Chapter Thirteen
“Where are you?”
The sound of Derek’s voice sent a jolt through her, and for an instant she was back in her hotel room with his hands all over her and her bed just inches away.
But then she snapped back to reality, which consisted of the windowless cubbyhole where she’d spent the past four hours watching blurry footage of the shopping center’s thirty-two entrances. And those were only the public ones.
She sighed. “I’m back at the mall.”
“Got a pen handy? I have a lead for you.”
“Where are you calling from?”
“Doesn’t matter. You ready?”
“Wait, hold on.” She grabbed a pen and paper as Lauren mouthed, Who is it?
Derek, she mouthed back, and Lauren’s eyebrows tipped up.
“A maroon Nissan Sentra, four-door, dented front bumper,” he said.
“What is that?”
“Ameen’s vehicle.”
“What? Where’d you get this?”
“That’s not important. But it’s good as of yesterday.”
Elizabeth’s pulse skittered. She looked at Lauren, who was obviously wondering what he’d said to get her all worked up.
She hit pause on her surveillance footage and stood up. After a quick glance around, she took the call into the break room, which was empty at the moment.
“Okay, back up.” She leaned her hip against the counter. “Where are you?”
“I’ll keep you posted.”
“Wait! Don’t go. Where did you get this? Have you actually seen him?”
“Not yet.”
“What does that mean?”
“I talked to someone who recognized him,” he said.
“Oh, my God, where?” She glanced out the door. Where was Gordon? She should put him directly on the phone.
“I’m not there anymore. And anyway, I’m tied up with something else now.”
“But we need to know your source.”
“Keep your phone on. I’ll be in touch.”
“Hold on! Derek?”
But he’d already hung up.
Derek could see Elizabeth’s ambush coming a mile away, but he walked right into it, partly out of curiosity and partly because her mouth was so fresh in his mind he could practically taste it.
He pulled into the narrow parking lot and found an empty space facing a row of pine trees. Elizabeth’s rental car was parked near the trailhead, and she stood beside a wooden post, stretching her hamstrings. She wore short black running shorts and a tight pink shirt that could have inspired an entire BUD/S class to tackle a twenty-mile beach run.
She eyed him coolly as he walked over.
“I figured you’d stand me up,” she said.
“Not a chance.”
She stretched her arms behind her head, and he noticed her bandage. “You’re running in those?” she asked.
He glanced down at his hiking boots. He’d had some shorts stashed in his truck but no running shoes. “Sure, why not?”
“Suit yourself. You ready?”
“Always.”
She set off down the trail, and he fell into step beside her. Ninety-nine degrees, ninety-five-percent humidity. The towering longleaf pines blocked the late-day sun, but in Houston during July, nothing could cut the heat.
“I’m surprised you wanted me to meet you,” he said. “Thought you didn’t like running.”
“I don’t. But it’s a necessary evil when I’m away from my gym.”
He picked up the pace just to needle her and for a while, they ran without talking. He wondered how long it would take her to bring it up. He guessed half a mile, but by the one-mile marker, she’d proven him wrong.
“So.” She gave him a sideways glance and caught him looking at her breasts. “You had a busy morning.”
“Yep.”
“You go home to sleep at all?” Fishing, as he’d expected. She wanted his time accounted for so she could figure out where he’d gotten his intel.
“I caught a few hours,” he said vaguely.
She didn’t talk for a while, so he picked up the speed again, passing a couple with a Weimaraner.
“You know—” Her breathing was more labored now. “Your tip earlier wasn’t exactly helpful.”
“No?”
“You have any idea how many maroon Nissan Sentras there are in Houston?”
“No, but I bet you do.”
“Eight hundred and three,” she said. “And that’s in Harris County alone. Add the surrounding counties, and it’s twice that. Where’d you get this lead?”
“I’ll tell you later, maybe over beers.”
Her cheeks flushed, but she pounded along, not letting her temper show. She set a decent pace, and she was in good shape. The main problem was her stride, but she made a solid effort to keep up with him as they veered around walkers and joggers and people pushing strollers. She didn’t talk. He waited. When another mile marker whisked past, he sensed she was ready to take another stab at it.
“I know you think you’re helping,” she said, “but you’re really not.”
He picked up the pace again, and they passed a trio of joggers.
“Derek, I’m going to have to insist that you be more forthcoming.”
He smiled. “Didn’t I tell you what it does to me when you get bossy?”
“I’m not joking.” She shot him a glare. “Gordon is threatening to charge you with obstruction of justice.”
“For sharing intel?”
“For meddling in a federal investigation.” She glanced at him. “Why on earth are you smiling? You could get arrested, do you realize that?”
He shook his head. “Now, that’s something I wouldn’t recommend, Liz. How are you going to find Ameen with me in custody?”
“We are going to find him. As in the FBI, not you. How many times do I have to tell you, you are not—”
“—part of this investigation. Yeah. Got it. I came up with a vehicle today. What have you guys come up with?” He glanced at her. “Come on, let’s hear it. Last I checked, you had four new leads: the autopsy, the Chevy, the cell phone, and the mall cams. So tell me, what have you guys managed to make of all that?”
No response.
“What’s that? Nothing? Out of that mountain of evidence?”
She surged ahead of him, leaving him in the dust. He quickly caught up to her, and then it was an impromptu race to the end of the three-mile loop. Not that it was any contest, really. He didn’t have the heart to pour on the speed like he would if he was with Luke or Gonzo. He sailed past the last signpost and glanced over his shoulder at her.
She was bent at the waist, gulping down air. He circled back, and she straightened when he reached her. Wet strands of hair clung to her neck. She was flushed, panting, and pissed off at him. The Holy Trinity of turn-ons, and he couldn’t resist grabbing her hand and pulling her in for a kiss, but before his mouth connected, he got a sharp shove to the solar plexus.
