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.”
He darted his gaze at the Suburban as she scrounged for a pen. She didn’t have one, but he did, and she plucked it from his shirt pocket.
“Spit it out! Then you can go!”
He rattled off a five-digit number, and she wrote it on her hand. Then she ran back to Derek, who was folding down the Suburban’s backseats.
“Gimme a hand with that end, okay? I’ll take the weight.”
“Be careful!”
Could they detonate the bomb by bumping it? She had no idea how fragile it was. Derek lifted it practically by himself, then maneuvered it into the back with a grunt, and she could tell it was heavy. He slammed the doors, making her nerves jump.
He rushed around to the front and hitched himself behind the wheel. “Listen up, Liz. In fifteen seconds, I want you to lower this door.”
She looked at her watch. “But—”
“Fifteen seconds, whether I’m in or out.”
Her heart squeezed. “I’ll come with you.”
“You stay here to close the door.”
“But—”
“I need you to trust me.” He cupped his hand around her face. “Okay?”
He’d trusted her. Over and over today, he’d allowed her to do her job, even though she knew he hated seeing her exposed to danger. She glanced at the tunnel, and her eyes filled.
“Fifteen seconds,” she managed to say.
He yanked the door shut. With a squeal of tires, he took off into the tunnel. Another squeal as he rounded a bend. Elizabeth clutched her hand to her throat.
She checked her watch. Twelve seconds.
Her chest tightened. She looked at the chaos around her—people coming and going, firefighters, stadium workers, mothers and fathers and couples and kids.
Nine seconds.
She glanced at the keypad. She peered down the darkened tunnel and stepped inside. The air was cool and damp and smelled like diesel fuel. She strained to hear over all the noise, but she couldn’t make out anything—not the distant grumble of an engine or the pounding of footsteps.
Six seconds.
Her stomach twisted. She walked back to the keypad and held her finger over the buttons. She read the numbers on the back of her hand.
Three seconds.
Come on, Derek.
Two seconds.
Tears stung her eyes.
One second.
She sucked in a breath. With a trembling finger, she keyed in the code. Her chest caved in as the door started to lower.
“Derek!” She peered into the dark void. The door slid lower. “Derek!” She rushed back to the keypad, clenched her hands into fists as the door slid closer and closer to the concrete.
Behind it, the slap of boots on concrete. Her heart lurched.
“Derek, hurry!” She reached for the keypad just as he rolled under the door, Indiana Jones–style.
“Oh, my God!” She grabbed his arm as he sprang to his feet.
“Come on!” He took her elbow and rushed her at full speed to the nearest exit.
“How much time—”
Her words were cut off by a deafening boom.
They dropped to the ground. Shock waves reverberated around them, and she was on her hands and knees on the concrete, stunned speechless.
Derek pulled her to her feet. “Come on, haul ass. They’re at the hotel across the street.”
“Who is?”
“The tangos. Cole spotted the Sentra.”
He pushed her through the exit, and the summer heat hit her like a wall. Sirens and bullhorns filled the air as emergency workers corralled people into human rivers flowing away from the stadium. Parents carried crying children. Couples clutched each other as they trudged along. Elizabeth saw firetrucks everywhere but no fires or smoke. Yet.
“Did you get it contained?” she yelled at Derek.
“Let’s hope. Look!”
She followed his gaze over the crowd-flooded street to a hotel. She spied the maroon Sentra parked in front. A man in the cobalt-blue uniform of a ballpark staffer was getting into the passenger’s side.
She and Derek broke into a run, dodging around huddles of people, squeezing through barricades. A cop tried to stop her, but she shook him off and kept going.
Derek surged ahead, plowing through people like a running back. He neared the hotel just as the Sentra pulled into traffic.
The back window burst.
Elizabeth looked around, startled. Who was shooting?
The car lunged forward, and people scattered and yelled as it pulled into the traffic-clogged street. Derek was close behind, but his hands were empty. Who fired the shot?
The Sentra hung a left at an intersection, and another crack split the air. The car sagged with a flattened tire.
Derek turned and gestured for her to take the driver’s side as the doors were flung open.
A woman jumped out. Blue uniform, long auburn hair streaming behind her as she fled down the street.
Elizabeth broke into a run. Her pulse pounded as she dodged around people and hurdled obstacles. She sprinted down the sidewalk. She was gaining, gaining, closing the gap. Fatima glanced back over her shoulder, losing a half-second advantage.
Elizabeth tackled her, and they skidded together over the pavement.
“FBI! You’re under arrest!”
The woman kicked and flailed, and Elizabeth dug her knee into her back as she fumbled for her handcuffs. What the hell?
With a shot of panic, she remembered Derek swiping them from her back at the pawn shop. She glanced around desperately and spotted a cop on horseback clomping across the intersection.
“FBI! I need a hand here!”
He stared down at her from the saddle as Fatima struggled beneath her, squirming and yelling.
“Gimme some cuffs!”
He seemed to snap out of his stupor and produced a pair of handcuffs from his duty belt. He tossed them over, and Elizabeth snapped them onto Fatima’s wrists.
The cop slid off his horse and walked over. Another officer jogged over from across the street, weapon in hand.
“What we got here?”
“This woman is in federal custody.” Elizabeth held up her badge as the cop’s gaze darted over her shoulder. His expression changed. Elizabeth whipped around.
