Beyond Limits

by Laura Griffin

  Only he didn’t get goosed. His gaze narrowed when she yanked open the door, but he didn’t even flinch.

  “Okay, thanks,” he said as she slid inside. “I owe you a beer.” He ended the call and frowned at her.

  “What?”

  “I know for a fact you didn’t shadow me from my folks’ place,” he said.

  “You’re right, I didn’t.”

  He looked at her. He wouldn’t acknowledge that she’d one-upped him by asking how she’d found him, but it didn’t matter. She knew she’d done it, and she also knew it irked him that he’d missed something.

  She turned her attention to the glowing red sign above the Pussycat Lounge. “Channelview’s Premier Gentleman’s Club,” she recited. “Nice hangout.”

  “Ameen thinks so.”

  Her heart lurched. “He’s here?”

  “Was here,” Derek said. “Three nights in a row. Showed up at ten and stayed till closing.”

  She checked her watch. It was after eleven.

  “No sightings tonight,” Derek said. “And he wasn’t in yesterday.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The bartender’s my new best bud. She filled me in over lunch today at the bar. Four-ninety-nine steak platter, by the way, ’case you’re interested.”

  “She’s sure about this?”

  “ID’d the picture. Not by name, but she definitely remembers him. Said he pays for everything in cash and he’s a good tipper.”

  Elizabeth glanced around the parking lot, her mind spinning. Ameen had been here. But was this witness reliable? She looked at Derek. “How’d this bartender see his car?”

  “She didn’t—one of the dancers did,” Derek said. “Apparently, he offered her a ride home when she was leaving work, but she declined. Said he seemed skeevy.”

  “Skeevy?”

  “Her word, not mine.”

  They needed to get a team here, pronto. “How’d you find this place?”

  He looked at her. “You really don’t know?”

  “If I knew, we’d be here.”

  He watched her for a moment, probably debating whether to share, as she waited, biting her tongue. She’d gotten over her frustration from earlier. She’d talked herself out of it because he so obviously got a perverse thrill out of pushing her buttons, and she was done letting him do it. Or at least letting him know he was doing it.

  “The pat-down,” he told her.

  “You mean Rasheed?” She tried to remember it, but everything on the rooftop had happened so fast. “What—”

  “I turned his pockets inside out. He had a matchbook with the Pussycat’s logo.”

  “You stole crime-scene evidence?”

  “I didn’t steal anything. I noticed it.”

  “Then why didn’t we recover this matchbook?”

  “Beats me. Your CSIs must have missed something. Or maybe it blew off the roof.”

  She took a deep breath and glanced around. A tall man in a cowboy hat emerged from the club and crossed the lot to his vehicle. He was followed by a shorter man in an Astros cap. “Hey, isn’t that your friend?”

  “Cole offered to cover for me so I could go jogging.” He looked at her. “And no, he didn’t see him inside tonight.”

  “I’m sure he’s sorry you wasted his evening.”

  Derek’s phone rattled in the cup holder, and he picked it up. “Vaughn.” He smiled. “Hey, how’s it going? Seen my guy around?” He shot Elizabeth a look, and she knew he had news. “Gimme a description.”

  She looked around for the maroon Sentra, but it was all trucks and SUVs.

  “You happen to see his ride?” Derek turned the key in the ignition and thrust the truck into gear. “No, don’t worry about it. I think I saw him. Thanks, babe. Appreciate it.” He shot backward out of the space.

  “Someone saw Ameen?”

  “No, but the guy he was hanging out with all three nights just left. Tall build, cowboy hat.”

  “The Avalanche,” Elizabeth said. “He just pulled out of here. Where are we going?”

  “Don’t you want to know who he is?”

  “Yeah, but what about Ameen?”

  “He’s not here. This guy is.” He jammed to a stop at the edge of the parking lot. “Make up your mind, Liz.”

  “Follow him.” She took out her phone and called Lauren. “Are you nearby?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can you pull into the Pussycat and stake out the lot? Keep an eye out for the maroon Sentra while I follow up on something else.”

