Beyond Limits

by Laura Griffin

  “Where are you?” Derek asked, still scanning the crowd for suspects.

  “About half a click northwest of the ballpark. I’m on the sixteenth floor of an office building staring right at home plate.”

  “You on the gun?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Secret Service has shooters posted on some of the rooftops,” Derek said. “Make sure they don’t see you.”

  “I got it covered. What’s your twenty?”

  “Concourse level, right behind third base. Hey, we need to do this fast, in case they start jamming the comms. I want you to look at the layout and tell me how you’d play it if you were inside.”

  Cole was the team’s best marksman and had a well-known talent for finding the perfect sniper hide. “If it was me, I’d go high,” he said. “I’m talking up in the rafters, behind a bunch of metal, where I’d be hard to see and harder to hit. See that area behind the Budweiser sign? That’d be my first pick.”

  “Roger that. Call you back.”

  Derek looked up at the tangle of ductwork and lighting and support structures. He glanced around for an access route. The doors of a nearby service elevator slid open. A cart loaded with pizzas rolled out, pushed by a stadium staffer wearing a hair net.

  Derek walked casually past the elevator, then turned and ducked inside as the doors slid shut.

  * * *

  “I need to see him now,” Elizabeth insisted. “I don’t care who he’s on the phone with.”

  Her own phone vibrated. The screen said BUSH IAH, and she prayed Gordon had found a landline.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Gordon demanded.

  “I’ve got intel about an imminent attack here at the baseball game.” She rushed through a description of the evidence, hoping he could hear her over the sirens blaring in the background wherever he was.

  “Secret Service is stonewalling me,” she said. “I need you to—” Sirens screeched in her ear, and she jerked the phone away.

  “What seems to be the problem?”

  She turned to see a tall man in a dark suit striding up to her. The clear radio receiver affixed to his ear told her he was Secret Service.

  “Elizabeth LeBlanc, FBI. Are you the lead here?”

  “Rick Walker, special agent in charge.”

  “My task force just received credible information about an imminent bomb attack on these premises.”

  He frowned. “What information? I wasn’t informed of any—”

  “I’m informing you. That’s what this is. Call up security so we can evacuate this stadium. And you need to get your guy out of here now.”

  * * *

  “I can’t reach the upper level,” Derek told Cole over the phone. “Elevator doesn’t go that high. What do you see?”

  Although Derek was closer, Cole’s high-powered scope would give him a superior view. Provided he could get the right angle. “Some movement to your north, but I think it’s the lighting guys. Wait.” He paused. “There’s a shadow just east of you. Looks like—damn, I can’t tell.”

  Derek squinted up at the suspended walkways.

  “Shit, there’s definitely someone back there,” Cole said.

  “Lighting techs?”

  “I don’t think so.” His voice was tight. “I think I see . . .”

  “What? What is it?”

  “It’s definitely a rifle barrel.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “You have a shot?” Derek glanced at the field below, where performers were unfurling a huge American flag. “Cole, report.”

  “I don’t have the shot, man. He shifted. I don’t even have the gun barrel in my crosshairs now.”

  Derek sprinted past the maintenance elevator, which didn’t access the upper level. He pushed through the next available door and felt a slap of relief. Stairwell. He raced upstairs and jerked open the door.

  “Okay, I’m up,” he told Cole. “What’s the sitrep?”

  “Behind first base, over toward the beer sign. I can’t see the barrel anymore, but that’s where it was.”

  Derek glanced around to get the layout. Steel catwalks criss-crossed the area, giving access to lights, speakers, and other equipment.

  “Behind the spotlight?” Derek moved toward it.

  “Affirmative.”

  “Okay, I’m going silent.” He switched off his ringer and tucked away his phone.

  He glanced down, pulse pounding. Stars and stripes blanketed the field. Derek took out his Sig, wishing like hell he had a suppressor. Any hint of gunfire up here would attract a swarm of Secret Service, and he was as good as dead.

