Chapter Twenty-two
A faint buzzing noise jarred Derek awake. He stared up at the ceiling and felt a heavy weight on his chest. Snagging his jeans off the floor, he dug his phone from the pocket.
“Vaughn.”
“You up?” It was Luke.
Derek sat up and glanced over his shoulder at Elizabeth. She was out cold, her arms tucked snugly under the pillow. She didn’t move a muscle as he got up and pulled on his jeans.
She’d been so wrung out that she’d completely crashed. He knew from experience that she didn’t like emotional drama, but last night had been pretty maxed out.
“You there?”
“One sec.” He opened the glass slider and stepped onto the balcony. Although balcony was being generous. It was barely big enough to stand on—maybe if you were a hobbit sneaking a cigarette, but that was about it. He slid the door shut behind him and blinked up at the sun.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“I just talked to Hailey, and I’ve got some intel.”
“You just talked to her?” He checked his watch. It was 0600 in California.
“This was last night. She was going through some shit, and she asked me to come to her hotel to talk.”
“And you went.”
“Hey, fuck you, Mr. Self-Righteous. I didn’t touch her.”
Derek hoped for Hailey’s sake that Luke was telling the truth. He raked a hand through his hair and sighed. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“Do you want this or not?”
“I do.”
Derek definitely wanted it. He looked out over the kudzu-covered bayou that separated Elizabeth’s hotel from a freeway packed with morning commuters. This thing, whatever it was, was ramping up, and the feds were still chasing their tails.
“Rasasa,” Luke said. “I don’t know if it’s a name or a place or what, but Hailey said it’s something Khalid was talking about during her captivity.”
“Rasasa.”
“Yeah, you roll the R. I think it’s a person, but it could be anything. I figured you could pass it along to the FBI. Can you reach Elizabeth?”
Derek glanced over his shoulder. The bed was empty now. “Yeah,” he said, stepping back into the room.
So much for the naked send-off he’d been hoping for. But the bathroom door stood ajar, and the shower was running, so maybe he had a chance.
“She mention anything else?” Derek asked.
“Not really.”
Derek scrubbed his hand over his face. “Okay, well, let me know if she comes up with something more.”
“I will. So are you back yet?”
“Nah, I’m still in Houston.”
“I thought you were driving.”
“I am.”
The water went off, and Derek watched Elizabeth’s perfectly wet and perfectly naked body step out of the tub.
“Listen, I gotta go.”
“Right. Got it.” Luke laughed, and Derek knew he’d figured out exactly why he was still in Houston. “Hey, don’t stick around too long. We’re wheels-up Thursday.”
“I know.”
Derek shoved his phone into his pocket and stepped into the bathroom as she was wrapping herself in a towel. She looked wary, maybe a little uneasy around him in the cold light of morning. She was typically so restrained all the time, and last night’s maelstrom of tears and emotion and lust had caught them both off-guard.
She moved to step past him, and he caught her arm.
“ ’Morning.”
“ ’Morning.” She stood on tiptoes and kissed him. Not exactly the full-frontal assault he would have liked, but it was friendly.
“How’s the arm?” he asked, looking down at her bandage.
“Fine.”
Uh-huh. He’d bet it hurt like a bitch.
“Who was on the phone?” she asked, slipping out of his grasp to walk to the closet.
“Luke. Hey, does the name Rasasa mean anything to you?”
“No. Should it?”
“I don’t know.” His phone vibrated, and he tore his gaze away from Elizabeth to read a text from Cole. The message was long and rambling, and reading it prompted him to shuffle his plans for the morning. He texted back a response.
“Where’d that come from?”
He looked up. “Hailey Gardner.” He tucked the phone away. “Luke talked to her last night.”
Her eyebrows tipped up as she slipped past him again—fully dressed now, unfortunately—into the bathroom. She wore another one of those crisp white shirts with charcoal slacks. She ran a brush through her hair, eyeing him in the mirror. “I didn’t know he’d been in contact with her.”
