Vanishing Point Part 12

"You're certain there is a watcher?" Balboa asked, glancing at his brother, then at the Cubans.

"You're the jamming expert, Balboa. What do you think?" Carlos stared at the Rojas brother. Balboa nodded.

"Whoever's spying, they have attempted to send a data transmission, either from a PDA or a laptop computer. Then, just now, the observer also tried to make a phone call. I blocked both signals with the jamming system," Carlos explained.

Pizarro Rojas faced Hugo Bix. The American cowboy was over a head taller than the squat, wide Colombian. "Have your men checked that abandoned building across the street?" Pizarro demanded.

Bix pursed his lips and scratched his stubbled chin under the handlebar moustache. Then he glanced at his partner. "I reckon Roman here will know," Bix replied.

"No one's been in there, man. What's the point. Not even b.u.ms will sleep there 'cause the building's full of rattlers," Roman told the Colombian.

Pizarro frowned. "There are more than snakes around. My man says you are being watched, which means that someone is inside that building across the street."

"If that's true, then Roman here can deal with the situation," Bix replied smoothly.

Roman nervously wiped his upper lips. He hated snakes.

Carlos Boca set the black box on the hood of a car. "My brother and I will take care of this."

"No," Pizarro Rojas countered. "I need you both here, to examine the quality of the American's work. We can't afford any mistakes."

Carlos nodded, gestured to three men from the other SUV. He gave them terse instructions in Spanish, and the men retrieved AK-47s from their vehicle. Then they headed for the back door of the garage.

"What if the intruder gets away?" Bix asked. "Out of range of that do-hickey of yours?"

Carlos watched as the trio slipped outside, then split up. "Don't worry. He won't," Boca vowed.

Inside the garage, Pizarro Rojas peered at the sprinters lined up in a neat row. "The trucks are prepared, I see."

"Six of them, just like you ordered," Bix replied. "They've all been stolen hundreds of miles from here, and we've supplied phony license plates and electronic key cards with the proper vendor codes. Each of these trucks has been customized to breeze right through the Babylon's security without arousing suspicion.

" Behind the wheels of these babies..." Bix thumped the hood with the flat of his callused hand, "...you and your boys can roll right into the underground delivery area and park where you want."

Bix's homespun smile broadened. "Best of all. every one of those d.a.m.n trucks is loaded for bear."

6:59:55 p.m. PDT Babylon Hotel and Casino, Las Vegas The bell rang and the doors opened. Lilly Sheridan's daughter Pamela looked up, blinking with astonishment at the man stepping into the elevator.

The new pa.s.senger was perhaps the largest man Lilly had ever seen. Not only tall - this man's shoulders were as wide as the refrigerator back at her crummy rent-a-house. He wore a tailored suit that Lilly just knew cost more than she earned in a month, even counting her tips.

He must be pro-basketball star, she concluded. she concluded. Or maybe a football player. Or maybe a football player. But a closer inspection changed her mind. But a closer inspection changed her mind. He's too old to be a pro anything. He's too old to be a pro anything.

The man's face was a mask of concentration. Brows furrowed, he rubbed his chin. Suddenly, he seemed to realize she was there. The man's face relaxed, his brown eyes met hers.

"Hi," Lilly said shyly.

"h.e.l.lo."

The man's voice was deep, almost a rumble. He noticed Pamela then, and his smile became dazzling. "Do you like the ride?" he asked.

Pamela nodded. "Makes me queasy, though."

He nodded. "Me too."

The elevator slowed. "Have a good evening," the man said.

"Enjoy your stay at the Babylon," Lilly replied.

He turned and smiled. "Thank you," he said, and the doors closed again.

"Mom, who was that man?"

"I don't know," Lilly replied, distracted. She was worried the banquet manager would be waiting at the entrance to the ball room. Evelyn did that sometimes, to make sure everyone had dressed properly. She didn't want the woman to see Pamela. Too much to explain, and Evelyn would figure out her scam.

"No babysitter, no job," she'd say, sending Lilly home rather than letting her stash her daughter in the dressing room for a couple of hours, where the child wouldn't do any harm.