  “Got it.”

  Derek was speeding down the road now, and traffic was light, which was both good and bad. He neared an intersection.

  “There he is, three cars up,” Elizabeth said. “Can you get closer?”

  “Not without getting burned.”

  “I need the license plate.”

  “I’ve got some binoculars in back.”

  She twisted in her seat and scrounged around in the back of the cab, where he’d stashed cowboy boots, a duffel bag, boxes of ammo. She grabbed the binoculars as he turned the corner.

  Derek cursed.

  “What?” She straightened in the seat and looked for the Avalanche. It was a distant pair of taillights getting farther and farther away. “Can you close the gap?”

  He didn’t answer, just kept a steady thirty-mile-per-hour pace. They bumped over a set of railroad tracks. She glanced around. The area was industrial—chain-link fences and warehouses and grassy lots filled with heavy machinery.

  “We’re near the ship channel,” she said.

  “I noticed.”

  His tone was clipped, and she understood why. The Houston Ship Channel was one of the country’s busiest waterways and served as headquarters for America’s booming petrochemical industry. It was on the FBI’s short list of targets for a terrorist attack.

  The Avalanche hung a left. Derek hit the gas. He neared the corner, then switched his lights off as he swung into the turn.

  They were on a dark dead-end street, no traffic whatsoever, only a few signs glowing in the distance.

  Derek smacked the steering wheel.

  “Keep going,” she said. “He turned in somewhere.”

  They passed the first sign, which was spotlighted from the ground. EastTX Shipping, it read. Up the road she spied another sign for Amfreight. She couldn’t read the third sign, so she lifted the binoculars.

  “Oil Trans.” She looked at him. “Okay, we have three options. What do you want to do?”

  He swung into the first driveway. A security guard stepped from a gatehouse, clipboard in hand, as Derek pulled over.

  “Now would be a good time to flash your badge,” he told her, but she was already getting out of the truck.

  “Special Agent Elizabeth LeBlanc, FBI.” She approached the guard. “We’re in pursuit of a suspect. Black Chevy Avalanche. Anyone pull in here in the last few minutes?”

  No one had. Same verdict at Amfreight. They neared Oil Trans, which had not only a guardhouse but also a ten-foot security fence topped with razor wire.

  “Gotta be door number three,” Derek said, pulling over again.

  Elizabeth slid out and gave her spiel to yet another security guard.

  “He pulled in a few minutes ago,” he said, frowning. “You say he’s wanted for something?”

  “We just have some questions.”

  The guard trudged back over to the gatehouse, and Elizabeth followed, aware of Derek’s footsteps close behind her.

  The building was a closet-sized space barely big enough for a vinyl stool and a computer terminal. Mounted above the window was a pair of monitors showing views of traffic coming and going.

  The guard tapped his keyboard.

  “Matt Palicek.” He glanced up from the screen. “That’s who you’re looking for?”

  “He was in the Avalanche?”

  “That’s right. ID badge checked out and everything. Looks like he’s on our tank maintenance crew.”

&
nbsp; “Y’all do a lot of tank maintenance this time of night?” Derek asked.

  The guard looked him over and seemed to assume he was law enforcement, too. The bulge under his leather jacket probably had something to do with it. “Not usually, no.”

  “Could you rewind that tape, see which way he went?” Elizabeth nodded at the monitor.

  The guard hesitated only a moment before tapping a few more keys. The screen blurred.

  “Like I say, it was just a few minutes ago.” Another tap. The Avalanche appeared on the monitor as it passed through the security gate. About fifty yards inside the perimeter, the taillights glowed, and the vehicle made a right.

  “Hmm.” Another frown from the guard.

  “What?”

  “He turned west. His crew uses the east parking lot.”

  “What’s on the west side?” Derek asked.

  “Some storage buildings. The three-nineties, the docks.”

  “What’s a three-ninety?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Our biggest tanks. Three-hundred-ninety-thousand-barrel capacity.”

