Chapter Eleven
Gordon took over the hotel’s security headquarters as a makeshift command center. Agents in plain clothes and SWAT gear crowded into the space, sucking up all the air.
Elizabeth spotted Derek on the far side of the room watching a row of video monitors. He stood rigid, arms crossed over his chest, and he looked to be narrating events for an agent who was furiously taking notes.
His gaze homed in on her. After a trip to the nearest urgent-care center, she’d spent two hours being debriefed and then another hour at the morgue. She hadn’t stopped to take a breath, and the events of the last four hours tumbled through her head.
“LeBlanc, Torres.”
Her attention snapped to Gordon.
“Come with me.” He crossed the room. “Lieutenant Vaughn?”
He led the three of them down a narrow corridor and into a windowless room. From the ancient coffee-pot parked on the counter, she took it to be the break room. Potter sat at the end of a faux-wood table, talking on his phone and jotting notes on a legal pad. He ended his call as Gordon pulled out the chair beside him and everyone sat down.
Everyone except Derek. He leaned his shoulder against the wall and gave Elizabeth a look she couldn’t read. Glancing at the faces around the table she realized it was the group from Coronado, except this time Derek was the only SEAL.
Gordon looked at Elizabeth. “Tell me about the morgue.”
She took a breath and tried to collect her thoughts. “The assistant ME was called in to do the autopsy.”
“He had to be called?”
She looked at Potter, then glanced at the clock on the wall. “Well, it was already nine, so yeah, it’s after hours. Normally they’d wait until morning, but given the circumstances, they’re getting started right away. Agents Holmes and Chen are standing in to observe.”
“And you collected the personal effects?”
That had been her purpose in going there. “Got everything sealed up and delivered to our lab guys,” she reported. “Some of the analysis can be done here, but for DNA, I think they’ll send it to Quantico.”
“What’d you find?” Gordon asked.
She stifled a shudder as she pictured the bloodied clothing that had been cut from the body, the clumps of brain matter stuck to the jacket.
“Your basic clothes, shoes, belt, all domestic brands.”
“Pockets?”
She glanced at Derek and remembered him checking Rasheed for weapons. “Not a lot,” she said. “Lieutenant Vaughn took the knife off him during the takedown. He had some pocket litter—loose change, Marlboro Reds, eighty-three dollars in cash.”
“Wallet?” Torres asked.
“No. And no driver’s license. So no tentative ID, at least not from the ME’s office.”
Although the story of the suicide jumper had made the local news, without an ID, there was no hint of connection to something bigger, so it hadn’t garnered much attention. But that could change.
Gordon watched her, his look intent. “So what do you think happened?”
She stared at him. She’d spent two hours recounting what had happened to no fewer than four senior agents, including him.
“You want me to rehash—”
“I mean on the roof,” Gordon said. “I’ve been going over the video footage. I want to know what happened up there. What prompted him to jump?”
“I—” She glanced at Derek. “I can only guess. He knew he was about to be arrested. Interrogated.”
“Tortured.”
At the sound of his voice, she shot Potter a look.
“If the ‘takedown,’ as you call it, was any indication of how he was going to be treated,” Potter said, “then he knew he was going to be subjected to extreme measures.”
“Extreme?” Derek’s voice was ice. “What the fuck’s that mean?”
“It means—let’s be honest here—the apprehension was a little rough.” Potter glanced at Gordon. “She should have waited for backup so the suspect could be secured properly, and this whole situation could have been avoided.”
“The suspect?” Derek didn’t move a muscle, but his face was taut. “Barely three weeks ago, this piece of shit walked in front of a video camera and slit a woman’s throat.” Derek looked at Gordon. “A few hours ago, he went after your agent with a combat knife. And by the way, where the fuck was her backup then?”
“We were on our way,” Torres said, and Elizabeth could feel the tension ratcheting up.
“Too bad they didn’t get there sooner,” Potter said. “Our key suspect wouldn’t have had a chance to kill himself before he told us anything valuable.”
“What, are you blind?” Derek stepped away from the wall. “He told us plenty. This man covertly entered this country for the sole purpose of carrying out a major attack.”
“A major attack?” Potter folded his arms. “We haven’t confirmed that, Lieutenant. In fact, we know very little about his plans, and now we may never know, because he’s dead.”
