Backblast

by Candace Irving

  She did. She'd seen it for herself.

  The Marine's fury might've ebbed as he finished his account, but his hate hadn't. A fresh wave consumed the blue as he captured her stare. "I swear to God, that fucker was begging for it. If I'd been in the major's boots, I'd have lost it a helluva lot sooner."

  She believed him. Unfortunately, as extenuating circumstances went, belligerence and taunting didn't qualify, no matter how obscene. Not even in light of John's murdered men or those mutilated Pakistani women and children. Not even in light of her. Even without the confession she'd recorded, John would be found guilty.

  There wasn't a blessed thing she could do about it.

  "Agent Chase?"

  Regan flinched as the Marine's fingers wrapped around her arm to squeeze gently. Until that moment, she hadn't realized she'd dragged the uppermost folder from the stack on her makeshift desk forward. She'd even opened it.

  A color copy of John's current, official photo had spilled out with the motion of the ship, causing John to stare back.

  The sounds of the Griffith filtered in. The creaking of the pipes and cables running along the overhead. The sudden heaviness in the lack of conversation between herself and the Marine to whom she should've been paying attention—but hadn't been.

  She shoved the photo into the manila folder and faced the staff sergeant.

  Blue eyes replaced gray. Compassion filled them. Pity.

  Christ. Brandt knew about her past with John.

  Even if Hachemi's whore comment had been a blanket insult toward all women, she should've expected it. After all, Brandt had been entrusted with guarding two of the nation's deadliest terrorists. Not an easy gig to land. Not to mention, Marines took a lot of crap for supposedly carrying little more than rocks upstairs in lieu of smarts.

  It wasn't true. But the majority of Marines she knew also tended to conceal just how clever they really were—especially from their enemies. Which in and of itself was brilliant. Because the subterfuge usually provided an immediate advantage.

  Like the rest of the Corps, the staff sergeant seated two feet away was savvy enough to follow the news on a regular basis and smart enough to remember her face from when all hell had broken loose via an arrestee's lawyer and an international reporter, following her final undercover assignment for CID back in Germany.

  Brandt didn't say a word about that assignment or John's role in it, much less the painfully personal fallout she and John had shared afterward. He didn't have to.

  Somehow, that silent sympathy made it worse.

  She swallowed hard and nodded.

  He dropped his hand.

  She purged her breath, the ache. Tried to, anyway. "Thank you for your time, Staff Sergeant. Your statement will be transcribed shortly. You'll need to stop by admin afterward to sign it. Meanwhile, get some rest."

  From the lines etched in at the outer corners of his eyes, the Marine had been logging as few hours as she'd been lately.

  And now this.

  He reached out and closed the tin that had doubled as his ashtray, then leaned back to massage the cleft in his chin. "Will do—and thanks. It's been the longest damned month of my life."

  Regan stiffened.

  Month?

  Just like that, the pinging and creaking of the surrounding metal magnified. The distant whir of machinery joined in, growing so loud that the added rhythm pounded through her ears, right along with the numbers. The numbers that, when compared, revealed a glaring inconsistency in her case's collective timelines.

  Especially Brandt's.

  John had been aboard the Griffith for eight days; Durrani and Hachemi had been on board for thirteen. And, yet, the Marine had been stressed for roughly thirty?

  Was Brandt prone to hyperbole?

  She suspected not. Not after the statement he'd shared. "Staff Sergeant…when did you and Corporal Vetter arrive aboard the Griffith—exactly?"

  "December fifteenth."

  Son of a bitch. He had been here for nearly a month.

  And only a month.

  She dropped her stare to that makeshift ashtray. The one that contained the remains of his cigarette. A Pakistani cigarette.

  Bastard that he was, Riyad might be right about one thing. Perhaps she shouldn't be on this case. She'd been so rattled by what John had instinctively done to Hachemi in the midst of his overwhelming rage that she'd missed the clue that cigarette had offered, along with another.

  What had Brandt said upon his arrival in this very compartment half an hour earlier? I've been stuck on this boat since they brought the two of them here.

  Stuck.

  As in, others had left. But Brandt—and Corporal Vetter—had not. Could not. Because they were still needed.

  The Marine's hand found her arm again. "Agent Chase, are you okay?"

  "Yes." But she wasn't. If what she suspected was true, Agent Riyad wouldn't be either. Not after she got ahold of him.

  John's presence aboard this vessel wasn't the only secret the shifty spook had been clinging to since her arrival. And after she added all the evidence together, the sole explanation she could come up with for this latest lie of omission had the acid in her gut churning up so hard, she was in danger of losing the coffee she'd downed.

  According to the crew chief on that Super Stallion she'd flown in on, the Griffith was an amphibious dock landing ship. As such, the ship should have a permanent Marine contingent stationed onboard. Which, also according to the crew chief, it did. Just not this Marine.

  Regan stared at those spartan woodland utilities. Like the absentee war patch, there was no unit identifier velcroed to the staff sergeant's left sleeve. It didn't matter. Not only did she now know that Brandt and Corporal Vetter were not permanently stationed aboard the Griffith, she also now knew exactly from where the Marines had come.

