“Not true.”
“You’re trying to tell me about my case?”
“You have more than you realize,” he said. “Come on, think about it. Think about Del Rio.”
“What about Del Rio?”
“Buck’s Truck Stop.”
She frowned. “How did you know that?”
“Common sense. It’s the busiest place in the town. Best candidate as a hub of human trafficking. And ICE knows that, too. Am I right?”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying look at the place. Get out a Google map and study it. Better yet, go visit. The town has got to be wall-to-wall with security cams, a lot of them privately owned, some of them not. You’ve got fast-food restaurants, gas stations—”
“What’s your point?”
He looked impatient. “Someone somewhere got a shot of this guy meeting his contact. He didn’t vanish into thin air. He caught a ride. There’s a scrap of information out there. It just needs to be found.”
They had dozens of agents, in both Del Rio and Houston, searching for that very scrap.
“You want me to wave a wand and produce a lead? And then what?”
“I spent the better part of the last decade finding terrorists hiding in the Hindu Kush. I can do this, Liz. I promise you. You give me a lead on this guy, and I’ll run him down.”
* * *
Buck’s Truck Stop occupied Del Rio’s busiest juncture and did a brisk business twenty-four seven. Besides offering food, lodging, and a deluxe car wash, the place boasted no fewer than thirty-six gas pumps. Thirty-six. Elizabeth glanced at them now as she motored past the sprawling complex and followed her GPS instructions down a narrow side street. A few more turns, and she pulled into a parking lot, where she spotted a dusty blue Subaru that was doing a passable imitation of a civilian vehicle. The sparkling-clean Taurus she’d rented at the airport stood out, so she drove around back.
“Nice ride,” Torres quipped as she pulled up alongside a banana-yellow Honda with gold rims. “How come we never get the pimp-mobiles?”
A garage door lifted, and a heavy man with long sideburns waved them in. Evidently, their rental car was too conspicuous, even in back.
Elizabeth slid into the service bay and looked around. Several cars were up on lifts, and the place actually resembled a brake repair shop. In reality, it was the headquarters for a multiagency surveillance operation.
They got out. The place smelled like old motor oil and new tires. They introduced themselves to the undercover ICE agent who was their liaison for the morning, and he looked less than delighted to meet them.
“I’m Brad Parker.” He gave a brief nod. “Follow me.”
Elizabeth followed, wondering about the name. It sounded like an alias, like a throwaway name you’d give people from a rival agency you didn’t really trust. He led them down a dingy hallway and into an even dingier room filled with computers. Agents sat at all of the monitors, tapping away or staring at surveillance footage.
“We’ve had two people on this since yesterday,” Parker informed them. “No sign of your guy.” He led them to the far side of the room. “This is Juan Garza, by the way. He just took over.”
Garza—if that was really his name—glanced up from his computer and traded nods with his colleague.
“Special Agents LeBlanc and Torres, out of Houston,” Parker said.
They weren’t actually out of Houston, but she didn’t bother to correct him.
“We’re here to take a look at the surveillance footage,” Elizabeth said. “Hoping you have some new leads for us.”
Garza lifted a brow. “Not since I got here. Still no sign of him.”
“We have him leaving the minivan, but that’s it,” Parker said. “No sign of him entering the store or of him walking off the premises. We’ve been through the truck stop footage twice already.”
“Yours or theirs?” Elizabeth asked.
“Both. This spot has become a way station for traffickers. We’ve had surveillance on the place for fifteen months.”
“We’ve expanded our search to surrounding businesses.” Garza nodded at his screen. “Restaurants, ATMs . . . This right here is from the bank across the street.”
Elizabeth watched the grainy black-and-white image for a few moments. Cars pulled in and out of the parking lot and the drive-through teller windows, business as usual, nothing sinister happening at the truck stop across the street. She glanced at the time stamp at the bottom of the screen. A full sixty-six minutes after Rasheed was filmed fleeing the coyote’s vehicle.
