But John hadn't left. And now, not only did the need to know exactly why John was aboard exist, it burned.
Regan sent her own blast of icy fury toward the man she now knew was no simple NCIS counterpart. "Agent Riyad, inside the conference room—now."
She didn't wait for Riyad to answer. Instead, she turned to the visibly nervous master-at-arms chief. Corporal Vetter had joined Chief Yrle, the crime scene kit Regan had requested from her stateroom in hand.
She retrieved her gear. "Thank you, Corporal. Post yourself at the end of the passageway and remain there until I exit the crime scene. Speak to no one else about this case—and I mean no one—unless I personally grant you leave to do so, understood?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Good. Chief Yrle?"
"Yes, Agent?"
"Does Major Garrison know I'm aboard the Griffith?"
"No."
"Keep it that way. Wait until I've entered the conference room, then escort the major back to his stateroom and detain him there, in a complete communications blackout, until I arrive."
"Yes, ma'am."
The fact that John had been in isolation across the passageway since before she and Riyad had preceded the ship's medical personnel into the conference room confirmed her worst fears. It also explained Agent Riyad's subsequent disappearance while the ship's doctor and corpsmen were still desperately attempting to save the translator's life.
The bridge hadn't been Riyad's first stop during the crisis. That nearby compartment had.
It took every ounce of self-control Regan possessed to keep from crossing the corridor and entering that same compartment now. Much as she needed to speak to John—for her case as well as her sanity—she wouldn't. Not until she'd had time to examine the body at length. Gather her thoughts. Because whatever had gone down in that conference room, John had been at the center of it.
The nausea that had plagued her since the beginning of that hour-long chopper flight had returned—with a vengeance. And it had nothing to do with the ship.
Regan closed her mouth and pulled air in through her nose for several moments as she corralled her jangled nerves and forced them to settle. The Griffith's relentless rocking didn't help.
Damn it, if John was involved in Hachemi's death, there had to have been extenuating circumstances. She knew the man. His strengths and his flaws. John Garrison might be a Special Forces soldier trained to kill with his bare hands, but he did so only in the defense of his country. And even then, only under direct orders and within the context of an officially sanctioned, albeit often classified, mission.
He was simply not capable of outright murder. Not even of a known terrorist.
Not even a terrorist whose crimes had led directly to the deaths of seven men under his command, several of their wives and very nearly her own.
She was certain.
But would her new, clearly reluctant partner be able to put his obvious bias aside long enough to entertain the possibility?
Regan turned back to the conference room. The door was still closed and Riyad was still standing beside it.
And she was still so much more than merely pissed over this entire situation—and his part in it.
"Agent Riyad, I issued a direct order. As case supervisor, I expect you to obey it. Immediately."
The fire in his stare threatened to melt the surrounding steel. But he turned.
Riyad shoved the door to the conference room open. If he'd hoped to stay her own ratcheting fury by waiting for her to precede him, he'd misjudged her.
The second he closed the door behind them and opened his mouth, she lit in. "Don't bother explaining. Just nod at the right spots and offer correction when required, understood?" From the grudging nod of respect as his mouth snapped shut, she knew he'd finally realized it was best not to cross her. "You and Major Garrison have been interrogating Dr. Durrani and Tamir Hachemi for nearly a week now, correct? In fact, you conducted the interrogations alone for several days before the major arrived aboard the Griffith—and got nowhere. That's why Major Garrison was ordered to leave Fort Campbell and was flown here to assist."
The slight flush she'd noticed twice before tinged the base of the spook's dusky neck. "Yes."
It made sense. Riyad's answer, his embarrassment and especially the motivation behind the mid-interrogation tasking shift. John had served with Tamir Hachemi on multiple missions during his tours in Afghanistan. The brass had clearly hoped the long-standing connection would serve to loosen the translator's tongue after Hachemi had arrived aboard the Griffith and clammed up.
But it hadn't.
Regan continued her assessment. "You were also the one who let the fact that I was still very much alive and recently cured of that goddamned psycho-toxin slip during one of those interrogation sessions, correct?"
"Yes."
The tinge faded, answering Regan's next question before she could voice it. The slip had not been accidental. It had been deliberate.
Her temper surged along with the bow of the ship, effectively supplanting any nausea. "Why?"
Riyad shrugged. "We weren't getting anywhere with the standard fare. I decided to change tactics." The flush might have faded, but the shadow in those eyes had returned and this one was not tinted with respect.
He was lying. The micro-expressions on his face confirmed it. Unfortunately, now was not the time to call him on it. Unlike this man, she needed more first.
"You speak fluent Arabic, possibly with an upper-crust Saudi accent, when you choose to use it, don't you?"
Another shadow flickered amid the murky black, and she could have sworn this one was personal.
"Agent Riyad?"
"Yes."
And yet Durrani had still refused to open up. Interesting.
Or not. "Did you use Arabic with the doctor?"
Riyad nodded. "During our first few meetings, he refused to answer my English, Dari or Pashto. So I switched to Arabic."
Ahhh.
A third shadow slipped in, this one solidifying into pure curiosity—Riyad's—confirming what she'd suspected from
