“What kind of tests?” Gordon asked.
“She looked at the boots I wore during the op. I spent some time in the basement of the compound, where they’d set up their own little bomb-making factory.”
“And?” Gordon looked at the doctor.
“I tested for a range of substances: explosive residue, ricin, sarin, anthrax—”
“Anthrax?” Torres cut in.
“Al Qaeda’s been working on it for years,” she said. “It’s difficult to weaponize, but that hasn’t stopped them from trying. But that isn’t what I found. Extensive testing revealed trace amounts of white phosphorus.”
Silence settled over the room as eyes shifted to Derek for clarification.
“An explosive packed with a white phosphorus payload—that’s guaranteed to ruin your day,” he said. “In the military, it’s known as Willie Pete, and it’s very bad news. It eats through clothing, skin, even metal.”
“The chemical sticks to skin and burns,” Mia explained. “Absorption in the body causes multiple organ failure. It also produces a hot, dense smoke called phosphorus pentoxide that can cause illness or even death if inhaled.”
Elizabeth sat speechless, trying to visualize a chemical like that being used against a civilian target, such as a mall or a movie theater. Or, heaven forbid, a school.
“Plus, it ignites on contact with air,” Derek added. “Did I mention that? This stuff’s highly flammable.”
“Because of its extreme flammability,” the doctor said, “it’s transported in molten form as a semiliquid.”
“So you’re saying they were working with this material at the compound the SEALs raided in Afghanistan?” Lauren asked Derek.
He nodded. “Yes, ma’am, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“Is this stuff hard to come by?” Torres asked the doctor.
“Here in the U.S.? Yes, it’s a controlled substance,” she said. “It’s used in some pesticides and fertilizers. The DEA has it listed as a precursor chemical for a number of illegal drugs, including methamphetamine.”
“Which means it’s around,” Gordon stated.
“I’m guessing it’s easier to come by outside the U.S.” Torres looked at Gordon. “Like maybe in Mexico. If our guys wanted to get their hands on it, I bet they could buy it off the same cartel they hired to smuggle them through the border tunnel.”
Elizabeth looked at Derek. “How hard would it be to make it into a weapon?”
“It would take some legwork,” Derek said, “but an expert bomb maker could handle it. Ameen definitely qualifies.”
“We should test the narco submarine specifically for this material,” Lauren said. “Maybe they smuggled in not just a person but a chemical weapon.”
“I’m betting it’s both,” Derek said. “And this person, whoever he is, is a key player. Someone on our watch list.”
Potter turned to Elizabeth. “We need to find out if your theory is accurate. If we could get a description or an alias, that could be the break we need.”
“What theory?” Derek was watching her.
“Agent LeBlanc found some evidence suggesting that Tango Two might be female,” Gordon said.
“So you’re thinking what?” Derek asked. “She seduced Palicek into helping with the attack?”
“It’s a theory at this point.” She tried to sound low-key, but she was pretty charged up about the idea, because it opened up a whole new set of leads. “If it turns out she was involved with Palicek, he might not have fully understood what she was up to, just that she needed a favor.”
“We should interview that motel clerk,” Lauren said. “Maybe we can even get a composite sketch.”
Elizabeth glanced at her watch. “She’s due at work by six.”
“What about this chemical?” Torres asked. “Should we assume they smuggled it in, or should we start looking for local angles on that?”
“Don’t assume anything,” Gordon said. “For now, we don’t know what they were smuggling. We need to get the CSIs back out to run more tests on the sub.”
“Test all you want,” Derek said, “but don’t waste time getting a bead on these tangos. Whatever their mission is, we’re getting to the zero hour.”
* * *
Lauren pulled into the convenience store a block down from the Happy Trails Motel. They’d spent the past two hours combing southwest Houston in a fruitless search for the motel clerk.
“I’m getting a bad feeling about this girl,” Lauren said, rolling up to a gas pump. “Any more updates from Torres?”
“I’ll check. You want anything inside? I’m getting coffee.”
