“Any ID on the woman?” someone asked.
“No, but she’s believed to be Nicaraguan. Same for a few others who were in this vehicle. The coyote transporting them works for the Saledo cartel. Another coyote”—he tapped the laptop, and a mug shot came up—“Manuel Villareal, works for a rival cartel that’s horning in on this route. When Villareal got jammed up in San Antonio trying to offload his cargo, we pulled him in for questioning. He’s got a long sheet, so it took him no time to lawyer up. But that’s when he surprised us. Next thing we know, his lawyer’s offering up a deal. Probation for his client in exchange for a tip about a rival coyote getting paid twenty grand to, quote, ‘smuggle an Arab over the border.’?”
“How good is this tip?” someone at the table asked. “I’d think this Villareal guy would say anything to avoid jail time.”
“Holmes, you want to take this one?” The ICE agent gestured to his left, and Elizabeth was startled to see Lauren leaning against the wall.
“Special Agent Holmes has been investigating the Saledo organization for some time now,” the agent said. “She interviewed the suspect.”
Lauren made eye contact with Elizabeth. “Villareal’s one of our frequent fliers.” She glanced around the room. “And it comes as no surprise he’s trying to wiggle out of some prison time by throwing one of his rivals under the bus. Villareal’s boss finds out he got arrested making a delivery, he’s going to want payback. He probably figures he’ll get some leniency if he screws over a rival while he’s in custody.”
“You think he’s reliable?” Gordon asked.
“Villareal? No. He’d sell out his grandmother to avoid prison,” she said. “But it’s hard to see how he could make this up. This tip about smuggling someone of Arab descent came out of nowhere, just hours after our office got the memo about the missing terrorist who was thought to be targeting Texas. And so far, his story’s holding up.”
“Villareal and this other coyote both pulled over at the same truck stop in Del Rio, a place known to be friendly to traffickers,” the ICE agent said, pointing to the screen. “You can see Villareal’s pickup here, in the background. He claims that while he was getting gas, he actually saw this guy Rasheed getting out of the other van. The surveillance footage you see here corroborates that claim.”
“How would Villareal know who it was?” Torres asked.
“He didn’t,” Lauren said. “But when we put a photo array in front of him, he picked him out right away. Omar Rasheed.”
The picture on the screen changed. Elizabeth recognized the photo from yesterday’s briefing. It showed Rasheed as he’d appeared in one of the recruiting videos, seated cross-legged on a carpet against a backdrop of anti-American graffiti. He wore traditional Afghan dress and had a dark beard. Another picture appeared on the screen: Rasheed standing behind a blindfolded Ana Hansson just seconds before he slit her throat.
The ICE agent sat down, and Gordon stood to take over the meeting.
“This is what Rasheed looked like several weeks ago. And this”—he tapped the laptop again, and another picture appeared—“is what we believe he looks like now.”
Elizabeth recognized the doctored FBI photo showing a clean-shaven man in a collared shirt.
“He’s thirty-three. Comes from a large family in Dubai. He attended college in London, where he was radicalized. Then he moved to Afghanistan, where he’s made a reputation for himself by recruiting and training for Al Qaeda.”
“He’s in the deck.”
All eyes swung toward Elizabeth. She cleared her throat. “The deck of most-wanted terrorists, according to our military. We interviewed the SEAL team who raided his compound recently. They’ve been trying to take him out for years.”
“Wish they’d succeeded,” Potter muttered.
Another click, and they were looking at a close-up. Again, the surveillance footage was grainy, so it was hard to make out the details of the face.
“This may not look like much,” Gordon said, “but our biometrics experts believe there’s a ninety-percent probability it’s Rasheed.”
“He looks empty-handed,” Torres said. “If he’s armed, it’s got to be something small.”
“Where’s he going?” someone asked.
“That’s what we need to find out,” Gordon said. “Could be meeting a ride. Could be hitchhiking. Or maybe he walked to the bus depot on the other side of town, where he could have picked up the four thirty to Houston.”
“What time was this video taken?” Elizabeth asked.
“About four ten.” Gordon let that hang in the air. “Is the timing a coincidence or part of a plan? We need to find out. We also need to find out his target, and we can’t assume Houston just because of the maps recovered by our SEAL team. Keep an open mind, people. Maybe Houston is a staging area for an operation elsewhere. Or maybe it’s the location of a sleeper cell that’s now on the move. We can’t let ourselves get tunnel vision, or we’ll miss something important.”
Gordon tapped his computer. The software-generated image of Rasheed reappeared on the screen.
“Study this picture. Memorize it. He’s five-eight, one-forty. He speaks excellent English and is very familiar with Western culture. He does not look threatening, which is why he’ll blend in. But let me assure you, he is very dangerous. He’s become one of Al Qaeda’s top operatives.” His gaze met Elizabeth’s. “As Agent LeBlanc pointed out, the military believes he’s a formidable opponent, and so do we.”
Gordon looked at his assembled team. “If Rasheed did, in fact, slip through a back door, then he’s inside our borders. And you can be sure he’s here for a reason.”
* * *
After months of colorless desert, the brightness of the Texas hills seemed like a Disney movie. Derek let the summer air hum through his pickup as he steered up the tree-lined road.
His thoughts drifted to Elizabeth, as they had for most of the trip. Derek had a head for details, and when it came to Elizabeth, there wasn’t anything too small to lodge itself in his brain and drive him crazy. He remembered her shivering on the sidewalk in San Francisco. He remembered the rain glistening in her hair. He remembered the warmth of her mouth and her curves under his hands and how willing she’d felt when they’d left the bar. He remembered touching her, tasting her, and knowing heaven was just a few blocks away.
But then the booze had hit, and it was game over. She’d puked her guts up outside his hotel, which—in her book, apparently—was an unforgivable party foul. Not that it mattered to him. He couldn’t count the number of times one of his buddies had heaved up his liquor on the way home from a bar. But Elizabeth had been mortified.
It was his own fault. He’d suggested the pub. And he’d kept the drinks flowing, along with the teasing and conversation, because she’d finally seemed to relax around him. It was a side of her personality she didn’t share much, but he’d seen it then, and he’d seen it again last night, and it wasn’t just the alcohol. The chemistry was back. Yes, she was still wary, but he planned to get past that. Soon. He had ten days’ leave remaining, and he didn’t plan to waste a day of it not getting to know Elizabeth LeBlanc better, no matter what roadblocks she threw at him. He was a SEAL, for Christ’s sake. He thrived on challenges.
His phone rattled in the cup holder, and he smiled as he picked it up.
“Hey.”
“Hi, it’s Elizabeth. Looks like I missed your call? I was in a meeting.”
Her voice was all business. And she probably had no idea that he’d spent a good portion of the last twelve hours dreaming up ways to get her naked.
“So . . . did you make it home yet?” she asked.
“Almost. Decided to take a little detour first, drop in on a friend.”
She got quiet, and he wondered if she’d take the bait. Male friend or female? Was she even the slightest bit curious? Come on, Liz.