24 Declassified: Vanishing Point 2d-5

by Marc A. Cerasini

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.

  9:53:00 P.M. PDT Babylon Hotel and Casino, Las Vegas

  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.

  11. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 10 P.M. AND 11 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME

  10:07:07 P.M. PDT The Cha-Cha Lounge, Las Vegas

  The call Don Driscoll had been waiting for came near the end of the evening shift. He reached his meaty hand into the orange jacket, then placed a cell phone to his ear.

  “This is Driscoll.”

  “It’s Wildman. We’re outside. You ready to rumble?”

  “Go to the back of the casino. Follow the building until you find a steel door marked High Voltage. I’ll be there in five minutes to let you in. Be ready to go…”

  Driscoll slipped the phone into his pocket. The pit boss looked for someone to spell him, spotted Chick Hoffman closing his roulette table. Like the big casinos, dealers at the Cha-Cha worked twenty minutes, then had twenty minutes off. While that was a lot of break time, casino management had learned that an inattentive dealer could cost the casino a lot of money. Since the crowd was so light, Driscoll had given the okay for Chick Hoffman, Frank Ross and Bud Langer to close down their tables for the break. Now he approached Chick.

  “Play pit boss for fifteen minutes,” Driscoll asked. “I need to take a
dump.”

  “Will do,” Chick replied, cooperating for once instead of giving him lip. Driscoll figured Hoffman was still jazzed about the vig Jaycee was slipping him for collaring the cheat.

  Instead of heading for the employee break area, Driscoll went behind the bar and hopped into the freight elevator. He rode it down two floors to the beverage room. Passing stacks of untapped kegs, cases of the hard stuff, he entered the dingy hall.

  The click of his leather heels bounced off the cinderblock walls as he walked to the remote storage room. The place seemed undisturbed, the air musty. Just to be safe, Driscoll checked on the corpse.

  Ray Perry was right where he left him. Driscoll had stabbed Ray to death in the security cell where he’d killed Max Farrow, then rolled the body here on a freight handler. He knew he’d have to come back to this room, to the circuit box to cut the alarm on the back door. It was as good a place as any to stash a corpse.

  Driscoll approached the steel circuit box, opened the hatch and threw several switches. He deactivated the alarms at the back door, and cut the juice to all the security cameras in the basement.

  Driscoll pulled out his cell phone, dialed the number to the observation booth.

  “Morris here,” O’Brian answered.

  “It’s Driscoll. Where’s Jaycee?”

  “He’s downstairs, in the security cell,” Morris replied. “Seeking clues about the unexpected demise of our guest, I suspect. Do you need to talk to him?” “Nah,” Driscoll replied. “It’s nothing.”

  In the hidden catwalks over the dealer rooms, Morris O’Brian hung up the phone at his security control station.

  “Over here, Jack,” he called.

  Jack Bauer peered over his shoulder.

  Morris flipped a switch and a security screen came to life. They were looking at a view of the subbasement hallway. While they watched, Don Driscoll stepped through the storage room door.

  “You were right, Jack. Driscoll’s the turncoat. He sold you out to Hugo Bix. Poor slob doesn’t know I bypassed the camera control system. Thinks we can’t see him.”

  Bauer nodded. “I knew it had to be Driscoll, or Chick Hoffman. I would have bet on Don, though, and I would have been right.” Jack paused. “What did you tell him?”

  “What you told me to tell him,” Morris replied.

  “That you were in the security room. Look, there he goes. He’s heading for the back door.”

  “What’s outside?” Jack asked.

  Morris threw another switch, and a third television screen sprang to life. Jack saw six men on the screen. They didn’t look like truck drivers, cowboys, housewives or military personnel on leave — the Cha-Cha’s usual clientele. They looked more like gang bangers from South Central, with dark, oversized hip hop clothes and plenty of bling.

  One man, sporting cornrows, clutched a sawed-off shotgun. Another with an Oakland Raiders cap pulled low over his eyes, reached into his hooded sweatshirt. Morris adjusted the camera and a close-up revealed his hand resting on the stock of the Uzi tucked into his stretch pants.

  Morris whistled. “Those guys are gunning for bear.” He looked at Jack. “How’s that make you feel, Smoky?”

  Bauer frowned. “I’m going to be busy for a while.”

  While Morris watched, he stripped down to his black Levis and charcoal gray undershirt. With cold, calculating precision, Jack slipped the Glock out of his shoulder holster, fed a fresh clip into the handle.

  “Cut the power to the freight elevator right now. I’ve already locked the other doors. The only way in or out of the basement is the door Driscoll is going to open. Let the hit team enter the building. Let them go down the stairs. When I give the signal, cut the electricity to the subbasement.”

  O’Brian nodded. “What’s the plan, Jack?”

  Bauer slipped the Glock back into its holster. “I’m going to do to them what they want to do to me.”

  10:19:47 P.M. PDT Babylon Hotel and Casino, Las Vegas

  “You can page Mrs. Ankers if you want to,” Stella Hawk told the security guard. “But if these floral arrangements aren’t on the dessert table in five minutes, Evelyn is going to raise holy hell — and somebody is going to pay.”

  The guard, mid-twenties and pimply-faced, chewed his lower lip. He’d stopped the trio at the restaurant’s ser vice elevator, demanded to see their employee identification cards. Stella produced hers — then challenged the man.

