Beyond Limits (Tracers #8)(16)

A voluptuous young waitress delivered their beers. She flashed a smile at Derek as she reached across the table to arrange his Shiner Bock just so on a little napkin.

“Your dinner will be right out.”

Elizabeth’s beer came with a curt nod.

She glanced around the restaurant, noticing all the women eyeing her table with interest.

“So,” she said when the waitress was gone, “you were right about Hailey. She was glad to see you. Not sure I would have had the same reaction from her.”

Derek tipped back his beer without comment. He’d seemed almost embarrassed by Hailey’s response. It was a completely new look for him.

“I appreciate your help with the interview,” Elizabeth continued. She was determined to use this time to touch on everything she needed to cover with him so he wouldn’t have an excuse to call her. “It was very helpful, but I want you to know that the task force has a handle on it. We can take it from here.”

The corner of his mouth curved, but he didn’t look amused. “Why don’t I believe that?”

“Okay, fair enough. Some mistakes have been made in this case. But Homeland Security—”

“Homeland Security fucked up, big time. They should never have let Khalid go.”

He was right, but she tried to downplay it. “Khalid wasn’t talking.”

“He’d been in custody five minutes.” He set his beer down. “Sometimes you have to sweat ’em out a little.”

She glanced over his shoulder at the baseball game playing on one of the screens. She didn’t want to talk about the mistakes of the CIA or the Bureau or anyone else. What was done was done. They had to focus on what they had.

“I get the feeling something’s off with Hailey,” she said. “That something’s going on with her.”

“What, you mean besides being kidnapped, raped, and beaten?”

“Yes.”

Derek looked away and seemed to think about it.

He was very observant, and he’d talked to plenty of people under extreme duress. She wanted his impressions.

“She seemed protective of Khalid.”

Elizabeth felt a wave of relief. She hadn’t been imagining it. “I thought so, too.” She paused. “Maybe he was nice to her.”

“You’re thinking Stockholm syndrome?”

“It happens,” she said.

The waitress reappeared with two enormous platters of wings. She’d brought extra ranch dip, per Derek’s request, and he thanked her with a wink. When she was gone, he looked serious again.

Elizabeth dipped a wing in sauce. “You think it’s possible?”

“Possible.” He chomped into a wing. “But I’d say not likely.”

“Why?”

“I’m not getting that,” he said simply. “Not based on what I saw.”

She watched him, wishing he’d provide more to back up his opinion. But he would probably never reveal all the details of that or any other mission. He could be very evasive when it came to his work—yet another reason he was difficult to know. How could you really get to know a man who wouldn’t discuss the very thing that was the focus of his life? It was one of the many issues she’d had stuck in her brain for the past year, especially in December, when he’d called her and tried to reconnect.

“Well, maybe I’m wrong,” she said now. “Maybe it’s just that Khalid was kind to her. In her debriefing, she mentioned him bringing her water and sometimes food.”

“What a host.”

She wiped her fingers on a napkin and leaned back against the booth. “You know, the Afghan police suspect him of stealing the uniforms used in a spate of suicide attacks, ones where the bombers walked into a secured area dressed as police officers. Khalid may be young, but that doesn’t make him harmless.”

“Hey, you’re preaching to the choir.” He nibbled his bone clean and added it to his growing pile. He’d ordered the jumbo platter and wasn’t having any trouble putting it away. “I’ve seen kids younger than him planting IEDs. Not to mention it runs in the family. His older brother’s been linked to several attacks in Kabul. And this guy Rasheed? Expert bomb maker. His handiwork’s been identified in at least three roadside bombings along Khyber Pass.”

She watched him uneasily. “You seem to know a lot about this network.”

“Honey, SEALs know a lot about a lot of things. That’s why they pay us the big bucks.”

“I’m serious. Why do you know so much about this case?”

He added another bone to the pile. “It’s my business to know.”

“Because of Sean Harper.”

“Because of Sean, yeah. And because I want to see that this gets handled right.”

“Sean was in your BUD/S class?”

His brown eyes turned somber. “We were in the same boat crew.”

Last summer he’d told her all about BUD/S training—the sleep deprivation, the never-ending beach runs, the night swims and log PT. He’d told her how it systematically broke men down, day by day, hour by hour, and then—for the few who withstood it—built them back up again. The training forged relationships, and the men who endured it together became a brotherhood.