“You want my guess?”
She looked at Parker.
“He had a ride waiting,” he said. “Slipped around the corner of the building, hopped right in.”
“Why don’t we have that on camera, then?” Torres asked.
A shrug. “It’s not like we have every angle. There are blind spots.”
“Hey, hey.” Garza straightened in his chair. “Check this out.”
Everyone inched closer to look at the screen.
“What?” Parker asked.
Garza tapped the keyboard, rewinding the footage. “Upper left corner. Dark sedan.”
Elizabeth watched, holding her breath, as a dark-colored four-door car moved into view. It rolled to a stop, and a shadow moved toward it.
“That’s him! Pause it!” She leaned closer as he stopped the tape.
Torres looked at her. “Looks like we found his ride.”
Derek had been right. The lead they needed was right in front of them, caught on camera. She felt the sudden urge to call him, but of course, she couldn’t.
She studied the footage. Unfortunately, the car was angled, so no plates were visible. And the driver was nothing more than a dark silhouette. But still, they’d found a vehicle. Even without a plate, it could provide a wealth of information.
“Can you zoom in on that?” she asked.
“Not much.” Garza clicked on the corner of the screen and managed to zoom a little but not enough to see anything of the driver besides the outline of a baseball cap.
“Our technicians can enlarge it, clean it up,” Torres said.
“So can ours.”
Turf wars. Perfect.
“Why don’t you make us a copy, and we’ll both take a crack at it?” Elizabeth looked at Parker. “We’re going to need footage from every other security cam anywhere near this corner at”—she glanced at the time stamp—“five fifteen.”
She leaned closer and studied the car’s chassis. “That’s a Chevy Cavalier,” she said. “Cobalt blue, it looks like. Those tires aren’t standard. Should be fourteen-inch, not eighteen.”
Garza gave her a startled look. Men were always shocked that she knew anything about cars.
She glanced at the time stamp again. “That’s sixty-eight minutes after he slipped from the truck. What was he doing all that time?”
“Sure you don’t have him inside the truck stop?” Torres asked.
“We’ve been through it all,” Parker said. “Repeatedly. Nothing of him entering the convenience store or the bathrooms. No cams in the restaurant, unfortunately, but—”
“There’s a restaurant?” She looked at Torres. “We need to interview the wait staff.”
“Two restaurants,” Parker corrected. “This place has everything—a deli counter, showers, an Internet lounge, an arcade.”
“An Internet lounge?” Her heart lurched.
“Yeah, right by the car wash. There’re no cameras in there, though. We already checked.”
But she wasn’t thinking about cameras anymore. “Show me the Internet lounge.”
Chapter Seven
Derek wasn’t good at being on leave. He always felt restless. Twitchy. About three days in, he was usually bored out of his skull.
He’d woken up this morning at his parents’ house, staring at a shelf full of swim trophies and autographed baseballs. He’d pounded out ten miles and spent the remainder of the morning hau
ling boxes to the attic and changing lightbulbs for his mom. When he was all out of chores and errands, he’d loaded up his .300 and decided to hit the range.
Now he lay in the dirt with the steady pop of gunfire all around him. The smell of grass and CLP oil filled his nostrils as he peered through the rifle scope. He took a deep breath. Let it out some. Squeezed the trigger.
“Nice,” murmured Cole, lowering the binoculars.
Cole had the same problem as Derek, the same problem a lot of SEALs had. They’d forgotten how to be home. When Derek had called, his teammate had been more than happy to make the hour-long drive from his family’s place in Clear Lake to send a few rounds downrange.
Now Derek picked up the binocs as Cole adjusted his rifle and lined up his shot. He was using a .300 Win Mag, too, but his was brand-new, outfitted with an Accuracy International folding stock and a Nightforce scope. The gun kicked ass. As one of the top marksmen in the teams, Cole took pride in having the best equipment available.