She saw Derek across the street, kneeling beside a park bench.
Her heart jumped into her throat. She turned back to the officers.
“Guard this suspect! Do you understand? She’s responsible for this attack.”
They nodded briskly, and Elizabeth rushed across the street, clutching her gun. Derek was on one knee in the center of a park with his pistol aimed at Ameen.
Who had a young boy clutched in front of him like a shield and a gun pressed against the boy’s head.
“Give it up, Zahid.” Derek’s voice was strained.
Ameen stepped back, dragging the terrified child with him. The boy was ten, maybe eleven. He had red hair and freckles, and Elizabeth guessed the sobbing woman behind Derek was the mother.
“Now, Zahid.”
He continued to back up. Elizabeth spotted his objective: the taxi idling beside the curb. The cabdriver seemed to realize it, too, and jumped out of the car as Ameen stepped closer.
“Don’t do it,” Derek warned.
The boy sent his mother a panicked look as the terrorist tightened his grip and pulled him toward the cab.
Crack.
Ameen dropped to the pavement. The boy fell to his knees. Derek launched himself across the sidewalk and snatched up the kid. Elizabeth sprinted over to the terrorist, who was sprawled on the sidewalk with the contents of his skull splashed across the concrete.
Cops converged on the scene, shouting and barking orders as Elizabeth stared down at the corpse, dumbstruck.
She looked up at the skyline, scanning the windows and rooftops. Several black-clad Secret Service snipers caught her eye. So did the missing window on the office building across the street.
She looked at Derek.
“Cole?”
He nodded. “From up in the office building.” He stepped over. “Fatima?”
“In custody.”
“You okay?”
She looked up into his eyes. There were so many things she wanted to say, to tell him. But her throat felt swollen, and she couldn’t get her mouth to work. She looked down at the dead terrorist, and a realization hit her. This was her case, her crime scene. She had to lock away her emotions and take charge here.
“Liz?”
She met Derek’s gaze. “I’m good. Let’s get this done.”
It was three A.M. by the time Elizabeth made it back to the office, where the bullpen was packed with what looked like every agent in the state, plus reinforcements down from Washington. She wove her way through the crowd and found Gordon in a conference room talking on the phone, surrounded by legal pads and Styrofoam coffee cups. When she stepped into the doorway, he glanced over and wrapped up his call.
“The evidence response team’s still at the ballpark,” she informed him. “Hazmat’s there, too. Decontamination is going to take a while.”
“I heard. Shut the door, would you?”
She complied. But something in his look told her not to take a seat.
Gordon leaned back in his chair and watched her. His shirt was wrinkled, and for the first time since she’d met him he wasn’t wearing a tie. “We’re making progress with Fatima,” he said.
“I thought she wasn’t talking.”
“She’s not,” he said. “She asked for an attorney almost immediately and hasn’t said a word since.”
Elizabeth could only imagine Derek’s reaction to a terrorist using the Constitution of the country she’d just attacked to protect her from its legal system.
“We found her phone,” Gordon continued. “The real one, not a burner. It was on the floor of the Sentra. Our techs are working on it now, analyzing every call she made from every location she made it, trying to get a handle on who else was involved in this.”
“That’s good news.”
“Vincent Planter’s also helping us on that front.” Gordon raked a hand through his hair and sighed. “Although the charges against him at this point are unclear.” His gaze settled on her. “Given the unconventional nature of his arrest.”
Elizabeth bit back a comment. “Where’s Lieutenant Vaughn?” she asked. “I was told he and Petty Officer McDermott were back here for a debriefing.”
“In custody.”
It took her a moment to process the words. “They’re—what?”
“They’re being held at the Travis County jail until this gets sorted out.”
“What’s to sort out? They just risked their lives defending their country against a terrorist attack!”
“They also discharged firearms in a public place. We’ve got two bodies in the morgue and a lot of questions flying around.”
She gaped at him. “That’s outrageous.”
“That’s reality,” he said. “And I’m working on it, but it might take some time.”
She edged closer to the table and glared down at him, her current boss who outranked her by about fifty levels, and she didn’t give a damn, because she was furious. “You have to fix this! You caused this. You lured Lieutenant Vaughn into this investigation using me as bait! You think I don’t know what you did?”
“I didn’t—”
“Those SEALs are involved because you involved them! They were your insurance policy in case we failed to do our jobs. Without them, we’d have mass casualties on our hands, and you let them go to jail?”
“I didn’t let them go anywhere,” he said. “Contrary to popular belief, I’m not actually in control of everything that happens in the Department of Homeland Security.” He stood up, looking immeasurably tired, but she had no sympathy. “This is a complicated situation, LeBlanc.”
“That doesn’t—”
“Sit tight.” He patted her on the shoulder and pulled open the door. “I’m working on it.”
Fuming, she watched him walk away. Derek and Cole were in jail. Even if Gordon tried to fix the situation, the arrest put their careers in jeopardy.
Potter appeared at her elbow. She blinked at him, unable to believe he was still wearing a coat and tie at this hour.
“I heard about Vaughn,” he said.
If he said anything about “extreme measures,” she was going to slap him. Instead, he took out his wallet and tugged out a business card.
“Sounds like he could use a good lawyer.” He handed her the card. “Just so happens I know one.”