Beyond Limits (Tracers #8)(92)
“Tango’s down.”
“That’s good.”
“What’s not good is I’ve got my hands around an IED. I’m looking at about eight pounds of C-4 and possibly a Willie Pete payload.”
“Fuckin’ A. Why aren’t they jamming cell signals?”
“Beats me. Wouldn’t help anyway—this thing’s on a timer. She’s a beaut, too. I don’t think I can disarm it without setting off the backup charge.”
“Want me to get down there?”
“No time,” he said. “And I need your bird’s-eye view up there. See if you can spot anything useful, like maybe a SWAT van or a hazmat truck near the stadium.”
“Roger that.”
“Also look for a maroon Nissan Sentra or a white SUV that seems suspicious.” He glanced around, searching for Elizabeth. “We’ve got at least two tangos still at large.”
“No armored vehicles,” Cole reported, “but I see about a million white SUVs. That their getaway vehicle?”
“Maybe that or a car bomb.”
“How much time you got on that thing?”
He checked the clock. “Two-fifty-two.”
“Derek!”
He turned to see Elizabeth jogging up to him.
“I got us a freight elevator. In the back of this kitchen. Come on.”
* * *
The doors slid open, and Elizabeth rushed out, with Derek close behind her pushing the cart. She was relieved to see fewer civilians down here, but there were still way too many people, including stadium staffers and emergency workers. A golf cart zoomed past with an ear-piercing beep.
“This isn’t going to work,” Derek said, looking around. He turned to the maintenance man who’d snagged them the elevator. “That door at the end of the ramp over there. Where’s that go?”
Sweat streamed down the guy’s flushed face. He looked stressed and rattled, especially now that he’d no doubt figured out what their cargo was.
“Uh . . . that goes to our underground garage. Storage for, you know, forklifts and heavy equipment and whatnot.”
“Can you get me in there?”
“Uh, it depends.”
“Yes or no, buddy. Come on.”
“If my access code works, I can—”
“Try it,” Derek ordered, then turned to Elizabeth. “I need a vehicle. Preferably an Abrams tank, but I’ll settle for anything bulky. Even an ambulance or a squad car with bulletproof doors would be good.”
She glanced at the hot-dog cart. Was he trying to get rid of her? She didn’t have time to second-guess him.
“Tick-tock, Liz.”
“I’ll find something.”
* * *
Derek glanced around, looking for a crowbar, a hammer, anything he could use to pry the metal garage door up if the maintenance guy couldn’t get it open.
His phone vibrated with another call from Cole.
“Tell me something good, brother.”
“No SWAT vehicles,” Cole said, “but I spotted the maroon Sentra. It’s parked in the driveway of the hotel right across the—”
A loud squelch, and Derek jerked the phone from his ear. The jamming equipment was up and running, evidently.
“Got it!” bellowed the maintenance guy.
Derek turned around to see the garage door sliding up. He started to push the cart through. An engine roared up behind him, and he turned to see Elizabeth behind the wheel of a black Suburban. She jumped out.
“It’s part of the motorcade that got left behind!” she yelled. “Bulletproof glass, armored doors.”
“Damn, that’s brilliant. Where’d you get the key?”
“My Secret Service pal.”
“Help me get this loaded.”
* * *
“How much time?” she asked, racing to the back as he threw open the cargo doors.
“T-minus forty.” Derek glanced around, probably looking for someone who could bench-press more than she could. “Your friend’s bugging out. Damn, was it something I said?”
She turned to see the maintenance guy slinking away.
“Wait!” She sprinted over. “I need your access code to close it.”
He darted his gaze at the Suburban as she scrounged for a pen. She didn’t have one, but he did, and she plucked it from his shirt pocket.
“Spit it out! Then you can go!”
He rattled off a five-digit number, and she wrote it on her hand. Then she ran back to Derek, who was folding down the Suburban’s backseats.
“Gimme a hand with that end, okay? I’ll take the weight.”
“Be careful!”
Could they detonate the bomb by bumping it? She had no idea how fragile it was. Derek lifted it practically by himself, then maneuvered it into the back with a grunt, and she could tell it was heavy. He slammed the doors, making her nerves jump.
He rushed around to the front and hitched himself behind the wheel. “Listen up, Liz. In fifteen seconds, I want you to lower this door.”
She looked at her watch. “But—”