24 Declassified: Vanishing Point

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

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 assault rifle with assured 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 trespassing. I lost all my money at the craps 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 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 assault 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 assault 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 hit 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 un certain, 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 assistant 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 Glock. 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. Shells 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 Glock, Curtis groped for the door to the next room. He found the doorway, slipped through it — and the butt 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 Glock 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 passenger 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 glass 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 ass 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.

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 glass 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 ser vice 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 God,” 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…”

“But David—” “Let’s leave it at that,” Palmer said, wrapping his wife in his arms. “All right,” Sherry purred. “I know better than to push you for answers you’re not willing to give.”

“You smell nice,” Palmer observed.

“It’s the shampoo. I had my hair done for the banquet tonight. Or hadn’t you noticed?”

“I noticed,” he lied.

Sherry gave him a doubtful look. “You’d better get dressed yourself — after you take a shower. You smell like you just played the second half all by yourself.”

David chuckled. “Maybe you’ll be more receptive to my advances after I’ve cleaned up my act?”

Sherry slapped his butt. “Get in that shower right now. If we’re late, Larry Bell will only use the time to upstage you again.”

“I’m going,” David replied, heading for the bathroom. A moment later, Sherry heard the water running. When she was sure her husband was in the shower, she lifted the phone and dialed Jong Lee’s room. He answered on the first ring.

“This is Lee,” he said.

“Mr. Lee, I have rather bad news for you. Whatever it was your company was working on, I’m afraid the project is about to be cancelled.”

There was a pause. “You’re sure, Mrs. Palmer?”

“Absolutely certain, Mr. Lee. I guess you won’t have to retool your factories after all.”

“Yes, that is true.” Another pause. “Mrs. Palmer… Do you know if the demonstration was a success?”

Sherry frowned. “I believe it was, Mr. Lee. But the project is cancelled nevertheless.”

“Good to know,” Lee replied, hardly able to contain his glee.

“And that other matter we discussed?”

“Of course, Mrs. Palmer. Send Mr. Cohen to my suite in two hours to collect the funds. I shall have the package ready for him.”

“Thank you, Mr. Lee. My husband’s campaign appreciates your support.”

Sherry hung up before the man could reply. Shaking with excitement, she went to the bar and poured herself a scotch. She swallowed it in a single gulp. She had to be careful tonight, hide her emotions. It was difficult, however. The thought of all that money in a secret fund made Sherry Palmer feel giddy. With five million dollars at her disposal, she could buy a lot of favors, and destroy a host of political rivals, too.

Men scattered as the cherry-red BMW swung into the lot. The automatic garage door had barely opened enough to admit the vehicle when it roared right through. Skidding on the greasy concrete, Stella Hawk braked inches from the line of white Dodge Sprinter trucks.

She popped the passenger side door and kicked the groaning man with her Roger Vivier heels. “Get out before you ruin my goddamn upholstery,” she screamed. Standing near the trucks, Pizarro Rojas watched her performance with interest. His brother Balboa, who had been examining Hugo Bix’s silver Jaguar, frowned at the woman’s vulgar display.

Curtis Manning tumbled out of the front seat, into a puddle of grease. Hugo Bix stepped forward, looming over the semi-conscious man.

“Hell,” he said with a crooked grin. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

Lilly was not amused. She climbed out of the car, slammed the door. “You dumb bastards almost lost him,” she cried, eyes flashing. “Jesus Christ! Don’t you know that if Curtis got away, he’d have warned Jaycee something was going on over here.”

“We had it under control, honey,” Bix replied in a reasonable tone.

A sneering Stella scanned the faces around her, then glared a challenge at Carlos and Roland. “Next time, don’t send a bunch of taco benders and tamale stuffers to do your job, Hugo.”

Roland turned his back on the woman, walked back to the Jaguar parked in the corner to speak with Balboa and Pizarro Rojas. Together, the three men moved to the line of panel trucks, opened the door to one of them and climbed inside.

Carlos set Curtis Manning’s PDA and cell phone on the hood of Stella’s car, under Hugo’s nose.

“This man who was spying on you is not a gangster,” the Cuban announced. “I can’t crack the codes, but this device—” he touched the PDA. “This belongs to a federal agent. FBI, perhaps DEA. I was lucky to be able to hone in on the tracking beam.”

Hugo snorted, then threw back his head and laughed. “That dumb som’ bitch of a bastard Jager has a snake on his own damn team. This guy here’s probably working to bust his whole crew.”

Fat Frankie Toomes’ expression soured. “Too bad we stopped him.”