“Cherry Icee.”
Elizabeth made a face.
“What? I skipped lunch.”
“One Cherry Icee coming up.”
She called Torres as she entered the store and made a beeline for the drink section. “What’s the word on Jamie?”
“I talked to her landlady,” he reported. “She rents a garage apartment over here on Cottonwood Drive, but she hasn’t been by in a few days.”
“That’s not good.”
“Maybe not as bad as it sounds. This woman’s the busybody type. Says her tenant keeps weird hours and is in and out a lot with her boyfriend, spends the night at his place a lot.”
“Let’s hope so.” Elizabeth put a lid on her coffee and then filled a cup with red slush. “We know the boyfriend’s name?”
“Just that he’s ‘Negro’ and drives a pickup.”
“ ‘Negro’? How old is this landlady?”
“About a hundred and fifty,” he said. “But she seems pretty sharp, and she basically camps out in her recliner near the window watching her street. She’s got a clear view of the driveway, so she probably would have seen if Jamie came home today.”
Elizabeth waited in line as the checkout clerk carded a kid for beer. His fake ID was so bad Elizabeth could spot it from five feet away. The woman turned him down on the beer, so he settled for a pack of cigarettes.
“Are you at the motel yet?” Torres asked.
“Almost. Jamie’s shift starts in ten minutes.”
“Hope you find her, because we’re striking out on this end.”
“I’ll keep you posted.”
Lauren was on the phone when Elizabeth slid back into the car and tucked their drinks into the cup holders.
“We’re just getting there,” Lauren was saying. “Her shift starts at six.” She shot Elizabeth a look. “All right, I’ll tell her.” She got off the phone and pulled out of the parking lot.
“Gordon?”
“Nope. Your SEAL. And he’s not happy that we’re staking out the motel. He says this is a crappy neighborhood.”
“How’d he get your number?”
“I gave it to him.” She smiled. “And before you freak out, no, I’m not hitting on him. He wanted it in case he needed to reach you. He said you were screening his calls this morning.”
Elizabeth couldn’t believe he’d told her that.
“Was it that bad?” Lauren asked, and Elizabeth didn’t pretend not to understand what she was talking about.
“It wasn’t bad at all. It was—” Amazing. Thorough. Exhilarating. “It was fine, right up to the point when he disappeared.”
Lauren looked at her. “Really?”
“It’s my fault. I don’t know what I was thinking, and I really don’t want to talk about this now, so—”
“So at least tell me what you think of his theory. That we might be dealing with a chemical weapon.”
“You’re taking a left up here.”
Lauren shifted lanes. “Well?”
“I think it’s a serious possibility,” Elizabeth said. “Based on what I know about Ameen, he has the expertise to pull it off, and if he’s planning something, it’s probably against civilians. Gordon said civilian targets are his specialty. Here, this is it.”
Lauren pulled into the lot, but they saw no sign of Jamie’s white Honda. She circled the buildi
ng, bumping over potholes behind the motel as they squeezed past a Dumpster. Elizabeth noted a pair of black pickups in the Smoke ’n Toke parking lot and called Torres.
“The boyfriend’s pickup truck,” she said. “You know what color that is?”
“Sorry—yeah, it’s white. And there’s a logo on the side. I think he has a lawn-mowing business.”
Lauren parked in one of the motel’s front-row spaces facing the office. “I’ll check inside,” she said. “Maybe she got dropped off.”
“Doubtful. We’re early.” Elizabeth glanced around, but she didn’t see any white pickups. “We’re not seeing her,” she told Torres, “but we have a few minutes—wait, hang on.”
Elizabeth twisted around in her seat as a white pickup truck pulled out of the lot’s east exit. There was some lettering on the side, but she couldn’t read it.
A woman rounded the corner of the building, and Elizabeth’s pulse quickened.
“Think I see her,” she told Torres. “Let me call you back.”