“I’m trying to help you!” she snapped. Heads swiveled in their direction, and she lowered her voice. “Do you even realize how serious this is?”
“Matter of fact, I do, yeah.”
“If you don’t cooperate with this investigation—”
“I told you I’d be in touch, and I will. You just have to trust me.”
“Gordon wants to talk to you now. We need to know where you’re getting your information. What sources do you have that we don’t know about?”
He looked down at her and almost felt sorry for her. As ambushes went, it wasn’t exactly a victory. “Be patient. Let me work, okay? And then I’ll let you know.”
“Derek—”
“Good run, Liz.” He squeezed her shoulder. “Thanks for the invite. Anytime you want to work up a sweat, just give me a call.”
“You’re making a mistake here.”
“Oh, and don’t bother tailing me.” He smiled over his shoulder as he headed to his truck. “I’d lose you in a heartbeat.”
“He just turned left,” Elizabeth told Lauren over the phone. “Now it looks like he’s parking.”
“You want me to wait?”
“Yeah, somewhere close but out of sight.” Elizabeth glanced around as she pulled into a parking lot that had potholes the size of bathtubs. “Be sure to lock your doors.”
She parked her rental sedan at the end of a row of pickups. The neighborhood would have been sketchy even during daytime, but late at night it looked downright dangerous. To her west was a boarded-up strip center tagged with gang graffiti. To her east was a vacant lot overtaken by weeds and littered with rusted shipping containers.
Elizabeth slid from the car. Practically every pickup in the parking lot looked like it was on steroids. Derek’s fit right in. He was inside it talking on the phone, and she felt a surge of satisfaction at goosing him for a change.
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.”
“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.
Derek felt the curve of the ship’s skin. He was nearing the propeller. The prop was a high-probability area to plant a device, so he slowed his search.
Nothing.
He adjusted his regulator and continued searching. His gut was churning, and his sixth sense was gnawing at him, and he knew without a doubt that the man who’d caught a ride in that Avalanche had been up to something. Had he planted a bomb in the channel? But why target a channel when there was a perfectly good explosive right here? One that would make a hell of a fire show on the six o’clock news, too. The media’s motto was “If it bleeds, it leads,” but if it freaking exploded, get ready. It would not only lead, it would be on continuous replay for the next two weeks.
Derek did one last pass, and still nothing. He kicked to the surface and spied Elizabeth pacing the dock as she talked on her phone. She rushed over.
“What’d you find?”
He shoved his mask up. “Nothing so far. Throw me that line, would you?”
She glanced down at the coil of rope and pulled the end to a free cleat. He watched her secure the line as he swam over.
“Their chief of operations is on his way,” she said, “along with the fire chief.” She tossed him the line as he reached the dock.
“Someone needs to find the Avalanche,” he said.
“We’re working on it.”
The bulkhead was covered with razor-sharp barnacles, so he climbed the rope hand over hand to avoid trashing his feet. Water gushed from his jeans as he stood on the dock.
“Gordon’s en route.”
He looked around. “What’s he doing?” He nodded at the security guard, who was dragging a wooden barricade over to a marshy area beside the road.
“I found some footprints in the mud, while you were under.”
“Fresh ones?”
“Looked fresh to me,” she said. “Our crime-scene techs can take a look, maybe get something useful.”
Derek surveyed the swamp grass. He looked from the water to the spot on the gravel road where the Avalanche had picked up the passenger.
“Shit,” he muttered.
“What?”
He crossed the dock. He followed the road a few paces and stepped off the gravel into the marsh. Mud oozed between his toes as he looked out at the water.
“Fuckin’ A.”
“Derek, what is it?”
He waded back in.
Elizabeth scanned the surface, searching for any sign of him.
“He still down there?”
She turned to look at the guard and nodded.
Another truck sped up to the dock and skidded to a stop. There were four now, all with the same private security company logo on the door. They’d also been joined by the chief operations officer for Oil Trans, who’d pulled up in a fancy white Suburban and was now standing on the dock talking on his cell phone. No one seemed happy with the fact that an FBI agent and a diver from an as-yet-unnamed law-enforcement agency had suddenly started snooping around their boat dock.
Elizabeth squinted at the water. She checked her watch. Her heart pounded as she stared out at the shimmery surface. He’d been under almost half an hour. What could possibly be taking so long? With every minute that ticked by, her dread increased.
A dark shape on the rippled surface. Was it . . . ?
She squished her way through the grass as he rose out of the water like some sort of swamp monster.
“What’d you find?” Water swirled around her ankles as she trudged out to meet him.
He raked his hair out of his face, and the look in his eyes made her stomach clench.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
He glanced over her shoulder. “Your guys here yet?”
“They’re on their way.”
“Tell them to double-time it.”
“Is it a bomb?”
“It’s a sub.”
She stared at him. “A what?”
“Like an SDV, only smaller. Given the size and shape, I’m guessing it’s from Mexico or maybe Central America. Could be Colombian.”
She waded closer until she was knee-deep in water as she tried to get her brain to process the words. “What are you talking about? What’s an SDV?”
“It’s like an SDV. A SEAL delivery vehicle used to insert covertly into enemy territory. But this boat’s actually bigger.”
“Are you telling me you found a submarine out there?”
Water glistened on his face as he looked down at her. “A narco sub, yes. Probably big enough for a three-man crew and a shit ton of cargo, all of it long gone at this point. Damn thing’s been scuttled.”
Her mind reeled. “But . . . how the hell would someone get a submarine up the Houston Ship Channel?”
“Wrong question, Liz.” He clamped a wet hand on her shoulder. “What you need to worry about is why.”