The implication was that Derek had known and hadn’t told her. He didn’t want to get into it. “Mind if I use your shower?” he asked, changing the subject.
“Of course not.” She leaned close to the mirror and swiped mascara on her eyelashes. “I have to go, though. Gordon called from the hospital.”
“How’s Lauren?”
“Good.” She applied lipstick. Then she stuffed all her makeup into a zipper bag. “They moved her to a private room. Also, the motel clerk is awake now. Gordon’s bringing in a forensic artist, hoping she’ll be up for an interview. He wants me to sit in, see what develops.” She paused. “Are you getting on the road today?”
“That’s the plan.”
Her gaze dropped to his chest, and she looked like she wanted to say something. He waited, but nothing came.
“I’ve got to check something out first,” he said. “Cole sent me a new lead on a gun dealer, so I’m going to follow up.”
“You should let us do it.” She lifted her gaze, and her voice was businesslike. “You don’t want to be late reporting for duty.”
“I’d just as soon handle it. Where are you going to be later?”
Someone knocked on the door, and she glanced across the room. “That’s Torres.” She pulled her still-damp hair into a ponytail, then squeezed past him again and went to the dresser.
“Where will you be later?” he asked again.
“After the hospital? Probably the office.”
She put on her belt, threading it through her holster as he eased closer to watch. When he’d first met her, the gun had been a major turn-on. Now it was mostly a reminder of what he didn’t like about her job. She thought his job was dangerous? He’d been with her a week, and she’d been knifed and shot at.
She finished buckling and looked up. “Why?”
“I’ll catch up with you before I go. Keep your phone on.”
More knocking. She grabbed her jacket off the chair and shrugged into it, watching him. “If you can’t, I understand,” she said.
He pulled her to him and kissed her hard. When he let her go, she blinked up at him. “Keep your phone on.”
It would have been a tricky interview anyway, but with Jamie still groggy, communication was difficult. Gordon seemed determined, though, and by mid-morning, he’d cut through all the hospital’s red tape and had one of the nation’s top forensic artists on-site and ready to get to work.
Fiona Glass had a stellar reputation in law-enforcement circles, and Elizabeth had felt a wave of relief upon hearing she was on the case. Her relief disappeared, though, when the artist announced that she didn’t want any investigators sitting in on the session. The witness’s comfort was of paramount importance, especially when that witness had been the victim of a violent crime.
So Elizabeth spent the better part of the morning pacing between the waiting room and Lauren’s hospital room, where her family was gathered around waiting for her to emerge from the fog of pain meds.
Elizabeth had just poured her third cup of too-weak coffee when the sound of heels on linoleum had her turning around.
“You’re finished?” She hurried up to the artist.
“We are.”
Elizabeth had expected Fiona Glass to be an artsy, earth-mother type, but instead, she looked more like an attorney. She pulled a legal-size file folder from her leather attaché case and handed over a drawing.
Elizabeth took one look at the color portrait, and her breath caught. “It’s Rasheed.”
“You know him?”
She looked up, then down at the drawing again. Done in colored pastel on buff-colored paper, the picture was a nearly photographic likeness of Omar Rasheed, right down to the dark mole on his nose that Elizabeth hadn’t even realized she’d noticed before.
She studied the flinty look in his eye, and her stomach tightened. She remembered the same defiant expression when they’d faced off on that rooftop.
Elizabeth cleared her throat. “This is—it’s incredible. I can’t believe you got this much detail with the witness as injured as she is. And medicated, too. Didn’t she have trouble communicating?”
“Communication barriers of one form or another are the rule, not the exception,” she said. “Try interviewing a traumatized three-year-old whose first language isn’t English.”
Elizabeth nodded, still taken aback.
“As witnesses go, she was slow to respond and definitely tired but very clear about what she saw.”
