Beyond Limits

by Laura Griffin

  “Where to? Somewhere close,” she said.

  “There’s a Dillo Burger two blocks over.”

  She winced. “Sounds like roadkill.”

  “Finnegan’s is on Sunset.”

  She’d been to Finnegan’s. It was a popular sports bar lined with dark, cozy booths.

  “Dillo is closer,” she said, pulling out of the space. She squeezed her way into traffic and glanced at Derek. “Any other leads you want to tell us about?”

  He looked at her and raised an eyebrow. “Nope.”

  She wasn’t sure whether to believe him. She’d known when she passed along the car info that there was a strong chance he might shut her out and go off on his own. But after all the recent setbacks, it was a chance she was willing to take. SEALs were experts at escape and evasion, and she could use a fresh perspective.

  She eased into a turn lane and swung into Dillo Burger’s parking lot. A giant aluminum armadillo sat atop the sign, and she couldn’t believe she was about to buy meat here. She pulled into a space.

  “They’d better not have a wait,” she said. “I’m starving.”

  Derek clamped a hand over her wrist. “Hold on.”

  “What?”

  He was staring at the side mirror. Elizabeth turned to see what he was looking at, and her breath caught.

  “Oh, my God. It’s him.”

  Chapter Ten

  Her brain registered details as she shoved the car back into gear: five-eight, one-forty. Omar Rasheed was clean-shaven, neatly dressed, and sliding behind the wheel of a blue Chevy Cavalier. He pulled out of the gas station.

  “Move over.”

  She glanced at Derek. “What?”

  “I’m a better driver than you.”

  She snatched up the radio and shot backward from the space. “Torres, it’s me. You copy?”

  Static filled the car as she swung out of the parking lot.

  “Liz, really, you’re going to get us burned.”

  She let a BMW cut in front of her, creating space between her and the Chevy.

  “Torres, you copy?”

  “Yo.”

  “We’ve sighted Rasheed at the Exxon—” She looked around, gripping the radio. “Montrose and Filmore. He’s headed south in a blue Chevy Cavalier.”

  “Copy that.” His voice vibrated with excitement. “You’re sure it’s him?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Ease back, Liz, you’re too close.”

  She shot Derek a glare, then tapped the brakes. The Chevy was now three cars ahead. She followed, trying to stay inconspicuous.

  “Crap, he’s turning,” she said.

  “Take it slow.”

  “Torres, he’s on Richmond, proceeding west,” she reported. “I repeat, west toward the Galleria.”

  Elizabeth watched the car, hardly able to believe it. But it was real. It was Omar Rasheed, and she wasn’t mistaken about it. She hung back now, watching with panic as the Chevy sailed through an intersection and the light turned yellow.

  “Shit!” She slapped the steering wheel.

  “Relax. He’ll catch the next one.” But Derek’s tone wasn’t relaxed at all as the Chevy became a distant dot amid a river of taillights.

  The light changed. Elizabeth gunned it.

  “Don’t get burned,” Derek warned as she veered around a delivery truck. The car ahead hit the brakes, and she swerved, cutting off a pickup and earning an angry honk.

  She navigated through traffic, trying to keep her nerves under control while her mind raced. Where was he going? Whatever happened, she couldn’t lose him. But she couldn’t get burned, either.

  She felt Derek’s tension beside her as she sped through the next intersection, trying to keep him in sight.

  “He’s heading for the Galleria,” she said tightly. The largest mall in Houston, in the entire state. And it was Saturday.

  “Light’s about to change,” Derek said.

  It turned yellow, and she stomped on the gas. They sailed through the intersection. She fought traffic for several minutes, gripping the wheel and trying to keep the blue Chevy in view.

  “Elizabeth? You copy?”

  “Torres, he’s nearing the mall—”

  “Turning north,” Derek cut in.

  “He just turned north—”

  “What street?” Torres asked.

  “No idea. Southeast of the mall.” She shot a look at Derek and knew he was thinking the same thing. What’s he doing at a shopping mall?

