Rubio was the demolitions man. He'd fastened explosive charges to the underside of the footbridge and rigged the smoke bombs in and around the cemetery.
All the munitions were rigged with remote-controlled detonators.
With everything ready for the exchange, and the trio safely emplaced in the cemetery, Beltran had arrived, parking his vehicle in the Kwik-Up lot. He located the getaway van, knelt down beside it as if examining the undercarriage, busied himself there for several minutes, rose, and returned to his own vehicle.
He took out the rifle in its carrying sheath, toting it casually under an arm; the power trail was also popular with target shooters and varmint hunters, and in a state where guns were a way of life, he was unlikely to attract undue attention. All the same, he'd waited until the lot was empty of any pedestrians or shoppers who might notice him before getting out of his machine and crossing to the back of the Kwik-Up.
Going around to the rear of the building, he'd climbed the dirt path most of the way up, stopping when he saw a likely spot for his sniper's nest. He'd squirmed through the bushes, finding a spot that afforded him a clear firing line on the back of the building and the getaway van parked in the lot.
Leaving the sheathed rifle hidden under some bushes, he'd emerged on the dirt path, sticking an empty Kwik-Up white plastic bag on a branch to serve as a marker so he'd easily find the site.
He'd climbed to the top of the power trail, crossing to the other, west side, where he'd found himself a hollow in the bushes with a good vantage point on the cemetery and canal area. Settling into the nest, he'd run a routine comm check with Rubio, giving him a last-minute briefing and instructions.
After that, there was nothing to do but wait for the Keehan crowd to arrive with the money.
* * *
Now the ransom had been collected and the plan was moving into its final, terminal phase.
The dirt bikes were almost upon him, causing Beltran to involuntarily tense up. In the short time since arriving at his sniper's nest, he'd managed to recover his breath, and his heart rate had slowed to something like normal. The sputtering blat of the nearing motorcycles caused his heartbeat to speed up again.
They were here; they had arrived. The drone of their engines was offset by the sound of breaking branches as the first bike entered the gap and started down the dirt path on the east slope of the embankment.
Beltran turned his head toward the path, which was mostly hidden behind a screen of brush. The first bike flashed downhill past him, a blur of motion barely ten feet away.
Beltran could even hear the jouncing of the suspension springs over the motor noise.
The second bike followed, only a length or two behind. Turning his head away from the trail, Beltran looked down through the gap in the brush.
The first bike reached the bottom of the hill and pulled over to the side, idling.
Rubio was the rider, the knapsack slung across his back. He was barefaced, the bandana pulled down around his neck.
Beltran raised the rifle, shouldering it, pointing it downhill.
The second bike reached the bottom of the slope; its rider, Moreno. He, too, had uncovered his face.
Where was Torres? Beltran could hear him but not see him. He'd fallen well behind the other two. Not surprising, Beltran told himself. Torres was a big man and not particularly comfortable on the small, quick dirt bike.
After a pause, Torres came downhill, bouncing and sliding to a halt at the bottom of the slope.
Moreno went on ahead, riding his bike out from behind the building, around the corner, and into the lot, rolling to a halt at the rear of the van. He set the kickstand down and climbed off, opening the van's rear door and sliding the ramp to the pavement.
Rubio was the object of Beltran's obsessive interest. What would he do, how would he play it? Beltran sighted the scoped rifle's crosshairs on the back of Rubio's skull.
Rubio dismounted, swinging his legs off the bike. Crossing to the nearest Dumpster, the one closest to the corner of the building, he slipped out of the knapsack, shrugging it clear of his shoulders.
He lifted the lid of the Dumpster, dropping the knapsack with the money inside. He gently lowered the lid, went to his dirt bike, and saddled up.
Torres had sat there idling, waiting for Rubio. The big man looked ridiculous on the small bike, like a circus bear riding a tricycle. Rubio and Torres rode their bikes to the rear of the van, where Moreno had already loaded his bike into the back of the box.
Not bothering to dismount, Rubio rode his bike up the ramp and into the rear of the panel van.
Torres had had enough of motorbikes. Dismounting, he picked up his machine bodily and tossed it into the back of the truck. He wrestled the ramp free and slid it up to his partners, who wrestled it into place in the box.
Torres slammed the rear door shut and jogged around to the right front passenger side. Moreno was already in the front seat, starting up the engine. A blue-gray cloud of smoke jetted from the exhaust pipe in the rear.
Beltran had already set down the rifle. He now held a remote-controlled detonator, armed and ready. It was similar to the one used by Rubio to explode the blast charges under the bridge and the smoke bombs in the cemetery.
The van pulled out of the lot, turning right and starting southbound along the highway. Fastened to its underside was a charge of explosives that Beltran had fixed there earlier, when he'd first arrived at the Kwik-Up.
This was a matter of nice timing. If the van got too far away, the detonator might not work. But he didn't want the van too close to the Kwik-Up, either, for fear that that might block his own escape.
Beltran watched the van roll southbound, his finger poised over the red button. The machine was about a hundred yards down the road when he pushed the button, triggering the explosives wired beneath the van.
He might have been a trifle overzealous in the amount of explosives he'd used; the blast was tremendous.
The van disappeared in a blinding flash of white light. Disintegrating, its pieces fountaining skyward, it geysered upward in a roaring column, a pillar of smoke and fire.
A mighty crumping boom reverberated along the strip, the concussion blowing out plate-glass windows in stores on either side of the highway near where the van had been.
Beltran, a fastidious man, used a handkerchief to wipe down the rifle, removing all fingerprints. He left the weapon behind, hidden under some bushes. Before, it would have attracted little if any attention, but now a man with a rifle even in its case shrouding would likely catch the eye of some of the many who were rushing out of stores on all sides to see what the blast was all about.
