Backblast

by Candace Irving

  A traffic accident.

  Regan studied both the fresh and expended supplies cluttering the counter. The latex gloves covering his hands. She had no idea where Riyad had actually gleaned his skills, but they were solid. And, tonight, he'd thoroughly abused them.

  While she'd been up on the flight deck, conversing with Chief Yrle, Riyad had been down here, surreptitiously testing the ship's bait and that coffee.

  Hachemi's high-velocity blood.

  Even more telling, given the order of the forensic samples that were lined up beside the machine, he'd tested the blood first. He hadn't wanted to risk her arrival before he'd had a chance to compare his personal results to the ME's official findings.

  Riyad had also methodically organized his test strips from the microTLC as though he'd done so countless times before. And next to those strips?

  A scrawl-filled memo pad and a smartphone.

  She'd bet her pending promotion to chief warrant officer three that he'd taken photos of the results with that phone. Recorded his own case notes. The ones on the upper sheet of that memo pad; the ones that had been written in Arabic.

  Riyad was of Saudi descent. Had he written in a potential native tongue out of habit?

  Or was there another reason? One that connected this man—not John—to the remaining prisoner in the Griffith's brig?

  The spook finally realized he'd left his notes in the open. Within moments the memo pad had been smoothly retrieved, closed and slipped into a pocket in his cargo pants.

  A chill slithered down her spine as that scowl actively evaded hers.

  She'd been furious with Riyad aboard the carrier when she'd informed him that he was her best suspect, but she hadn't been serious.

  Was she wrong?

  Her gut voted no. At least regarding the murder.

  But something was definitely off about the man, and his actions. Everything from his anger with Chief Yrle over John's desire to conduct a one-on-one, former "comrade-in-arms" interrogation with the translator, to the spook's willingness to suspect one of Uncle Sam's preeminent medical examiners of tampering with evidence.

  Unfortunately, she couldn't afford to press Riyad about any of it, much less those unusual notes and the missing squares of fabric.

  Hell, she didn't even have a credible working theory to tie it all together.

  Damn it, she needed to speak to John—about Nabil Durrani and her so-called partner…and their potential connection.

  There was only one way to accomplish that tonight. "Well?"

  One of those peeved, too-pretty brows rose. "Well, what?"

  She jerked her chin to the evidence bag containing the cup from the conference room. "You tested the dregs from the coffee. What were your professional results?"

  "Strychnine."

  She nodded calmly, almost amused to find him attempting to discern her own micro-expressions. Almost. Unfortunately for the spook, her tainted genetics all but guaranteed that he'd only see what she wanted him to see.

  And, right now, that wasn't the truth.

  "You don't seem surprised, Agent Chase. Or disappointed."

  She offered a shrug. A positive result had always been a possibility. As for her disappointment? Oh, it was there. But it was conflicted.

  As was she.

  In the short term, a negative result would've been preferable, since it would've allowed her to bring John into that brig to assist her with Durrani—and, yes, let him know sooner, rather than later, that he wasn't guilty of second-degree murder. A positive result was a bit more complicated. Mostly because she hadn't yet had a chance to establish how the coffee had made it into the conference room—and who'd had access to the cup before the translator had begun drinking from it.

  But in the long term? The presence of poison in that cup was an absolute positive. Because she now had something to trace.

  If the strychnine was truly there.

  "Well?"

  It was her turn to raise a brow.

  "Does the result I found with the coffee affect your faith in the major?"

  "Not in the slightest." But it would affect her actions.

  After all, this man had provided the results. She no longer trusted his word any more than the spook had trusted Colonel Tarrington's. Hence, she'd be coming right back to this compartment along with Chief Yrle after her meeting with Durrani, so she could double check those "results".

  She tipped her head toward the bagged evidence. "What about the major's ACU blouse?"

  The spook's entire body tensed. The effect was subtle, but it was there. "What about it?"

  "It was laid out on the counter when I arrived." She pointed toward the pair of scissors partially concealed behind a bucket of rat bait. The ones that were in danger of sliding off the counter with the next roll of the ship. "The remaining dregs in that cup were sparse to say the least. I assume you used those to cut off a sample of the coffee-stained fabric so you could test that as well."

  "I did."

  The hell with omission. Whatever Riyad's true tasking aboard this ship, he was willing to lie bald and outright to accomplish it.

  But he hadn't inherited her father's ignoble skills.