She pushed the door open and tucked her phone into her pocket. The woman was five-two, plump, wearing cutoff shorts and flip-flops. Her jet-black hair was at odds with her fair skin, and her eyes looked wary as Elizabeth approached.
She attempted to relax her with a smile. “Are you Jamie?”
Rat-tat-tat.
Elizabeth hit the ground, smacking her chin against the pavement. Gun! The word rocketed through her brain as she jerked her weapon from the holster.
Her heart jackhammered as she looked for the shooter, trying to keep her head down. She saw tires and bumpers and asphalt. She spied a pair of purple flip-flops and scrambled toward them.
“Jamie!”
The girl was flat on her back, motionless, in a rapidly expanding pool of blood. Elizabeth frantically dug for the phone in her pocket as she tried to stay low.
Rat-tat-tat-tat.
She sprawled over Jamie’s body, covering their heads with her arms as she tried to flatten them both into the pavement.
Tires squealed. Horns blared. She hazarded a glance up, then grabbed Jamie’s arm and pulled her behind the shelter of the nearest car. Blood was everywhere—streaming down the girl’s face and neck, soaking her hair.
“Call nine-one-one!” she shouted, hoping Lauren or anybody could hear. She darted a look at the motel office, where shards of glass glistened like ice crystals at the base of the shattered door. She pictured Lauren and the office manager crouched behind the desk, and she prayed they were already calling, because where the hell was her phone?
She put her gun down and stripped off her blazer to press it against Jamie’s neck.
“Hang on, okay?” Her voice trembled. “Help’s coming.”
She tried to remember her location, tried to recall the type of gun used, the car. The weapon was definitely automatic.
Blood gushed from Jamie’s neck, and Elizabeth felt a surge of panic as she glanced around.
She spotted her phone. It was on the sidewalk near the front bumper of the Taurus, but between here and there was an empty car space. She grabbed her gun and made a dash for it, immediately ducking behind the engine block as she snatched up the phone. Thank God.
A faint wheezing noise sent an icy jolt of fear through her. On the asphalt beside the Taurus, a black shoe.
Elizabeth darted around the car and found Lauren slumped against the wheel well, her head against the tire.
“Lauren!”
Blood seeped through Lauren’s fingers as she clutched her side with one hand and tried to work her phone with the other. Elizabeth grabbed it from her and hit the emergency button. Lauren’s lips moved, but Elizabeth couldn’t hear over the roaring in her ears.
“Oh, God. Lauren!”
Lauren’s eyelids fluttered shut, and she made a rasping sound. Elizabeth’s heart clenched.
“Hang on, okay?”
She was bleeding from her abdomen. Elizabeth pressed her hands against the wound as a soft, tinny voice emanated from the phone.
“Nine-one-one operator. Please state your emergency.”
“Shots fired! We have an agent down!”
Chapter Nineteen
Derek struck out at the gun shop. After talking to the third of three people on Cole’s list, he’d gotten nowhere. None of them had had any dealings with Matt Palicek or had even heard of him.
Or so they said. Gun guys tended to be tight-lipped, but it wasn’t like Derek was walking around with the letters ATF tattooed on his forehead. Derek had made sure to mention that he was teammates with Cole, but still he’d netted nothing useful.
He jumped onto the freeway and pointed his truck toward the FBI office. He needed an update from Elizabeth or someone on her team. Hell, even Potter might be able to help him. He wanted a physical description of this female jihadist, preferably a picture. He was beginning to think she was playing a much bigger role in this than they’d given her credit for.
All Derek knew was that she was likely related to one of the terrorists, either by blood or by marriage. If she was a wife or a sibling, that put her in her twenties or early thirties. She’d likely have dark brown hair, which Elizabeth believed she’d dyed auburn. And if she spoke English—which seemed logical if she was laying the groundwork for a plot in America—she probably spoke with an accent. No doubt she’d be wearing Western-style clothes to fit in.
It sounded like a lot to go on, but it wasn’t, and Derek needed a photo or at least a composite sketch to flash around, along with the photo of Palicek that Torres had given him.
