the door open with his foot, breathing hard, his shirt torn and dirty.
“What happened?” Tracie asked.
“They got away.” Rip kicked the door closed behind him, careful not to touch anything. “Have you called the police?”
She shook her head and held up gloved hands. “No. And I’ve been careful not to leave prints on anything. We can’t blow our cover. There’s still a lot of work to do.”
“What about the surveillance video for this floor?”
“I’ll get Hank to work on that. Right now, we need to find any information that Greer might have left for us.” She slapped a pair of latex gloves in his hands.
Rip pulled on the gloves and glanced around the hotel room. Drawers littered the floor, a small suitcase lay upside down beside the drawers, clothes were strewn around the room as if someone had gone through them in a hurry. Pillows had been tossed off the bed and the mattress lay at an awkward angle, the sheets in a rumpled heap beside the dead man.
“The room’s been tossed. If there was anything to be found, don’t you think the killers would have gotten to it first?” Rip asked.
He glanced at the door. Not only had the killers splintered the frame, the chain lock had been ripped out of the door itself.
“The chain on the door was torn off. The agent knew someone might try to get to him.” Tracie checked the closet, the empty room safe and behind the dresser. “Nothing.”
Rip found a set of keys beneath the corner of the bed. “Think he might have left something in his vehicle?”
“We can check, but we better make it quick. It won’t be long before someone sees the broken door and discovers the body. We don’t want to be around when the police get here.”
Rip nodded. They couldn’t afford to be tied up answering questions for the police. Their fake documents would only hold up until authorities tracked down their real identities. “Did Hank have the access to erase our fingerprints from the FBI and military databases?”
“As far as I know, he removed us from all grids.”
A sense of loss washed over Rip. His identity had been erased from the military system. He’d always been proud of his connection with the SEALs. Having been removed from the system made him feel even more disconnected than his fake death.
Rip squared his shoulders. He didn’t have time to grieve his own death. Palming the car keys, he jerked his head toward the door. “Let’s go.”
Leading the way, Rip took the staircase down to the ground level.
Tracie followed more slowly in her high heels, listening for others entering the stairwell or raising the alarm about a killing in the hotel.
So far, nothing had gone according to plan, which was right on par for the life of an FBI agent, or a Covert Cowboys, Inc. operative for that matter. Rarely did she have complete control over what happened, but she’d rather be in the position of giving the orders than taking them. She frowned at Rip’s back.
The massive breadth of Rip’s shoulders gave her a modicum of confidence. At least he was capable of defending himself and possibly her, if hand-to-hand combat became necessary.
Outside in the parking lot, Rip hit the unlock button on the key fob. A nondescript gray economy car’s lights blinked and the vehicle let out a mechanical beep.
Thankfully, the car was parked at the side of the building, not in clear view of the lobby or the hotel manager, and hopefully out of range of security cameras.
Without wasting time, Rip dove into the car and thoroughly searched the interior before he gave up and popped the lock on the trunk. It was empty.
“Check under the mat where the spare tire and tools are located,” Tracie suggested.
His hand already skimming over the edges of the trunk lining, Rip found the tab to pull it upward. Beneath the felt-covered liner was a large envelope tucked next to the spare.
A siren sounded in the distance. Tracie’s pulse leaped. “Grab it and let’s get out of here. We don’t know if that siren is headed this way.”
Rip grabbed the packet, dropped the car keys on the ground nearby and peeled off the gloves, tucking them into his pocket.
Rip put his arm around Tracie, tucking the package between them as they made their way toward the limousine the driver had parked in the far corner of the hotel parking lot.
With Rip so close, Tracie had a hard time concentrating and she stumbled.
Rip’s hand on her arm steadied her. “You all right?”
“I’m fine,” she said. “Which is more than I can say for Franks.” Before Rip could reach for the back door, the driver hopped out and opened the door for Tracie. Rip helped her into her seat, leaning across to slide the package onto the seat beside her. In the process, he stole a kiss.
Startled by the feel of his lips on hers, Tracie froze, her mouth tingling, her hands pressed to her chest to still her furiously beating heart.
When Rip rounded to the other side of the vehicle and slid in beside her, his jaw tight.
“Was the kiss necessary?” she whispered.
“It was part of our cover,” he said, his lips twitching in the corners.
“Well, warn me next time,” Tracie muttered.
“Sorry, I thought you’d want me to act like the lovesick bridegroom.”
He had a point. He also had her trembling, and that just wouldn’t do.
He winked at her and glanced at the driver. “For now, just get us away from the hotel.”
The driver nodded and shifted gears, setting the limo into motion.
Rip pressed a button and the privacy window between the driver and the passengers slid upward.
As soon as they were back on the main road and Tracie was certain they weren’t being followed, she opened the packet and peered inside.
“What’s in it?” Rip cast a quick glance her way.
“Photos and some printouts from the internet.” Tracie thumbed through the contents.
“Photos of?” Rip queried.
“People. They appear to be Latino.” She handed one to him. The image was at an odd angle, as if whoever had taken it hadn’t been focusing on the subject. “This is marked as Juan Villarreal.”
Rip’s eyes narrowed and a muscle ticked in his jaw. “Villarreal was the leader of the terrorist camp we raided in order to free the DEA agent. He’s the one in charge of the group using the US-supplied