“It’s an impressive drawing,” Elizabeth said, “but it doesn’t help us much from an investigative perspective. We already have this subject ID’d. And unfortunately, he’s dead.”
The artist tipped her head to the side. “Jamie tells me there was another man she remembers entering the motel room, but she only saw him from the back, so I wasn’t able to get a sketch. I got the other subject, though.” She slipped the first drawing back into her folder and tugged out another. The sharp scent of fixative wafted up as she handed it over. “This one we just completed.”
Elizabeth’s pulse jumped. “You got the woman.” She studied the drawing. Auburn hair, as she’d suspected. Dark eyes, olive skin, strong cheekbones. She was beautiful, and it was no surprise she’d managed to seduce Matt Palicek into helping her.
If, in fact, she had.
“This person’s new,” Elizabeth said. “So this is definitely a lead.”
“But . . . what? You seem unsure.”
“Not about the drawing. It’s just—we’ve put together a list of potential subjects. Females. And unfortunately, the only photos we have of them are from childhood.”
She nodded. “Well, obviously, recent is better, but we get IDs based on age-progression drawings all the time. A huge part of what I do involves missing children. In many cases, I’ve been able to age the picture ten, twenty, even thirty years and get something that bears an uncanny resemblance to the adult.”
“Really?”
“Certain features of the human face remain the same from infancy all the way into adulthood. You’d be surprised.”
“I am.” And Elizabeth knew she sounded skeptical, but she wanted to be convinced.
“Take the shape of the nostrils, for instance, and the shape of the eyes. The eyebrows, too—although some women alter that cosmetically.” She stepped closer and pointed at the portrait. “Look at the contour of the mouth here. See the seam where the lips meet? Very hard to change that. Also, the way the tops of the ears line up with the eyes and where the earlobes line up with the nose. Even with orthodontics or plastic surgery, those features are nearly impossible to alter.”
“You make it sound like an exact science.”
“Well, I don’t want to oversell it,” she said. “We are dealing with a drawing based on someone’s recollection. If we were comparing two photographs, it would be exact. However, I should point out that you have something going for you in this case.”
Elizabeth stared at the picture, trying to guess.
“The hair,” the artist said. “Cowlicks, widow’s peaks, those features don’t change over someone’s lifetime and are easy to notice.” She traced her finger over the woman’s hairline. “See? She has a widow’s peak. It was one of the first things Jamie mentioned.”
Elizabeth studied the drawing, fascinated. Her pulse was racing now, and she wanted to rush back to the office and look at the photos they’d compiled of the female relatives of the terrorists.
A shadow fell over the paper, and she glanced up to see Potter.
“That’s her?” he asked, frowning.
“What do you think?”
“I think we need a name to go with the face.” He looked at her. “Where’s Gordon?”
“At the office. Why?”
“I just got a call from Interpol. You know the name you passed along this morning? They’ve got ‘Rasasa’ on file as a nickname for Ahmed Rasheed.”
“Ahmed,” she repeated. “The brother who was killed in the drone strike?”
“Reportedly killed. Turns out they had visual confirmation on the ground but no DNA. That particular detail got left out of the file on our end.”
Elizabeth’s stomach twisted. “You’re saying it’s possible he’s alive?”
“Very much so,” Potter told her. “It’s also possible he’s here.”
Elizabeth clicked open the e-mail attachment, and the image appeared on the screen.
“Fatima Rasheed,” she said. “She’s seven years younger than her brother Omar, which makes her twenty-four.”
Gordon’s brow furrowed as he studied the photograph, which showed eight members of the Rasheed family standing inside an upscale shopping mall in Dubai.
“How old is she there?” Torres asked.
“Ten.” Elizabeth glanced up at the picture. “So she’s not fully veiled, only the head scarf.”
“And where’d you get the photo?” Gordon asked.
“NSA. They’ve been watching this family since 9/11.”
Torres sighed heavily, and Elizabeth looked at him across the table.
“What?”
