Beyond Limits (Tracers #8)(88)
“Lauren has a friend on the White House detail, but—”
“Call her up. Everyone on your task force is at the airport with a jammed cell phone.”
She was already dialing, but no one picked up. “She’s in a hospital room.” She gave him an anxious look. “Her phone is probably dead or turned off. I’ll try my team again.”
Derek gritted his teeth as he maneuvered through traffic. There was no longer a shred of doubt that the stadium was the true target. Whatever was happening at the airport was a carefully planned diversion, and it seemed to be working perfectly.
“This is textbook AQ,” he said. “Multiple, coordinated strikes. Maximum civilian body count. With all the cameras over there, it’ll be a media splash, too.” Derek pictured an American icon getting gunned down before a live television audience of millions. “They’re going to assassinate the man right before our eyes, and then all hell will break loose. You watch. It’ll be mass chaos, and that’s when the bombs will go off.”
Elizabeth was frantically calling people on her phone, without success. She left messages but couldn’t get a live person.
“Call D.C.,” Derek said. “Call someone. Hell, call HPD if you have to, but we’ve got to get word over there.”
“I know!” She shot him a desperate look. “What time does the game start?”
He glanced at the clock. “Soon.”
* * *
Orange traffic cones blocked the parking lot, marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. Derek plowed right over them. He looped around a row of cars and sped up to a back entrance as Elizabeth sent a text message to Gordon.
“Gimme your badge,” Derek ordered. “Just the shield, not the ID card.”
A burly police officer rushed up to them, and Elizabeth hurried to pull out the leather folio. She removed her photo ID and handed the rest to Derek. He rolled down the window and flashed the badge.
“Special Agents Vaughn and LeBlanc.”
Elizabeth held her breath.
The cop glanced at the shield and nodded. “You can’t block this ramp, sir.”
“Got it.” Derek put the truck into reverse and backed out of the space. He drove over to an empty space beside a row of horse trailers with the HPD logo on the side. He handed back Elizabeth’s badge and shoved open the door.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“See if I can’t find these tangos.”
“Need my help getting in?”
“No, I’m good.” He pulled the Sig out from under his jacket and checked the clip.
“Secret Service sees you running around with that, they’ll think you’re an assassin.”
“They won’t see me.”
She checked her Glock and noticed that her hands were shaking. She was about to go up against a determined enemy with no moral boundaries and nothing to lose, the same enemy that had gunned down Lauren and Jamie only hours ago.
“You locked and loaded?” Derek asked.
“Yes.”
His gaze settled on her, and she recognized the look in his eyes. She knew what he was going to say. You should stay in the car, work your phone. You’ll be more effective from here.
“Be careful,” he said instead.
She felt a warm rush of relief. He had no idea how much his vote of confidence meant to her, especially now, when she didn’t know what fresh disaster the next few minutes would bring. She reached over and squeezed his hand. “You be careful, too.”
She slid from the truck and set her sights on her objective: a security guard stationed beside a gate marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL. She strode over and held up her badge.
“I’m looking for the head of the Secret Service detail.”
“Uh . . . I don’t know exactly.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Couple of their agents are stationed by the elevator.”
“Show me.”
* * *
Nicknamed the Juice Box, Houston’s new baseball stadium was a blend of modern technology and classic architecture. Fans entered through a turn-of-the-century train station, but everything else about the park was modern, including the 292-foot-high retractable roof. Like most Houston ball fans, Derek loved the new park. He loved the open-air design, the Bermuda grass playing field, the view of the city skyline right behind left field. Having been to the stadium a bunch of times, he knew the layout well, although much of his knowledge centered around where to find the shortest beer line. He’d never really thought about the place from a tactical perspective.
Until now.
He sliced through the crowd, collecting details and making eye contact. Over the years, he’d honed his instincts for terrorists. He’d learned to spot their deadly intentions purely through body language, before they ever dropped an IED or tugged a trip wire or activated a remote-control detonator. He’d learned to read how they moved and how they stood and how they observed their surroundings just before they carried out an attack.
His phone buzzed, and he continued his visual reconnaissance as he answered.
“I’ve got problems,” Elizabeth said quickly. “They’re blowing me off until they verify my ID through headquarters.”
“We’re losing time. Raise a stink if you have to. You’ve got to talk to someone in charge.”