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

stared at those spartan woodland utilities. Like the absentee war patch, there was no unit identifier velcroed to the staff sergeant's left sleeve. It didn't matter. Not only did she now know that Brandt and Corporal Vetter were not permanently stationed aboard the Griffith, she also now knew exactly from where the Marines had come.

US Embassy Islamabad.

Given everything else she'd discovered today, it made sense.

John and his men had entered that Pakistani cave on December fourteenth. At the time, they'd been operating on a tip, intent on capturing Osama bin Laden's number two, Ayman al-Zawahiri, who was still at large after all these years. But instead of locating Zawahiri, John's Special Forces team had discovered those murdered women and their dying babies—along with evidence suggesting that a fellow SF team had been responsible for the slaughter.

Days later, a diplomatic contingency from Islamabad, Kabul and the US State Department had come together. Their objective? Damage control. All parties concerned had been intent on keeping the world's press from learning about the murders before all the facts were in—albeit for each country's respective, geopolitical reasons.

She'd assumed those damage control sessions had taken place in Islamabad, Kabul or even Washington, DC. She was wrong. They'd taken place here, aboard the Griffith, something Riyad had known all along, but hadn't told her.

Yet another critical omission.

One that made no sense at all…unless she added in the rest.

Regan offered the Marine a smooth smile to soothe his concern…and conceal her deepening ire.

The smile worked. Brandt released her arm.

He lowered his hand, closing it over the tin.

She pushed through her anger as he returned the makeshift ashtray to his cargo pocket. "Staff Sergeant, when did Agent Riyad board this ship?"

The Marine's hand paused in mid tuck. "I don't understand. I thought you knew."

She did. She just needed confirmation.

What she got was another round of silence. And this time, it was Brandt's.

It confirmed the ugliest of suspicions. Especially since the Marine's hand was still halfway inside his cargo pocket, frozen. Brandt was wary of continuing—because he'd just figured out she wasn't quite as in the know as she was supposed to be.

There was only one reason for that trepidation.

Brandt was answering to Riyad. And she knew why.

Just as she'd finally figured out why Riyad had been lying to her since the moment she'd stepped aboard this vessel. Why he'd done everything in his power to sabotage her assignment before she'd even been brought aboard. And why the spook was so profoundly pissed with her—and especially John.

Not to mention why Riyad had done everything in his power to prevent John from speaking one-on-one with the translator…and alone.

And why John's chain of command had risked everything by flying him here and seating him across the interrogation table from the terrorist who'd murdered his men. Hell, she now understood why the spook believed John had not only meant to kill Hachemi, but had even planned it.

As well as why Riyad himself had been sent here.

Tamir Hachemi had made his claim regarding yet another traitor in the military's midst before he and Durrani had been sent to the Griffith. While Hachemi and Durrani had still been in their respective holding cells at Bagram, in fact. Within the hour, both men had been on their way here.

Yes, the Griffith was a naval warship. And, yes, Riyad worked for the Navy.

But the jurisdiction for this case did not reside with the Navy. It resided within the Army and CID.

Yet, an NCIS agent had initially been tasked with completing the show she and two other Army CID agents had begun at Fort Campbell and in that Pakistani cave.

An NCIS agent whose skill set wasn't based in murder—but gathering intel and ferreting out traitors. An agent who believed he'd found that traitor.

But unlike Riyad, she built her cases on proof. "Staff Sergeant?"

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but I—"

"—arrived aboard the Griffith with Ambassador Linnet. You were tasked with overseeing security for the initial damage control sessions. Once Durrani and the translator were arrested and headed this way, the politicians departed, leaving you and Corporal Vetter to augment security for the coming interrogations and case wrap-up." She tossed another smooth smile into the mix as she glanced at the voice recorder on her desk. "I just need to confirm Agent Riyad's boarding date—for the record."

The Marine relaxed. Nodded. "Of course. Sorry. Like I said; it's been a long stint. Agent Riyad came aboard with the detainees, on the same flight from Al Dhafra."

Her smile slipped. Her control nearly followed. Because the timing of Riyad's arrival aboard the Griffith was even more revealing than the location of those damage control sessions—and utterly damning. For John.

At least in Riyad's eyes.

John hadn't been sent here because of his past with Tamir Hachemi. Hachemi was the excuse.

Did Palisade know? Or had the general been kept out of the loop, too?

A knock sounded on the opposite side of the stateroom's door.

Relief entered the Marine's stare as he stood, quickly stepping back so she could make her way across the tiny compartment. Just as well. She was finished with Brandt. It was time to track down another man. One she'd known for less than a day. If that one was lucky, he just might escape her presence with his head still attached.

She opened the door.

Riyad stood on the other side, that dark, neatly groomed, pretty-boy body part still attached.

For now.

She turned to the Marine. "That'll be all, Staff Sergeant. I'll let you know when your statement's ready to be signed."

"Thank you, ma'am." He escaped.

She glared at the remaining man still occupying the passageway. "Get inside. And close the goddamned door behind you."

If looks could kill, she'd have been buried at sea long before she and that Super Stallion had touched down on the Griffith's flight deck this morning.

But he complied.

Smart move. Especially since she was still contemplating hauling the spook's sanctimonious ass out onto that flight deck and dumping it over the side—with the contents of her own SIG Sauer riddling it.

She folded her arms