“I’m not seeing it.” He nodded at the second image, the forensic drawing, which was displayed on-screen alongside the family snapshot. “I mean, yeah, there’s a resemblance, but so what?” he said. “Same could be said about a lot of women. What about Zahid Ameen’s female relatives?”
“We don’t have photos,” Potter said.
“Ameen’s from Saudi Arabia,” Elizabeth pointed out. “Women are much more limited there. Many wear the niqab, which covers the face except for the eyes. They’re not supposed to mix with men socially. They aren’t allowed to drive, and they’re required to have a male guardian to go anywhere, even the doctor’s office.”
“Because of the strict rules,” Potter said, “we know next to nothing about the women of Ameen’s family.”
“Put Ahmed Rasheed’s wife back up there,” Gordon said.
Elizabeth clicked the mouse and changed the image. Yes, some of the basic features were similar, but the resemblance wasn’t nearly as strong.
“I think it’s the sister, Fatima.” She clicked the girl’s picture back up. “I know it is.”
“You can’t be sure,” Torres argued. “Not if we’re basing this on a drawing.”
“But look at the hairline, the way it points down in the middle. It’s right there. Even if she changed her name, she can’t totally disguise her appearance. I’m telling you, the woman we’re looking for is Fatima Rasheed.”
“Why are you so sure?” Gordon leaned back in his chair, frowning.
“She has motive, means, and opportunity.”
“Motive being her brother was killed in a drone strike,” he said. “But we now know he probably wasn’t killed.”
“Even if he wasn’t killed, he was still targeted by an American drone,” Elizabeth said. “That’s enough to inspire hate.”
“What’s the last concrete info we have on her?” Torres asked.
“She entered Turkey four years ago. Her father has relatives in Istanbul, and we assume she was staying with them.”
“That’s before the drone strike,” Gordon pointed out.
“Yes, but it’s what she did after that we need to be concerned about. What if she joined the cause? What if someone helped her put a new identity together, and she got on a plane to Canada or Mexico or maybe even New York City? I’m telling you, Fatima Rasheed is the face of this operation.” She waved a hand at the screen. “If you think about it, it’s perfect. Look at all we have on her. A snapshot of a little girl. She’s a face we’d never expect. But I believe she did do this. I believe she got herself over here and started laying the groundwork, finding a safe house and buying a car and coordinating all the meetings, gathering everyone together.”
“What about eliminating witnesses?” Torres asked. “That college kid who sold his car to them—he was murdered before Rasheed and Ameen got over here. You’re saying she did that?”
“Why’s that so impossible?” Elizabeth asked, getting annoyed. “A woman can hold a pistol, same as anybody. This kind of thinking is playing right into their hands, you guys. They know we’re resistant to the idea of a female terrorist. And they’re using that to their advantage.”
Elizabeth looked at the faces around the room—all of them male and most of them skeptical. Why was this so difficult to believe? Maybe they didn’t like the idea of hunting down a woman.
She wished Lauren were here to back her up.
“Okay, so what about Ahmed Rasheed?” Torres asked. “Do we have confirmation he was aboard that submarine?”
“We’re still waiting on the print from that gas can,” Gordon said.
“But it’s looking likely,” Potter added. “Hailey Gardner remembers Khalid talking about someone named Rasasa. That’s Ahmed’s nickname, and it means bullet. He’s got a reputation as an expert marksman, and we’ve got video footage of him teaching shooting at an Al Qaeda training camp.”
Gordon tapped his pen on the table. “If Ahmed Rasheed is alive—which hasn’t been confirmed, by the way—it would make for an interesting scenario. It puts the idea of an assassination back into play. But the discovery of the narco sub had led us to believe they were trying to smuggle in a chemical weapon.”
“Do we know this for sure?” Torres asked. “That there was a bomb aboard that sub?”
“Word from the lab is the submarine tests positive for explosives residue,” Gordon said. “Despite water washing away much of the evidence, they were still able to detect trace amounts.”
