Beyond Limits (Tracers #8)(24)
His confidence was mind-boggling. She would have laughed if he hadn’t looked so stone-faced.
“You’re serious.”
He nodded.
“We’ve got an entire task force looking for this guy. What makes you think you can find him?”
“I’m better.”
She shook her head. “Even if I wanted to involve you, which I don’t, for about a dozen reasons, including that I could get fired—”
“What’s more important? The lives of innocent people or your job?”
“Hey.” She pointed her fork at him. “That’s a cheap shot. Of course I care about innocent people, but I can’t very well help them if I lose my job, can I?” She picked at her pancakes and tamped down her annoyance. “Even if I wanted to give you some magic bit of intel, the fact is, we don’t have any.”
“Not true.”
“You’re trying to tell me about my case?”
“You have more than you realize,” he said. “Come on, think about it. Think about Del Rio.”
“What about Del Rio?”
“Buck’s Truck Stop.”
She frowned. “How did you know that?”
“Common sense. It’s the busiest place in the town. Best candidate as a hub of human trafficking. And ICE knows that, too. Am I right?”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying look at the place. Get out a Google map and study it. Better yet, go visit. The town has got to be wall-to-wall with security cams, a lot of them privately owned, some of them not. You’ve got fast-food restaurants, gas stations—”
“What’s your point?”
He looked impatient. “Someone somewhere got a shot of this guy meeting his contact. He didn’t vanish into thin air. He caught a ride. There’s a scrap of information out there. It just needs to be found.”
They had dozens of agents, in both Del Rio and Houston, searching for that very scrap.
“You want me to wave a wand and produce a lead? And then what?”
“I spent the better part of the last decade finding terrorists hiding in the Hindu Kush. I can do this, Liz. I promise you. You give me a lead on this guy, and I’ll run him down.”
* * *
Buck’s Truck Stop occupied Del Rio’s busiest juncture and did a brisk business twenty-four seven. Besides offering food, lodging, and a deluxe car wash, the place boasted no fewer than thirty-six gas pumps. Thirty-six. Elizabeth glanced at them now as she motored past the sprawling complex and followed her GPS instructions down a narrow side street. A few more turns, and she pulled into a parking lot, where she spotted a dusty blue Subaru that was doing a passable imitation of a civilian vehicle. The sparkling-clean Taurus she’d rented at the airport stood out, so she drove around back.
“Nice ride,” Torres quipped as she pulled up alongside a banana-yellow Honda with gold rims. “How come we never get the pimp-mobiles?”
A garage door lifted, and a heavy man with long sideburns waved them in. Evidently, their rental car was too conspicuous, even in back.
Elizabeth slid into the service bay and looked around. Several cars were up on lifts, and the place actually resembled a brake repair shop. In reality, it was the headquarters for a multiagency surveillance operation.
They got out. The place smelled like old motor oil and new tires. They introduced themselves to the undercover ICE agent who was their liaison for the morning, and he looked less than delighted to meet them.
“I’m Brad Parker.” He gave a brief nod. “Follow me.”
Elizabeth followed, wondering about the name. It sounded like an alias, like a throwaway name you’d give people from a rival agency you didn’t really trust. He led them down a dingy hallway and into an even dingier room filled with computers. Agents sat at all of the monitors, tapping away or staring at surveillance footage.
“We’ve had two people on this since yesterday,” Parker informed them. “No sign of your guy.” He led them to the far side of the room. “This is Juan Garza, by the way. He just took over.”
Garza—if that was really his name—glanced up from his computer and traded nods with his colleague.
“Special Agents LeBlanc and Torres, out of Houston,” Parker said.
They weren’t actually out of Houston, but she didn’t bother to correct him.
“We’re here to take a look at the surveillance footage,” Elizabeth said. “Hoping you have some new leads for us.”
Garza lifted a brow. “Not since I got here. Still no sign of him.”
“We have him leaving the minivan, but that’s it,” Parker said. “No sign of him entering the store or of him walking off the premises. We’ve been through the truck stop footage twice already.”
“Yours or theirs?” Elizabeth asked.
“Both. This spot has become a way station for traffickers. We’ve had surveillance on the place for fifteen months.”
“We’ve expanded our search to surrounding businesses.” Garza nodded at his screen. “Restaurants, ATMs . . . This right here is from the bank across the street.”
Elizabeth watched the grainy black-and-white image for a few moments. Cars pulled in and out of the parking lot and the drive-through teller windows, business as usual, nothing sinister happening at the truck stop across the street. She glanced at the time stamp at the bottom of the screen. A full sixty-six minutes after Rasheed was filmed fleeing the coyote’s vehicle.