Beyond Limits (Tracers #8)(90)
“What? What is it?”
“It’s definitely a rifle barrel.”
“Are you sure?”
“Affirmative.”
“You have a shot?” Derek glanced at the field below, where performers were unfurling a huge American flag. “Cole, report.”
“I don’t have the shot, man. He shifted. I don’t even have the gun barrel in my crosshairs now.”
Derek sprinted past the maintenance elevator, which didn’t access the upper level. He pushed through the next available door and felt a slap of relief. Stairwell. He raced upstairs and jerked open the door.
“Okay, I’m up,” he told Cole. “What’s the sitrep?”
“Behind first base, over toward the beer sign. I can’t see the barrel anymore, but that’s where it was.”
Derek glanced around to get the layout. Steel catwalks criss-crossed the area, giving access to lights, speakers, and other equipment.
“Behind the spotlight?” Derek moved toward it.
“Affirmative.”
“Okay, I’m going silent.” He switched off his ringer and tucked away his phone.
He glanced down, pulse pounding. Stars and stripes blanketed the field. Derek took out his Sig, wishing like hell he had a suppressor. Any hint of gunfire up here would attract a swarm of Secret Service, and he was as good as dead.
There was only one way to do this. He had to take this guy down without a bullet.
The announcer’s voice boomed from a nearby speaker. “Ladies and gentlemen, please rise for the National Anthem.”
A hush fell over the crowd.
Derek spotted the catwalk leading to the sniper’s hide. He ducked into a crouch and moved silently, scanning every shadow behind every light, speaker, and bulky piece of equipment.
Derek’s pulse spiked as he spotted him.
Ahmed Rasheed knelt behind a spotlight, his rifle pointed down at the field. He wore the cobalt-blue uniform of the stadium staffers, including a blue ball cap, which reinforced Derek’s suspicion that his plan today wasn’t suicide. He had an exit strategy, and it probably involved blending into the crowd.
Derek crept closer, slowly, soundlessly. The familiar melody drifted up from the field as he neared the target.
A soft rasp as his boot scraped metal. Instantly, he knew that tiny sound was a monumental mistake.
The target glanced up.
Derek launched himself at him as the rifle swung around. They hit the deck in a tangle of limbs. Derek smashed his pistol against the man’s face just as the rifle stock jerked up and caught him in the jaw. Derek clamped his free hand over the barrel and shoved it up against the man’s windpipe, all the while landing blow after blow with the grip of his pistol. A fist connected with Derek’s cheek. He ignored it, focusing every ounce of energy on the gun barrel clamped in his hand, pressing down on the tango’s neck with all his might. Rasheed’s face reddened. His eyes squeezed shut. With a low groan, he heaved himself up and managed to throw Derek off-balance and onto his side.
Derek’s advantage vanished. Panic flooded him. He rolled onto his back, and a sharp pain in his spine told him he was on top of the rifle.
Derek smashed his gun against the man’s nose, and blood sprayed down on him. Teeth sank into his wrist. Derek fought to keep his grip on his pistol as Rasheed struggled to pry it free with fingers and teeth.
The rifle dug into his spine. Derek tried to shift the weight off him, tried to throw his leg around, but he was pinned. Pain shot up his arm as he felt his wrist being crushed and the muzzle of his Sig digging into his side.
I’ll be damned if I’m going to die by my own hand.
Blood streamed down Rasheed’s forehead, into his eyes. More flowed down from his ruined nose and dripped onto Derek’s face, blinding him. He clenched his teeth and forced his wrist around, straining against the weight and the searing pain and the desperate fingers now clawing for the trigger.
* * *
Elizabeth struggled for composure as the agent frowned down at her skeptically.
“You expect me to—”
A gunshot echoed above them. All heads jerked up. There was an instant of stunned silence, and then an army of suits sprang into action, rushing for the exits, shouting into radios.
“Bravo, report!” Walker barked into his radio.
Elizabeth’s heart lodged in her throat as she looked up at the rafters. A shriek from the field below, followed by another. Performers starting screaming and pointing up. Then panic set in. Like a herd of antelope scattering, everyone rushed off the field. People in the stands looked skyward and started moving en masse, pushing and shoving for the aisles.
“Bravo, report!” Walker said again. “Where’s Gray Wolf?”
Whatever response he got was drowned out by the noise. Elizabeth elbowed her way through the crush of agents near the door and stumbled into a corridor. Someone grabbed her arm and spun her around. The agent who’d helped her before.
“Where’s Walker?” he yelled above the din.
“He’s—”
He shoved past her and grabbed his boss, who was standing in the doorway now. “Sir, the bomb dog just got a hit!”
“Where?”
“Concourse level, left-field exit! They’ve got a hot-dog cart down there packed with explosives.”