  “Look,” Stella said in a reasonable tone. “Evelyn sent me down here to find the guys with the flowers. I found them. Now unless you want to help me carry these arrangements upstairs, I suggest you let them pass. You don’t want to make Mrs. Ankers angry…”

  The security man was new to the job, but even he’d heard about the banquet manager’s legendary temper. The guard weighed his options and stepped aside to allow the men with the flower pots to pass. Stella, Pizarro and Balboa moved into the elevator. As the doors closed, Stella flashed the guard a flirtatious smile.

  “See you later, Tiger,” she purred.

  The car began to rise, Stella faced the brothers.

  “This elevator is express to the banquet floor. We’ll exit near the kitchens. Follow me and keep your mouths shut.”

  ”Watch you tone, puta—”

  “Enough,” Pizarro cried, silencing his brother. “This woman has helped us so far. She has earned our respect.”

  Balboa sneered, but said nothing. A moment later the doors opened onto a long hallway. At the end of the corridor, an open door revealed the restaurant’s busy kitchen. They heard voices, the clatter of pots and pans.

  “Come on,” Stella whispered. “And be quick about it.”

  She led them to door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. They entered an empty break room, and an adjacent room with a coffee pot, microwave oven, and vending machines lining the wall. Stella took them to another door. Seemingly unused, it was blocked by a row of fiberglass chairs.

  “It’s a dead end,” Balboa grunted.

  “Wrong, amigo,” Stella said. She slid the chairs aside with her dainty foot and pushed the door open, just a crack. The room beyond was small, filled with white starched chef and wait staff uniforms hanging on metal racks.

  “Why are we here?” Pizarro asked.

  “To see her,” Stella whispered, pushing the door wider.

  Alone in the uniform room, a ten year old girl sat at a metal table, her back to the open door. She did not notice their presence because music from an MP3 filled her ears. Humming along with a tune by Hilary Duff, Pamela Sheridan scribbled in a coloring book, crayons littering the table top.

  “What is this about, woman?” Pizarro said doubtfully.

  “I told you. My roommate, Lilly, is a waitress at the banquet tonight. She gave me a ride to Bix’s garage earlier today, told me some sob story about how she was stuck for a babysitter and planned to stash the kid in this closet for the evening…”

  “And this helps us how?” Balboa demanded.

  Stella rolled her eyes. “Hold the rug rat hostage, and I guarantee you Lilly Sheridan will do anything you ask. To save that kid, she’ll plant those bombs herself if she has to.”

  10:28:04 P.M. PDT The Cha-Cha Lounge, Las Vegas

  Morris O’Brian was glued to the television screen. Five minutes before, he’d watched Don Driscoll open the back door to admit the six-man hit team. Once inside, Driscoll led the urban punks down three flights of stairs to the subbasement.

  Now Morris watched as Jack Bauer, a Glock cradled in his right hand, slipped through that same door and locked it behind him. Driscoll and the hit team were trapped in the cellar. Morris knew those men wouldn’t be leaving, unless it was feet first.

  Switching to the security camera in the stairwell, Morris watched as Bauer crept down the steps, paused on a landing. To Morris, Jack seemed to be listening to the whispered words of the hit team as they moved toward the security room.

  Bauer glanced up at the camera, then reached around a thick pipe to retrieve the
device he’d hidden there earlier. Jack slipped the AN/PVS–14 night vision goggles over his head, adjusted the straps, then fitted the monocular image intensifying unit over his left eye.

  When Jack looked up again, his elaborate night vision gear reminded Morris of a half-human cyborg from a science fiction novel.

  In his right he still clutched the Glock. Jack raised his left, palm open.

  At the prearranged signal, O’Brian cut the electricity. Regretfully, his television screen went dark, too. He reasoned the cameras wouldn’t pick up much without the lights anyway. Morris sighed. He might be blind, but so was the hit team.

  “Good luck, Jacko,” he muttered.

  Immediately, Morris felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up, blinked in surprise.

  A woman loomed over him, her complexion bone white, with a foamy crown of blacker-than-black hair topping her high forehead. Sharp cheekbones accentuated large eyes, but her face was dominated by a wide, scarlet mouth. In her ubiquitous black blouse and slacks, Nina Myers reminded O’Brian of the Angel of Death from the stories about the 1918 influenza epidemic his grand mum told him.

  “What are you doing here?” Morris demanded. His

  tone was sharp — he was still rattled by the drama unfolding in the basement. “Nice to see you too, Morris,” Nina replied, hand on her hip.

  “How… How did you get here?”

  “Actually, I took a cab from the airport.”

  “I… I didn’t mean to ask how you got here,” Morris stammered. “I meant to ask why you’re here.”

  Nina’s scarlet lips dipped into a pout. “Alberta Green sent me. She’s shutting down the operation. This investigation is over, effective immediately. I’m here to supervise the deactivation…”

  Morris slumped in the chair, absorbing the news. Nina pushed her hair back. “Look, I need to see Jack right away.”

  “Sorry, love, you’ll have to wait,” Morris replied with a crooked grin. “I’m afraid Agent Bauer’s rather busy right now.”

  10:37:30 P.M. PDT Babylon Hotel and Casino, Las Vegas