“Let’s look at the facts,” Derek said, clearly struggling for patience. “U.S. forces raid an Al Qaeda safe house and recover intel pointing to a terrorist attack in Texas. Soon after, a top Al Qaeda operative is smuggled into Texas through a narco tunnel controlled by one of Mexico’s most powerful cartels.”
“Two operatives,” Gordon said.
“What?”
“Rasheed had a traveling companion. Zahid Ameen.”
Derek shot Elizabeth a look that told her he knew exactly who Ameen was—and he was not happy to have been left out of the loop.
“That just proves my point,” Derek said. “Another person provided transportation in Del Rio, and today yet another person Rasheed had never met before was meeting him at the mall.”
“How do we know he’d never met him?” Torres asked.
“The red hat,” Elizabeth said. “It seemed to be a signal.”
“We’re up to four people at a minimum,” Derek said. “This sleeper cell probably contains three times that. Everything about the logistics involved tells us they’re planning a major strike.”
“But on what? That’s the question.” Potter slid a look at Gordon. “And now we can’t answer that question, because the suspect is dead.”
Suspect. Elizabeth wanted to reach across the table and slap him.
“He was already dead. Don’t you get it?” Derek shook his head. “He’d decided to die for his cause before he ever showed up here. He just did it early to protect the mission.”
Gordon shifted in his seat. “Lieutenant—”
“Do you people even understand what this is?” Derek demanded. “I don’t think you do. We have a cell of suicidal jihadists operating inside our borders. They don’t care about the rule of law or the Geneva Conventions or anything else. These guys specifically go after innocent civilians, women and children—the softer the target, the better. And you’re worried about a rough apprehension? This fight is no holds barred, the more barbaric, the better, because they want to amplify their message. I’ve seen these guys up close.” He jabbed a finger at Potter. “Have you?” He jabbed at Gordon. “Have you?”
Tense silence.
“These men are without rules, without conscience, and there is nothing they won’t do.” He pointed at the ceiling. “Including take a header off a twelve-story building. And it’s not because they’re crazy. It’s because they’re committed.” He started to say more but cut himself off. He shook his head and moved for the door.
“We’re not finished here,” Gordon said.
Derek halted and turned around. “Let’s get something straight. I don’t work for you. I work for the American taxpayers, who have spent years training me to protect and defend this country.” He looked from Gordon to Potter and reached for the door. “I don’t know who you work for.”
Luke stood in the lobby of the Hotel del Coronado, feeling more than a little out of place. SEALs, like the name said, were trained to operate in all conditions—SEa, Air, Land. But Stuffy Victorian Hotel Lobby hadn’t made the list.
The looks from the staffers behind the desk were at least a six on the hostility scale, and he knew he probably should have shown up here in dress whites instead of his current nondressy, nonwhite attire. But after his conversation with Derek, he’d pretty much jumped into his truck and zipped over. Totally spur of the moment. Impromptu. Vamanos, muchachos, he was headed to the Del on a matter of national security.
Right. As if getting one more chance to sit next to Hailey Gardner and look into her perfect blue eyes before she went back to Boston was a national emergency.
He crossed the lobby to the elevator bank to wait, because—big surprise—this visit wasn’t actually unplanned. No, he hadn’t woken up this morning knowing the shitbag terrorist who’d murdered Ana Hansson was going to throw himself off a roof today. But Luke had thought about coming here a time or ten. He’d planned it, in fact, down to the tiniest detail. Only his plan had been a little different.
In his fantasy version, he’d walk into the lobby dressed in jeans and his A.T.A.C. boots that women seemed to go for. He’d pick up the lobby phone and call Hailey. So, if you’re not busy with your friend in La Jolla, I’d be happy to show you some of the sights this afternoon. Afternoon would turn into evening, which would turn into dinner, which would turn into after-dinner drinks in her room overlooking the ocean . . .
At which point, his little fantasy tale would cease to be G-rated. Which was why it remained a fantasy.
The reality was slightly less exciting and involved him standing in the lobby of an insanely expensive hotel, once again in his sweat-soaked running clothes, as he waited to see a woman who made his heart stutter. It was, without a doubt, one of his stupider plans, and there was no going back now, because she was on her way down.
