Beyond Limits (Tracers #8)(41)

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?”





Chapter Twelve





By the time Elizabeth threw in the towel on her train wreck of a day, it was already tomorrow. The night air was heavy with humidity as she crossed the mall parking lot and started searching for her car. A pickup rolled to a stop beside her, and the passenger window slid down.

“Get in,” Derek said.

She stared at him. He was in the same clothes he’d had on three hours ago, and his face looked just as grim. Those brown eyes drilled into her, and she knew it was pointless to argue.

She climbed into the truck. It had a king cab and plenty of legroom. Glancing around, she realized it was the first time she’d actually been in a space that belonged to him. How many hours had she spent thinking about this man, and yet she knew so little about him?

He exited the lot onto a street that was nearly deserted. He didn’t seem to want to talk or tell her where they were going, and she didn’t feel like asking.

She stared out the window, watching the parking lots and storefronts whisk by. The area seemed eerily calm compared with a few hours ago, when it had been swarming with emergency vehicles. Even the news vans had gone home, because they still hadn’t figured out that tonight’s suicide jumper was an international terrorist. It was a stroke of luck that would run out at some point, probably by morning. ME offices were known for leaks, and the Bureau’s interest in the autopsy had surely attracted attention.

Derek drove a few blocks and pulled into Finnegan’s. The place wasn’t crowded, and he had no trouble finding a space for his big pickup.