Chapter 10
Agent Travis Ice sat at his desk beside his buddy, Hernandez, looking up the FBI’s who’s who of bombings and arsons in the Gulf region.
He’d rather be out on the streets. The ex-Marine craved action, not slogging through digital records and reports.
Add his anxiety over the approaching winter storm, and he itched to get moving.
Hurricanes, tornadoes, and heatwaves he could handle.
Floods were par for the course. But snowstorms?
On another occasion, a thin crust of ice had given way beneath Travis, sending him into a ravine.
The day he spent wedged between two rock walls, waiting to be rescued, his feet dangling over a bottomless pit, had left him slightly claustrophobic.
That experience is one reason he requested to be assigned to a warm-climate field office.
He’d compiled a list of three strong suspects as a bomber-for-hire and started on the Green Resistance roster when his boss and the Houston Police detective returned. Bouvier held a green file organizer and a notebook, while Bach squeezed a laptop under his arm. “Reports,” she ordered briskly.
Some people didn’t like the special agent in charge because they thought she was too cold and bossy, but Travis appreciated that she got to the point.
Would those same detractors fault a man for being direct?
Having had a few women in positions above him in the Marine Corps, Travis had become comfortable with female bosses.
Honestly, the only thing that mattered was their capability to do the job.
Travis sprang to his feet, gripping his three printout sheets. “Butler, Nasif, and Lucero. Butler was a suspect in two bombings and an arson but never had one stick. Nasif and Lucero have both done time and are currently out and about in the city.”
“I found two more likely candidates,” Hernandez added. Bouvier nodded to him.
Campbell jumped in. “I’ve been whittling my way through the front gate security footage, starting with Friday just before the explosion and working my way backward. So far, I’ve only identified vehicles belonging to employees and Inspector Nolan.”
“How far back have you gotten?” Athena asked.
“Nine a.m.,” he answered, his tone losing its enthusiasm.
“I finished my background check on our victim,” Karen spoke up, rising from her seat and twisting to face Bouvier.
Ice liked her, as he might a little sister.
Totally not his type, but she sure was a dedicated agent.
Worked hard, even though it seemed she might snap like a twig if a bad guy ever touched her.
Bouvier shifted her attention to Shoops and raised a brow.
Karen pushed up her glasses. “He’s made quite a few corporate enemies in Texas and southern Louisiana, particularly in the petroleum products sector.
Plenty of recorded threats going back fifteen years.
I made a list. Oh, and last year, in addition to citing Gulf Allied Chemicals, he also failed Lone Star Industrial’s EPA inspection. They had to pay a fine as well.”
“Good work.”
Travis screwed up his face. Why didn’t she say “good work” to me?
“I’m about to start on Whitmore and Kerrington unless you have something else for me.” Karen twisted her fingers and chewed on her lip.
“Actually, I do.”
Ice had to admire ASAC Bouvier, and not just her legs. Gorgeous, smart, and knows exactly what she wants. And while she might be old enough to be Karen’s mother, she wasn’t that much older than him. Too bad she’s taken up with that woman firefighter.
“You and Campbell take half the names on the bomber/arsonist suspect list, and Ice and Hernandez take the others. Find out what they’ve been up to, where they were Thursday night and Friday morning, and bring them in if anything doesn’t add up.”
“Yeah,” Travis said as he lifted his jacket from the back of his chair. “Let’s make an arrest before the snow and ice get here.”
Bouvier gave him a withering look. “Are you suggesting the U.S. mail service is superior to the FBI, Agent Ice?”
“No, ma’am.” He pushed his arms through the sleeves and straightened his lapels. “Just not fond of snow.”
“And don’t forget,” she called after them as all four agents moved toward the exit. “With probable cause and exigent circumstances, you don’t need a warrant to search, but don’t go maverick. We don’t want a defense attorney getting evidence excluded from trial.”
“No mavericks here,” Hernandez called cheerily as he pushed open the doors.
Travis heard Bouvier say something to Detective Bach about taking deep dives into CEOs Whitmore and Kerrington before the door swung closed behind them.
“We call dibs on Butler, Nasif, and Lucero,” Travis said, and passed the other sheets to Campbell.
He thought it would have made better sense to pair Samuel or himself with petite Agent Shoops, but figured the boss had a reason.
He knew Bouvier wanted to encourage the junior agent and had let her go out into the field more often in the past several months. Still? He let it go.
They arrived at Butler’s residence first, a typical suburban home with a privacy fence bearing a “Beware of Dog” sign. The dog, if there was one, didn’t bark. A White man, smaller than either of them, peeped from behind a chain-latched crack in the door.
Hernandez held up his badge. “Wayne Butler?” The man stared at them with a superior demeanor and a smug face.
He stepped outside and closed his door. It was easy to understand why he’d been suspected of multiple crimes.
The vibe he gave off was creepy, to say the least. He talked around answers to questions, his spidery fingers tapping their pads together, his dark hair slicked down under a cap.
Naturally, he had an alibi for Thursday evening and Friday morning—spent the night at his mother’s place because she had been ill. Then he went to the prestigious lab where he worked as a chemist. They would check on both.
When they found no one home at Lucero’s house, Samuel suggested they visit Nasif before trying to track down Lucero’s whereabouts. Upon arriving at Omar Nasif’s address, Travis put the Bureau SUV in park, hesitating before getting out.
Hernandez gave him a speculative glance. “Is this the right address? The building looks like it should be condemned.”
“That’s what the system listed for him. Omar Nasif, arrested on possession of bomb-making materials in 2014, served two years, was arrested for arson in 2017, and served eight years of a fifteen-year sentence. He was released four months ago and is currently on parole.”
“Maybe he’ll want to talk outside too,” his partner said hopefully and opened his door.
