With her hand still operating apart from the rest of her brain, she wouldn't be able to do much more than provide an extra set of eyes, continually scanning the crowd for a face that resembled the photos that Riyad had provided of Webber.
But she could at least do that.
And that scanning would be critical, since both Chaudhrys had refused to don bulletproof vests on the grounds that the coming event was one of mutual respect, leaving the remainder of the diplomatic contingents to decline as well.
"Rae? You okay?"
"Yeah. Just worried."
So much could go wrong.
John nodded. "Corporal Swan asked me to tell you that someone will be here shortly to open the safe for you."
"Thanks." Given the classified nature of over half the files on her laptop, she couldn't just leave it lying around, even now. Nor could she risk bringing it up onto that platform. That left her waiting in here for someone with the combination to the RSO's safe.
And quietly going nuts.
She just couldn't shake this sense of foreboding. It was buried too deeply in her gut. And, apparently, in her brain.
At least the portion that controlled her hand.
The tremors that had spread up her arm during her meeting with the Chaudhrys hadn't ebbed; they'd grown worse. A fact that hadn't escaped that steady stare of John's.
"We've got at least five minutes before tee off." His brow nudged up, then came down to frame a decidedly inappropriate twinkle. "I could always lock the door. Work my magic."
She couldn't help it; she laughed.
Damned if his dimple didn't fold in, warming her, and her mood, further. "What, no crack about my ego? Or has my arrogance finally dimmed?"
"Oh, it's there." But she was getting used to it. Among other things.
"Turn around."
She shook her head. They weren't in the privacy of some hotel room.
"Turn around, Chief." Dimple and twinkle had faded, leaving that irritatingly adamant stare behind. The unequivocal order issued from Army major to warrant.
One she had no choice but to obey.
She turned.
As his fingers came up to dig into her braid, ruthlessly kneading the tension from the base of her skull, she was forced to admit that he was right.
It didn't matter where they were. Nor was this massage between the man and woman who'd shared a bed in the Serena's executive suit earlier that evening. This one was between two soldiers and based solely on unit readiness. Safety and mission might well be on the line within the next hour, and the major behind her, now relentlessly rubbing the day's incalculable stress and the night's lack of sleep from her neck and shoulders, was determined to make sure she was ready for whatever went down.
And bless him, it was working. Though not quite enough.
Unfortunately, it was going to have to suffice.
Major and warrant fell away as he finished and she turned around. For several taut, painful moments, man and woman assumed their place.
A strangely thick, acidic fear dripped through her, burning straight into her heart. She'd never felt it before.
But as she stared at John, she knew he was feeling it too.
"Major G? The Pak president's arrived." Tulle. The booming decibel of his voice suggested the staff sergeant was just outside the RSO's office.
John didn't respond to his soldier, nor did he turn to leave. His thumb came up instead, its calluses gently scraping along the curve of her cheek.
"I wish you weren't here."
She nodded slightly, and gave him the stark truth in return. "I'm glad you are."
His answering nod was equally slight. And then, one last scrape of his thumb, and he was gone.
"Agent Chase?"
She turned toward the door to find a thickly muscled, Hispanic gunnery sergeant she didn't know hovering just inside. "Yes?"
"Swan said you needed to get into the safe?"
She nodded. "I need to stow my laptop."
"Yes, ma'am."
The gunny entered the room and made a beeline for the dial in question, spinning it several times. A sharp clunk followed.
He stepped back as she approached the oversized safe to tuck her laptop in next to the stainless-steel body of her crime kit. She was about to step back as well, when she spotted the numbers on the tumbler—and froze.
What the hell?
Someone had tried to tamper with her kit.
She could tell from the lack of jimmy marks that they hadn't been successful. But there was more. Based on the outdated set of numbers her barrel sported, there were only two people who could have touched her kit. And one had no reason to.
But the other?
That crisp brown envelope slipped into the forefront of her mind. The one she'd found in Crier's desk. The brass brad. She hadn't thought about it at the time, but the fastener had been as stiff and unyielding as that envelope's smooth flap. Unlike the worn pages within. Shouldn't the envelope have sported wear and tear as well?
Had Crier transferred the papers to a new sleeve? Or had someone else culled those papers from a larger stack of classified material and secreted them in a fresh envelope so that they could be planted inside that hidden drawer?
Had Crier been framed?
She stared at those outdated numbers on the barrel of her kit. Or had Crier been working with someone else? Someone other than Webber?
"Ma'am?"
Damn it, her nerves were shot. And she desperately needed sleep.
Evidence? Her arm for one. It was already returning to its pre-massage vibrating state. She'd been on edge given the nature of Crier's death, not to mention her pending meeting with the Chaudhrys. Hell, she'd probably reset that older number herself up in Crier's office without thinking. Either way, she had no time to delve into it now.
She could hear Scott speaking to another agent in the hallway, on his way to grab her for their joint assignment.
Tee off time had arrived.
She stepped back from the safe and nodded to the Marine gunny. "Go ahead and close it up."
"Yes, ma'am."
She waited until the gunny had shut the door to the safe and spun the dial,
