All the more reason to reconsider sharing the entire range of John's confession—now or later.
Damn it, move.
She reached for her pen, ignoring yet another traitorous tremor as it hijacked her hand at the last moment, causing her to knock the pen to the floor. She stood to retrieve the pen, then crossed the stateroom. Relief swamped her as she opened the door.
It wasn't Riyad.
It was Staff Sergeant Brandt. The Marine she'd yet to interview regarding Tamir Hachemi's death.
The staff sergeant's dark-blond, camouflaged bulk dominated the narrow passageway, somehow reminding her painfully of John as he shifted to attention. The man was even sporting a dimple, though Brandt's was smack in the middle of his chin.
"Good afternoon, Agent Chase. I just returned from escorting the translator's body to the USS Ronald Reagan. Chief Yrle said you needed my statement?"
That would explain the musical piping that had sounded from the ship-wide, 1MC loudspeaker box hanging in the overhead of her stateroom fifteen minutes earlier—and the terse "helo ops" announcement that had followed.
Regan nodded as she pulled the door wide. "Come on in, Staff Sergeant." She used her pen to point to the spare chair tucked along the bulkhead beside the sink as she returned to her makeshift desk and the pair of case folders burdening the upper right corner. "Grab that seat and drag it over."
The Marine complied, dwarfing the stateroom, and especially the second chair, as he moved it to within two feet of hers and sat. He reached for the right cargo pocket of his camouflaged trousers, then changed his mind before breaching the flap. The faint rectangular outline beneath had already given away its contents.
"If you need a smoke, feel free."
His brows lifted. "You don't mind?"
Honestly? She did. Plus, although the smoking lamp had been relit following the conclusion of the ship's underway refueling, she didn't know if that included permission to light up inside the skin of the ship.
But if not, she'd take the hit. Mainly because she wanted the staff sergeant relaxed, not preoccupied with an addiction. And since Brandt had been on duty and, hence, not allowed to smoke since the translator's interrogation had commenced five hours earlier, his nicotine craving had to be biting in hard about now.
"Go for it."
The Marine retrieved a pack of Pakistani cigarettes and held them out.
She shook her head and shoved her half-empty Styrofoam cup of coffee across the desk as he settled back to light up.
"Thanks, ma'am, but I've got something."
His hand returned to his cargo pocket, this time surfacing with what appeared to be a tin of mints. From the blackened and slightly warped inner base, the tin had served as a recycled ashtray for a while.
The Marine's lips twisted ruefully as he finished his first, deep drag and leaned forward to tap his ashes into the tin. "Been trying to quit for a couple weeks now—for the third time. This is number two for the day."
His next drag was deeper still, all but confirming that the earlier cigarette had been consumed well before John's final interview with Hachemi. Add on the translator's death, the bout of futile CPR, the subsequent forensic processing of the conference room, as well as the Marine's recent morbid escort duties, and that probably wouldn't be his last cigarette of the day.
Smoke clouded the stateroom's air as Regan retrieved the digital recorder she'd stowed inside her own cargo pocket following the conclusion of her interview with John. She activated the machine, its tiny green "on" light gleaming as she verbally tagged this latest interview session's time, place, participating personnel and subject matter, before setting the recorder on the desk.
She dragged her tablet and pen closer and waited for the Marine to finish.
Brandt finally balanced the dwindling cigarette over the edge of the tin and sighed. "Where should I start?"
"Anywhere you'd like." What someone chose to open with often revealed more than they realized. About her current case—and them.
But instead of choosing a spot, the staff sergeant leaned forward and snagged the cigarette. It didn't take the Commandant of the Corps to recognize the reluctance tightening the cords of Brandt's neck as he studied the glowing tip, much less understand the reason for it. Semper Fidelis: Always Faithful.
Like most Marines, Brandt appeared to take the Corps' motto seriously. A motto that, given a certain decades-long War on Terror, tended to encompass the remaining military branches. John might not be a jarhead, but he was a soldier. And he was Special Forces. Something this jarhead obviously respected.
Regan retrieved her lukewarm coffee and took a sip, giving the staff sergeant the time he needed to come to terms with what amounted to ratting out a fellow combat vet.
Another sigh filled the room, this one heavier than the first. "He's a good man."
Regan set her tepid coffee on the desk. "Major Garrison?"
"Yes."
Despite what had happened today, she thoroughly agreed with the assessment. Still, there was something in that reluctant sigh. Something almost…personal.
Were the men more than fellow combat vets? "Did you cross paths with the major in Iraq?"
The staff sergeant blinked.
Regan glanced at Brandt's Marine Corps woodland utilities. By their nature, they were spartan compared to her ACUs. Although there was no war patch velcroed to the staff sergeant's right sleeve to reflect his seven-month tour in the Anbar Province when he was still a private, Vetter had mentioned it during their interview earlier.
And there was her personal knowledge. "Major Garrison led a number of missions in Anbar when he was a lieutenant." In fact, Anbar was where John's Humvee had been struck by an IED, resulting in the death of his first sergeant and the creation of the pair of thick, roping scars that tangled down the left side of John's neck and a good eight inches into his chest.
Surprise had invaded the Marine's dark blue eyes at the revelation. The reluctance to rat returned as well. Strengthened.
"It's all right, Staff