Elevator doors slid open with a polite ding, and Hailey stepped out. She had on another form-fitting yoga outfit but with a sea-green top today instead of black. Adidas again, no baseball cap this time. Still, she had the sporty look going, with her shiny blond hair pulled up in a ponytail.
“Hi.” There was a question in her eyes as she stopped beside him. And something else, too. Did she actually look happy to see him?
“Hi.”
God, she was pretty. And maybe he should have planned some dialogue to go with his choreography. “Something’s come up,” he said. “Do you have time to talk?”
“Sure.” She glanced at the hotel staffers. “Let’s go out on the deck.”
He followed her past an old-fashioned candy shop and into the cool night air. The Del’s deck occupied a huge-ass strip of prime California beachfront. The smell of fried seafood wafted over from one of the restaurants as she led him past some picnic tables and found an empty bench overlooking the shore. Waves crashed against the sand, the moon shimmered off the water, and it was a damn nice view he was about to ruin.
Luke sat down beside her on the bench. “My teammate told me he stopped by to see you a couple days ago.”
“Lieutenant Vaughn, yes.”
“He mentioned you were upset to hear that the group that kidnapped you and your friends might be trying to enter the U.S.”
Her body stiffened. “Are they here?”
“Omar Rasheed entered a few days ago.”
She stared at him.
“Now he’s dead.”
She didn’t move, didn’t even blink. “How?” she asked.
He considered lying, or at least sugarcoating it. He died while being apprehended by Homeland Security. But the man had raped her and slit her friend’s throat. Maybe it would help her to know he’d met a heinous end.
“The FBI located him,” Luke told her. “They cornered him on the rooftop of a building, and he jumped.”
She just looked at him.
“From twelve floors up,” he added.
Yes, he’s really dead. One less mofo for you to have nightmares about.
Because that was the reason he’d come here. Not the only reason but the only remotely noble one.
“Wow, that’s—I don’t know what to say.” She rested her elbows on her knees and rubbed her forehead. “I should probably call Ana’s parents.”
“It’s been done.”
Relief washed over her face. “Really?”
“Yeah, someone from the FBI notified them tonight.”
“Oh, thank God.” She shook her head. “They’ve been calling me to talk about everything. But I can’t talk to them. I hate lying, but I can’t tell them the truth about everything. It’s too . . . God. There isn’t even a word for it.”
“I know.”
She leaned closer, and the look in her eyes made his chest ache. The breeze picked up her ponytail and played with it. “You understand,” she said. “You’re one of the only ones who can. You’ve been there, and you know. It’s one of the reasons I knew I had to come out here and talk to you.”
Like he was a therapist or something. And she needed a therapist—no question about it, after all the shit she’d been through.
But this was surreal. She wanted him to help her? He was one of the most fucked-up people he knew.
Her gaze locked on his, and there was so much hope in it, so much expectation. She was really lost. And he was about the last person on earth who was qualified to help her. The mere idea terrified him.
You’ve been there, and you know.
He did know. He’d seen some horrific shit over the years. Guys who’d been turned into a pink mist before his eyes. He’d seen men with limbs blown off and head wounds—men he knew—and he’d spent countless hours crouching in the dirt, frantically trying to stanch the bleeding and stave off death.
But rape? He looked down into her haunted eyes, and he knew it didn’t matter where he’d been or what he’d seen—he was totally out of his league here.
He cleared his throat. “The thing is, Hailey, I’m not really a doctor. I mean, I’m a medic, yeah, but it’s totally different. I didn’t go to medical school, and I’m not really qualified—”
“I’ve got a doctor,” she said sharply. “He has white hair and a potbelly, and he went to Harvard. And I know he’s never set foot in a war zone.”
Tension snapped between them. She looked pissed off, and he didn’t blame her.
But then she gazed out at the water, and her face softened. “I can’t talk to my doctor right now. Or my parents. Or Ana’s parents. I need to talk to someone who understands.” She looked up at him, and he knew he had to get away from her before he did something truly stupid. “Please?”
Jesus. What could he possibly say to that?
He didn’t say anything, just turned to look at the surf. And then he said the only thing he could think of, the same thing he said whenever Derek or Mike or Cole called him up after a mission and needed to get his head right.
“You want to go get a drink?”