24 Declassified: Vanishing Point

10. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 9 P.M. AND 10 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME

“Catch!”

Metro Police Sergeant Philip Locklear tossed the colorful bag at his partner. “Scoot over, Dallas. You eat your Montana burgers. I’ll drive.”

The younger man stepped out from behind the steering wheel, circled the white Metro Police car. Climbing back inside, he opened the bag and rummaged through it.

“Hey, you didn’t get anything for yourself.”

The sergeant shook his head, threw his hat on the dashboard, and ran his knobby fingers through his salt and pepper hair.

“I can’t eat that fast food crap. It bothers my stomach.”

Sergeant Locklear was in his mid-forties, but looked ten years older. Skin like leather, his blue eyes were frozen in a perpetual squint from too many decades of exposure to the desert sun. Though he was never in danger of failing his annual department physical. Locklear had a rounded belly from too much beer and too much couch surfing.

“What bothers your stomach are those ten cups of coffee you drink a shift. That stuff will kill you.”

Officer Brad Dallas was the former second-string quarterback of the Las Vegas High School football team. Ex-military and still sporting the same haircut he had in boot camp, Dallas was too gung-ho for his own good — and his partner’s. Still buff at twenty-nine, he was a health and fitness nut, except for the cholesterol-heavy Montana burgers he ate two at a time.

“What stuff will kill me?” Locklear asked, starting the engine.

“Caffeine, man. Coffee is the devil’s brew.”

The sergeant nodded. “Yeah. I heard that somewhere.”

They rolled out of the Montana Burger parking lot a moment later, swung onto the road that took them to their patrol zone along the Strip.

“How about you take a gander at tonight’s SVR. Shout out anything that catches your eye.”

Chewing a mouthful of burger, Officer Dallas thumbed through the three page printout on blue paper. The Stolen Vehicle Report was information so new it hadn’t reached the LVMP database yet. Such intelligence was the purview of the select few members of Metro’s Repeat Auto Theft Squad, RATS for short. Las Vegas ranked third in total car thefts for the past five years running. The RATS patrol was formed to lower that statistic.

Because a minority of car thieves steal the majority of cars — usually to use the pilfered vehicle to commit yet another crime — the Metro Police RATS was formed to target those nefarious individuals. Of the twenty to thirty Metro Police cars prowling the Strip on a given night, one or two of them belonged to the RATS patrol, though no one but the officers in question were aware of that fact. RATS patrol cars were not specially marked, and the RATS members wore the same uniforms and performed the same duties as other patrolmen. But they were also specially trained to recognize and arrest repeat offending car thieves, and to spot the telltale signs of car-theft related activity.

When the pair began their shift, the big case was a car jacking in North Las Vegas so violent it landed the victim in the morgue. That suspect was captured by the Nevada Highway Patrol an hour ago — the news had just come across their radio when the all-points was called off.

Without a special target for tonight’s patrol, Sergeant Locklear was fishing for an interesting angle.

“Not much here,” Dallas noted. “There was an assault and truck jacking this morning, out at Mesa Canyon, corner of Smoke Ranch Road and North Buffalo. The truck was a late model Dodge Sprinter, white with commercial plates. It was a Fit-Chef delivery van.”

The sergeant made a face. “My ex-wife ate that crap all the time. Shit cost an arm and a leg, but she never lost an ounce from that fat ass of hers.”

Brad Dallas had met his partner’s ex-wife. She was an attractive woman with nice legs and a biting sense of humor, and he didn’t think she had a particularly fat ass, either. Officer Dallas wasn’t going to argue the point, however.

“Hey, this is weird,” Dallas said a minute later. “Someone else jacked a Dodge Sprinter this morning. Over near Mulberry Mall. It was white, too… Same model year.”

He flipped through the pages. “Damn. Here’s another one. Nine AM, a uniform supply company van in front of a Dunkin’ Donut.”

“Okay, so you’re thinking that somebody’s planning a big heist using a trio of Dodge Sprinters? How likely is that?”

“I didn’t say that,” Dallas replied. “I was just saying I thought it was interesting, that’s all. Anyway, if you’re thinking about it, why stop with three?”

“Okay, partner. I’m hooked,” Sergeant Locklear declared. “I think it’s time you check the police data banks in Reno and see if they’re losing Dodge Sprinters, too.”

They turned onto Las Vegas Boulevard. Traffic was moving, but the streets were already packed with cars.

Washing down the last bite with a gulp of Diet Coke, Dallas put his greasy burger wrapper on the seat and swung the dashboard computer so it faced him. The young policeman wiped his fingers with a napkin, then cracked his knuckles. The RATS patrol had special access to up-to-the-minute car theft data from all over the state, not just Vegas. In a moment, Brad Dallas was exploring the state’s law enforcement database, city by city.