  Horns blared as she swerved around a minivan and made a sharp right. She glanced around.

  “Where’d he go?” She scanned the cars, the parking lots. No sign of the Chevy. She slowed, looking from left to right as her heart galloped inside her chest. Beside her, Derek muttered a curse.

  “I’ll circle the block,” she told him. “He didn’t just disappear.” But even as she said it, she felt a sharp pang of disappointment. The streets around the shopping center were clogged with traffic, including SUVs and delivery trucks. He could easily have gotten lost in the shuffle.

  “LeBlanc?” Torres sounded impatient.

  “Now I don’t see him.”

  “There.” Derek braced a hand on the dash.

  “What? Where?” She tapped the brakes.

  “Two o’clock. He’s on foot. Pull over.”

  “I’ll park.”

  “No time.”

  He shoved his door open. She jabbed the brakes, and he jumped out.

  “Wait! Where are you going?”

  “I’ll take Rasheed. You find the Chevy.”

  “But—”

  “Get your bomb squad on that car, Liz. It could be rigged.”

  * * *

  The mall was crowded with teens and tourists and stroller-pushing moms seeking shelter from the heat. Thousands of unsuspecting civilians during peak hours.

  Derek spotted the subject riding an escalator to the second floor, which looked out over an ice rink. Rasheed had his phone pressed to his ear. Keeping to the shadows, Derek watched him. Rasheed cast a furtive look over his shoulder, and Derek ducked into a shop. It sold men’s shoes, fortunately, and he pretended to be looking at some Nikes as Rasheed ascended out of sight.

  Derek slipped out. Using the crowd for cover, he caught the escalator and got the man in his sights again. He was off the phone now. He made his way through the mall slowly, constantly checking over his shoulder, and everything about him was a red flag. Derek didn’t like his body language or his paranoia, and he definitely didn’t like his leather jacket in July.

  Derek watched, taking in every detail, from his slow gait to the shift of his head. Was he looking for someone? Casing the place? Was this a dry run?

  Or was the mission here and now?

  Rasheed glanced over his shoulder again as he approached the railing. He leaned his arms against it and looked out over the rink, where kids and adults were slip-sliding across the ice. He reached into his jacket.

  Derek reached for his gun.

  * * *

  Elizabeth rushed through the door and was hit by a wall of cold air. She cut through Neiman Marcus, weaving through makeup counters and perfume-wielding models as she hurried for the main mall.

  She whipped out her phone just as it chimed.

  “Where are you?” she demanded.

  “East end of the skating rink,” Derek told her. “Where’s the car?”

  “Torres spotted it in the southeast parking lot. HPD has a bomb dog there, but it hasn’t alerted on anything. We’ve got SWAT on the way.” Elizabeth cut through a mob of teen girls chattering and texting on their phones. “Damn it, this place is packed. Do you have him?”

  “He’s hanging out by the ice rink, second level. Just put on a red baseball cap.” His tone sounded ominous.

  “What, you mean he bought it in a store?” She was race-walking now, scanning the crowd for the red cap while trying not to draw attention to herself.

  “Pulled it out of his jacket.”


  “You think it’s a signal? Like maybe he’s launching an attack?”

  He didn’t say anything, and Elizabeth’s stomach plummeted.

  “Derek?”

  “I get the feeling he’s waiting for someone. Maybe someone who doesn’t know him. Could be what the hat’s about.”

  She reached the ice rink, which was jammed with kids. She cut through a group of little girls dressed in tutus and tiaras. She skimmed her gaze over the railing, but clusters of birthday balloons blocked her view.

  “I don’t see him,” Elizabeth told him. “You said a red ball cap?”

  “Yeah. I think he’s meeting someone.”

  And then she saw it. A red cap. The man leaned casually against the railing, but he was scanning the crowd. Derek was right—he was waiting for something or someone.

  “I’ve got him,” she said.

  “Hang up, okay? And don’t attract attention to yourself.”

  Eye contact.

  She turned around. “Oh, damn.”