“What about white phosphorus?” Elizabeth asked, cringing inwardly at the thought.
“Inconclusive. However, with Zahid Ameen involved, we have to assume chemical weapons are a strong possibility.”
Her stomach clenched. This was sounding more and more like her worst nightmare: a chemical attack on innocent civilians. She studied the sketch posted on the screen, then looked at the smiling schoolgirl in the photo.
“Where’s Lieutenant Vaughn?”
She looked at Gordon. “On his way back to base.”
I’ll catch up with you before I go. It was nearly four o’clock. Obviously, he hadn’t had time for a big good-bye with her or even a phone call.
She dragged her attention back to the matter at hand. “I can see you’re not all convinced, but please listen.” She focused on Gordon. “If Fatima is the front man for this operation, then that is a strategic advantage that this terror cell will want to maximize. The motel clerk told the artist she saw this woman getting into her car in the late afternoons but not the mornings. The woman kept a regular schedule, which makes me think she has a job. Whatever it is, she probably got it in order to gain access to something or someone. That job could tell us what their target is.”
Silence fell over the room.
“Let’s run down the list again.” Gordon nodded at his assistant, and a long list of targets appeared on the screen. “The NSA’s reporting an increase in overall chatter, so the theory is that whatever they’re planning, it’s probably happening soon.”
Elizabeth’s phone vibrated in her pocket. She slipped it out and saw a text from Derek.
Come outside.
Her pulse skipped. I’m at the office, she replied.
A few seconds later, I know.
She subtly excused herself and slipped out of the room, ignoring Gordon’s look. She made her way through the bullpen and downstairs to the lobby. She passed through the security checkpoint and spied Derek’s truck sitting in the visitors lot. Her pulse skipped again.
She strode over as he lowered the driver’s-side window. “Did they cancel your callback?”
“No,” he said. “Come on, get in.”
“What are you still doing here?”
“Get in, Liz. We don’t have time to waste.”
She stood for a moment, debating. Then she rounded the front of the truck and climbed inside. “This better be important. I—”
“What’s the word on the target?” he interrupted, shoving the truck into gear.
“We’re working on it.”
He shook his head as he pulled out of the lot. She looked him over. He wore the same jeans and T-shirt he’d had on yesterday. And he still hadn’t shaved. But what really caught her attention was the tense expression on his face. Clearly, he was amped up about something.
“Why aren’t you on your way back to San Diego?” she asked. “And where have you been all day?”
He laughed, but he didn’t look amused. “Places you never want to go. Talking to people you never want to meet.”
“Who?”
“Doesn’t matter.” He pulled into traffic and floored the accelerator. “What matters is I got a hit on that name from Cole.”
“What do you mean, a hit?”
“I tracked the guy down. He’s a slippery son of a bitch, but I finally found him.”
“Who is he, and why does he matter?”
“Name’s Vincent Planter. Works at a pawn shop over on Richmond.”
She braced her hand on the dashboard as he took a sharp right.
“I have good reason to believe he sold Matt Palicek all his hardware recently.”
“Okay.”
“And he might have sold stuff to Matt’s girlfriend, too.”
“So where are we going?”
“To talk to him.”
She looked at her watch.
“Planter’s background raises red flags,” he said. “For one thing, he’s former Army. Fort Hood. Dishonorably discharged five years ago.”
“Why?”
“Don’t know what his file says, but this guy was a unit supply specialist. Rumor is some supplies went missing under his watch.”
She got a sinking feeling in her stomach. “What kind of supplies?”
“You know, MREs, boots.” He cut a glance at her. “Guns, ammo, hand grenades.”
“If that really happened, why isn’t he serving time?”
“They didn’t have enough evidence, from what I hear.” Derek picked up the freeway and quickly merged into the left lane. “I also hear he’s still got connections in uniform, which helps his business. Guy’s popular with the local preppers. People who are busy stocking up for Armageddon.”