He trained his gaze on the bloodred horizon. The sun was setting on his last day in Texas, and his tension was mounting. He couldn’t stay, but he damn sure couldn’t leave with so much unfinished. He had less than twenty-four hours to get a break in this thing, or he would face the choice of leaving the task force high and dry or going UA. An unauthorized absence was no small offense, especially in the teams, and especially when they were going wheels-up on an honest-to-God mission, not some training bullshit out in the desert. If Derek failed to report Thursday morning, Hallenback would have his ass in a sling, and possibly even his job.
He tried Elizabeth again, and again it went straight to voice mail. He scrolled through his phone and called Lauren. Three rings, and then Elizabeth answered.
“Hey, I’ve been calling you all night.”
“My phone’s dead.” she said, and her voice sounded strange.
“What’s wrong? Where are you?”
Silence on the other end, and a wave of fear hit him.
“Elizabeth?”
“I’m at the hospital.”
* * *
Elizabeth paced the room, compulsively darting glances at the double doors. Nothing. She passed by the wall of windows that looked out over the medical center. She swung by the coffeepot, then back to the chairs. It was a well-worn path in the carpet where hundreds or maybe thousands of anxious people had walked before.
The doors opened, and she whirled around, hoping to see the doctor. Instead, it was Gordon. His face was a hard mask, and she struggled to read the look in his eyes as he walked toward her.
“No change,” he said. “She’s still in recovery.”
Her throat tightened. “It’s been over an hour.”
“When she stabilizes, they’ll move her. Until then . . .”
He didn’t need to finish. Until then, they’d wait. Lauren had pulled through the surgery, but the doctor had described the procedure as “complicated.” The bullet had ripped through her right kidney. They’d had to remove the kidney and repair several organs.
Elizabeth glanced at the door as Lauren’s sister walked through and went straight to the coffeepot. She looked like an older version of Lauren—straight dark hair, willowy build. She’d been glued to her phone since she showed up at the hospital.
“I understand her parents are driving down from Dallas?”
Elizabeth looked at Gordon. “That’s right.”
“We need som
eone here when they show up,” he said, “but I have to go by the crime scene. They’re wrapping up there.”
“I’ll stay.”
“Torres is on his way in, so you can leave when he gets here.”
“What’s happening with Jamie?” she asked, changing the subject so she wouldn’t have to argue.
“No updates.”
The motel clerk had been hit by a bullet that grazed her neck. The wound had bled profusely but done little damage. The more serious injury had occurred when she dropped to the pavement and hit her head. She had cerebral swelling and was currently in a drug-induced coma.
“We’ve got an agent stationed at her door,” Gordon said. “When she comes out of this, we’ll need to interview her.”
If she came out of it.
The working theory was that the clerk had seen something important—otherwise, why bother to eliminate her?
Gordon’s phone buzzed, and he pulled it out to check the screen.
“I have to go.” He gave her a sharp look. “When Torres shows, I want you to go home, get some sleep.”
“Sir—”
“No arguments. You’ve been here for hours, and you worked late last night, too. I need you rested for tomorrow. We’re short-handed now.”
His words shut her up. They were short-handed because Lauren was in a hospital bed, fighting for her life. Elizabeth’s stomach churned, and she glanced at the doors again.
“Go home and rest, LeBlanc. You can’t help us if you’re dead on your feet.”
He walked away, leaving her alone once again in the maddeningly quiet waiting room.
She paced over to the chairs, where the television was tuned to CNN. The volume was muted, but she could read the headline crawling across the screen: TERROR SUSPECT DEAD IN APPARENT SUICIDE.
A reporter with a local TV station had finally broken the news that the roof jumper from Saturday had been on the terrorist watch list. The story had taken off, and although the media had gotten many of the details wrong, the upshot was accurate: the man had committed suicide as federal agents apprehended him. Now conjecture was running wild about what he’d been doing inside the United States at the time of his death.
Beyond Limits Page 20