Derek glanced at the range flag. “Moderate wind, full value,” he said.
Cole waited. Guys on either side of them fired, but Cole held back. Patience was a sniper’s secret weapon.
Derek watched through the glass and mentally ticked off the seconds until his friend squeezed the trigger. The bullet found its target, a fifteen-inch gong ten football fields away.
“Perfect.”
Cole smiled. “Yeah, not bad.”
They’d gone through the ammo, so they stood and collected their gear. Derek shook out his stiff legs and glanced around. It was after five, and the range was filling up with potbellied sportsmen and weekend warriors.
“So you want to get a beer?” Cole asked.
“Sure.” Derek grabbed the binocs.
“Hey, hold up. Maybe we should stay awhile.”
Derek followed his friend’s gaze to the front office, where a hot-looking blonde stood talking to the range master. Derek’s heart gave a kick. Elizabeth was in one of those tailored gray suits that didn’t quite hide her Glock 17 or the handcuffs she kept tucked under her jacket.
Cole whistled. “Man, I’d like to see her handle a gun.”
The range master pointed in their direction, and she strode toward them with a determined gleam in her eyes.
“You know this girl?” Cole looked at him.
“Yep.”
“Shit, I shoulda known. So much for that beer.”
She stopped in front of them, and she had that set to her chin that got Derek’s blood going.
“Sorry to interrupt. Do you have a minute, Lieutenant?”
Lieutenant. Derek smiled.
“Cole, meet Special Agent Elizabeth LeBlanc. She’s with the FBI. Liz, Petty Officer Cole McDermott.”
She offered him a hand. “Good to meet you.”
“Likewise.” He smiled at Derek. “Catch you later, bro.” He slapped him on the back and headed off.
“Impressive setup.” Elizabeth looked out at the range. “What is that, eight hundred yards?”
“A thousand. How’d you find me?”
“Talked to your mom,” she said. “Very nice lady. A little shorter than I expected. Your dad must be huge.”
The breeze played with her hair, and he noticed her scar again, the scar she’d somehow gotten at work. She didn’t want to talk about it, which told him he wasn’t going to like the story—if he ever managed to coax it out of her.
He couldn’t make her tell him. It wasn’t like they were in a relationship. No, if they’d been in a relationship, he’d still be spending months at a time away from her, but at least when he came home, he’d get some relief from the relentless yearning that wouldn’t stop dogging him. As it was, he couldn’t get anything from her, not even a phone call. He’d called her up after his last deployment, and she hadn’t even bothered to return his messages.
But she was here now. And although he was ninety-nine-percent sure this little visit was about work, he’d take whatever advantage he could get and exploit the hell out of it.
“Want to do some shooting?” he asked. “I can grab us some ammo.”
“No, thanks. I’m here on business. Is there somewhere we can talk?”
He led her around to the front, where he slipped some quarters into a drink machine. He pounded out a Coke and offered it to her, but she shook her head. He took her to a low brick wall that divided the range from the gravel parking lot. Her generic white rental car looked like a toy in the sea of pickups.
She sat down on the wall. “I’ve been thinking about your offer.”
He smiled as he popped open the can. “Which offer is that?”
She pretended not to understand. “You said you might be able to help locate Rasheed.”
“Not ‘might.’ I said I would.” He swigged his drink. “Provided you give me some intel.”
She glanced around, clearly uncomfortable, which told him she was doing this on the down-low. She pulled a folded slip of paper from her purse. “You were right.” She handed him the paper. “About the surveillance cams. We have Rasheed getting into a 2005 Chevrolet Cavalier.”
Derek sat down beside her and studied the picture, which had obviously been enlarged. Rasheed was fairly clear, but the driver was little more than a shadow wearing a baseball hat.
“No plate?” He looked at her.
“Unfortunately, no. We’ve checked stoplight cams, ATMs, all the gas stations in town.”
“Where’d this come from?”
