Backblast

by Candace Irving

  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 dec
k 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.

  6

  Three hours later, the horrifying reality of John's guilt was still ricocheting through Regan's brain, magnified by the plethora of evidence she'd meticulously identified, photographed and bagged inside that conference room.

  Hair. Fiber. Fingerprints.

  DNA from those two Styrofoam coffee cups.

  The statement from the junior Marine.

  She'd yet to interview Staff Sergeant Brandt and wouldn't for another hour at least, as he and Corporal Vetter were aboard the CH-53E, en route to the carrier with the translator's body. Once the medical examiner arrived, she and Riyad would rendezvous aboard the carrier for the postmortem. While she didn't as yet share Riyad's impression of the Griffith's sheriff, she'd been reluctant to entrust the chain of custody of Hachemi's body to Chief Yrle until she knew more about the woman's dispute with the spook.

  Not that it mattered. She doubted even Staff Sergeant Brandt's version of events would change the course of this investigation. How could it when each piece of the puzzle she'd managed to collect had already converged to form an increasingly painful image. And at its center?

  John.

  For that reason, and others Regan was loath to examine, she couldn't quite seem to reach out and clasp the taunting knob to the metal door six inches from her face.

  "We going in or not?"

  She refused to answer the query, let alone glance at the increasingly smug spook who'd voiced it. Instead, she filled her lungs with false courage, shoved the door open—and froze at the sight that greeted her.

  John was seated six feet away, at the opposite curve of a small, laminated table, still clad in the camouflaged ACUs she'd noted earlier. With his dark head bowed, he was not so much staring at his hands as through them. He didn't look up as sh
e regained her nerve and forced herself to step inside the compartment, nor did she prompt him. She took advantage of John's distraction, instead, as Riyad stepped in behind her and closed the door, instinctively cataloguing the palpable shame and regret crushing those once imposing shoulders. Crushing him.

  And then, John raised his head and met her gaze.

  For a split second, he stiffened. And then he blinked, absorbed her presence aboard the Griffith and in this particular compartment…and the implications inherent therein.

  Resignation supplanted shock as John accepted those implications, deepening the lines at the corners of his eyes and bracketing his mouth as he stood. "Chief."

  Regan returned his brief nod and matched his equally terse, distant tone. "Major."

  First names and any intimacy they'd managed to rekindle were gone—firmly incarcerated back in that Fort Campbell ICU where she'd clawed her way out of a numbing coma and the agonizing hallucinations that had trapped her there. Through it all John had remained at her side, profound joy and a humbling relief filling those haggard and haunted gray eyes of his as she'd woken. Within minutes she'd succumbed to sleep, only to reawaken three hours later to discover that John had pulled another classified mission and was deploying yet again.

  She hadn't spoken to him since.

  Until now.

  John scrubbed a hand through the several weeks' worth of unruly scruff darkening the lower portion of his face and jaw, then motioned for her to take the empty seat across from his. "Let's get this over with."

  She nodded, painfully aware that he was attempting to make the coming interrogation easier—on her.

  Regan set her crime scene kit on the dark blue couch that dominated the senior officer stateroom. Given the absence of bunk beds, not to mention the three-inch tail of linen hanging out from the far end, she assumed the vinyl sofa converted into an equally stiff and unwieldy rack. As with her quarters, a closed porthole, a modular-steel wall unit, a small sink and mirror, and a tiny latrine outfitted with a toilet and shower rounded out the furnishings.

  Unless John possessed solid information that contradicted Corporal Vetter's statement, chances were good that he'd be spending the remainder of his days with half the space and a fraction of the amenities in this compartment—as he took up residence in the federal penitentiary at Fort Leavenworth.