Eventually, she was down to dry heaves and then…nothing.
The chief was right. She felt fine now.
Better than she had in days, in fact.
She wasn't sure what she expected as she abandoned the bathroom, but it wasn't a pissed-off male in civilian clothes.
Except…that wasn't a civilian. Not with a twelve-round, .40 caliber SIG Sauer 229 holstered at the right hip of those black cargo pants and matching, long-sleeved polo. The six-foot, dark-haired and neatly bearded Arab wearing both was halfway into the narrow stateroom when Chief Yrle spotted him—and blanched.
"Agent Riyad. I thought you'd left along—"
"Obviously not." The frown leveled on Yrle could've been chiseled from a block of Arctic ice. "If you'd performed your duties correctly this morning, Chief, I'd have been able to depart. But then, you know that, don't you?"
Yrle opened her mouth—and that was as far as she got. Riyad's right hand lashed out, connecting with the chief's left elbow and visibly clamping down as he propelled the woman out into the passageway. The stateroom door closed so quickly and firmly, there was no doubt in Regan's mind the barrier was meant for her, along with the mystery agent's unspoken order: Stay put.
She would.
For now.
She had no clue as to her counterpart's beef with the master-at-arms chief, let alone which combination of letters from the government's vast bowl of alphabet soup were attached to his name, nor did she care. She was here to see Durrani, and she had no intention of greeting that particular ass with the vestiges of her previous meal saturating her breath.
Regan turned away from the stateroom's door and its flanking drab, modular steel wall unit. Two steps away, a set of bunk beds abutted the opposite bulkhead. Like almost everything else she'd seen of the ship, their frames were painted a flat, haze gray.
Retrieving her shaving kit from the duffel Chief Yrle had dumped on the bottom bunk, she carted her toothbrush and paste to the tiny sink outside the shower and toilet area. Her teeth cleaned, she took the time to splash water over her face, then smooth several errant wisps of hair into the French braid she'd crafted and tucked under twenty-four hours earlier. The navy-blue suit she'd packed was bound to be wrinkled, so yesterday's camouflaged uniform would have to suffice.
Then again, it wouldn't hurt that ACUs were the last thing Durrani had seen her in…just before she'd taken the bastard down.
By the time Super Pissed-Off Agent shoved the stateroom's outer door inward again, she was more than ready to face the doctor.
But first, a few ground rules given this man's boorish behavior with the chief. She didn't care if he was the Islamist expert to whom General Palisade had referred. "They don't knock aboard ships?"
Riyad had the grace to flush. Barely. The slight tinge might've served to humanize the man, had his dark stare not settled on her smoothed braid and damp, unmade face—insolently. "Didn't realize you wanted to primp for the terrorist."
Touché.
Still, what was his problem? Yes, he'd probably heard the tail end of her heave session. So what? As if that hadn't happened on a ship before. Or did he have issues with breasts in general—or simply hers and Chief Yrle's in particular?
Don't. She was here to grill Durrani. Given this was a warship, the doc was probably housed somewhere down below in the bowels of the ship, most likely in the brig.
She tamped out a smile polite enough to get this jerk to take her there. "I take it I lost my escort?"
"Correct."
"Care to explain that moment you two shared?"
"Nope."
The hell with him. "Aren't you the welcoming committee?" And so chatty, too. Must be the salt air.
The man shrugged. "Don't believe you belong here."
She could respect that, albeit grudgingly. If he was here, he had to have read the entire case file—including her shift in roles from investigator to intended victim near the end. On the other hand, "Yet here I am. Perhaps you should take a moment to bring me up to date, Agent Riyad. Or should I head up to the bridge and see if I can't get the guy driving this boat to place a ship-to-shore call to USASOC? General Palisade appears to have left a few facts out of our briefing. For one, your rather uncooperative take on my presence."
That sparked a reaction. One moment those glowering eyes were murky brown and the next they were black. The Arctic ice had returned as well and, with Chief Yrle missing, it was directed solely at her.
Regan didn't bother attempting a thaw. Instead, she leaned into the metal stanchion supporting the upper bunk—to preserve her tenuous balance against the constant rocking of the ship if nothing else—and offered up her own insolent shrug.
Riyad stared her down.
For a good half-minute, the only sounds in the stateroom were their slow, steady breaths, along with the soft, rhythmic creaking of the shifting metal of the insulated pipes and exposed venting running through the overhead and along the bulkheads. The man was going to call her bluff. She was ninety-nine percent certain.
And then, "What do you want to know?"
Everything. Beginning with why he was still so pissed. But something told her the source of his mood was not on the table.
Table, hell. Before she fired her opening salvo, she had to deal with this constantly shifting deck. Her inner ears might've made the transition to shipboard life, but her sea legs had yet to make an appearance. She was in danger of falling flat on her face while simply standing.
Regan pulled away from the bunk beds, deliberately widening and squaring off her stance until her combat boots were planted well apart, as Riyad's were positioned. It worked. She had solid control over