  US Embassy Islamabad.

  Given everything else she'd discovered today, it made sense.

  John and his men had entered that Pakistani cave on December fourteenth. At the time, they'd been operating on a tip, intent on capturing Osama bin Laden's number two, Ayman al-Zawahiri, who was still at large after all these years. But instead of locating Zawahiri, John's Special Forces team had discovered those murdered women and their dying babies—along with evidence suggesting that a fellow SF team had been responsible for the slaughter.

  Days later, a diplomatic contingency from Islamabad, Kabul and the US State Department had come together. Their objective? Damage control. All parties concerned had been intent on keeping the world's press from learning about the murders before all the facts were in—albeit for each country's respective, geopolitical reasons.

  She'd assumed those damage control sessions had taken place in Islamabad, Kabul or even Washington, DC. She was wrong. They'd taken place here, aboard the Griffith, something Riyad had known all along, but hadn't told her.

  Yet another critical omission.

  One that made no sense at all…unless she added in the rest.

  Regan offered the Marine a smooth smile to soothe his concern…and conceal her deepening ire.

  The smile worked. Brandt released her arm.

  He lowered his hand, closing it over the tin.

  She pushed through her anger as he returned the makeshift ashtray to his cargo pocket. "Staff Sergeant, when did Agent Riyad board this ship?"

  The Marine's hand paused in mid tuck. "I don't understand. I thought you knew."

  She did. She just needed confirmation.

  What she got was another round of silence. And this time, it was Brandt's.

  It confirmed the ugliest of suspicions. Especially since the Marine's hand was still halfway inside his cargo pocket, frozen. Brandt was wary of continuing—because he'd just figured out she wasn't quite as in the know as she was supposed to be.

  There was only one reason for that trepidation.

  Brandt was answering to Riyad. And she knew why.

  Just as she'd finally figured out why Riyad had been lying t
o her since the moment she'd stepped aboard this vessel. Why he'd done everything in his power to sabotage her assignment before she'd even been brought aboard. And why the spook was so profoundly pissed with her—and especially John.

  Not to mention why Riyad had done everything in his power to prevent John from speaking one-on-one with the translator…and alone.

  And why John's chain of command had risked everything by flying him here and seating him across the interrogation table from the terrorist who'd murdered his men. Hell, she now understood why the spook believed John had not only meant to kill Hachemi, but had even planned it.

  As well as why Riyad himself had been sent here.

  Tamir Hachemi had made his claim regarding yet another traitor in the military's midst before he and Durrani had been sent to the Griffith. While Hachemi and Durrani had still been in their respective holding cells at Bagram, in fact. Within the hour, both men had been on their way here.

  Yes, the Griffith was a naval warship. And, yes, Riyad worked for the Navy.

  But the jurisdiction for this case did not reside with the Navy. It resided within the Army and CID.

  Yet, an NCIS agent had initially been tasked with completing the show she and two other Army CID agents had begun at Fort Campbell and in that Pakistani cave.

  An NCIS agent whose skill set wasn't based in murder—but gathering intel and ferreting out traitors. An agent who believed he'd found that traitor.

  But unlike Riyad, she built her cases on proof. "Staff Sergeant?"

  "I'm sorry, ma'am, but I—"

  "—arrived aboard the Griffith with Ambassador Linnet. You were tasked with overseeing security for the initial damage control sessions. Once Durrani and the translator were arrested and headed this way, the politicians departed, leaving you and Corporal Vetter to augment security for the coming interrogations and case wrap-up." She tossed another smooth smile into the mix as she glanced at the voice recorder on her desk. "I just need to confirm Agent Riyad's boarding date—for the record."

  The Marine relaxed. Nodded. "Of course. Sorry. Like I said; it's been a long stint. Agent Riyad came aboard with the detainees, on the same flight from Al Dhafra."

  Her smile slipped. Her control nearly followed. Because the timing of Riyad's arrival aboard the Griffith was even more revealing than the location of those damage control sessions—and utterly damning. For John.

  At least in Riyad's eyes.

  John hadn't been sent here because of his past with Tamir Hachemi. Hachemi was the excuse.

  Did Palisade know? Or had the general been kept out of the loop, too?

  A knock sounded on the opposite side of the stateroom's door.

  Relief entered the Marine's stare as he stood, quickly stepping back so she could make her way across the tiny compartment. Just as well. She was finished with Brandt. It was time to track down another man. One she'd known for less than a day. If that one was lucky, he just might escape her presence with his head still attached.

  She opened the door.

  Riyad stood on the other side, that dark, neatly groomed, pretty-boy body part still attached.

  For now.

  She turned to the Marine. "That'll be all, Staff Sergeant. I'll let you know when your statement's ready to be signed."

  "Thank you, ma'am." He escaped.

  She glared at the remaining man still occupying the passageway. "Get inside. And close the goddamned door behind you."

  If looks could kill, she'd have been buried at sea long before she and that Super Stallion had touched down on the Griffith's flight deck this morning.

