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

of his left index finger, thumb and wrist. That he hadn't attempted to compromise the DNA evidence via the stateroom's sink after Chief Yrle had unwittingly left him to his own devices both relieved and terrified Regan.

Years of experience forced her to add the stains to the evidence she'd collected in the conference room as she waved Riyad up to one of the remaining chairs. "Join us."

"I'm fine."

But she wasn't. Not with that distant tone in the spook's voice. And something else. Something she couldn't quite put her finger on.

"I insist."

Given the ominous vibes thrumming beneath the ever-present creaking of the metal pipes and venting running through the overheard, she wanted both men within visual range. It would help fine-tune her instincts. She swore Riyad knew it, too.

She turned back to John as Riyad finally shrugged and ambled forward. He ignored the empty chair on her right, posting his brooding form against the wall unit. Regan clicked on the voice recorder, running though the who, what, when, why and where, as well as the standard recitation of detainee rights, as she set the recorder on the table. She ended her spiel with an offer to delay the interview if John wanted legal counsel in attendance.

Professionally, she willed him to say no. Personally, she prayed he'd say yes.

He shook his head. "No, no lawyer."

From the corner of her eye, she watched Riyad stiffen, clearly taken aback by the decision.

She wasn't.

She prompted John regardless. "Are you certain?"

For a moment, the steel in those dark gray eyes softened. Remorse brimmed within. And then it was gone as he nodded firmly. "I want this done."

And he wanted her to do it.

He didn't say it. He didn't have to. And, damn it, she didn't want to feel it—and she sure as hell didn't want to feel like this while she was doing it.

But, like him, she had no choice.

She stitched her emotions together, zealously holding to career-honed habits as she opened the folder to withdraw the eight-by-ten inch glossy she'd printed in the Griffith's admin office minutes earlier. She laid the photo on the table between them. Professional mixed with personal once more as she studied the trio of scars where shrapnel had torn through the left side of John's neck and jaw during his first foray into Afghanistan's Hindu Kush mountains when he was still an enlisted combat engineer over a decade earlier.

The pulse point within jumped as John studied the close-up of Hachemi's shattered face. The oxygen balloon and tubing had been removed prior to the shot, allowing the full brunt of the damage and blood to shine though.

Damage John had inflicted.

Even without Corporal Vetter's statement, there'd have been no doubt in her mind. That flagging pulse removed it. Nor did she need to draw John's attention to the splatter of blood staining his left hand.

He'd beaten her to it, shifting his stare to the rusted spots. The trio of shrapnel scars tightened as his pulse continued to flag damningly from within. A good half a minute passed before he tore his attention from the blood to focus on her.

His voice, when it came, was hoarse and broken. Guilty. "Where should I start?"

Regan clamped down on the compassion—and more—churning through her, lest it leak into her own voice and reach the still looming, still coldly distant NCIS agent leaning against that wall unit. "At the beginning."

John nodded and cleared his throat. "The call I took after you woke in the ICU came from General Palisade. His brief consisted of the basics: Hachemi had reneged on the deal he'd made after you and Agent Castile formally arrested him in that terror safe house in Afghanistan. They'd brought Hachemi here aboard the Griffith for questioning. I was ordered to fly out ASAP to assist. It was hoped that, since Hachemi and I worked half a dozen ops together over the past few years, he might open up with me sitting across the table instead of a tag team of grunts and spooks he didn't know."

"Did he?"

"No. I wasn't surprised."

"Why not?"

John snapped his ire toward the wall unit. "Because that asshole insisted on fusing himself to my hide."

The asshole in question scowled.

John matched Riyad's grimace and turned back to her. "He's Saudi."

"I know."

"Then you've figured out the rest."

She had. She suspected Riyad had too, even before she'd thrown Saudi/Afghan history in his face in that conference room. The spook was just arrogant enough to believe he could cut through decades of well-earned religious and political prejudice. That prejudice, and especially the man's arrogance, also explained why Riyad had shown up in her stateroom hours earlier only to haul the master-at-arms chief out into the passageway for a dressing down without so much as a nod back at her.

"You convinced Chief Yrle to give you a shot at questioning Hachemi alone."

"I did. We had a good hour before the chopper was scheduled to touch down. Riyad was up to his holier-than-thou attitude in a ship-to-shore call with someone from the State Department. I figured, what the hell? Might as well give it one last go."

From the greeting Riyad had given Chief Yrle, by the time the NCIS agent had discovered John's rogue interrogation, it had been too late. The session had already begun. No wonder Riyad had been pissed. Much as Regan was loath to admit it, she'd have been livid too if someone—even John—had openly violated her case authority.

Then again, "Did you get anywhere?"

Despite Corporal Vetter's damning statement, or rather because if it, she was more than interested in John's take on the course and content of his final conversation with the translator.

John glanced down at the grisly crime scene photo before shaking his head. "Not at first. Hachemi was whining about his stomach being upset. That, and he kept rubbing at his neck. But as we talked, it hit me. Hachemi could give a rip about the Qur'an. He only has one to keep up appearances. And there was no way he was going to