Page 118 of Tate
Tate nodded.
Steam lifted off the rocks, settling into his bones. He should probably leave, his lungs parched now.
“Apparently, your guy with the tattoo was on the setup crew that night. At least three people remember his ink. And he vanished after setup, so Sly thinks you’re onto something.”
Tate’s jaw tightened. “Did you pull a name from the caterers?”
“Yeah. We tracked it and it was an alias. But…” He ran a hand around his neck. “Sly said if you wanted to follow your hunch, he could use you in San Diego.”
Tate’s head swam a little. “San Diego?”
“The National Convention. It’s this weekend, and the setup crew is headed out tomorrow. We could use your eyes—no one else has seen this guy.”
“I don’t remember seeing him in person in San Antonio. That was my brother. But I remember the pictures and Knox’s sketches.”
“And he can’t be hard to miss with the tat.”
“It’s a big crowd.”
“A rowdy crowd too. Something big is going down with the Jackson campaign. It’s all behind closed doors, but Isaac White—the other presidential contender—has been out to the house twice. They think that maybe he’s going to be her VP.”
Tate climbed down from the benches and braced his hand on the wall. He didn’t have to ask if Glo would be there.
“When do you want me?”
“I’ll call you with a sit-rep.”
“Thanks, Rags.” He pushed out into the shower area and turned on the water, cold, his body shaking.
He shouldn’t have left Glo. Shouldn’t have let his pride—even his anger—get him fired. He slammed his palm into the wall and let out a shout. Hung his head under the spray. It sloughed off the sweat and frustration of the last few days but left him cold and edgy. He tucked his towel around him as he walked out to the locker room area.
Opening his locker, he pulled out his clothing, and grabbed his cell phone. He needed flights to San Antonio, pronto. He wanted to track down this guy from the source.
That’s when he noticed the missed call from Ford.
Rags exited the sauna and headed for the shower.
Ford picked up on the first ring. “Bro. ’Sup?”
Tate didn’t know where to start. “You called.”
“Right.”
Tate heard clinking in the background. Probably his brother cooking up something gourmet.
“RJ FaceTimed with me a few days ago. Told me to call you with some information?—”
“And you’re just now calling me?”
“Hey! I’m not your personal secretary. I got called out on training. Sorry.”
Tate ran his hand across his face. “Naw, I’m sorry. I’m not in a good place. Just tell me what she said.”
“She said she tracked down the guy in your photo and that he was ex-Marine, sniper. Graham Plunkett. His brother is Alan Kobie, who is a member of the Bryant League. And—here’s the important part. Kobie was EOD.”
Which meant, he knew how to make bombs.
“How did we miss this?”
