Page 21 of Flash Freeze

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?”