Elizabeth looked out her window, absorbing everything. Should she call Gordon or not? She wanted to keep him updated but not if this lead turned out to be nothing. She looked over at Derek. It didn’t feel like nothing. He seemed worried—not exactly his usual state.
They sped down the freeway, weaving in and out of traffic. He was in a hurry, and he hadn’t really explained why.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
He glanced at her. “What do you mean?”
“There’s more to this lead. What is it?”
He didn’t say anything, and her anxiety ratcheted up a notch.
“Derek.”
“Let’s just see what we see, okay? You have any luck with the witness this morning?”
Nice change of subject. “We got a drawing,” she told him. “Actually, we got two. Omar and a woman who I now believe is Fatima Rasheed.”
“His sister.”
“That’s right.”
“Good work.”
“In other news, we’re firming up the theory that their brother Ahmed Rasheed actually survived the drone strike.”
He shot her a look.
“I’m predicting fingerprint evidence from the gas can will confirm that he’s the one who hitched a ride on that narco sub and then murdered Matt Palicek,” she said.
“Damn, this news just keeps getting better and better. Next you’re going to tell me bin Laden’s back from the dead.”
Derek cut across three lanes of traffic and exited the freeway. Elizabeth looked out the window as he maneuvered aggressively down Richmond Avenue, flying through intersections and running yellow lights. Finally, the sign came into view, and he turned into a lot.
Ed’s Easy Pawn shared a pitted parking lot with a strip club and a brake shop. Burglar bars covered the store’s windows, and a neon sign proclaimed WE BUY GOLD. Derek swung into a space out of view of the front door.
“Stay in the car,” he said.
“Like hell.”
“You’re obviously a cop. He might not talk in front of you.”
“Then why’d you bring me along?”
He smiled. “You look good in my truck.”
She rolled her eyes and shoved open the door. He’d known full well she wouldn’t stay behind. Whatever plan he had for this was bound to include her.
“I’ll do the talking,” he said, leading her to the door. “You have that picture on you?”
“Of Fatima? Yes, it’s on my phone.”
“We might need it. But keep quiet. Don’t talk unless I give you the cue, all right?”
“Let’s just see what we see.”
He shot her a glare as he pulled open the door.
Elizabeth stepped inside and looked around. The shop was warm and musty. Guitars lined the wall to her right. The middle of the store was devoted to stereo speakers, amps, and other electronic equipment. Straight ahead was a jewelry counter, and to her left was a long glass display case filled with handguns.
Two men stood behind the gun counter, one with a buzz cut and the other with a shaved head and a full beard.
Derek approached them. “Vinnie! Wazzup, man?”
The shaved head snapped up. Derek reached across the counter and grabbed his hand in one of those cool guy handshakes. Vincent looked confused.
“Mendoza says hi.” Derek held his grip. “We need to catch up, bro. Come on out back, take a break.”
“But I—”
“Take a break.”
His look of confusion morphed into a pained grimace. Derek was still gripping his hand. “Sure, fine.” He darted a look at the heavyset woman eyeing them from the jewelry counter.
Derek let go, and Vincent led him through a door into the back. Elizabeth followed. As they made their way down the dingy hallway, she studied the suspect and tried to imagine him in uniform. She couldn’t. Whatever shape this guy had been in by the end of boot camp was long gone.
He pushed through an exit door and into an alley, where he turned to face them. He dug a pack of cigarettes from his cargo pants and glared up at Derek.
“I been talking to your clients, Vinnie.” Derek folded his arms over his chest. “Lot of unhappy customers around town, I gotta tell you. Mendoza says you ripped him off.”
“Who the fuck do you think you are?”
“I’m a guy with some questions.”
“Yeah? Well, fuck off.”
Derek sighed and gave Vincent a look of disappointment. Then he exploded, jabbing him in the jaw and sweeping his legs out from under him. Elizabeth jumped back as the man landed on the concrete beside her.
