Hachemi's splattered, high-velocity blood.

  5

  "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.