  “What? What is it?”

  She stepped behind an information board. “He saw me.”

  “Fuck.”

  “What happened? What’s he doing?” she asked.

  “He’s taking off.”

  * * *

  Elizabeth cut through the crowd, scanning the heads for the red cap. It was nowhere. He’d probably tossed it by now.

  A commotion ahead. A yelp. A woman yelled something over her shoulder and stooped to pick up a spilled Starbucks cup.

  Elizabeth spotted him. No cap now as he darted through groups of people. He threw a look over his shoulder as she ducked behind a cluster of teens.

  Had he seen her? She rushed after him again. He was heading for another section of the mall, and she had no idea whether the agents Torres had called were in place at the exits yet. This mall had dozens of exits. Maybe hundreds. Elizabeth plunged through the crowd, desperately trying to keep sight of the black leather jacket and dark head. Her phone chimed, but she ignored it. Then the radio crackled, and she remembered it in her pocket.

  Rasheed jumped onto an escalator. A chorus of protests went up as he pushed through people in his sprint for the bottom. Where was he going?

  She grabbed the radio. “Torres! He’s on the run. Where is everyone?”

  Static. “—your location—” More static.

  “Near Macy’s. First floor.”

  She hit the escalator just as Rasheed tossed a look over his shoulder. Their gazes locked, and then he lunged into a corridor.

  She hurried down the escalator, squeezing between people with shopping bags. She couldn’t lose him. Where was Derek? He had to be close.

  She jumped the last two steps. Pain zinged up her ankle. Ignoring it, she took off toward the corridor and noticed a gold placard. A hotel.

  Panic shot through her as she remembered the high-rise building attached to the mall. It had to be ten floors, maybe twelve. And it was a traffic hub. He could catch a taxi, hijack a car, grab a hostage. She yanked open a glass door and entered a carpeted lobby with yet another set of escalators. Glancing up, she saw a soaring atrium and realized she was now below street level.

  Her pulse roared in her ears, drowning out the classical music, the ding of elevators. A loud metallic clatter had her spinning around as shouts erupted behind a gray door.

  She pushed through the door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY and found herself in an industrial kitchen. Steam enveloped her. The smell of overcooked vegetables hung in the air. Across pots and pans and cooktops, she saw the blur of a movement as Rasheed shoved a waiter aside and dashed through a door.

  She shot after him, darting past kitchen workers. She plowed through another door and into an enormous ballroom that was being prepped for an event. Dozens of tables, hundreds of place settings. Waiters were busy dropping off water glasses. She caught someone’s eye, and he pointed toward a pair of double doors.

  “Thanks!” she said, sprinting across the room and pulling her phone from her pocket. Another carpeted lobby.

  “Where are you?” she asked Derek.

  “First-floor lobby. Where’s Rasheed?”

  A high-pitched shriek had her spinning around.

  Elevator.

  She rushed for the bank of elevators as the doors whisked shut. A woman stood in the lobby, clutching her hand to her chest.

  “He . . . he attacked me! Did you see that? He just yanked me right out—”

  “Something wrong, ma’am?”

  A security guard walked up, and Elizabeth whipped out her ID.

  “FBI. Where’s your security room?”

  “Where’s . . . what?” His befuddled gaze jumped from her ID to the distraught woman and back to her ID again.

  “The room that houses your security cameras. I’m in pursuit of a suspect.”

  Another glance at her ID. “Uh, this way.”

  He led her to another gray door and used a code to gain access.

  “You say you’re after a suspect?” He glanced over his shoulder as he led her down a cinder-block corridor.

  “We have to hurry.” She started jogging, checking the placards on all the doors. “I need to know which floor he gets off on.”

  “Up ahead on the left,” he said, lumbering after her.

  The door was ajar, and Elizabeth rushed inside to find a bank of computer monitors.

  A uniformed woman with frizzy brown hair glanced up at her, frowning. “Hey—”

  “She’s FBI,” the guard cut in. “She needs to see the elevator cams.”