Travis followed. He glanced at the blue sky, only marred by smoke from nearby factories.
It was cool, but no indication they were about to be blanketed in snow.
He walked with Hernandez to what must have been the lowest-rent apartment building in the city and knocked on the door to unit 108.
A curtain brushed aside for an instant, followed by the noise of something crashing to the floor and thunderous footsteps.
Hernandez rolled his eyes with a groan.
“We’ve got a runner,” Travis said, almost glad for some action. “You go left, I’ll take right.”
He struck off at a quick sprint, his sidearm still strapped in its holster.
Nasif shouldn’t have a gun, per his parole requirements, but that didn’t mean anything.
He had to be sharp and on his game. Most chases were concluded without injury, but there had been deadly encounters with even the least dangerous-looking suspects.
Travis pounded over cracked concrete littered with gravel and trash, then dug in as he whipped around a corner.
He threw up an arm to block the overgrown shrubbery from slapping him in the face.
He dodged an overflowing rubbish bin and vaulted a low, rickety chain-link fence.
That’s when he glimpsed a smallish man running.
He was out of sight down an alley in no time.
Pumping his arms and legs, Travis pushed himself to catch up.
It’ll be the day when some pipsqueak outruns me.
Brick dust and exhaust steam swirled in the rank-smelling alley. He’d lost sight of the suspect.
CLANG!
Travis jerked his head up. “Stop!” he yelled. “FBI!”
The guy scrambled from the five-story building’s fire escape onto the roof and disappeared. Travis gripped a rung and climbed at double-step time. Why do they always go up? he wondered in frustration. Where do they think they’ll go? It never ends well.
“Roof?” called Hernandez from the street end of the alley.
“Yep!” Travis replied without slowing pace. Hernandez raced away to cut off Nasif’s escape.
Travis was breathing hard by the time he reached the flat roof streaked with patch tar in patterns that spread out like roots.
He skidded around vent pipes and mechanical boxes, ducking under wires, following the path he suspected Nasif took.
Some sort of padlocked shed blocked his view of the other end of the roof.
With careful steps, he dashed down the wall, pausing at the corner to peek around.
Nasif stood near the edge, thirty yards past the shed, frantically scanning for somewhere to go. There was a ten- or twelve-foot gap to the nearest rooftop, approximately the same height as this one. The suspect glanced at Travis over his shoulder, eyes wide with terror.
“Don’t try it,” Travis ordered. He held out empty palms. “We just want to ask you a few questions.”
He’d done a tour in Iraq, and Nasif looked like the locals he’d worked with daily—black hair, tan skin, small stature—only he wore a trim chinstrap beard and mustache rather than the thick, long style popular over there.
Hernandez’s voice rose from the space between the buildings. “Don’t risk it, Omar. We aren’t here to arrest you—at least not today.”
Somehow Travis just knew. He would sometimes have a feeling about something or someone, and sure enough … Omar Nasif held up his hands and started walking toward him. Then came the perceivable tensing of muscles, the setting of his jaw.
“Don’t!” Travis rushed forward, but Nasif had already spun toward the breach.
With only a few feet of a running start, he launched himself at the other roof.
Travis, much taller and more athletic, pushed off in a sprint, clearing the gap.
His front foot slipped in a patch of loose sand.
Catching his balance, he whirled, looking for his suspect.
“Hurry, Travis!” Samuel roared from below.
Travis scrambled to the edge of the roof and peered down. The fingers of two hands started to slip from the rim they clung to. Travis grabbed the man’s wrists and hoisted him up.
Pinning him with an annoyed expression, he chided, “I told you not to try it.”
“Sorry, man,” he replied in a breathy voice that was more Texas than Middle Eastern. “I thought I could make it. Thanks, you know, for pullin’ me up.”
“I wouldn’t want you crushing my partner as he tried to catch you.” Travis helped Nasif to his feet, keeping a firm grip on his arm. “We’re going back down the fire escape, and you aren’t going to try something stupid. Got it? It’ll be easier for you if you aren’t handcuffed, but if I have to—”
Nasif raised his hands again. “No, man. I’ll come peacefully. FBI, not the parole office?”
“FBI.” Travis brushed his coat aside, displaying the badge clipped to his belt. “Hernandez, see you at the fire escape,” he called.
The shaken-up suspect fell in beside Travis as they trekked across the roof. “What’s the FBI want with me?”
“Why’d you run?”
With a shrug, Nasif said, “I thought you were someone else. I might have missed a few check-ins. My parole officer hates me, just lookin’ for an excuse, you know?”
Travis spared him a speculative look. “You must have done something if you ran.”
“Like I said,” he explained with animated emotion. “I got a job I can’t miss, and he insists on schedulin’ check-ins when I’m supposed to be at work.”
“And?”
“And …” Nasif fudged. “I might have left the county and been seen in Austin, but I had to go visit my Jaddah in the hospital. Look, Agent?”
“Ice. My partner is Special Agent Hernandez.” They stopped at the top of the metal ladder to the fire escape.
“Special Agent Ice, I’m not a terrorist. I was born in Texas, a natural U.S. citizen, and my parents have legal visas.”
“But you know how to make bombs and like setting fires.”
“Not anymore.” He raised his chin in a futile attempt to look Travis in the eyes.
“I made the right kind of friends in prison and I ain’t never goin’ back.
Turned over a new leaf, connected with God.
I’m only thirty-three years old, plenty of time to turn my life around.
But I’m so afraid that Officer Gallagher will write a negative report, and I’ll be right back inside. ”
“And running was your first choice of smart ideas?” Travis propped a hand on his hip and stared at the guy.
Nasif forced a nervous smile. “Not such a smart idea, huh?” His shoulders slumped.
Travis shook his head. “After you, Mr. Nasif. You’ve just won a free trip to FBI headquarters.”