  Derek looked at Elizabeth, and she knew what he was thinking.

  “We need to take a look,” she told the guard, holding her badge up again to drive the point home.

  “I can’t leave my post—”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll find it.” They hurried back to the pickup and zipped through the gate as soon as the metal arm went up. Derek followed the Avalanche’s route and took a right.

  No other vehicles in sight. Enormous cylindrical tanks lined the roadside. A row of lights to their left drew their attention to a long pier.

  “Damn, that’s huge,” Elizabeth said, looking at the oil tanker moored at the dock.

  “This channel’s about forty-five feet deep, so it can handle some of the biggest tankers.”

  A pair of headlights swung into their path and zoomed toward them.

  “It’s not him,” Elizabeth said as the vehicle closed in. It was a pickup, and as it pulled up alongside them, she saw the logo of a private security firm emblazoned on the door.

  “Evenin’.” This guard was older, and his friendly greeting didn’t match the look in his eyes. “Hear you folks are looking for someone.”

  Elizabeth slid out so she wouldn’t have to do the badge-flashing thing across the driver’s seat. The guard pulled over and cut the engine. In the relative quiet that followed, she listened but didn’t hear any other vehicles, only the high-pitched whine of some distant equipment.

  The guard pulled out a Maglite and studied her ID.

  “We’re looking for the driver of a black Avalanche that just pulled in here,” she said, “possibly driven by Matt Palicek.”

  “What’s he wanted for?” he asked, casting a look in Derek’s direction.

  “At the moment, just a few questions.” Elizabeth glanced around. “You see the vehicle anywhere?”

  “Not tonight.”

  “Any other exits besides the front?” Derek asked.

  “There’s the two west.”

  “I need you to call them,” Elizabeth said. “That vehicle needs to be detained if it tries to leave.”

  The guard shifted a lump of chaw in his mouth and watched them skeptically. He ducked back inside his truck and got on his radio.

  “Something’s wrong here,” Derek said.

  Elizabeth looked around. The air smelled of saltwater and diesel. The dock was well lighted but not busy. Across the channel was a row of container ships. Giant steel cranes lined the shore behind them.

  The guard slammed shut his door and trudged back over. “He already left. Southwest gate, ten minutes ago.”

  Derek muttered a curse.

  “Any idea what he was doing here?” She checked her watch. “At almost midnight on a Sunday?”

  “One way to find out.” He crossed the road and led them to a low cinder-block building with a satellite dish mounted on the roof. It was a larger version of the gatehouse, with multiple computer terminals and about a half dozen video monitors. The sports section of a newspaper sat open on the counter beside a Dairy Queen cup that had been converted to a spittoon.

  The guard jabbed a few keys, and several of the screens went black.

  “You have a view of the docks?” Elizabeth asked.

  A picture appeared on the monitor. It showed the entrance to the dock where the tanker was moored but not the road nearby. Another screen came to life and this one showed a wider angle, including not only the dock but also the road and the swampy area east of the pier.

  “Here we go,” Derek said as the Avalanche moved into view on-screen and rolled to a stop.

  “What’s he doing?” Elizabeth asked.

  They watched. The Avalanche didn’t move. The driver with the cowboy hat craned his neck around and seemed to be looking for something.

  “When did that tanker come in?” Elizabeth tapped the screen.

  “Yesterday. It’s a domestic boat—Baltimore, I think. Scheduled to pull out in the morning.”

  “She full?” Derek asked.

  “To the top. Light sweet crude.”

  “There!” Elizabeth pointed at the monitor. “What’s that?”

  The guard hit a few keys and rewound the video.

  Once again, she saw a shadow move toward the passenger side of the truck. Everyone leaned closer to the screen.

  “He’s picking someone up,” Derek said.

  The interior light flashed on briefly before the Avalanche moved out of view.

  “Run it again,” Derek said.

  “Wait.” Elizabeth pointed to the screen. “What’s that on the ground?”