  Elizabeth scanned the row of monitors, all black-and-white. Lobby, lobby, lobby, fitness room, pool. And elevators.

  “There he is.” She tapped the screen as Rasheed glanced up and looked directly into the camera. “He’s going up. How tall is this place?”

  Both guards looked blank.

  “How many floors?”

  “Twelve,” the man said.

  “What’s on top?”

  “Uh . . . twelve’s our helipad, our rooftop fitness center.”

  The elevator doors parted. Rasheed got off.

  Elizabeth leaned closer. “What floor is that? Where’s he going?”

  “Uh . . .” The woman glanced at the monitor. “Looks like . . . six.”

  She lifted the phone to her ear. “You hear that, Derek? Sixth floor. He just got off. But he might try to go down again.”

  “He will. He’s got no exfil route up there. You need agents on street level.”

  “I know. Where are you?”

  “Stairwell.”

  “Don’t let him past you,” she ordered. And then to the security guards, “I need these elevators shut down now.”

  * * *

  Elizabeth took a service elevator to the sixth floor and got off. She was now juggling a phone and a walkie-talkie on loan from the guard, who was still monitoring cameras. Her FBI radio was tucked into the pocket of her blazer.

  “He just entered a stairwell,” the guard reported.

  She turned and ran for the door.

  “South stairwell,” he corrected. “End of the hallway.”

  She halted and reversed direction. She hadn’t realized there were two stairwells. Which one was Derek in?

  “Where’s he going?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. We don’t have security cameras in the stairwells, so—”

  “Derek, you getting this?” She lifted the phone to her ear. “He’s in a stairwell.”

  “Not this one. It’s silent as a tomb.”

  “I don’t know whether he’s going up or down.”

  “My guess is down,” Derek said. “I’ll cut over and try to head him off.”

  She pressed her ear against the door to the stairs and forced herself to stand still and listen, but the only sound was the pounding of her own heart. She dropped the walkie-talkie and the phone into her pocket and pulled out her Glock. She took a deep breath as she opened the door and stepped onto the landing.

  A dark shape sprang f
rom the corner, smacking into her. She fell back against the door and saw a flash of metal. Knife! White-hot pain seared her arm as the blade came down. Her hand spasmed, and her gun clattered to the floor.

  Thunder from below. Rasheed lunged for the door. She leaped to block it and spun at him with a side kick, missing his groin, connecting with his thigh.

  “Elizabeth!” Derek’s voice boomed from below.

  Rasheed shoved past her and dashed up the stairs. She swooped down for her gun but discovered her arm wasn’t working. She grabbed the weapon with her left hand and scrambled upstairs. Footsteps reverberated above and below. She took the steps as fast as she could, ignoring the noise and the pain as she tried to think.

  Backup.

  The instant the thought formed, her phone chimed. She transferred her gun to her injured hand and used her left to dig the phone from her pocket. Gordon.

  “I need backup, ASAP! I’m in the hotel stairwell, seventh floor, maybe eighth.”

  “Where’s Rasheed?” Gordon demanded.

  “Headed for the roof.”

  “Torres is in the lobby, but the elevators are down. Which stairwell, north or south?”

  “South.” She glanced at the red numbers painted beside each door. “I’m on nine.”

  Her heart hammered. Two stairwells meant two escape routes, even with the elevators shut down.

  “SWAT’s on the way,” Gordon told her. “ETA three minutes. Stall him any way you can, but take him alive. Is that clear? We must interrogate him and get to the rest of this sleeper cell. You got that?”

  “Got it,” she said, and tucked the phone away.

  Take him alive . . . even if he slits your throat. He hadn’t said the last part, but his meaning was clear.

  Derek’s boots echoed below. He had to be four, maybe five floors down, but he was pounding closer. Maybe she should wait.

  Twelve’s our helipad, our rooftop fitness center.

  A fitness center meant potential hostages. Rasheed was desperate—she’d seen it in his eyes.

  She rounded another corner. Above her, a door burst open.