“A bank several blocks from the truck stop,” she said. “It’s the only camera footage we’ve been able to find. The driver navigated to and from the truck stop on side streets, avoiding all major intersections—which suggests to us that they know the area is under surveillance and scoped it out ahead of time.”
“These guys are smart. They plan operations years in advance. You can’t underestimate them.”
“I know.” She leaned closer, and he could smell her perfume or her shampoo or whatever it was. She pointed at the picture. “See this back panel here? There’s a slight dent in it. Another distinguishing characteristic is the oversized tires. Factory tires for this car are fourteen inches, not eighteen. But aside from that—”
“It’d be better to have a license plate.”
“I know.” She looked up at him. “But right now, this is it. Sixty-eight minutes after Rasheed is first seen arriving at the truck stop, he catches a ride with a blue Chevy Cavalier. I’m working one more lead, though: the registration sticker on the windshield. I sent the image to our lab techs to see if they can enlarge it.”
He looked at her. “Not a bad idea.”
“Thank you.”
Derek stared down at the picture, examining the time stamp. “Come on.” He swung his legs over the wall and led her to the parking lot. He dug a map from the glove box in his truck and spread it out on the dusty hood.
“What are you looking for?” she asked.
“He slipped through our back door into Texas. He knows Del Rio’s a hub for trafficking. He knows it’s under surveillance by the feds. Which means his contact knows better than to circle around town, attracting attention. I’m thinking the driver was waiting somewhere else and made the trip straight in, which gives us a seventy-mile radius . . .” He scanned the towns around Del Rio.
“If he drove the speed limit.”
“Safe bet. If they’re avoiding surveillance cams, they’re avoiding traffic cops, too. Bingo.” He tapped the map. “Uvalde. You should check out this town.”
“We’re already on it. But you’re assuming someone drove straight there. The driver could have waited after getting the call, then come from someplace only a few miles away.”
“I’m not seeing it,” Derek said. “Why risk exposure longer than necessary? And how about communication? Was he using a cell phone?”
“We’re checking electronic surveillance in the area,” she said, “but no leads so far. I think he may have had another way of communicating.”
&
nbsp; “Like what?”
“There’s an Internet lounge at Buck’s.”
“There you go.”
“We sifted through everything that day, the browsing history on ten separate computers. It’s all your basic stuff—people checking e-mail, Facebook, some thinly disguised porn sites. But there was something unusual.” She leaned against his truck. “One user—who used a prepaid credit card, by the way—visited a home-improvement blog.”
“Home improvement,” Derek repeated.
“Yeah, sounds odd, right? I wrote the site address on the other side of the page I gave you. It looks like Rasheed posted a comment. Our analysts believe it was a coded message to his contact about when and where to pick him up.”
“Interesting tactic.”
“I know.” She met his gaze and seemed to realize she was standing close enough for him to see down her blouse. She eased back. “Here’s how this is going to work.”
He lifted an eyebrow.
“You dig up anything—and I mean anything—about Rasheed’s whereabouts, I need you to call me immediately.”
“How about I tell you in person?” He reached over and tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear. “That way you’ll have a chance to thank me.”
“Do you ever think about anything besides sex?”
“Yeah, but I have to be honest, Liz. I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately.”
“I’m not joking here.” She looked frustrated, which was even more of a turn-on than when she looked businesslike. “If you find anything at all, I need you to call. Don’t go all cowboy on me and try to take him down yourself.”
“Cowboy?”
“You know what I mean. I’m sticking my neck out for you here, and I need your word.”
“If I find anything, I’ll let you know.” Eventually.
She looked up at him, and the little line between her brows told him she didn’t fully trust him. The woman had good instincts. She broke eye contact and pushed off of the truck. “So that’s it.”
“Where are you going?”
“I’m late for a briefing.” She checked her watch. “I drove all the way out here, and now I have to fight traffic back to my office.”
Beyond Limits Page 8