  There was only one way to do this. He had to take this guy down without a bullet.

  The announcer’s voice boomed from a nearby speaker. “Ladies and gentlemen, please rise for the National Anthem.”

  A hush fell over the crowd.

  Derek spotted the catwalk leading to the sniper’s hide. He ducked into a crouch and moved silently, scanning every shadow behind every light, speaker, and bulky piece of equipment.

  Derek’s pulse spiked as he spotted him.

  Ahmed Rasheed knelt behind a spotlight, his rifle pointed down at the field. He wore the cobalt-blue uniform of the stadium staffers, including a blue ball cap, which reinforced Derek’s suspicion that his plan today wasn’t suicide. He had an exit strategy, and it probably involved blending into the crowd.

  Derek crept closer, slowly, soundlessly. The familiar melody drifted up from the field as he neared the target.

  A soft rasp as his boot scraped metal. Instantly, he knew that tiny sound was a monumental mistake.

  The target glanced up.

  Derek launched himself at him as the rifle swung around. They hit the deck in a tangle of limbs. Derek smashed his pistol against the man’s face just as the rifle stock jerked up and caught him in the jaw. Derek clamped his free hand over the barrel and shoved it up against the man’s windpipe, all the while landing blow after blow with the grip of his pistol. A fist connected with Derek’s cheek. He ignored it, focusing every ounce of energy on the gun barrel clamped in his hand, pressing down on the tango’s neck with all his might. Rasheed’s face reddened. His eyes squeezed shut. With a low groan, he heaved himself up and managed to throw Derek off-balance and onto his side.

  Derek’s advantage vanished. Panic flooded him. He rolled onto his back, and a sharp pain in his spine told him he was on top of the rifle.

  Derek smashed his gun against the man’s nose, and blood sprayed down on him. Teeth sank into his wrist. Derek fought to keep his grip on his pistol as Rasheed struggled to pry it free with fingers and teeth.

  The rifle dug into his spine. Derek tried to shift the weight off him, tried to throw his leg around, but he was pinned. Pain shot up his arm as he felt his wrist being crushed and the muzzle of his Sig digging into his side.

  I’ll be damned if I’m going to die by my own hand.

  Blood streamed down Rasheed’s forehead, into his eyes. More flowed down from his ruined nose and dripped onto Derek’s face, blinding him. He clenched his teeth and forced his wrist around, straining against the weight and the searing pain and the desperate fingers now clawing for the trigger.

  * * *

  Elizabeth struggled for composure as the agent frowned down at her skeptically.

  “You expect me to—”

  A gunshot echoed above them. All heads jerked up. There was an instant of stunned silence, and then an army of suits sprang into action, rushing for the exits, shouting into radios.

  “Bravo, report!” Walker barked into his radio.

  Elizabeth’s heart lodged in her throat as she looked up at the rafters. A shriek from the field below, followed by another. Performers starting screaming and pointing up. Then panic set in. Like a herd of antelope scattering, everyone rushed off the field. People in the stands looked skyward and started moving en masse, pushing and shoving for the aisles.

  “Bravo, report!” Walker s
aid again. “Where’s Gray Wolf?”

  Whatever response he got was drowned out by the noise. Elizabeth elbowed her way through the crush of agents near the door and stumbled into a corridor. Someone grabbed her arm and spun her around. The agent who’d helped her before.

  “Where’s Walker?” he yelled above the din.

  “He’s—”

  He shoved past her and grabbed his boss, who was standing in the doorway now. “Sir, the bomb dog just got a hit!”

  “Where?”

