Beyond Limits (Tracers #8)(93)

“Fifteen seconds, whether I’m in or out.”

Her heart squeezed. “I’ll come with you.”

“You stay here to close the door.”

“But—”

“I need you to trust me.” He cupped his hand around her face. “Okay?”

He’d trusted her. Over and over today, he’d allowed her to do her job, even though she knew he hated seeing her exposed to danger. She glanced at the tunnel, and her eyes filled.

“Fifteen seconds,” she managed to say.

He yanked the door shut. With a squeal of tires, he took off into the tunnel. Another squeal as he rounded a bend. Elizabeth clutched her hand to her throat.

She checked her watch. Twelve seconds.

Her chest tightened. She looked at the chaos around her—people coming and going, firefighters, stadium workers, mothers and fathers and couples and kids.

Nine seconds.

She glanced at the keypad. She peered down the darkened tunnel and stepped inside. The air was cool and damp and smelled like diesel fuel. She strained to hear over all the noise, but she couldn’t make out anything—not the distant grumble of an engine or the pounding of footsteps.

Six seconds.

Her stomach twisted. She walked back to the keypad and held her finger over the buttons. She read the numbers on the back of her hand.

Three seconds.

Come on, Derek.

Two seconds.

Tears stung her eyes.

One second.

She sucked in a breath. With a trembling finger, she keyed in the code. Her chest caved in as the door started to lower.

“Derek!” She peered into the dark void. The door slid lower. “Derek!” She rushed back to the keypad, clenched her hands into fists as the door slid closer and closer to the concrete.

Behind it, the slap of boots on concrete. Her heart lurched.

“Derek, hurry!” She reached for the keypad just as he rolled under the door, Indiana Jones–style.

“Oh, my God!” She grabbed his arm as he sprang to his feet.

“Come on!” He took her elbow and rushed her at full speed to the nearest exit.

“How much time—”

Her words were cut off by a deafening boom.

They dropped to the ground. Shock waves reverberated around them, and she was on her hands and knees on the concrete, stunned speechless.

Derek pulled her to her feet. “Come on, haul ass. They’re at the hotel across the street.”

“Who is?”

“The tangos. Cole spotted the Sentra.”

He pushed her through the exit, and the summer heat hit her like a wall. Sirens and bullhorns filled the air as emergency workers corralled people into human rivers flowing away from the stadium. Parents carried crying children. Couples clutched each other as they trudged along. Elizabeth saw firetrucks everywhere but no fires or smoke. Yet.

“Did you get it contained?” she yelled at Derek.

“Let’s hope. Look!”

She followed his gaze over the crowd-flooded street to a hotel. She spied the maroon Sentra parked in front. A man in the cobalt-blue uniform of a ballpark staffer was getting into the passenger’s side.

She and Derek broke into a run, dodging around huddles of people, squeezing through barricades. A cop tried to stop her, but she shook him off and kept going.

Derek surged ahead, plowing through people like a running back. He neared the hotel just as the Sentra pulled into traffic.

The back window burst.

Elizabeth looked around, startled. Who was shooting?

The car lunged forward, and people scattered and yelled as it pulled into the traffic-clogged street. Derek was close behind, but his hands were empty. Who fired the shot?

The Sentra hung a left at an intersection, and another crack split the air. The car sagged with a flattened tire.

Derek turned and gestured for her to take the driver’s side as the doors were flung open.

A woman jumped out. Blue uniform, long auburn hair streaming behind her as she fled down the street.

Elizabeth broke into a run. Her pulse pounded as she dodged around people and hurdled obstacles. She sprinted down the sidewalk. She was gaining, gaining, closing the gap. Fatima glanced back over her shoulder, losing a half-second advantage.

Elizabeth tackled her, and they skidded together over the pavement.

“FBI! You’re under arrest!”

The woman kicked and flailed, and Elizabeth dug her knee into her back as she fumbled for her handcuffs. What the hell?

With a shot of panic, she remembered Derek swiping them from her back at the pawn shop. She glanced around desperately and spotted a cop on horseback clomping across the intersection.

“FBI! I need a hand here!”

He stared down at her from the saddle as Fatima struggled beneath her, squirming and yelling.

“Gimme some cuffs!”

He seemed to snap out of his stupor and produced a pair of handcuffs from his duty belt. He tossed them over, and Elizabeth snapped them onto Fatima’s wrists.

The cop slid off his horse and walked over. Another officer jogged over from across the street, weapon in hand.

“What we got here?”

“This woman is in federal custody.” Elizabeth held up her badge as the cop’s gaze darted over her shoulder. His expression changed. Elizabeth whipped around.

She saw Derek across the street, kneeling beside a park bench.