Beyond Limits (Tracers #8)(40)
“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.”