With each swerve and bump, Curtis managed to shift position, until he could observe the two men in the front seat. The driver was grizzled and well into middle-age, with sagging eyes and a blubbery neck. Curtis recognized that one — the fellow who beat him into unconsciousness and tied him up.

The man in the passenger seat was young, with dark, excited eyes under bushy eyebrows and close-cropped hair. His name was Hector and he seemed nervous and jumpy. While Curtis watched, the man swallowed an amphetamine without water. Both men wore nondescript navy blue uniform-type overalls that appeared black in the gloom of the truck’s interior.

Right now Curtis was helpless to do more than watch. There was no way he could free himself from the wires binding his wrists. They were firmly embedded in his ravaged and swollen flesh. Fortunately, after the older guy had beaten him down, he did a sloppy job of wiring Curtis’ legs. By twisting around for several minutes — and ignoring a considerable amount of pain — he’d managed to loosen the wires enough so that he could sit up, maybe get to his knees or even his feet, when the time came.

“You missed the turn, Salazar. The Babylon is on the other side of the boulevard,” Hector cried.

The young man suddenly turned his head around, to peer over the back of his seat. Curtis froze, but the man’s gaze passed right over him, to the view out of the rear windows. After a glance, he turned around again. Curtis relaxed enough to breathe.

“You have to circle around now, old man. Try making a U-turn and be quick about it. Come on, come on, do it man. we’re running behind schedule.”

The younger man’s voice was laced with adrenaline. He trembled with nervous impatience.

The older man frowned, rubbed his hairy neck. Then Salazar jerked the steering wheel into a sharp turn. Hector grunted in surprise, clutched the dashboard. Curtis, still on his back, used the vehicle’s momentum to help him roll to his knees. Fighting to remain upright, the steel truck bed digging into his kneecaps, Curtis heard tires squeal and the angry blare of a horn.

“Watch out, estupido,” Hector warned. “You’re cutting across traffic, man! You want to get us killed?”

“Would you look at that,” quipped Sergeant Locklear. Still behind the wheel, he stared down his nose at a white van swerving none too safely across two lanes of traffic.

“Dude. That’s a white Dodge Sprinter!”

Still staring, Officer Dallas read the stenciled letters on the side of the panel truck. “Sunflower Gardens Florist.”

“I know the joint,” Locklear said. “It’s over near the University. A little late to be delivering flowers, though.”

Officer Dallas grinned in anticipation. “What are you gonna do, Sarge?”

A thin smile crossed Locklear’s worn face. He sped up, weaving through traffic to catch up with the white truck. They just made it through two traffic lights and ran a third, until the Metro squad car was finally tailing the rear bumper of the truck. Locklear flipped on the bubble lights, blasted the siren.

To both officers’ surprise, the vehicle slowed down immediately. But it still rolled for half a block, along a fairly deserted stretch of road bordering on the newly built Wynn Hotel. Finally the truck turned off Las Vegas Boulevard, onto a ser vice road made of uneven concrete, that led to a fenced-in construction site. The truck halted at the locked gate, perhaps fifty yards away from the busy boulevard.

Locklear rolled to a halt bumper to bumper with the Sprinter so the truck could not flee the scene, threw the police car into neutral.

“Check the plates. I’m going to talk to this guy.”

Before Dallas could reply, Sergeant Locklear was out of the car and approaching the truck, one hand on his holstered gun. The younger man entered the plate numbers and waited for the computer to spit out a report.

“I told you not to pull over, man,” Hector hissed, a drop of saliva flecking his sweating lip.

“What was I supposed to do, drive away, have him chase me? This truck is full of explosives.” Salazar clutched at Hector’s arm. “Calm down, hermano. I can talk us out of this…” He reached down to clutch the handle of his own weapon. “Or I can shoot if I have to.”

“Too late for talk.” Quivering, Hector pulled the MP5K automatic from under the seat.

“No, Hector,” Salazar cried.

Sergeant Locklear appeared at the driver’s open window at just that moment. “Okay, step out of the car—”

Hector squeezed the trigger and the shot cut the Sergeant’s command short. The burst blew past Salazar’s face and the man howled. The policeman’s head exploded, and the torso dropped from view.

Curtis made a desperate lunge over the seat, too late to save the officer. He looped his arms around Hector’s neck and yanked the man backwards. The Maschinenpistole K continued to chatter until the 9mm magazine was spent. The shots went wild, firing into the seat, the dashboard. At least two bullets slammed into Salazar’s abdomen. Face scorched by powder burns and gut shot, the man behind the wheel fumbled with the handle and opened the door — only to tumble to the pavement, his own weapon clattering to the ground.