“Shit!”
“On your feet,” Derek ordered.
Vincent writhed on the pavement, clutching his mouth.
“On your feet!”
He rolled onto his side, then pushed himself to his feet, scowling. He shot a hostile look in Elizabeth’s direction as he spit blood on the asphalt.
Derek stepped closer, backing him up against a Dumpster. “Matt Palicek. When was the last time you saw him?”
“I don’t know.”
Derek jammed his arm against his windpipe. “Listen up, Vinnie. I’m punching a clock today. Know what that means? Means I don’t have time for some fat fuck like you giving me shit. When did you see him?”
Derek stepped back and waited.
Vincent darted another look at Elizabeth. She took out her phone and scrolled through her photos.
“Last week,” Vincent finally said.
“When last week?”
“Tuesday.”
“He alone?”
“What?”
“He come to see you alone, or did he have someone with him?”
“He had a girl with him.”
Elizabeth eased closer. “Name?” she asked.
“How should I know?”
Derek motioned for her to hand him the phone. He showed Vincent the photo of the composite drawing. “This her?”
He shrugged. “Could be.”
Derek eased closer.
“Yeah, fine. That looks like her. What the hell’s this about, anyway?”
“What did Palicek buy?” Derek asked.
“Guns. What do you think?”
“What kind?”
“A couple nines and a shorty shotgun.”
“What about an AR-15?”
“That was the time before.” He looked at Elizabeth, obviously not liking the fact that she was a cop.
A cop who hadn’t identified herself. A cop who was—for all intents and purposes—assaulting a suspect in an alley. She looked at Derek.
“What else?” Derek’s voice was tight.
“What do you mean?”
“What else did you sell them? C-4? Det cord? Willie Pete?”
“No way.”
Derek slammed him against the Dumpster. “Don’t lie to me, you piece of shit.” He shoved his arm against his throat and pressed until the guy’s face turned red.
“Detonators,” he choked out.
Derek backed off, and Vincent clutched his neck, wheezing.
“He wanted some detonators, okay? I sold him some.”
“Where’d you get them?” Derek demanded.
“People I know. I’m a businessman.”
Elizabeth’s mind was reeling. She wanted to get out of there and call Gordon.
“What else? What’d you sell the woman?”
“An SR-25. Shit. Look, this isn’t personal, all right? It’s business.”
“Business? It’s called treason, motherfucker. It’s called murdering innocent people.”
Suddenly, Derek’s arm snaked around her. He jerked the handcuffs from her waistband and slapped a bracelet on Vincent.
“Hey!”
A loud clink as Derek snapped the other bracelet to the bar on the front of the Dumpster. Then he was frisking the guy.
“Derek, what—”
“Hey, that’s my phone!” Vincent yelped.
“It’s mine now.” He turned to Elizabeth. “Let’s go.”
“You can’t just leave me here!”
He grabbed Elizabeth by the arm and propelled her down the alley and around the side of the building.
“Derek, what the hell are we doing? We can’t leave him there like that!”
“He’s a squirter.” He tossed the cell phone at her, and she caught it one-handed.
“A what?”
“If we let him go, the second we leave he’ll be out the back door, calling up everyone in his distribution chain. This way you guys can arrest him.” He looked at her. “What? You should be thanking me.”
He popped the locks on his truck and jumped behind the wheel. She slid inside. “Are you crazy?”
“No. But I’m a little pressed for time.” He shoved the truck into gear and rocketed backward out of the space. “Check out that phone. See if there’s anything from Rasheed or Ameen.”
Elizabeth’s heart hammered as she stared down at the phone.
This was bad. Everything about this was bad. And that didn’t even take into account the extremely illegal “apprehension” they’d just made.
“Stop the truck.”
He looked at her.
“Stop the truck! I need to think a second.”
“No can do.”
“But—what’s an SR-25?”
He shot her a look. “You really don’t know?”
“What is it?”
“A sniper rifle.”