The bell rang again and the doors opened. The ballroom doors were open wide, but there was no sign of Evelyn or her a.s.sistant Janet.

"Hurry, let's go," Lilly hissed, pushing her daughter toward the glittering banquet room.

8

THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 7 7 P.M. AND 8 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME P.M. AND 8 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME.

7:02:11 p.m. PDT Tunney and Sons Quality Tool and Die Browne End Road, Las Vegas Curtis spotted the gunman approaching the tool and die factory the moment he slipped through the hole in the back wall. It was a close call for the CTU agent, with Curtis emerging into the fading afternoon just as his stalker rounded the corner. Fortunately the man's eyes were fixed on the sand at his feet - most likely wary of rattlesnakes - so Curtis managed to slip around the building without being seen.

Using the forgotten collection of Dumpsters for cover, Curtis kept glancing over his shoulder, trying to get a better look at his pursuer. A quick glimpse convinced him the man was one of six who'd arrived in the second SUV. All of those men had the same spare, hardened look of ex-military types, and the man certainly carried his a.s.sault rifle with a.s.sured familiarity.

Curtis paused in a narrow gap between two rusty steel containers, to stare up at the purpling sky. The sun was low on the horizon, but it would be over an hour before it was truly dark. Unfortunately, with at least one man on his trail and possibly more, Curtis could not afford to wait for night to hide his movements - he had to get out of here now.

On his knees, peering out from between two dented containers, Curtis watched as the armed man discovered the hole in the wall, then carefully crouched low and crawled through it.

The moment his stalker disappeared inside the factory, Curtis was moving. He had about thirty feet of barren, sand-swept concrete to cross before reaching the cover of a lone Dumpster set apart from the rest. He'd use it to boost himself over the eight-foot fence, then he'd cross three vacant lots beyond the fence to reach Pena Lane, where he'd parked his car.

Feet pumping, Curtis traversed the stretch of concrete in under three seconds - only to be stopped in his tracks when another man stepped out from behind the Dumpster, his AK-47 leveled at Agent Manning's stomach. Immediately, Curtis threw his hands over his head.

"Don't shoot," he cried, resorting to Plan B. "I know I was trespa.s.sing. I lost all my money at the c.r.a.ps table and was lookin' to find a place to crash, that's all."

The man was young, Curtis guessed in his early twenties. By haircut and physique, the CTU agent pegged him as ex-military. But this man was clearly a private in some socialist state's army, because he was clearly not accustomed to thinking or acting independently. Curtis saw the man's confused expression, knew he was wondering if he'd cornered the wrong guy, and if the real culprit was getting away.

"Get on the ground and take out your weapon," he commanded in a thick Cuban accent.

"Chill man! I don't have any weapons," Curtis cried, adding a touch of hysteria to his performance while remaining on his feet.

"Get on the ground," the man roared, moving perilously close. But still the gunman didn't fire. Either he was reluctant to pull the trigger on the wrong man, or he feared alerting his prey. In any case, the youth stood there, eyes darting left and right, wondering what he should do next.

"I know... You're looking for the other other guy," Curtis stammered, he hoped convincingly. "I saw him in the factory. He took off before I did. The dude had a phone in his hand, maybe a gun too..." guy," Curtis stammered, he hoped convincingly. "I saw him in the factory. He took off before I did. The dude had a phone in his hand, maybe a gun too..."

The gunman blinked, lowered the a.s.sault rifle's muzzle, just a little.

"He went that way," Curtis said. He kept his left hand over his head while he moved his right arm across his body, moving as if he were going to point. While the gunman was focused on the action over his left shoulder, Curtis dipped his hand into his jacket.

The Cuban spotted the move too late. Curtis whipped out the Glock, slapped the rifle barrel aside with his hand. The man jerked the trigger and the AK-47 chattered, blowing out chunks of concrete. Before he could recover, Curtis shoved the muzzle of his Glock into the man's chest and fired twice.

