Christ.
Regan sank down onto the couch. What the devil was going on? If the shooter had been Webber, why would he want to kill John now? Even if Webber did want John dead, surely there would have been easier times and places to set up that shot?
"I got one more oddity—and this one's truly weird. It pertains to that suicide bomber."
"What about him? Did you manage to get an ID?"
Tulle shook head. "But we do know he was murdered. That vest—it was a dummy rig. But there was one live charge in it. The one over his heart. And, get this: it was rigged to blow in, not out, and not by much. It looks as though no one else was meant to be shredded during that speech, much less killed, 'cept the bastard who was eager to enter Paradise early and collect his seventy-two virgins."
She set the takeout cup on the coffee table and sank back into the couch as the confusion continued to rip in. None of this made sense.
Why would someone premeditate a murder so meticulous upon a would-be suicide bomber? Had the bomber simply been meant to serve as a distraction so that Webber could set up his kill shot on John? But why so elaborate? More importantly, was their murdered bomber—and that kill shot—connected to their search for the traitor?
The one still inside Embassy Islamabad?
Because she was more convinced than ever that Crier's death hadn't ended her quest.
She needed to view that security footage leading into Crier's office. She'd asked Corporal Vetter to have it sent to her CID email. Had the Marine even had the opportunity to get the footage downloaded from the embassy's system with everything that had gone on since she'd found Crier's body at his desk a mere six hours ago? Hell, she still hadn't had a chance to dust that Glock and envelope for prints.
She reached for her laptop bag.
"You got work to do, don't you?"
"I do." She tipped her head to the right. "But there's plenty of room on the other side of this couch. Have a seat."
He smiled. "Not for an ape my size, there isn't. But I appreciate the fib."
Her heart twisted at the ape comment. "I can request a chair."
If the locals were incredibly generous enough to donate blood on John's behalf, surely a spare seat wouldn't be too out of range, would it?
Tulle's light blue gaze darkened with the ghosts of too many soldiers who'd passed as it slipped to the center of the room. To those taunting, empty sheets.
Like most soldiers, she was all too familiar with that haunted stare. With the memories trapped within. She'd confronted too many hospital beds recently emptied by buddies to not be. Beds that hadn't been emptied in a good way.
"If you don't mind, ma'am, I'd rather walk the halls. If I eavesdrop enough, I just might polish my Urdu."
"Sounds good. Come back when you're bored. Meanwhile, I'll call if and when I hear something. But…stick close. I may need you professionally."
Exceptional SF soldier that he was, Tulle didn't question that final comment. He simply nodded.
She was already unzipping her laptop bag and dragging her computer out onto the low table as the door closed behind the staff sergeant.
She retrieved her CID credentials from the back pocket of her scrubs and slid her access card from its slot on the wallet side. Within minutes, she'd used it to assist in her push through the requisite security protocols and was skimming her overflowing email inbox. Fortunately, Corporal Vetter's email—and attached files—were near the top.
And there it was: the security footage she needed.
Even at a jacked-up viewing speed, it took a mind numbing ninety-four minutes to zero in on the sections of footage that she needed. The sections that would make her case—and ruin an embassy staffer's career.
Not to mention seal his pending conviction for treason.
She pushed through her fury and closed her laptop, swapping out the computer for her phone. Double confirmation was always a plus when it came to court-martials.
It took her a few minutes to phone Corporal Vetter at the embassy and wait not-so-patiently while Vetter looked up Warren Jeffers' personal phone numbers.
Upon hanging up with the wonderfully chatty and informative Vetter, it took her mere seconds more to check her watch and calculate the time zone difference between Islamabad and Orlando, Florida, where Mrs. Bethany Jeffers' recent commercial flight had apparently landed while Mr. Jeffers had been up on that temporary platform in front of the embassy's gates.
From there, a brief introduction and several probing questions later, Regan had the confirmation she needed—and her traitor.
She shot off a quick text to Tulle to let him know she'd need his services. She was about to place a call to Scott when her phone rang.
Palisade.
Damn. The general needed a case update, yes. But he'd want a personal one regarding John, too. An update she didn't have. The lack of which she'd also desperately been trying to keep her mind from dwelling upon while she'd be studying two days' worth of security footage in fast forward. "Agent Chase."
"How's he doing?"
"I don't know." Nor could she keep the apprehension from her voice.
It had been two hours now since Sitara Chaudhry had left her in this room. Surely, there should have been an update by now?
Or was John experiencing complications?
Focus.
She got up from the couch to pace her way across the room as she worked to shove the ugly, thickening fear back down into her gut. "Sir, I haven't heard anything beyond what I was able to give Staff Sergeant Tulle earlier this morning."
The man's sigh filled the line. "Understood. I'll
