Backblast by Candace Irving (brene brown rising strong .TXT) 📗

her balance, even as the deck continued to roll beneath her feet. It was time to extend that control to her case.

"Why is Dr. Durrani here, aboard a warship?"

Why put him in Navy custody at all?

Given the almost fanatical drawdown on current Gitmo detainees, she wouldn't have thought he'd end up there. But why not a black site prison in another country? A country that would look the other way during questioning…and provide local agents to direct any harsher verbal or physical Q&A sessions on US behalf.

Though that wasn't the way she operated, it had been known to happen.

Another one of Riyad's insolent shrugs greeted her query. "This is as good a place as any. In many ways, better."

Much as she hated to admit it, his half-assed response rang true. As interrogation venues went, this one was moveable, easily concealable, away from the preying vultures of the world's press and—as an absolute caveat—Durrani was separated from other terror detainees. Hell, if they wanted, they could weigh the bastard down when they were done and dump him overboard in the dead of night and no one would be the wiser—most significantly, the unnamed traitor she was now seeking.

Or was there more to it?

Was it possible that physical Q&A sessions involving Durrani were occurring even now—aboard United States sovereign property?

That, she found difficult to believe, much less stomach. "Exactly which agency are you with?"

"NCIS."

Naval Criminal Investigative Service: Army CID's Fleet counterpart. For the most part, the revelation tracked. This was a warship. But something had flickered in that murky stare when she'd pressed. Something that suggested there was more to this particular agent's presence aboard this unruly piece of iron than simple jurisdiction.

Please, God, don't let it involve the physical.

Before she could press the matter, the impression vanished. Riyad's foul mood had not.

She went with her gut. It had rarely steered her wrong. Even when she'd wanted it to. "What happened this morning?"

To her surprise, Riyad blinked.

Odd. She wouldn't have thought she'd be able to surprise him that easily. "The cause of your delay? The delay to which Chief Yrle supposedly contributed? It has you pissed. Even now, with me."

"I'm not—"

"You are."

The silence returned. The overhead pipes and vents continued to creak, not quite filling it. "Doesn't matter."

But it did. She'd stake her next meal and a Gil-sized thermos of steaming black coffee on it. "Look, Agent Riyad, if we're going to work together—"

"We're not."

This time, the surprise was hers. "I beg your pardon?" They were both investigators. She had no idea whose authority had sent the NCIS agent here, but she'd been assigned to this ship and her old case via the very general in charge of the Army's Special Operations Command. She was not getting edged out without a fight.

And then she remembered. Of course. "You're leaving."

He'd said so himself.

Riyad surprised her again by shaking his head. "Was. As in, I am now remaining aboard the Griffith for the duration of this case. You, Agent Chase, are not."

She clamped down on her ire. "If this is some asinine version of an inter-service pissing contest—"

"It's not."

"Good. Because I'm not leaving." And not because it had taken her an entire day to get here. "I was told Durrani specifically request—"

"I don't care what you were told. And I could give a royal shit what Durrani wants. You, Agent Chase, are aboard this vessel for the sole purpose of getting that asshole to speak. That's it. Once Durrani opens his mouth, I step in—and you step out. Permanently. Have I made myself clear?"

It was her turn to blink. The hell with Durrani, what was this asshole's problem?

Before she could demand an explanation, the ship-wide, 1MC loudspeaker hanging in the overhead at the far end of her stateroom sparked to life.

"Doctor Mantia, Special Agent Riyad, lay to the main deck conference room. I say again, Dr—"

The remainder was lost amid the combined thunder of their boots as Riyad yanked the stateroom door open and vaulted out into the passageway with Regan all but welded to his heels. He shot her a tight glare as they reached the head of an angled ladder near the one she and Yrle had used earlier.

Regan ignored the glare, focusing instead on the stiff set of the NCIS agent's shoulders and the relentless pace of his boots as Riyad gave up trying to shake her off, double-timing down the metal steps and along the passageway with her still in dogged pursuit.

If something was happening that required this man's zealous attention, she would be tagging along to bear witness.

They were both thinking it. Durrani. What had happened to require the urgent need for a doctor?

God help her, she was beginning to reconsider the possibility of a Navy-sanctioned physical interrogation session.

She followed Riyad into a sparsely furnished conference room. One glance at the body lying on the blue speckled, linoleum-covered deck at the far end, and it appeared her worst fear had been spot on. There was a twelve-inch slick of scarlet blood beneath a man's dark hair, and the slick was spreading out, due at least in part to the life-saving actions of the Marines in the compartment. There were two—a corporal and a staff sergeant—both in camouflaged utilities.

Had one of them caused the injuries?

There was no way to tell from here.

She did know the Marines were doing everything in their current power to reverse their patient's condition. The staff sergeant had taken command of the torso, the heels of his palms braced together over the prone man's chest, steadily working to kick-start his heart. The corporal knelt on the linoleum beside the patient's head, attempting in vain to staunch the copious flow of blood frothing forth from a shattered nasal cavity in between three-round bursts of his own breath.

Both Marines had to be cognizant of the inherent biohazard in all that blood. Yet they'd refused to wait for protection.

That didn't surprise her. What did—what stunned her as she caught her first clear view of the patient's face—was his identity.

That