  “Concourse level, left-field exit! They’ve got a hot-dog cart down there packed with explosives.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Derek raced down the corridor, trailing blood. Was it his? Rasheed’s? He didn’t know, and he didn’t have time to care as he jerked open the door to the stairwell. Boots thundered up from below. He bounded down the steps, then yanked open the door and darted out of the stairwell just in time to avoid the coming cavalry. He found himself back on the executive-suites level, where people in suits were racing back and forth. Some were agents, and some were bigwigs who’d been enjoying thousand-dollar views until chaos erupted. Derek’s eyes stung from blood and sweat, and he ducked through a door and into a service corridor, where he’d attract less attention. Although not crowded with fans, the passageway was filled with security people. It was only a matter of seconds before someone noticed him and tried to detain him.

  An elevator slid open, expelling a scrum of Secret Service agents. Derek dropped into a crouch, pretending to tie his shoe as they hustled past him. He sprang to his feet and hopped into the empty car, then jabbed the button for the ground level as his phone vibrated in his pocket. It was Elizabeth.

  “Thank God!” she said. “I thought you were dead.”

  “Nope, but Ahmed Rasheed is. He shot himself.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll explain later. What’s happening there?”

  “I need you on the main level. The bomb squad discovered a hot-dog cart packed with explosives by the left-field gate.”

  “Shit.” He jabbed the button again. “They disarm it?”

  “No, they didn’t think they could do it fast enough. It was on a timer, so they rushed it into an armored vehicle and whisked it out of here.”

  The doors parted, and Derek found himself in another corridor, this one flooded with both civilians and stadium personnel. “They need to keep looking,” Derek told her. “One is none, and two is one.”

  “What?”

  He pushed his way through the crowd. “Demo guys like to back up their charges. They wouldn’t rely on only one bomb. I guarantee you there’s another one, probably on the opposite side of the stadium. We need to search the right-field gate.”

  “I’ll tell them.”

  “And why aren’t they jamming cell phones yet?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “This is a train wreck, Liz. The next one could be remote-controlled—”

  Sirens pierced the air as the emergency alarm went off. Red strobes started flashing, and a recorded voice came over the PA system: “Emergency evacuation is in effect. Proceed with caution to the nearest exit . . .”

  Giving up on his phone, Derek plowed through a door into the main concourse. The surge of people hit him like a tidal wave, and he pushed his way toward the right-field exit, scanning the walls, the corners, the alcoves for any sign of another IED. He reached the ramp but didn’t see anything suspicious. He turned and fought the tide back into the concession area, which had been abandoned by staffers.

  He spotted it. Parked right beside a restroom, a lone hot-dog cart.

  Derek pushed through the mob. He crouched beside the cart, which had three storage compartments, all secured shut with heavy-duty chain and padlocks. He peered underneath, sensing what he was going to see before he saw it.

  Affixed to the base with a hunk of C-4 was a timer.

  * * *

  Elizabeth forced her way through the throng of people, searching frantically for Derek. She tried him again on her phone.

  “Where are you?”

  “Main concession area, behind right field. Send your bomb techs over here. I’ve got another one.”

  “Another IED?” She pushed through the crowd.

  “It’s on a timer,” he said.

  “How much longer?”

  Silence.

  “Derek? Derek?”

  The call had dropped. Heart hammering, she elbowed her way through the people, managing not to get swept into the riptide pouring through the ground-level exit. She spied Derek at the end of the corridor, kneeling beside a food cart. He had a pocket knife clenched in his teeth as he manipulated some wires.

  She sprinted over. “How long?”

  He glanced up at her and took the knife from his mouth. “Where’s Gray Wolf?”

  “They got him evacuated.”

  He glanced around. “We need to get this thing out of here.”

  “Any way to defuse it?”

  “Not in four minutes.”

  “Four minutes?”

  “That’s right. And it looks to be rigged with a backup detonator that’s locked inside.”

  “What can I do?”

  He looked up at her, and for once, his eyes were easy to read. He wanted her to evacuate with the civilians, but he knew she wouldn’t. “We have to get this thing to a contained area, preferably underground, but the elevators are down.” He glanced around. “Go find a maintenance guy, a firefighter, whatever. Someone who can override the elevator switch.”

