Free Beyond Limits by Laura Griffin

cartel, the Saledos. They basically control all routes in and out of there and sell access to the highest bidder, which in this case might be foreign terrorists.” The agent tapped on a laptop sitting open on the table, and a video filled the screen. The black-and-white footage showed the minivan pulling up to the gas pump. Elizabeth squinted at the grainy picture, not sure what to look for. Movement.
    “There.” The agent paused on an image of several people dashing away from the vehicle. “That’s him.”
    “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