Beyond Limits (Tracers #8)(37)

The door was ajar, and Elizabeth rushed inside to find a bank of computer monitors.

A uniformed woman with frizzy brown hair glanced up at her, frowning. “Hey—”

“She’s FBI,” the guard cut in. “She needs to see the elevator cams.”

Elizabeth scanned the row of monitors, all black-and-white. Lobby, lobby, lobby, fitness room, pool. And elevators.

“There he is.” She tapped the screen as Rasheed glanced up and looked directly into the camera. “He’s going up. How tall is this place?”

Both guards looked blank.

“How many floors?”

“Twelve,” the man said.

“What’s on top?”

“Uh . . . twelve’s our helipad, our rooftop fitness center.”

The elevator doors parted. Rasheed got off.

Elizabeth leaned closer. “What floor is that? Where’s he going?”

“Uh . . .” The woman glanced at the monitor. “Looks like . . . six.”

She lifted the phone to her ear. “You hear that, Derek? Sixth floor. He just got off. But he might try to go down again.”

“He will. He’s got no exfil route up there. You need agents on street level.”

“I know. Where are you?”

“Stairwell.”

“Don’t let him past you,” she ordered. And then to the security guards, “I need these elevators shut down now.”





* * *





Elizabeth took a service elevator to the sixth floor and got off. She was now juggling a phone and a walkie-talkie on loan from the guard, who was still monitoring cameras. Her FBI radio was tucked into the pocket of her blazer.

“He just entered a stairwell,” the guard reported.

She turned and ran for the door.

“South stairwell,” he corrected. “End of the hallway.”

She halted and reversed direction. She hadn’t realized there were two stairwells. Which one was Derek in?

“Where’s he going?” she asked.

“I don’t know. We don’t have security cameras in the stairwells, so—”

“Derek, you getting this?” She lifted the phone to her ear. “He’s in a stairwell.”

“Not this one. It’s silent as a tomb.”

“I don’t know whether he’s going up or down.”

“My guess is down,” Derek said. “I’ll cut over and try to head him off.”

She pressed her ear against the door to the stairs and forced herself to stand still and listen, but the only sound was the pounding of her own heart. She dropped the walkie-talkie and the phone into her pocket and pulled out her Glock. She took a deep breath as she opened the door and stepped onto the landing.

A dark shape sprang from the corner, smacking into her. She fell back against the door and saw a flash of metal. Knife! White-hot pain seared her arm as the blade came down. Her hand spasmed, and her gun clattered to the floor.

Thunder from below. Rasheed lunged for the door. She leaped to block it and spun at him with a side kick, missing his groin, connecting with his thigh.

“Elizabeth!” Derek’s voice boomed from below.

Rasheed shoved past her and dashed up the stairs. She swooped down for her gun but discovered her arm wasn’t working. She grabbed the weapon with her left hand and scrambled upstairs. Footsteps reverberated above and below. She took the steps as fast as she could, ignoring the noise and the pain as she tried to think.

Backup.

The instant the thought formed, her phone chimed. She transferred her gun to her injured hand and used her left to dig the phone from her pocket. Gordon.

“I need backup, ASAP! I’m in the hotel stairwell, seventh floor, maybe eighth.”

“Where’s Rasheed?” Gordon demanded.

“Headed for the roof.”

“Torres is in the lobby, but the elevators are down. Which stairwell, north or south?”

“South.” She glanced at the red numbers painted beside each door. “I’m on nine.”

Her heart hammered. Two stairwells meant two escape routes, even with the elevators shut down.

“SWAT’s on the way,” Gordon told her. “ETA three minutes. Stall him any way you can, but take him alive. Is that clear? We must interrogate him and get to the rest of this sleeper cell. You got that?”

“Got it,” she said, and tucked the phone away.

Take him alive . . . even if he slits your throat. He hadn’t said the last part, but his meaning was clear.

Derek’s boots echoed below. He had to be four, maybe five floors down, but he was pounding closer. Maybe she should wait.

Twelve’s our helipad, our rooftop fitness center.

A fitness center meant potential hostages. Rasheed was desperate—she’d seen it in his eyes.

She rounded another corner. Above her, a door burst open.

He’d reached the roof.





* * *





Derek took the stairs three at a time, leaping around the landings like a madman as he followed the trail of blood.

Eight.

He bounded up the steps, spurred by the image of her alone on that rooftop with Rasheed.

Nine.