Beyond Limits (Tracers #8)(19)
“Nothing.” She dropped the phone into her purse. “I’m really sorry, but I have to go.”
Chapter Six
Elizabeth caught the first flight out before sunrise. By the time she landed and picked up her rental car, rush hour was dissipating, and so was her energy. She pulled into the office and did her hair and makeup in the parking lot before locking her suitcase in the trunk and rushing inside. After hurrying through security, she found the entire task force squeezed into a conference room.
Elizabeth slipped inside. Every seat was taken around the table, so she grabbed a bit of wall space beside Torres.
He did a double take.
“Who’s this?” she mouthed, nodding toward the far end of the room, where a man stood talking.
He leaned over and whispered in her ear, “ICE.”
Immigration and Customs Enforcement. So this lead had come from them.
“It’s something we’ve been worried about for some time,” the ICE agent was saying. “It’s a back door, and they’ve used it before.”
Gordon was watching her from the head of the conference table. He’d wanted her here ASAP, so here she was. A little harried, yes, but she was present.
“The most serious attempt was several summers ago,” the agent continued, “when a Mexico-based Al Qaeda cell tried to smuggle a truck bomb up through one of the border tunnels.”
Elizabeth glanced behind the ICE agent, where a screen showed a black-and-white still shot of a dark minivan. It was parked beside a gas pump, and the image looked to have been taken by a surveillance camera.
“How far is this entry point from that location?” someone at the table asked.
“Not far at all. And the turf is controlled by the same cartel, the Saledos. They basically control all routes in and out of there and sell access to the highest bidder, which in this case might be foreign terrorists.” The agent tapped on a laptop sitting open on the table, and a video filled the screen. The black-and-white footage showed the minivan pulling up to the gas pump. Elizabeth squinted at the grainy picture, not sure what to look for. Movement.
“There.” The agent paused on an image of several people dashing away from the vehicle. “That’s him.”
“Any ID on the woman?” someone asked.
“No, but she’s believed to be Nicaraguan. Same for a few others who were in this vehicle. The coyote transporting them works for the Saledo cartel. Another coyote”—he tapped the laptop, and a mug shot came up—“Manuel Villareal, works for a rival cartel that’s horning in on this route. When Villareal got jammed up in San Antonio trying to offload his cargo, we pulled him in for questioning. He’s got a long sheet, so it took him no time to lawyer up. But that’s when he surprised us. Next thing we know, his lawyer’s offering up a deal. Probation for his client in exchange for a tip about a rival coyote getting paid twenty grand to, quote, ‘smuggle an Arab over the border.’?”
“How good is this tip?” someone at the table asked. “I’d think this Villareal guy would say anything to avoid jail time.”
“Holmes, you want to take this one?” The ICE agent gestured to his left, and Elizabeth was startled to see Lauren leaning against the wall.
“Special Agent Holmes has been investigating the Saledo organization for some time now,” the agent said. “She interviewed the suspect.”
Lauren made eye contact with Elizabeth. “Villareal’s one of our frequent fliers.” She glanced around the room. “And it comes as no surprise he’s trying to wiggle out of some prison time by throwing one of his rivals under the bus. Villareal’s boss finds out he got arrested making a delivery, he’s going to want payback. He probably figures he’ll get some leniency if he screws over a rival while he’s in custody.”
“You think he’s reliable?” Gordon asked.
“Villareal? No. He’d sell out his grandmother to avoid prison,” she said. “But it’s hard to see how he could make this up. This tip about smuggling someone of Arab descent came out of nowhere, just hours after our office got the memo about the missing terrorist who was thought to be targeting Texas. And so far, his story’s holding up.”
“Villareal and this other coyote both pulled over at the same truck stop in Del Rio, a place known to be friendly to traffickers,” the ICE agent said, pointing to the screen. “You can see Villareal’s pickup here, in the background. He claims that while he was getting gas, he actually saw this guy Rasheed getting out of the other van. The surveillance footage you see here corroborates that claim.”
“How would Villareal know who it was?” Torres asked.
“He didn’t,” Lauren said. “But when we put a photo array in front of him, he picked him out right away. Omar Rasheed.”
The picture on the screen changed. Elizabeth recognized the photo from yesterday’s briefing. It showed Rasheed as he’d appeared in one of the recruiting videos, seated cross-legged on a carpet against a backdrop of anti-American graffiti. He wore traditional Afghan dress and had a dark beard. Another picture appeared on the screen: Rasheed standing behind a blindfolded Ana Hansson just seconds before he slit her throat.
The ICE agent sat down, and Gordon stood to take over the meeting.