He clipped a nod. But the suspicion and disbelief were still there, in the subtle clenching of his neatly whiskered jaw. And something else.
Something she wasn't going to like.
She clamped down on her own jaw. "What?"
"You look like you could use another trip to the head."
He didn't pull any punches, did he? Not now, and not while Tamir Hachemi had been lying on the deck with those Marines, and then the doc and his corpsmen, still fighting for the translator's life. The proof was in Riyad's disappearing act.
The moment the spook had realized John had tangled with the translator and come out on the winning side, Riyad had run straight to the bridge to corner the ship's captain and whine about her impartiality.
Because of one simple purging.
What was it about men and nausea? As if there could be no other reason for a woman to experience it. For example—a ship that, for some reason, truly did feel as though it was riding the waves higher and harder…or dealing with the even more unsettling discovery that the man she'd been unable to banish from her mind since the moment they'd met appeared to be guilty of murder?
Regan pushed the latter, truer, reason aside and concentrated on Riyad's. It was easier—for her and her case.
"Kill the euphemisms, Super Spy, and voice what's really on your mind…unless you don't have the nerve?"
The lock on Riyad's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
"Well?"
He stepped closer. "Are you pregnant?"
"No." Nor was she likely to become so any time soon, and not without significant medical intervention and high-tech assistance. But there was no way she was telling him that. The status of her sole remaining ovary was none of this jerk's business.
But as much as she hated to admit it, her current relationship with John Garrison was. "How much do you know?"
Riyad's jaw relaxed a bit at the question, and he shrugged. "More than the rest of the world."
Meaning that, at the very least, he'd followed her humiliation in the news the year before.
Year, hell; it was going on sixteen months now.
It was also becoming clear that she'd never live that case down. Especially among her fellow agents—Army and otherwise.
Regan offered up her own shrug infused with an insouciance she'd never feel. Not about this. "I'm going to say this once, Agent Riyad, so listen closely. Yes, Major Garrison and I knew each other in Germany. And, yes, we met while I was undercover working a case to take down his houseguest before the sergeant could blow a certain Turkish general's remaining offspring to hell and back. Things got dicey—and, yes, we also crawled into bed together before he discovered I was CID. But then I crawled out of his bed before the main event—because it was my job. Lives were on the line, including those of innocent children. As I'm sure you know, Major Garrison was still pissed over my actions, even after he discovered why I'd been undercover. We parted ways and didn't meet up again until just over two weeks ago, after I arrived at Fort Campbell. We spent the next several days in and out of each other's company as we worked to figure out why the men on one of his A-Teams were alternately killing their wives, falling deathly ill or committing suicide. Just what sort of unprofessional relationship the major and I were supposed to have resumed in between our near constant visits to the hospital, the morgue and that Pakistani cave, I have no idea. Or perhaps you think the major slipped into my own ICU bed sometime during the three hours after I woke from my coma back at Fort Campbell and before he was shipped here?"
Dead silence filled the compartment as she finished. It was broken only by the ever-present creaking of metal and embarrassment.
Hers and his.
"I trust I've satisfied your curiosity—or at least soothed your concerns—about what is, or is not, inside my abdomen?"
This nod was stiff.
"Excellent. And is there anything else you'd like to know, or perhaps should share with me, before we get this show on the road?"
To her surprise, the man offered another nod before jerking his neatly groomed beard toward the body still lying on the deck just past the conference table. "You might as well know now; he did it. According to Corporal Vetter, the translator got in Major Garrison's face while Garrison was questioning him. Next thing Vetter knew, the major had slammed Hachemi into the bulkhead, face first. Just one smack, but between Garrison's training and an inch of rolled steel, that was all it took. The Marines laid the body out on the deck and started CPR while Chief Yrle took Garrison into custody and escorted him out of the compartment. You know the rest."
She did.
She simply refused to buy that that was all there was to this. At least, not until she'd had a chance to examine the scene and question everyone involved—including John.
The pulse beating steadily at the base of the spook's jaw told her Riyad was of no such opinion. As far as Super Spy was concerned, John was guilty. End of case.
Worse, she had the distinct impression Riyad believed John meant to kill Hachemi, and had even planned it.
But why?
That was a question she wasn't prepared to press. Yet.
Regan nodded. "Message received. Now if it's all the same to you, Agent, I prefer to get my facts from the victim. Do us both a favor and stay out of my way. Don't approach the body without permission and do not, under any circumstances, touch so much as a speck of dust in this compartment—even when properly gloved—unless I give direct instruction. Understood?"
She didn't wait for confirmation, verbal or otherwise. She headed across the room, stopping to remove one