Bix peered at the man on the ground. Curtis hadn’t stirred. He looked to be dying, or dead already. “Yeah, maybe…” Bix grunted, glancing in Roman Vine’s direction.

Roland Arrias returned to speak with his partner Carlos. Pizarro and Balboa remained with the trucks. The brothers seemed reluctant to get involved with Bix’s business.

“The charges are set. A very professional job,” Roland reported. “There is more C4 than we asked for. More than enough to do the job. The Rojas boys are quite happy with the arrangement, despite the presence of this pig—” He spit on Curtis.

Bix smirked. Carlos faced the American. “You have fulfilled your part of the bargain.”

A Cuban stepped forward, opened a leather attaché case. It was stuffed with cash. Stella’s eyes narrowed when she saw the money. She licked her lips.

“Five million dollars,” Carlos said. “You’ve already received the shipment of cocaine. Count the cash if you wish.”

Bix grinned. “I trust you, amigo.” He reached out, closed the case himself. Roman Vine took it from the Cuban.

“What do you want me to do with this here federale?” Bix asked, his booted foot prodding Curtis’s kidney.

“Throw him in one of the trucks. He killed two of my men, he can die with the others in the first blast.”

While a pair of Cubans grabbed Curtis under the arms and dragged him to one of the trucks, Carlos faced Bix.

“We have only one problem now,” he said. “One of the men this American agent killed was the brother of a waiter at the Babylon. He was to take his brother’s place this night, in order to plant the final bomb in the banquet hall.”

Bix frowned. “Spot of bad luck there, eh, amigo?” He rubbed his chin. “Look, I can provide you with a driver or two — for a price. But I can’t get you close to the VIPs, not without advance planning. I reckon nobody can. Not now…”

“I can.”

Carlos and Roland turned to face Stella Hawk. Head cocked, hands on her hips, she nodded. “Yeah, you heard right. I can get one or two of you in, anyway. I’m a performer at Risque, which is inside the Babylon, and my roommate is a waitress at tonight’s shindig. I’ll get you past security, or around it.”

Pizarro Rojas, who’d only been listening up to now, stepped forward. “How much is the ser vices of this… this puta descarada going to cost?”

The insult rolled off her back. “Five hundred thousand dollars,” Stella replied, extending her hand, palm up. “Payable right now.”

Pizarro glanced at his brother. “Pay her.”

Bix studied the man. For a guy who’d been forced to cough up an extra half million dollars, Pizarro Rojas seemed pretty calm. His brother Balboa didn’t look nearly so happy. Sour faced, he rummaged through the scuffed and dirty canvas bag that he’d carried across the border, came up with a stack of thousand-dollar bills.

“You better deliver what we’ve paid for, or you will not leave the hotel alive,” he grunted as he handed her the money.

Stella flashed him a smile. “Don’t worry, Pedro. Satisfaction’s guaranteed.” She climbed into her car, stashed the money in a secret compartment behind the dash.

Finally, Pizarro Rojas moved toward Hugo Bix, until the two men stood toe to toe. Rojas, a head shorter than the American, looked up to meet his eye.

“In a few minutes we will drive away from here in these trucks,” Rojas said. “But I will always remember the ser vice you and your men provided for me, for my family. In times of trouble, when the other gangs turned on us, you remained loyal.” Pizarro touched his head. “A Rojas never forgets his friends, as you shall soon discover.”

Turning his back on Bix, he headed back to the trucks. On the way, he took Stella’s arm, pushed her toward the first vehicle. Despite the rough handling, Stella smirked. Heels clicking, she obediently followed her new, high-paying boss.

“Adios, amigo,” Bix called as he walked to his office. “And good luck…”

By the time Bix reached his cluttered desk upstairs, the trucks were rolling out of the garage. Carlos Boca stood at the door, directing the deployment. He spaced each departure a few minutes apart — a wise move, Bix realized. It would look odd if six identical Sunflower Gardens Florist trucks rolled out of a garage nowhere near the location of the real shop on the other side of town.

Watching the last of the trucks roll on to their target, Bix lifted his phone, pressed a button.

Downstairs, Roman Vine answered the phone on the wall. “Yeah, boss.”

“Time to call the Wildman. Tell them it’s a go.”

Bix slumped down in the battered office chair and propped his feet on the desk. While the Rojas boys were having their fun, Hugo Bix had been planning a private party of his own. He’d just passed the order along to the out-of-towner gunmen Roman Vine hired from the El Paso mob. While the authorities’ attention was diverted to the big blowout at the Babylon, Bix was going to light his own kind of fire at the Cha-Cha Lounge, and Jaycee Jager and his crew were going to burn.