Beyond Limits (Tracers #8)(68)

“I’m at the hospital.”





* * *





Elizabeth paced the room, compulsively darting glances at the double doors. Nothing. She passed by the wall of windows that looked out over the medical center. She swung by the coffeepot, then back to the chairs. It was a well-worn path in the carpet where hundreds or maybe thousands of anxious people had walked before.

The doors opened, and she whirled around, hoping to see the doctor. Instead, it was Gordon. His face was a hard mask, and she struggled to read the look in his eyes as he walked toward her.

“No change,” he said. “She’s still in recovery.”

Her throat tightened. “It’s been over an hour.”

“When she stabilizes, they’ll move her. Until then . . .”

He didn’t need to finish. Until then, they’d wait. Lauren had pulled through the surgery, but the doctor had described the procedure as “complicated.” The bullet had ripped through her right kidney. They’d had to remove the kidney and repair several organs.

Elizabeth glanced at the door as Lauren’s sister walked through and went straight to the coffeepot. She looked like an older version of Lauren—straight dark hair, willowy build. She’d been glued to her phone since she showed up at the hospital.

“I understand her parents are driving down from Dallas?”

Elizabeth looked at Gordon. “That’s right.”

“We need someone here when they show up,” he said, “but I have to go by the crime scene. They’re wrapping up there.”

“I’ll stay.”

“Torres is on his way in, so you can leave when he gets here.”

“What’s happening with Jamie?” she asked, changing the subject so she wouldn’t have to argue.

“No updates.”

The motel clerk had been hit by a bullet that grazed her neck. The wound had bled profusely but done little damage. The more serious injury had occurred when she dropped to the pavement and hit her head. She had cerebral swelling and was currently in a drug-induced coma.

“We’ve got an agent stationed at her door,” Gordon said. “When she comes out of this, we’ll need to interview her.”

If she came out of it.

The working theory was that the clerk had seen something important—otherwise, why bother to eliminate her?

Gordon’s phone buzzed, and he pulled it out to check the screen.

“I have to go.” He gave her a sharp look. “When Torres shows, I want you to go home, get some sleep.”

“Sir—”

“No arguments. You’ve been here for hours, and you worked late last night, too. I need you rested for tomorrow. We’re short-handed now.”

His words shut her up. They were short-handed because Lauren was in a hospital bed, fighting for her life. Elizabeth’s stomach churned, and she glanced at the doors again.

“Go home and rest, LeBlanc. You can’t help us if you’re dead on your feet.”

He walked away, leaving her alone once again in the maddeningly quiet waiting room.

She paced over to the chairs, where the television was tuned to CNN. The volume was muted, but she could read the headline crawling across the screen: TERROR SUSPECT DEAD IN APPARENT SUICIDE.

A reporter with a local TV station had finally broken the news that the roof jumper from Saturday had been on the terrorist watch list. The story had taken off, and although the media had gotten many of the details wrong, the upshot was accurate: the man had committed suicide as federal agents apprehended him. Now conjecture was running wild about what he’d been doing inside the United States at the time of his death.

Elizabeth watched the taped footage of an FBI spokeswoman standing at a podium. Her canned statement that she couldn’t share details “due to national security” had only fueled speculation.

An elevator opened, and Elizabeth turned to see Derek stepping off. Her heart lodged in her throat. He quickly spotted her and strode across the room.

“Any news?”

The look in his eyes made her chest hurt. She wanted to throw her arms around him, but she kept them firmly at her sides. “She’s out of surgery. That’s all I know.”

He nodded. “Hang tight. This is one of the best hospitals in the world. They’ll pull her through.”

She turned away.

“I’ve been working the gun angle.”

She looked at him, trying to process the words.

“Did you get a look at the weapon?” he asked.

The weapon. Used in the shooting. “I barely even saw the car,” she told him, as she had told investigators back at the crime scene. “Something white, maybe an SUV,” she added. “The motel manager got a better look at it. The gun was an automatic.”

“Probably a submachine gun, based on the range.”

“How do you know the range?”

“I went by the motel on my way here,” he said. “Saw the skid marks. Looks like they approached from the northwest corner, unloaded from the passenger side, then took off south—probably jumping right on the freeway.”

She tried to envision it. Everything he’d said fit with what she’d experienced. She’d been facing Jamie, not the street, when the shots erupted. She’d never seen it coming.