  “I’m on it.”

  * * *

  Derek’s phone vibrated again. He put it on speaker and tossed it onto the floor to keep his hands free.

  “What’s the status?” Cole asked.

  “Tango’s down.”

  “That’s good.”

  “What’s not good is I’ve got my hands around an IED. I’m looking at about eight pounds of C-4 and possibly a Willie Pete payload.”

  “Fuckin’ A. Why aren’t they jamming cell signals?”

  “Beats me. Wouldn’t help anyway—this thing’s on a timer. She’s a beaut, too. I don’t think I can disarm it without setting off the backup charge.”

  “Want me to get down there?”

  “No time,” he said. “And I need your bird’s-eye view up there. See if you can spot anything useful, like maybe a SWAT van or a hazmat truck near the stadium.”

  “Roger that.”

  “Also look for a maroon Nissan Sentra or a white SUV that seems suspicious.” He glanced around, searching for Elizabeth. “We’ve got at least two tangos still at large.”

  “No armored vehicles,” Cole reported, “but I see about a million white SUVs. That their getaway vehicle?”

  “Maybe that or a car bomb.”

  “How much time you got on that thing?”

  He checked the clock. “Two-fifty-two.”

  “Derek!”

  He turned to see Elizabeth jogging up to him.

  “I got us a freight elevator. In the back of this kitchen. Come on.”

  * * *

  The doors slid open, and Elizabeth rushed out, with Derek close behind her pushing the cart. She was relieved to see fewer civilians down here, but there were still way too many people, including stadium staffers and emergency workers. A golf cart zoomed past with an ear-piercing beep.

  “This isn’t going to work,” Derek said, looking around. He turned to the maintenance man who’d snagged them the elevator. “That door at the end of the ramp over there. Where’s that go?”

  Sweat streamed down the guy’s flushed face. He looked stressed and rattled, especially now that he’d no doubt figured out what their cargo was.

  “Uh . . . that goes to our underground garage. Storage for, you know, forklifts and heavy equipment and whatnot.”

  “Can you get me in there?”

  “Uh, it depends.”

  “Yes or no, buddy. Come on.”

  “If my access code works, I can—�
��

  “Try it,” Derek ordered, then turned to Elizabeth. “I need a vehicle. Preferably an Abrams tank, but I’ll settle for anything bulky. Even an ambulance or a squad car with bulletproof doors would be good.”

  She glanced at the hot-dog cart. Was he trying to get rid of her? She didn’t have time to second-guess him.

  “Tick-tock, Liz.”

  “I’ll find something.”

  * * *

  Derek glanced around, looking for a crowbar, a hammer, anything he could use to pry the metal garage door up if the maintenance guy couldn’t get it open.

  His phone vibrated with another call from Cole.

  “Tell me something good, brother.”

  “No SWAT vehicles,” Cole said, “but I spotted the maroon Sentra. It’s parked in the driveway of the hotel right across the—”

  A loud squelch, and Derek jerked the phone from his ear. The jamming equipment was up and running, evidently.

  “Got it!” bellowed the maintenance guy.

  Derek turned around to see the garage door sliding up. He started to push the cart through. An engine roared up behind him, and he turned to see Elizabeth behind the wheel of a black Suburban. She jumped out.

  “It’s part of the motorcade that got left behind!” she yelled. “Bulletproof glass, armored doors.”

  “Damn, that’s brilliant. Where’d you get the key?”

  “My Secret Service pal.”

  “Help me get this loaded.”

  * * *

  “How much time?” she asked, racing to the back as he threw open the cargo doors.

  “T-minus forty.” Derek glanced around, probably looking for someone who could bench-press more than she could. “Your friend’s bugging out. Damn, was it something I said?”

  She turned to see the maintenance guy slinking away.

  “Wait!” She sprinted over. “I need your access code to close it.”