  But he complied.

  Smart move. Especially since she was still contemplating hauling the spook's sanctimonious ass out onto that flight deck and dumping it over the side—with the contents of her own SIG Sauer riddling it.

  She folded her arms and locked them down to keep from reaching for that same SIG currently strapped to her right thigh. "So, Agent Riyad, when were you going to tell me that you've been investigating Major Garrison for treason?"

  8

  Regan met her so-called fellow agent's murky stare and held it, waiting for the answer. Not that she needed it. She'd worked it out all by herself.

  She'd just wanted him to admit it.

  "Agent Riyad, I'm waiting. When did you plan on telling me that you believe Garrison has turned traitor?"

  The spook mirrored her stance, folding his own arms over his chest and locking them down. "Never."

  "Congratulations. That's the first true statement that's come out of your mouth since I boarded this ship. Care to try for another?"

  The man's stare grew murkier. "Brandt told you."

  "Nope." But she now had confirmation that not only had the staff sergeant known about the treason investigation into John, he'd also been ordered to keep his mouth shut by the asshole squared off in front of her.

  Based on that exchange of body language she'd witnessed, especially between Riyad and Brandt outside the conference room earlier, the staff sergeant hadn't been in sync with the order to keep his trap shut either, much less the rationale behind it.

  Score one for the Marines—and those hidden smarts.

  Not that she wanted those smarts, much less Brandt's integrity, questioned by this man. "Relax. No one said squat about your misguided suspicions. There was no need." She offered up her first genuine smile since she'd met the spook. It came out a smirk. "It turns out you're as good at concealing classified information as you are at fucking up critical interrogations with recently arrested terrorists and processing crime scenes. Now, I have another question for you. And, once again, you will cough up the truth." Or she'd pull it out of the man with her bare hands. "Does General Palisade know about this little side show you've got going on aboard this vessel?"

  "Yes."

  "And what is the general's position on the matter?" Though she'd figured that out on her own too.

  The thin scar cutting down through the spook's left brow puckered as he scowled, marring that pretty-boy visage of his. "He was pissed."

  Well, well. Yet another truth.

  It seemed Riyad was capable of stringing three together, at least when cornered. She went for a fourth. "But he was overruled."

  That one came in the form of a curt nod.

  She scooped it up regardless and added it to the others. Quite the revealing picture was beginning to take shape. After all, Palisade might be a three-star general and in charge of the Army's Special Operations Command at Fort Bragg, but he and the entire Army Special Forces community were hard lined beneath the authority of the overall US Special Operations Command out of MacDill. And, lo and behold, at the moment USSOCOM was headed up by a Navy admiral.

  "General Palisade drew a line in the sand, didn't he?" With Palisade on one side and Admiral Kettering on the other. "That's why I was flown here."

  She was the concession, at least for Palisade's cooperation—and silence—regarding the spook's investigation into John.

  Hell, Palisade had probably convinced his Navy boss that her presence was critical. That with her knowing John so well, along with her connection to both Durrani and Hachemi, she was their best bet at picking up on any clues the two Afghan terrorists might accidentally intimate regarding John.

  Riyad was right. With Admiral Kettering covering his back, she'd have been removed from the Griffith the second her interview with Durrani was over. Only now, with the translator dead, both Riyad and the admiral were stuck with her.

  It seemed nearly losing her life to that psycho-toxin had accomplished one thing. It had shoved her investigative skills above reproach.

  At least with the spook's current boss.

  Unfortunately, John's instinctive actions that morning had complicated everything and, quite possibly, condemned him. At least in the admiral's eyes. Not that this entire scenario hadn't been a quagmire from the start. "Let me guess; both you and Admiral Kettering believe Palisade was taken in by John—for years, possibly."

&nbs
p; Could they really think Palisade was that stupid?

  The spook's shrug was grudging at best. "The general's judgment has been clouded by his personal feelings for the major. As have yours."

  At least Riyad hadn't branded a giant "T" on her forehead, too.

  Yet.

  As for Palisade and his feelings, she knew better. The general had proven he could keep one of his Chosen Ones out of the loop when necessary. Take those shadow duties Palisade had tasked Staff Sergeant Tulle with back at Fort Campbell.

  Tulle hadn't been reporting back on her alone. Tulle had been reporting back on John's dealings with her too…without John's knowledge.

  That was the real reason she still hadn't told John about Tulle shadowing her. She wasn't sure John's relationship with Palisade would survive the violation of his own trust.

  Then again, depending on how the next few hours played out, she was no longer certain she wanted that trust to survive—at least on John's part.

  As for the cloud-ability of her feelings, she had no illusions about John, much less about what John was and was not capable of. Frankly, she preferred it that way.

  "What exactly do you think you have on the man?"

  That thin scar rose along with the surrounding brow. "Garrison?"

  "Yes, Garrison. Try and keep up, Agent. You just might learn something." And she might succeed in maintaining her tenuous hold on her temper.

  That murky stare darkened again, this time all the way down to black, matching Riyad's polo, cargo pants and boots as he continued to look at her.