Blown backwards by the impact, the gunman slammed into the steel trash container, then slid to the pavement. The man's heart and lungs poured out of the basketball sized exit wound in his back, splattered to the ground. Curtis was more concerned with the a.s.sault rifle, which clattered to the ground a few feet away.

Spitting dust and concrete shards, Curtis lunged for the fallen rifle. But a sudden burst from an automatic weapon peppered the ground around the AK-47, denting the barrel and splintering the stock.

Unable to locate the direction of the fire, Curtis abandoned the now-useless rifle, rolled across the pitted concrete and onto his feet. More tracers tore the air around him as he took off in a run. He had no choice but to head right back to the forest of Dumpsters. Another burst struck the ground around his pounding feet, then punched holes into the steel containers.

Curtis. .h.i.t the ground on his belly, used his elbows to drag himself forward, deeper into the tangle of steel boxes. Bullets ricocheted over his head, occasionally striking concrete. He felt hot pain and realized a piece of shrapnel had torn a hole in his leg.

Gasping, Curtis touched the wound, satisfied it was not life threatening. With the shooters' location uncertain, he decided to wait a few minutes before moving again. While listening intently for any sound, he rolled onto his back and yanked the PDA out of his pocket. He checked the display, silently cursing the continuing lack of signal. Then he activated the homing beacon inside the device and stuffed the personal digital a.s.sistant into a rust hole eaten into the side of a dirty Dumpster. He thrust his cell phone there, too. Curtis knew that if he was killed or captured, Morris or Jack, or another CTU agent could locate and retrieve these items and the data they contained, once the jamming was lifted.

Curtis heard angry voices. Two men. They'd found the corpse of their comrade. He strained to hear the instructions quietly issued by the leader. From what he could understand, the men were circling the Dumpsters to flank him. Keeping his head, Agent Manning noted that the leader spoke Spanish with refined Castillian accent - another Cuban, Curtis guessed.

When he'd counted to a hundred, Curtis adjusted his grip on the dock. Then he rolled over onto his belly again and slithered among the Dumpsters until he found a place where he could stand.

With two eight-foot fences to climb and long, empty stretches to cross, Curtis knew that the gunmen would easily cut him down before he ever reached Pena Lane. Since that escape was blocked, Curtis decided to surprise his hunters and head right back where he came from - the factory. If he reached the building, which was right on Browne End Road, he could probably hold off a siege until help arrived.

Not that he was expecting to be rescued. Neither Jack nor Morris knew he was in trouble. But an explosion of automatic rifle fire, even in such a remote section of town, would probably attract someone's attention, even if it was only the junkies at crack houses along Pena Lane.

Counting on the timely arrival of a Metro Police squad car was a flimsy plan at best, but it was the only one he had. Cautiously, Curtis rose to a crouch and moved back to the factory. He made it all the way to the hole in the back wall before shots rang out. Sh.e.l.ls smacked the bricks above his head as Curtis dived across the threshold.

Without sunlight pouring through broken windows and holes in the roof, the factory's interior was nearly pitch black. Fortunately, Curtis knew his way around the building, and he stumbled blindly forward, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. Behind him, he heard a crash, then a burst of fire raked the room he'd just fled.

At least one of the gunmen was inside the building, too.

Clutching the dock, Curtis groped for the door to the next room. He found the doorway, slipped through it - and the b.u.t.t of a rifle slammed into his guts.

Curtis doubled over, the breath dashed from his lungs. Dimly, through a haze, he saw the dark silhouette in the darker void as the man loomed over him. He raised his dock feebly, and another sharp blow set it flying from his stunned hand.

To avoid a third strike, Curtis rolled onto his side, kicked out with the last of his strength. He heard a satisfying grunt as his booted foot connected with flesh. Curtis kicked again - this time with both legs - and his timing was perfect. His attacker was falling forward, kneecap shattered, when Curtis' boots sunk into his midriff. Helpless, the man was lifted up and thrown backwards by the powerful double-kick. He crashed through the front window, plunged onto the curb of Browne End Road.

