Beyond Limits (Tracers #8)(36)

“Pulled it out of his jacket.”

“You think it’s a signal? Like maybe he’s launching an attack?”

He didn’t say anything, and Elizabeth’s stomach plummeted.

“Derek?”

“I get the feeling he’s waiting for someone. Maybe someone who doesn’t know him. Could be what the hat’s about.”

She reached the ice rink, which was jammed with kids. She cut through a group of little girls dressed in tutus and tiaras. She skimmed her gaze over the railing, but clusters of birthday balloons blocked her view.

“I don’t see him,” Elizabeth told him. “You said a red ball cap?”

“Yeah. I think he’s meeting someone.”

And then she saw it. A red cap. The man leaned casually against the railing, but he was scanning the crowd. Derek was right—he was waiting for something or someone.

“I’ve got him,” she said.

“Hang up, okay? And don’t attract attention to yourself.”

Eye contact.

She turned around. “Oh, damn.”

“What? What is it?”

She stepped behind an information board. “He saw me.”

“Fuck.”

“What happened? What’s he doing?” she asked.

“He’s taking off.”





* * *





Elizabeth cut through the crowd, scanning the heads for the red cap. It was nowhere. He’d probably tossed it by now.

A commotion ahead. A yelp. A woman yelled something over her shoulder and stooped to pick up a spilled Starbucks cup.

Elizabeth spotted him. No cap now as he darted through groups of people. He threw a look over his shoulder as she ducked behind a cluster of teens.

Had he seen her? She rushed after him again. He was heading for another section of the mall, and she had no idea whether the agents Torres had called were in place at the exits yet. This mall had dozens of exits. Maybe hundreds. Elizabeth plunged through the crowd, desperately trying to keep sight of the black leather jacket and dark head. Her phone chimed, but she ignored it. Then the radio crackled, and she remembered it in her pocket.

Rasheed jumped onto an escalator. A chorus of protests went up as he pushed through people in his sprint for the bottom. Where was he going?

She grabbed the radio. “Torres! He’s on the run. Where is everyone?”

Static. “—your location—” More static.

“Near Macy’s. First floor.”

She hit the escalator just as Rasheed tossed a look over his shoulder. Their gazes locked, and then he lunged into a corridor.

She hurried down the escalator, squeezing between people with shopping bags. She couldn’t lose him. Where was Derek? He had to be close.

She jumped the last two steps. Pain zinged up her ankle. Ignoring it, she took off toward the corridor and noticed a gold placard. A hotel.

Panic shot through her as she remembered the high-rise building attached to the mall. It had to be ten floors, maybe twelve. And it was a traffic hub. He could catch a taxi, hijack a car, grab a hostage. She yanked open a glass door and entered a carpeted lobby with yet another set of escalators. Glancing up, she saw a soaring atrium and realized she was now below street level.

Her pulse roared in her ears, drowning out the classical music, the ding of elevators. A loud metallic clatter had her spinning around as shouts erupted behind a gray door.

She pushed through the door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY and found herself in an industrial kitchen. Steam enveloped her. The smell of overcooked vegetables hung in the air. Across pots and pans and cooktops, she saw the blur of a movement as Rasheed shoved a waiter aside and dashed through a door.

She shot after him, darting past kitchen workers. She plowed through another door and into an enormous ballroom that was being prepped for an event. Dozens of tables, hundreds of place settings. Waiters were busy dropping off water glasses. She caught someone’s eye, and he pointed toward a pair of double doors.

“Thanks!” she said, sprinting across the room and pulling her phone from her pocket. Another carpeted lobby.

“Where are you?” she asked Derek.

“First-floor lobby. Where’s Rasheed?”

A high-pitched shriek had her spinning around.

Elevator.

She rushed for the bank of elevators as the doors whisked shut. A woman stood in the lobby, clutching her hand to her chest.

“He . . . he attacked me! Did you see that? He just yanked me right out—”

“Something wrong, ma’am?”

A security guard walked up, and Elizabeth whipped out her ID.

“FBI. Where’s your security room?”

“Where’s . . . what?” His befuddled gaze jumped from her ID to the distraught woman and back to her ID again.

“The room that houses your security cameras. I’m in pursuit of a suspect.”

Another glance at her ID. “Uh, this way.”

He led her to another gray door and used a code to gain access.

“You say you’re after a suspect?” He glanced over his shoulder as he led her down a cinder-block corridor.

“We have to hurry.” She started jogging, checking the placards on all the doors. “I need to know which floor he gets off on.”

“Up ahead on the left,” he said, lumbering after her.