Clicking on an empty chamber, Hector let the gun fall and clawed at the suffocating arms coiled around his throat. Curtis groaned as the wires around his wrists dug deeper, but he did not let up on the pressure. Bracing his knees against the back of the seat, he pulled until he heard Hector’s neck snap. The fingers raking his arms went limp, and Curtis let the dead man slide out of his grip.

The passenger door opened. “Out with your hands up!” Officer Dallas shouted in a voice tinged with panic.

Curtis immediately raised his hands to show us the wires binding his wrist. “I’m not armed!” he cried. “I was a prisoner of these men. I’m a federal agent—”

“Shut up,” Dallas screamed. “Shut the fuck up and get down on the ground.”

Curtis could hardly move. The wires still bound his ankles as well as his arms. Instead of arguing with the cop, Curtis stumbled through the door, landed on the pavement.

The policeman loomed over him, gun waving in Curtis’ face. “I can’t hurt you, but you have to listen to me,” Curtis said in a reasonable tone.

The policeman saw the wires around Curtis’ arms and legs. But instead of freeing him, Officer Dallas circled the front of the Sprinter to the driver’s side. Curtis heard the cop moan.

“Jesus, oh shit Jesus, Sarge…” he whimpered.

Officer Dallas appeared a minute later. “Listen to me,” Curtis said. “I’m a federal agent. These men are terrorists…”

“I have to call for an ambulance—”

“You have to set me free first,” Curtis said in a firm voice. This time his words, or his tone, seemed to penetrate the policeman’s shock. Officer Dallas fumbled at his belt, pulled some kind of cutting tool free of its holster. He attempted to cut the wires binding Curtis’ wrist. The policeman hesitated when he drew blood.

“Just cut it, man,” Curtis commanded. He swallowed the pain while Officer Dallas probed the flesh to cut the final loop. When his hands were free, Curtis snatched the Teflon cutter out of the cop’s trembling hand and cut the wires on his ankles.

Dallas helped Curtis to his feet. “My partner’s dead…” he said.

“You and your partner may have saved countless lives. There’s a bomb in this truck. More on the way to the Babylon. We’ve got to put in a call to your department, warn them—”

“What are you talking about,” Dallas demanded.

“This truck is full of explosives,” Curtis repeated. “There are five other trucks just like it at the Babylon. Terrorists are going to blow up the hotel.”

Curtis opened the back of the truck, showed the policeman the barrels of C4. Curtis also yanked the detonation cords. This truck bomb wasn’t going off — but there were five others out there just like it. That message finally got through to Officer Dallas.

“I’m gonna call this in,” he declared. The officer raced back to his squad car. Curtis limped to catch up.

He counted it a miracle that he was able to convince the policeman, but Curtis envisioned another time-consuming conversation just like it when detectives arrived. It would be better if he could alert CTU. They could issue an immediate Code Red.

Officer Dallas sat down behind the wheel and lifted the radio handset. Curtis stepped around the open squad car door. “After you call in, I need you to patch me in to the Counter Terrorist Unit at frequency—”

Curtis was interrupted by a hail of automatic weapon fire. The police car windshield exploded in a million little pieces. Officer Dallas jerked in the seat as bullets tore through his body. More shots struck the hood, the door, inching toward Curtis. He reeled backwards before he was hit.

Down on one knee, Curtis faced the white truck. Salazar was stumbling forward in a pained crouch. Arm extended, he squeezed the trigger on an empty MP5K. Salazar’s other arm clutched his abdomen, which bubbled black blood that dribbled onto the pitted concrete.

Curtis lurched to his feet, struck the man across the face with a bunched right fist. Salazar’s jaw shattered, the automatic tumbled from his hand. Salazar dropped to his knees, but before he tumbled to the ground, Curtis snatched the man’s head in his hands and twisted, snapping the Cuban’s hairy neck. Curtis released him, and Salazar’s dead face bounced off the pavement.

With a groan, Manning limped back to the police car. Officer Dallas was finished, his body slumped over the steering wheel, dead eyes wide with surprise. The radio handset was shattered, and several shots hit the engine block. The squad car was as dead as its former occupants.

Manning bit back a curse and pondered his next move. Desperately he searched the bodies, but came up empty. Without a radio or cell phone, his options were strictly limited. He could wait for the police to show up and try to explain what happened all over again — an absurd waste of time, and dangerous if the cops were trigger happy or didn’t buy his story. He could drive to the Babylon and try to put a stop to the terrorists, maybe get in touch with CTU from a pay phone. Or he could drive the truck back to the Cha-Cha Lounge, get Jack and Morris involved, and alert CTU of the danger from there.

