"Six months."
She pulled her breath in deep. "And in that time, how many death investigations did you pursue?"
"One."
"Let me guess—vehicular manslaughter."
To her bemusement, the same slight flush that had tinged Riyad's cheeks after he'd barged into her stateroom earlier returned.
Jesus. She'd been joking. But that flush wasn't. No wonder he'd made a grab for that airbag. The man wasn't incompetent—he was utterly and completely inexperienced.
And he wanted her gone?
Regan opened her mouth and promptly closed it as the remaining thread of patience she'd been clinging to snapped. She no longer trusted herself to stand here and talk to this so-called agent. Not until she'd had a chance to calm down and get a handle on exactly what lay on the floor of that conference room. She whirled around and headed across the ever-shifting deck, stopping beside the door as the corporal returned.
A swift perusal of the Marine's uniform allowed her to collect Corporal Vetter's name, but revealed no evidence of coffee or high-velocity blood splatter concealed amid the digital camouflage. Just the larger bloodstains marring the fabric at his knees, wrists and upper torso. The sort he'd have acquired during his zealous efforts at CPR.
Had Riyad been attempting Good Cop/Bad Cop after all, right before he'd confronted Chief Yrle in that stateroom?
She'd have been forced to consider the possibly after all, but for the fact that Riyad's black polo, cargo pants and boots weren't sporting coffee or high-velocity blood splatter either. And while the man's hands were callused and scarred in several spots, they were devoid of recent injury. Nor would he have had the time to change his clothes in between dragging Chief Yrle from the stateroom and returning to spar with her before the medical emergency had been passed over the loudspeaker.
Regan caught the corporal's waiting gaze. Captain Armstrong must have briefed him as to her status as lead case agent, because the Marine had automatically deferred, not to the spook she'd left behind, but her. "Corporal Vetter, head to the master-at-arms shack and have your uniform bagged for evidence. While you're there, please tell Chief Yrle I require her presence and a death scene kit. Have her stop by my stateroom. There's a stainless-steel suitcase on the lower bunk. I'll need both ASAP as well as a complete statement from you upon your return. I need to know exactly what transpired in that conference room before I arrived."
"Yes, ma'am."
She turned to the staff sergeant and carefully examined his uniform as well. As with the corporal, there was some evidence of larger bloodstains at the wrists and upper torso, but no coffee and no high-velocity splatter. The lack of the latter on both Marines told her all she needed to know. A third person had fled before her arrival.
She nodded to the senior Marine. "Staff Sergeant Brandt, I'll need your uniform bagged as well, though you can wait for the chief's supplies. Until then, position yourself outside this door. No one—and I mean no one—enters without my permission. This conference room is an active crime scene; I expect you to treat it as such."
"Yes, ma'am."
She spun back to Riyad as the staff sergeant took up his post. "Who's missing?"
The spook's jaw locked. Almost imperceptibly, but the tension was definitely there.
Why? Why would an FCI agent care who—
Regan instinctively shifted her attention as another door opened two yards down the passageway, on the opposite side. Curiosity sparked, then swelled as Chief Yrle stepped into the corridor—sans obvious signs of splattered coffee or blood—and immediately turned to reseal the dimly lit compartment she'd vacated…as if she too was attempting to conceal something. No, not something.
Someone.
For a single, blinding moment, Regan had caught a glimpse of a massive camouflaged form with a distinctive trio of two-inch shrapnel scars just beneath the edge of the man's roughly whiskered jaw, and then they were gone. As was he.
It didn't matter.
She'd already recognized their owner.
John Garrison. The recently reunited lover who'd been ordered from her bedside eight days ago, less than three hours after she'd woken from her coma in Fort Campbell's ICU. The same lover General Palisade had sworn was safe just yesterday morning.
But he wasn't.
Because John was here, aboard the Griffith. He had been since he'd left her hospital room. She was certain. Just as she knew that, deep down, John was the missing man she sought. The one whose uniform would reveal signs of coffee and the telltale evidence of Tamir Hachemi's splattered, high-velocity blood.
5
"Ma'am?"
Regan would never know how she managed to calmly turn and face Staff Sergeant Brandt as if her entire world hadn't imploded. Or perhaps she hadn't. The Marine took one look at her face and abandoned his post, closing the distance between them to comfort range as he reached out to grasp her arm.
"Agent Chase…are you okay?"
She nodded. Again, she could only hope her head had moved. It was difficult to be sure of anything after being ruthlessly drop-kicked out of the back of a C-141 at twenty thousand feet. Her scrambled brain was still flailing around, struggling to find the ripcord to a parachute that just wasn't there.
Or was it?
Regan pulled herself from the Marine's grasp and slowly turned around. She needn't have bothered. She was free-falling for the count—and her so-called partner on this case didn't care. If anything, she had the distinct impression Agent Riyad was looking forward to the splat. The glint in that murky ice confirmed it. Not only did Riyad know of her salacious history with John, the bastard had known John was aboard the Griffith well before she'd arrived.
And he'd said nothing.
Granted, neither had General Palisade. But that—she also realized—was because from what Palisade knew of the situation at the time, there shouldn't have been anything to tell. John was supposed to have left with Riyad via the Super Stallion
