“What’s your point?”
He looked impatient. “Someone somewhere got a shot of this guy meeting his contact. He didn’t vanish into thin air. He caught a ride. There’s a scrap of information out there. It just needs to be found.”
They had dozens of agents, in both Del Rio and Houston, searching for that very scrap.
“You want me to wave a wand and produce a lead? And then what?”
“I spent the better part of the last decade finding terrorists hiding in the Hindu Kush. I can do this, Liz. I promise you. You give me a lead on this guy, and I’ll run him down.”
* * *
Buck’s Truck Stop occupied Del Rio’s busiest juncture and did a brisk business twenty-four seven. Besides offering food, lodging, and a deluxe car wash, the place boasted no fewer than thirty-six gas pumps. Thirty-six. Elizabeth glanced at them now as she motored past the sprawling complex and followed her GPS instructions down a narrow side street. A few more turns, and she pulled into a parking lot, where she spotted a dusty blue Subaru that was doing a passable imitation of a civilian vehicle. The sparkling-clean Taurus she’d rented at the airport stood out, so she drove around back.
“Nice ride,” Torres quipped as she pulled up alongside a banana-yellow Honda with gold rims. “How come we never get the pimp-mobiles?”
A garage door lifted, and a heavy man with long sideburns waved them in. Evidently, their rental car was too conspicuous, even in back.
Elizabeth slid into the service bay and looked around. Several cars were up on lifts, and the place actually resembled a brake repair shop. In reality, it was the headquarters for a multiagency surveillance operation.
They got out. The place smelled like old motor oil and new tires. They introduced themselves to the undercover ICE agent who was their liaison for the morning, and he looked less than delighted to meet them.
“I’m Brad Parker.” He gave a brief nod. “Follow me.”
Elizabeth followed, wondering about the name. It sounded like an alias, like a throwaway name you’d give people from a rival agency you didn’t really trust. He led them down a dingy hallway and into an even dingier room filled with computers. Agents sat at all of the monitors, tapping away or staring at surveillance footage.
“We’ve had two people on this since yesterday,” Parker informed them. “No sign of your guy.” He led them to the far side of the room. “This is Juan Garza, by the way. He just took over.”
Garza—if that was really his name—glanced up from his computer and traded nods with his colleague.
“Special Agents LeBlanc and Torres, out of Houston,” Parker said.
They weren’t actually out of Houston, but she didn’t bother to correct him.
“We’re here to take a look at the surveillance footage,” Elizabeth said. “Hoping you have some new leads for us.”
Garza lifted a brow. “Not since I got here. Still no sign of him.”
“We have him leaving the minivan, but that’s it,” Parker said. “No sign of him entering the store or of him walking off the premises. We’ve been through the truck stop footage twice already.”
“Yours or theirs?” Elizabeth asked.
“Both. This spot has become a way station for traffickers. We’ve had surveillance on the place for fifteen months.”
“We’ve expanded our search to surrounding businesses.” Garza nodded at his screen. “Restaurants, ATMs . . . This right here is from the bank across the street.”
Elizabeth watched the grainy black-and-white image for a few moments. Cars pulled in and out of the parking lot and the drive-through teller windows, business as usual, nothing sinister happening at the truck stop across the street. She glanced at the time stamp at the bottom of the screen. A full sixty-six minutes after Rasheed was filmed fleeing the coyote’s vehicle.
“You want my guess?”
She looked at Parker.
“He had a ride waiting,” he said. “Slipped around the corner of the building, hopped right in.”
“Why don’t we have that on camera, then?” Torres asked.
A shrug. “It’s not like we have every angle. There are blind spots.”
“Hey, hey.” Garza straightened in his chair. “Check this out.”
Everyone inched closer to look at the screen.
“What?” Parker asked.
Garza tapped the keyboard, rewinding the footage. “Upper left corner. Dark sedan.”
Elizabeth watched, holding her breath, as a dark-colored four-door car moved into view. It rolled to a stop, and a shadow moved toward it.
“That’s him! Pause it!” She leaned closer as he stopped the tape.
Torres looked at her. “Looks like we found his ride.”
Derek had been right. The lead they needed was right in front of them, caught on camera. She felt the sudden urge to call him, but of course, she couldn’t.
She studied the footage. Unfortunately, the car was angled, so no plates were visible. And the driver was nothing more than a dark silhouette. But still, they’d found a vehicle. Even without a plate, it could provide a wealth of information.
“Can you zoom in on that?” she asked.
“Not much.” Garza clicked on the corner of the screen and managed to zoom a little but not enough to see anything of the driver besides the outline of a baseball cap.
“Our technicians can enlarge it, clean it up,” Torres said.
“So can ours.”
Turf wars. Perfect.
“Why don’t you make us a copy, and we’ll both take a crack at it?” Elizabeth looked at Parker. “We’re going to need footage from every other security cam anywhere near this corner at”—she glanced at the time stamp—“five fifteen.”
She leaned closer and studied the car’s chassis. “That’s a Chevy Cavalier,” she said. “Cobalt blue, it looks like. Those tires aren’t standard. Should be fourteen-inch, not eighteen.”
Garza gave her a startled look. Men were always shocked that she knew anything about cars.
She glanced at the time stamp again. “That’s sixty-eight minutes after he slipped from the truck. What was he doing all that time?”
“Sure you don’t have him inside the truck stop?” Torres asked.
“We’ve been through it all,” Parker said. “Repeatedly. Nothing of him entering the convenience store or the bathrooms. No cams in the restaurant, unfortunately, but—”
“There’s a restaurant?” She looked at Torres. “We need to interview the wait staff.”
“Two restaurants,” Parker corrected. “This place has everything—a deli counter, showers, an Internet lounge, an arcade.”
“An Internet lounge?” Her heart lurched.
“Yeah, right by the car wash. There’re no cameras in there, though. We already checked.”
But she wasn’t thinking about cameras anymore. “Show me the Internet lounge.”
Chapter Seven
Derek wasn’t good at being on leave. He always felt restless. Twitchy. About three days in, he was usually bored out of his skull.
He’d woken up this morning at his parents’ house, staring at a shelf full of swim trophies and autographed baseballs. He’d pounded out ten miles and spent the remainder of the morning hauling boxes to the attic and changing lightbulbs for his mom. When he was all out of chores and errands, he’d loaded up his .300 and decided to hit the range.
Now he lay in the dirt with the steady pop of gunfire all around him. The smell of grass and CLP oil filled his nostrils as he peered through the rifle scope. He took a deep breath. Let it out some. Squeezed the trigger.
“Nice,” murmured Cole, lowering the binoculars.
Cole had the same problem as Derek, the same problem a lot of SEALs had. They’d forgotten how to be home. When Derek had called, his teammate had been more than happy to make the hour-long drive from his family’s place in Clear Lake to send a few rounds downrange.