  Riyad might not have spotted her lies during their chat, but she'd just nailed his ass to the proverbial wall on another one of his. Not only had the tension in his body ratcheted that much tighter, it was now backed up by the flagging tic that had taken up residence at the outer right edge of his jaw.

  She nudged another pointed brow upward. "And?"

  "I confirmed strychnine."

  "Well, then." She reached out and caught the scissors as they finally slid past the edge of the counter. "You repack the microTLC while Chief Yrle and I gather up the evidence and get it tucked back into the safe before it ends up on the deck."

  Surprise entered those dark eyes at her seemingly easy acquiescence.

  Wariness joined in.

  But he did step forward, returning the unexpended chromatography testing supplies into the foam slots quickly, neatly…and absently.

  Yeah, he had experience with the machine. A lot of experience.

  And that was more than curious.

  As the master-at-arms chief moved deeper into the compartment, Regan wondered how much the woman had read into what had just transpired during the confrontation she'd shared with the spook—and what the chief's conclusions had been. She suspected she'd find out soon enough. But for now, Yrle's bland expression as she accepted John's ACU blouse and the coffee cup before rounding the corner to re-stow the evidence in the safe revealed precisely…nothing.

  Impressive.

  Riyad had done himself a disservice by pissing the woman off this morning.

  She wouldn't be making the same mistake.

  Regan handed over the bait next. She was about to thank the chief when the sound-powered phone hanging from the bulkhead beside the safe buzzed.

  The chief closed the safe and secured the lock before answering the phone. "Master-at-arms office, Chief Yrle speaking."

  The creaking of the pipes and venting in the overhead took up a pronounced chorus as the woman listened to whoever was on the other end of that line for several moments…as she frowned into the receiver.

  "Hold on." Yrle turned all the way around to the counter and held out the phone. "Ma'am, it's Corporal Vetter. Durrani heard this last helo ops; he thinks you were on it. The prisoner's demanding to speak with you."

  Demanding?

  Regan stepped around the counter and accepted the phone.

  Yep, demanding he was. In fact, that was a serious understatement. She could hear the bastard bellowing her name in the background while the receiver was still a good ten inches from her face.

  "Hello, Corporal. I understand the prisoner is ready to talk."

  Vetter's sedate southern drawl filled her right ear. "Evening, ma'am. You could say that. He's been asking to see you since two helo ops ago. Neither Brandt nor I confirmed that you left the ship, let alone returned
, and the doc's been bellyaching rather loudly about that lack of confirmation ever since."

  "Understood." She shifted her attention to Riyad and caught that murky, perpetual scowl of his as the man snapped the microTLC's case shut. "Corporal, I may have a few minutes to chat before I turn in. Why don't you go ahead and seat Dr. Durrani at the interview table in his cell while I run my errands? I do have a few things to take care of beforehand, though. It was a long flight." An even longer autopsy. "I could use a cup of joe. I'll be down…eventually."

  She could practically feel the corporal's grin through the line. She could definitely hear it. "Yes, ma'am. I'll take care of that for you pronto. And…enjoy your coffee."

  "I will." She might even bring a cup for the Marine.

  Regan passed the phone back to Yrle.

  The chief slotted the receiver home. "How long are you going to make him wait, shackled to the bar welded to that table?"

  Regan rubbed the thin scar above her right temple. The one she'd earned during the wee hours of Christmas morning just over two weeks ago when this entire, twisted case had begun. When Durrani's first victim, Sergeant Blessing, had finally succumbed to the hallucinations brought on by that damned psycho-toxin and had unwittingly stabbed his beloved, pregnant wife, killing her and his unborn child.

  What she wanted was to leave the bastard who was really responsible for that stabbing chained to that table for the rest of his unnatural life. But since the CO of this ship, as well as the upper echelons of the US Army, would eventually frown on that, "I am thirsty. And I did miss dinner. Do they have chow aboard this ship at night?"

  The depth of Yrle's grin sufficed for both the chief and Vetter. "Yes, ma'am. In fact, midrats—midnight rations—are still being served in the enlisted galley. And the coffee's so strong, engineering's been rumored to run the emergency generator off it."

  "Sounds perfect. Got everything secured in here?"

  The chief nodded.

  "Then, let's go."

  Riyad's brows shot up. "Are you seriously headed down to the galley?"