His mind made up, Curtis reached across the dead policeman and snatched the shotgun off the rack, along with spare ammunition. He took the dead officer’s pistol, too. Then Curtis limped back to the Dodge Sprinter, climbed behind the wheel. There were bullet holes in the dashboard, and the windshield was cracked, but in the first break Curtis got all day the truck started up immediately. He threw it into gear, backed up, pushing the disabled police cruiser car out of the way.

When he had enough room to maneuver, Curtis made a fast U-turn and rolled onto Las Vegas Boulevard.

Pizarro Rojas couldn’t believe how easily it was to get around hotel security and into the underground garage. The counterfeit electronic card glued to the windshield, another gift from Hugo Bix, worked perfectly. A hidden electronic eye automatically scanned the card, and the gate rose to admit them. With Balboa behind the wheel, Stella and Pizarro Rojas hiding in the rear of the truck among the flowers and explosives, they rolled unchallenged and undetected into the supposedly secure area. A uniformed guard even waved to Balboa as he sped past the glass-enclosed security booth.

They found a parking space close enough to one of the central support struts to blow it apart when the truck bomb detonated. There were six struts supporting the hotel’s main tower, and six truck bombs to take them out — or at least that was the plan. The Rojas brothers didn’t have time to circle the entire garage and see if they other trucks were parked in their designated spots. They would find out how many men reached the hotel and planted their explosives when the Cubans rendezvoused at the airport later. They did check the timer on the bomb. It was working perfectly.

Then Balboa activated a second timer, this one on a device Hugo Bix had procured for them from his secret source inside the U.S. military. The electromagnetic jamming device was about the size of a microwave oven, and Hugo’s men had installed two automobile batteries to power the machine. Bix had guaranteed that this advanced, military-style jamming device would effectively cut all communications in and out of the Babylon.

Pizarro frowned. Hugo Bix had proved himself to be a valuable ally. Pizarro would be sorry to lose him.

“At ten forty-five the timer will activate the jamming mechanism,” Roland told his brother. “At that moment, all the hotel’s phones and computers will fail. Satellite communications will be jammed, too. No information will get in or go out.”

“Then what happens?” Stella asked.

“The keynote address is scheduled to begin at approximately eleven o’clock. The truck bombs will detonate fifteen minutes later, right in the middle of the gringo Senator’s speech to the conference.”

For the first time since she’d met him, Stella Hawk saw Balboa Rojas smile. “Everyone will die,” he gloated. “Everyone.”

When they left the truck, Balboa locked the doors, then broke the keys off inside the locks, one by one. Before they’d left Bix’s garage, he’d instructed the other drivers to do the same thing.

Stella Hawk led them through the underground parking garage, to an exit door that took them outside, along a sidewalk made of flat desert stones that wound through a manicured lawn. Both men carried potted plants that concealed bricks of C4 and two detonators — the explosives destined for the main ballroom. Once again, Pizarro marveled at the luxury of the hotel. Even a remote spot such as this, a forgotten corner of this grand hotel, had an expensive sidewalk, glowing footlights, a perfect lawn.

“That’s the Babylonian Theater up ahead,” Stella informed them, her heels clicking on the stones. “In the Risqué show we use real fire on stage, so the city’s fire code required the theater to have a bunch of emergency exits. These doors are never guarded, and one of them has a broken lock. The dancers all know about the busted door. They use it to step outside for air, to smoke, snort coke or shoot up.”

“Puta heroin junkies,” Balboa sneered.

Tossing a sidelong glance at Pizarro, Stella’s full lips curled into a smirk. “Some girls have a problem dancing nude six nights a week in front of a packed house. I’m not one of them.”

They reached a steel door. Stella halted. “Here we are.”

There were no handles, no way to open the door that the Rojas brothers could see. Without comment, Stella reached into her bag, pulled out a wire coat hanger than had been spun into a tight loop. She unbent the end, slid it into the crack between the door and the doorjamb. The men heard a click.

“Open sesame,” Stella chirped.

She held the door open and the men slipped inside. Pizarro locked eyes with her as he crossed the threshold and Stella could see his attitude was softening. His face wore the same sneer as his brother’s, but she could see admiration behind his stare, too. Stella gently closed the metal doors, faced the brothers.

“How close are we to the ballroom?” Pizarro asked.

“Top floor,” Stella replied. “And I’m sure the guest elevators are well guarded. I know where the ser vice elevators are located however.”

Pizarro stepped aside to allow Stella to pass. “Lead on,” he said, almost civilly.