Curtis clutched the battered desk and hauled himself to his feet. He heard heavy footsteps behind him. With nowhere else to go, Curtis followed the man through the window. His victim, sprawled on the ground, clutched at Curtis as he tried to limp away. Agent Manning smashed the man's throat with a booted foot, felt bone and cartilage snap under his heel. The groping hands fell away. Stumbling forward, Curtis searched vainly for the dead man's AK-47.

Across the street, at Bix Automotive, men were streaming out of the garage, a few of them armed. Curtis turned and loped down the street, one leg stiffening from the still bleeding wound. He knew running was useless, but he wasn't ready to give up yet. He glanced over his shoulder. Already his pursuers were in the street. In another few seconds, they'd start shooting and it would be over. Only a miracle could save him now.

Amid shouts of surprise, Curtis heard the roar of a high-performance engine, the squeal of tires. The men in the street scattered as the vehicle raced through them, threatening to run down anyone who didn't get out of the way. Then the custom painted cherry red BMW skidded to a halt between Curtis and his pursuers. The pa.s.senger side door opened.

"Hurry up, get in," a familiar voice called.

Crouching, Curtis dashed to the car, dived into the seat. The woman reached her arm over him, slammed the door. Still half-sprawled across the front seat, Curtis was slammed backwards by the sudden acceleration. Hand against the dashboard, he pulled himself up. Out the windows, Browne End Road was speeding by. Bix Automotive and the men chasing him shrank in the rear view mirror.

Curtis faced the woman behind the wheel. "Thanks, Stella... I don't know what you were doing here, but you saved my life."

Stella Hawk said nothing, her eyes on the road. Finally she peeked at Curtis through long eyelashes. "You're bleeding on my leather upholstery."

Curtis looked down. Blood seeped from the bullet graze in his leg. He'd also gashed his side on jagged gla.s.s when he jumped through the window.

"Sorry," he grunted. "I'll have it cleaned for you."

Curtis stared at the road, orienting himself. "Make the next right," he told the woman. "I need to get back to the Cha-Cha Lounge as soon as possible."

Tires howled again as Stella negotiated the turn without slowing down. Sniffling, she reached a manicured hand into her purse.

"I'm not kidding, Stella," Curtis said, touching his guts gingerly. "You really pulled my a.s.s out of the fire back there."

Curtis blinked in surprise when he saw the thing in her hand. Before he had time to react, Stella Hawk raised the .38 and shot him in the chest.

7:33:12 p.m. PDT Babylon Hotel and Casino, Las Vegas Sherry Palmer returned from her pre-banquet appointment at the Babylon's beauty spa, to find her husband standing alone on the balcony. Motionless, he watched the neon of the Las Vegas Strip blot out the stars under in the early evening sky. Sherry dropped her purse on the gla.s.s coffee table, and went out to greet him.

"David, I was worried you wouldn't get back in time for the event."

His stare remained fixated on the streets below. For a moment, Sherry thought he hadn't heard her. Then her husband spoke.

"Did you ever wonder what would have happened if there was someone at the Manhattan Project who realized the horror of what they were creating, and warned them against developing the first atomic bomb?"

Sherry frowned. "I think Oppenheimer did just that, David. It didn't matter. There was a war on. The bomb was created to end it."

David nodded. "But I wonder if there might have been another way."

Sherry touched his arm. She knew she had to be careful now. Ask the right questions without sounding like she was asking anything. If she pushed too hard, he would only pull back.

"You saw something today, didn't you David?" she probed gently.

Her husband's frown deepened. "You worried that I might make a decision that will come to haunt me?" he said. "That I'll do something to jeopardize my run for the White House."

"David, you know I just want what's best for both of us..."

He raised a hand to silence her. "I stopped something today," he told her. "Something so terrible that if I never do anything else, I've already performed a service to humanity."

Sherry shook her head. "I don't understand."

He faced her then, and smiled. "No you don't," he replied. "Consider yourself blessed that you don't."

"What happened, David?" she asked.

"Nothing, thank G.o.d," he replied. "In my capacity as head of the Senate Defense Appropriations Committee, I cancelled a research program that did not bear the results the Pentagon was expecting..."