  She offered a shrug as both she and Yrle came to a halt beside the door. "Why not? I'm hungry." And she could definitely use a hit of that intriguing, Navy-enlisted-style caffeine—perhaps two. Not to mention, she could use a bit of time and distance from the asshole looming over her so she could collect her thoughts and plot her coming strategy before she went down to the brig to deal with the next one.

  "What time do you plan on reaching the brig, Agent Chase?"

  She met that familiar displeasure and held it as she considered Durrani's sparse, shipboard cell. The steel chair he was undoubtedly already seated within. The equally unyielding steel bar both wrists were now shackled to. "About an hour. Could be longer. Depends on what's on the menu. I am partial to omelets."

  "Make it an hour. And I'll be joining you."

  The hell he would. She wouldn't even risk having Yrle in that compartment while she laid her trap for Durrani, and she actually trusted the patiently waiting chief.

  "Sorry, this is one-on-one. No backup required." Or desired.

  Not unless the backup in question was on her personal, mission-tested, I got your six covered list. Which this man was decidedly not.

  "On the carrier, you claimed you needed it. In fact, that's why you purportedly asked for the microTLC. Because you wanted Garrison in that compartment with you."

  He really did not get this. Any of it.

  Much less her.

  Frustration finally seeped into her sigh. "Damn it, Riyad. Nothing I've done since I came aboard this ship has been about what I want. It's been about this case, and what it needs. The major has something to offer in that compartment tonight. Something Durrani wants—desperately. That bastard will do just about anything to satisfy his obsession about Major Garrison's supposedly 'natural' immunity to that psycho-toxin."

  As for this spook, and what he had to offer?

  Try thirteen wasted days of sitting across a table and getting precisely nowhere—while actively thwarting a plan from a seasoned colleague that just might've provided results if John had been able to put that plan into motion from the start.

  But they'd never know now, would they?

  "Garrison's not leaving his stateroom." Riyad jerked his chin toward the rugged case on the counter in front of him. "Not after the results I just got from that."

  The filthy scowl had returned and, this time, it was carved into place.

  The man simply refused to see past those bizarre blinders of his. Especially when it concerned John.

  Well, she could be just as stubborn. Especially with a case at stake.

  Those names.

  Riyad might not be willing to let John out of his stateroom, but she had no intention of letting Riyad into that cell with Durrani. Not if the doc was even thinking about giving up the identity of the seventh victim from the floor of that cave.

  Regan reached into her breast pocket and retrieved the message traffic that Yrle had brought topside with her earlier.

  "You didn't stick around on the flight deck. It's going to be a long night. A longer chat." She passed the message over and waited for the spook to unfold it and read the tasking within. "I've been cleared to make the deal, Agent Riyad. My health records for that woman's name." And once Durrani gave up that first name—if she was patient enough, worked hard enough—she just might be able to crack through the bastard's resistance long enough to glean a second: Hachemi's murderer. And then maybe, just maybe, she could leverage those names for the third: that unknown traitor.

  But it was going to take time. A lot of it.

  No matter how desperate Durrani was, no matter how deep his obsession, tonight's showdown was going to be one for the record books. Because she was not leaving that brig until she had an honest-to-God lead to go on.

  Then again, in light of those missing squares of fabric…if she did leave Riyad to his own devices tonight, what would he be doing while she was down in the brig?

  And who would he be doing it for? USSOCOM and Admiral Kettering?

  Or himself?

  The spook refolded the paper and passed it back. "I can handle the wait."

  But could she handle the fallout if the growing suspicion in her gut was correct? Could her case? Could her country?

  Every single second she'd spent with the man bucked up against her sudden, unexpectedly profound need to keep him close.

  "Fine. You can be in the brig, in listen-mode only. You will remain outside the doctor's cell at all times—and completely beyond his peripheral view. No exceptions. That bastard sees one hair on your Saudi-born head and I'll have Vetter toss your ass into the next cell until I'm finished. You can listen from there—with the door locked."

  Those features were no longer smooth and pretty. Every one of them had turned clipped, cold and very ugly. "I'll meet you there."

  Her answering nod was just as clipped, and even more determined.

  Riyad might not be able to see Durrani tonight, but she would be watching him, from now until the moment her so-called partner left this ship.

  Yes, like her, the NCIS agent had been flown to the Griffith to get that traitor's name out of Hachemi. But given everything she'd learned about the spook today—and, more importantly, everything she hadn't—she was now all but certain that Riyad had also been tasked with a second, even more critical mission.

  Either that, or he was the traitor.

  14

  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.