Beyond Limits (Tracers #8)(34)

Quiet settled over them, and the only sound was the grumble of traffic outside. She slid a look at him. Would he really hurt someone for her? In her heart, she knew he would. The thought was disturbingly comforting.

“That wasn’t that long a story,” he pointed out.

She gazed out the window. She’d omitted a few parts. The icy terror of feeling the muzzle against her neck. The burning humiliation of being disarmed and smacked down and at the mercy of a man’s fists. The raw panic of trying to look people in the eye afterward, especially people at work.

Some details she still couldn’t talk about, couldn’t even think about, until Demon Insomnia bitch-slapped her awake in the middle of the night.

Derek reached across the console and squeezed her hand. “Thanks for telling me.”

“Sure.” Like it was no big deal.

She stared at his hand, big as a baseball mitt, and felt a warm pull. He’d always seemed so brave. So strong. And she had the urge to fall into him and let everything out, all the pain and fear and anxiety of the past three months. Maybe if she curled up on a giant bed with him, she could just sleep and not lie awake all night, listening to the sound of her own pulse racing.

Yeah, right. If she got anywhere near a bed with him, sleep would be the last thing on her mind.

She tugged her hand away and checked her phone. Nothing. Gordon hadn’t pinged her all afternoon, demonstrating exactly how much importance had been placed on this stakeout: none. No one believed their suspects would use the same Internet café twice.

“Hey.”

She glanced at Derek.

“You look tapped,” he said. “How long you been sitting here?”

“Six hours.”

“Let’s get some food. Torres can cover for you.”

She frowned. “How did—”

“Black Ford at the end of the block. You guys need to get some better cars.”

She stared at him for a long moment, and she knew that he was right. She’d skipped lunch, and she was completely fried.

She picked up the radio and called Torres.

“You have eyes on the door?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“If you can cover this, I’m going to take a quick dinner break.”

“How long?” His tone was clipped, meaning he’d seen Derek slip into the car with her.

“Thirty minutes? I’ll let you know when I’m back.”

She started up the car, cringing at the blast of hot air that shot from the vents. She cranked the AC to high and glanced at Derek.

“Where to? Somewhere close,” she said.

“There’s a Dillo Burger two blocks over.”

She winced. “Sounds like roadkill.”

“Finnegan’s is on Sunset.”

She’d been to Finnegan’s. It was a popular sports bar lined with dark, cozy booths.

“Dillo is closer,” she said, pulling out of the space. She squeezed her way into traffic and glanced at Derek. “Any other leads you want to tell us about?”

He looked at her and raised an eyebrow. “Nope.”

She wasn’t sure whether to believe him. She’d known when she passed along the car info that there was a strong chance he might shut her out and go off on his own. But after all the recent setbacks, it was a chance she was willing to take. SEALs were experts at escape and evasion, and she could use a fresh perspective.

She eased into a turn lane and swung into Dillo Burger’s parking lot. A giant aluminum armadillo sat atop the sign, and she couldn’t believe she was about to buy meat here. She pulled into a space.

“They’d better not have a wait,” she said. “I’m starving.”

Derek clamped a hand over her wrist. “Hold on.”

“What?”

He was staring at the side mirror. Elizabeth turned to see what he was looking at, and her breath caught.

“Oh, my God. It’s him.”





Chapter Ten





Her brain registered details as she shoved the car back into gear: five-eight, one-forty. Omar Rasheed was clean-shaven, neatly dressed, and sliding behind the wheel of a blue Chevy Cavalier. He pulled out of the gas station.

“Move over.”

She glanced at Derek. “What?”

“I’m a better driver than you.”

She snatched up the radio and shot backward from the space. “Torres, it’s me. You copy?”

Static filled the car as she swung out of the parking lot.

“Liz, really, you’re going to get us burned.”

She let a BMW cut in front of her, creating space between her and the Chevy.

“Torres, you copy?”

“Yo.”

“We’ve sighted Rasheed at the Exxon—” She looked around, gripping the radio. “Montrose and Filmore. He’s headed south in a blue Chevy Cavalier.”

“Copy that.” His voice vibrated with excitement. “You’re sure it’s him?”

“I’m sure.”

“Ease back, Liz, you’re too close.”

She shot Derek a glare, then tapped the brakes. The Chevy was now three cars ahead. She followed, trying to stay inconspicuous.

“Crap, he’s turning,” she said.