Page 136 of Missile Strike

She took the interstate south to central Phoenix.

“Wherever she’s going, it’s not home,” Danny noted over his comms.

His phone buzzed with an incoming call.

He glanced at the screen.

Olivia Flores.

What the hell did that woman want? He let the call go to voicemail.

A few seconds later his phone chirped, this time with an incoming text.

Olivia Flores again.

I researched Omar Hassan and found something you need to see.

She’d attached a photo. He took a quick look. A family with young children on a beach.

Agent Anderson exited Interstate 17 just north of where it crossed Interstate 10 in the central industrial district.

Danny followed.

He needed to keep his focus, so he didn’t lose sight of the FBI agent.

Whatever information Flores had dug up on a dead man could wait.

He passed industrial businesses with graffiti-covered exteriors and chain-link fences. The sun had set, and streetlamps were sporadic, their harsh sodium lights illuminating gravel shoulders and cluttered lots of old equipment or automobiles.

To one side of the avenue he found himself on, a railway terminal stretched for a good mile. Lines of cylindrical tankers and rectangular freight cars sat stationary on the tracks. Looming shapes in the night, illuminated only in sections where security floodlights on nearby buildings touched them.

Gravel crunched beneath Agent Anderson’s tires as she pulled into the vacant parking lot of a nearby demolition business and parked. Danny drove past, turned at the next street, and parked on the side of the road.

He took his phone off the magnetic holder he’d clipped onto the A/C vent, his finger hovering over the photo of Bella he’d installed as wallpaper.

Three nights. Three video calls he’d looked forward to so much that Tavari had actually teased him about it.

A dozen texts in between, including photos of Trip because, dammit, he missed the stupid dog, too.

It didn’t help that he didn’t know when he’d return to Charlotte. For the first time in years, there was somewhere else he’d rather be.

Focus.

He locked the screen and stepped out of the car, scanning to see if anyone had eyes on him. The area appeared deserted. His hand settled on the Sig tucked in a holster beneath his lightweight black tactical jacket.

Rounding the corner, he kept to the shadows as the FBI agent crossed the street to the rail yard, still dressed in the navy pantsuit she’d worn to work. As if on cue, the metal security gate slid open. She glanced around, then reached inside her blazer, retrieving her service weapon before slipping inside.

The gate clanged shut.

Well, hell. Whoever Agent Anderson planned to meet, she didn’t trust them.

“She’s armed.” Danny relayed the information to Tavari. “She went through gate three. Take the north side.”

He headed two blocks south, far enough away from the gate to not be spotted. Crossing the street, he vaulted the six-foot brick wall and landed in a crouch.

For a minute he stayed down, listening for sounds of movement.

A quick text to Tavari. Inside.