Beyond Limits (Tracers #8)(83)
Gordon tapped his pen on the table. “If Ahmed Rasheed is alive—which hasn’t been confirmed, by the way—it would make for an interesting scenario. It puts the idea of an assassination back into play. But the discovery of the narco sub had led us to believe they were trying to smuggle in a chemical weapon.”
“Do we know this for sure?” Torres asked. “That there was a bomb aboard that sub?”
“Word from the lab is the submarine tests positive for explosives residue,” Gordon said. “Despite water washing away much of the evidence, they were still able to detect trace amounts.”
“What about white phosphorus?” Elizabeth asked, cringing inwardly at the thought.
“Inconclusive. However, with Zahid Ameen involved, we have to assume chemical weapons are a strong possibility.”
Her stomach clenched. This was sounding more and more like her worst nightmare: a chemical attack on innocent civilians. She studied the sketch posted on the screen, then looked at the smiling schoolgirl in the photo.
“Where’s Lieutenant Vaughn?”
She looked at Gordon. “On his way back to base.”
I’ll catch up with you before I go. It was nearly four o’clock. Obviously, he hadn’t had time for a big good-bye with her or even a phone call.
She dragged her attention back to the matter at hand. “I can see you’re not all convinced, but please listen.” She focused on Gordon. “If Fatima is the front man for this operation, then that is a strategic advantage that this terror cell will want to maximize. The motel clerk told the artist she saw this woman getting into her car in the late afternoons but not the mornings. The woman kept a regular schedule, which makes me think she has a job. Whatever it is, she probably got it in order to gain access to something or someone. That job could tell us what their target is.”
Silence fell over the room.
“Let’s run down the list again.” Gordon nodded at his assistant, and a long list of targets appeared on the screen. “The NSA’s reporting an increase in overall chatter, so the theory is that whatever they’re planning, it’s probably happening soon.”
Elizabeth’s phone vibrated in her pocket. She slipped it out and saw a text from Derek.
Come outside.
Her pulse skipped. I’m at the office, she replied.
A few seconds later, I know.
She subtly excused herself and slipped out of the room, ignoring Gordon’s look. She made her way through the bullpen and downstairs to the lobby. She passed through the security checkpoint and spied Derek’s truck sitting in the visitors lot. Her pulse skipped again.
She strode over as he lowered the driver’s-side window. “Did they cancel your callback?”
“No,” he said. “Come on, get in.”
“What are you still doing here?”
“Get in, Liz. We don’t have time to waste.”
She stood for a moment, debating. Then she rounded the front of the truck and climbed inside. “This better be important. I—”
“What’s the word on the target?” he interrupted, shoving the truck into gear.
“We’re working on it.”
He shook his head as he pulled out of the lot. She looked him over. He wore the same jeans and T-shirt he’d had on yesterday. And he still hadn’t shaved. But what really caught her attention was the tense expression on his face. Clearly, he was amped up about something.
“Why aren’t you on your way back to San Diego?” she asked. “And where have you been all day?”
He laughed, but he didn’t look amused. “Places you never want to go. Talking to people you never want to meet.”
“Who?”
“Doesn’t matter.” He pulled into traffic and floored the accelerator. “What matters is I got a hit on that name from Cole.”
“What do you mean, a hit?”
“I tracked the guy down. He’s a slippery son of a bitch, but I finally found him.”
“Who is he, and why does he matter?”
“Name’s Vincent Planter. Works at a pawn shop over on Richmond.”
She braced her hand on the dashboard as he took a sharp right.
“I have good reason to believe he sold Matt Palicek all his hardware recently.”
“Okay.”
“And he might have sold stuff to Matt’s girlfriend, too.”
“So where are we going?”
“To talk to him.”
She looked at her watch.
“Planter’s background raises red flags,” he said. “For one thing, he’s former Army. Fort Hood. Dishonorably discharged five years ago.”
“Why?”
“Don’t know what his file says, but this guy was a unit supply specialist. Rumor is some supplies went missing under his watch.”
She got a sinking feeling in her stomach. “What kind of supplies?”
“You know, MREs, boots.” He cut a glance at her. “Guns, ammo, hand grenades.”
“If that really happened, why isn’t he serving time?”
“They didn’t have enough evidence, from what I hear.” Derek picked up the freeway and quickly merged into the left lane. “I also hear he’s still got connections in uniform, which helps his business. Guy’s popular with the local preppers. People who are busy stocking up for Armageddon.”