  The guard rewound the footage. Again, they watched a dark form move into camera range and approach the truck. The light went on for an instant, then the truck pulled away.

  “That shadow on the ground there.” Elizabeth pointed. “That wasn’t there before. Is that . . . a puddle?”

  “I’ll be damned.” The guard stared at the screen. “Is it blood?”

  “Water.” Derek looked at Elizabeth. “Whoever he picked up, he came in from the drink.”

  * * *

  Derek strode out the door, and Elizabeth rushed after him. He crossed the gravel road and walked onto the pier.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked.

  “I’m thinking someone linked to an Al Qaeda sleeper cell’s poking around this tanker in the middle of the night.”

  The tanker stretched the length of two football fields and was tethered to the dock by thick lines secured to enormous steel cleats. Derek stopped and planted his hands on his hips as he studied the boat. Only minutes ago, someone had been in that water.

  Elizabeth’s stomach clenched. She listened to the water lapping against the dock. “You think he planted a bomb?”

  “This whole place is a bomb. Look around you.”

  She did. Warning signs were posted everywhere: FLAMMABLE LIQUIDS, DANGER, FIRE HAZARD, ABSOLUTELY NO SMOKING.

  “Where’s your maintenance building?” Derek asked as the guard approached them.

  “Across the street there,” he said. “Why?”

  “I need to check something.”

  Elizabeth whipped out her phone as Derek tromped off with the guard. She should have called this in before now, but she hadn’t known what to say. Hey, Gordon, this bartender at this strip club saw this guy who might be friends with someone who might be Zahid Ameen, and we followed him out to this shipping terminal where he works and watched him . . . what? Pick up a suspicious person? For all she knew, Matt Palicek was giving a coworker a ride home. And maybe the bartender was mistaken and Palicek didn’t even know Ameen. And maybe this was nothing more than a wild-goose chase.

  Except that they happened to be standing beside the Houston Ship Channel, which was on their short list of terrorist targets. And it was the middle of the night. And Derek was right—something was very wrong here.

  She got Gordon’s voice mail and left an urgent message. Then she
called Lauren.

  “Where are you?” she asked.

  “At the Pussycat. Why?”

  “I can’t explain it all now, but keep your eyes peeled for anything unusual, and add a vehicle to your list: a black Avalanche. If you see one anywhere near there, get the plate and . . .” Her voice trailed off as Derek emerged from the maintenance building, followed by the guard.

  “Elizabeth? You there?”

  “Lemme call you back.” She disconnected. “What are you doing?”

  Derek set a scuba tank on the dock beside her and dropped a coil of rope at her feet. “Going in.”

  “Going in the water?”

  He crouched down and started unlacing his boots. “That hull could be rigged.”

  “But—” Her heart skittered. “You can’t just jump in there.”

  “Why not?”

  She shot a look at the guard, who was now on his cell phone, no doubt calling his supervisor’s supervisor’s supervisor. This situation was spinning out of control, and she hadn’t even reached Gordon.

  Derek hefted the tank onto his back, then clamped a buckle around his waist and jerked it tight.

  “But what if you find something?” she asked.

  “Like an IED?”

  “Yes, like an IED! What if it’s rigged?”

  “I’ll unrig it. That’s what we do with IEDs on boats. ’Specially boats filled with flammable liquids, ’specially when they’re moored near giant tanks of crude oil. You want to see this place fireball?”

  “But—”

  “Relax.” He squeezed her arm. “It might be nothing.”

  * * *

  For the second time in a week, he found himself in pitch-black water, feeling his way around the hull of a ship. He worked bow to stern, moving with less speed than usual, because the only fins in the maintenance closet had been about six sizes too small. The water was like a bathtub. Given the sediment in the water, visibility was nonexistent, so he moved by feel, hyperalert for any debris that might be lurking beneath him, waiting to slice up his feet. He knew that while the main channel was definitely kept dredged and clear, the inlets weren’t nearly as high a priority. Without water, this whole place would be a barnacle-covered junkyard.