Like her husband, the woman had her own professional domain.
Regan had never been more grateful.
Fifteen minutes later, Sitara had been briefed on John's surgery—which appeared to be going well, but for the fact that it would take hours yet.
But there was hopeful news already. The round that had torn through the right side of John's groin had indeed punctured his right femoral artery, though oddly, above the section of shredded muscle. Which was why she'd had such a difficult time trying to clamp off his bleeding up on that platform. If things went well, John's surgeons should be able to repair the puncture without a graft, for which Regan was profoundly relieved on John's behalf, since such a critical graft could make things difficult for his chosen career in Special Forces.
Personally, she didn't care if John sat behind a desk for the rest of his years, so long as he had those years. But she suspected he'd feel differently.
Once the woman's medical update had been delivered, Sitara—who had also firmly insisted that she be addressed by Regan as such—had led her to the executive patient room where John would be brought once he was out of surgery. There, Sitara had arranged for clean surgical scrubs as well as toiletries to be delivered.
Only then had the woman left her. Evidently, her intent was to scrub in on John's surgery. She would return with a full report, once it was finished.
Regan had the feeling that Sitara was using the situation, and her, to stave off the agony and acceptance of her daughter's loss, but she wouldn't judge her for it.
Lord knew, she'd deliberately sought out something to mute her own aching terror, or at least something to hold it at bay until John's surgery was over.
Her job.
Once she'd spotted those older numbers on the barrel of her crime kit, she'd known her search for the traitor wasn't over. But with everything that had happened, she'd had no way to proceed—until Tulle had phoned. John's staff sergeant had been frantic for news on his CO, and so he'd done the only thing he could think of.
Tulle had called her.
She'd shared what little she knew, and when Tulle had told her that he was on his way to the Shifa to wait with her, she'd asked him to stop by the RSO's office first to retrieve her laptop and kit.
He'd be happy to—once he phoned General Palisade, who was also champing for an update. Grateful that Tulle would take care of that, she'd readily agreed.
With nothing else to do but stare at that tauntingly empty bed until the staff sergeant's arrival, she'd scooped up the toiletries with her good hand and escaped into the shower.
The blood was gone now. Even her hair was clean.
She knew she should take the rings off, so she could make sure there were no lingering traces of the most terrifying experience of her life clinging beneath the stone, but she couldn't. Not until she saw for herself that John was safe.
She needed to touch him. Make sure he was breathing.
In the end, she left the rings in place and settled for yet another thorough scrubbing with the soap and cloth Sitara and her fellow nurses had provided.
Regan turned off the water and departed the shower to scoop up her clothes and gear. Cramming her bloodied suit into the garbage bin in the bathroom, she carried her holstered SIG, cuffs, CID credentials, shoes and the dupatta into the hospital room.
She dumped the black scarf and her gear at the foot of the bed, and donned the waiting surgical scrubs and her shoes.
Her gear was a bit tougher.
She managed to wedge her phone, ID and cuffs into the pocket at the rear of the green medical trousers. Her shoulder holster, however, was not going to fly.
Not out in the open in a hospital.
She settled for removing her 9mm and tucking it out of sight at the small of her back beneath her borrowed smock. Her empty leather holster went into the drawer at the base of the small clothing cupboard to get it out of sight as well.
As dressed as she was going to get, she turned away from those crisp, white, empty sheets and used the comb from the toiletry kit to remove the snarls from her hair. As best she could, anyway. Her left-hand coordination might leave a lot to be desired, but her right was shaking so much, it was nearly useless.
Unwilling to offend those who were doing so much for John, she capped off her damp hair with the swath of silk he'd provided.
With nothing left to do, she headed across the antiseptic tiles to check the contents of the small refrigerator positioned next to a dark brown, utilitarian sleeper couch and matching coffee table in front of the room's curtained windows. The fridge was probably empty, but she hadn't eaten since their stopover at Al Dhafra the day before—or ingested caffeine. At this point, if she found a leftover can of cold-brewed coffee in there, she'd be willing to mainline it.
She was about to open the fridge when her phone rang.
Sighing, she reached into her rear pocket and worked the phone free. She didn't recognize the number scrolling across the screen. "Agent Chase."
"How's he doing?" Riyad.
Guilt cut in. The spook had moved heaven and earth to save John's life back on that platform and she'd hadn't even thought about updating him following her conversation with Sitara. "He's in surgery. His femoral was punctured. No word yet." And there wouldn't be for hours. "I'm sorry; I should've called."
Not that she'd had his number. But she could've tracked it down if she'd tried.
"No problem. You've had a bit on your mind. So have I."
"What happened?" Because something had. It was in his voice.
"There's been another Webber sighting. Solid source."
"Where?"
"Islamabad International Airport. Military ramp."
Well, "Shit."
"Yeah. I'm there now. Look, I'll be following this lead to the end,