Beltran pushed his way through the bushes to the dirt path and descended the hill. Down the road, the crumpled shell of the van was the center of a smoky, oily blaze whose scarlet tongues of flame stood out dramatically against the lowering darkness of the stormy night.
Cars were stopped in the middle of the road in all directions. People were running across the lot for a better view.
No one, absolutely no one, had eyes for the rear of the Kwik-Up building. Beltran lifted the Dumpster lid, a stench of garbage rising to meet him. Reaching in, he got hold of a shoulder strap and hauled out the knapsack.
What was it the old Roman emperor — was it Domitian? — had said?
"Money has no smell."
Chuckling to himself, Beltran went the long way around the back of the building, emerging around the corner of the north side. He crossed the lot to where his vehicle was parked. Standing facing the driver's side door, he reached for his key when he heard a scuffle of shoe leather on the pavement behind him.
A voice said, "Hello, amigo."
Even before turning around to meet his destiny, Beltran knew without a doubt to whom that voice belonged:
Colonel Paz.
17
THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 9 P.M. AND 10 P.M. CENTRAL DAYLIGHT TIME
Kwik-Up Mini-Mall, New Orleans
Jack Bauer and Pete Malo sat in their SUV in the Kwik-Up parking lot. Pete said, "Looks like our plans to tail the kidnappers back to Beltran just went up in smoke."
The blast that had obliterated the getaway van was still echoing up and down the highway. A CTU Center team was still covering the mini-mall parking lot. The stakeout would continue.
Jack said, "Beltran wouldn't have blown up the money along with his stooges. They became expendable only after they passed the money to him."
He went on, "Our people had the kidnappers under observation from the moment they left the cemetery. We've been here in the lot, waiting for them. One of them went to the van immediately. The other two stayed behind the building for about a minute, minute and a half, before they went to the van."
Pete nodded, encouraging him to go on. "True."
Jack said, "Our spotters on the power frail reported that the trio had a bagful of ransom money when they started downhill We know that they didn't have it when they came out from behind the back of the building. Somewhere during that time, they got rid of it. We know that they didn't stop to talk with anybody in the lot. They went directly to the van, got into it, and drove away."
Pete said, "And then — blooey!"
"Belfran pressed the button on them. It had to be him and nobody else," Jack said. "But back to the ransom money. That million dollars. They had it coming downhill and didn't have it a minute later when they went to the van. What happened to it?
"Either they handed it off to somebody or they left it in a dead drop for pickup later. Knowing Belfran's history of a penchant for anonymity, I'd opt for the latter."
Pete said, "Sure, but where is he? We can't go around detaining every old geezer in the lot, holding them for questioning."
Jack said, "Our spotter up on the hill reports that there's nobody behind the building now. We haven't seen anybody come out from there since the kidnappers showed. Let's sit tight for a while and see what happens."
The SUV was parked where the CTU agents had clear sightlines of the front and sides of the Kwik-Up store. They looked around in a 360-degree circle, slowly scanning the scene, seeking any odd or off-pattern detail.
Traffic was stopped in both directions in the highway. Backed up. From a distance, sirens sounded and emergency lights flashed as police cars and fire trucks approached the scene.
Some civilian vehicles were turning into the lots of the stores lining the road, searching for a way out of the ever-worsening jam. A couple of cars and vans pulled off the road into the Kwik-Up lot, mostly so their occupants could park and get out and see what was happening.
A short, slight, white-haired man ambled across the lot toward the store. Pete said, "Check out that old dude."
The man in question was a contrarian. Foot traffic in the lot moved away from the store and toward the highway, as people crowded, massed, and craned to get a better look at the blazing wreckage of the van.
The white-haired man moved in the opposite direction, his back turned on the scene of devastation. His gaze was fastened straight ahead, looking neither to the left nor the right. Nearing the storefront, he did not enter but instead angled off to the right and kept on going, rounding the corner and vanishing from view.
Jack said, "Bingo."
Pete leaned forward, on the edge of his seat. "He fits the demographic. Beltran would have to be a fairly ripe old age, seventy years old if not more."
A minute later, a voice broke in on the CTU comm net, coming through the dashboard speaker grid. "Hathaway here." Hathaway was the spotter up on the power trail, keeping watch on the east side of the embankment.
He said, "We've got something. A guy just came around to the back of the building."
Jack spoke into the hand mic. "Affirmative, we saw him, too."
Hathaway said, "I've got cover on the ridgetop. I can see him, but he can't see me."
"What's he doing?"
"Walking toward the south end of the building." After a pause, Hathaway said, "He went to the Dumpsters. Now he's lifting the lid of one of them."
Pete said, "This could be it."
Hathaway went on, "He's taking something out — looks like a bag — a knapsack. The ransom money is in a knapsack, we know that from watching the swap go down on the footbridge." He sounded excited.
Jack used the comm net to alert the other team members posted in and around the lot. "Get ready, but nobody move until I give the signal."
Hathaway said, "Now he's going back the way he came. With the knapsack. He's going to the north end of the building — he's turned the corner — now he's heading toward the lot."
Jack and Pete were already suited up in bulletproof Kevlar vests, having donned them earlier in the night, as the Garros ransom swap neared. Now, as a standard precaution before going into action, they once more checked their handguns.
The old man reappeared from behind the corner of the Kwik-Up, emerging into view, carrying a hefty knapsack by the strap, so that it hung down by his side.
Pete said, "What do you think?"
Jack said, "Let's take him."
Pete broke into the comm net: "This is it. We're moving in." He and Jack got out of the SUV.
Their person of interest was short, thin, birdlike, with a shock of white hair and a clean-shaven face. He was darkly tanned, with dark eyes. He wore a loose fitting white guayabera short-sleeved shirt, khaki pants, rubber-soled boat shoes. Straight-backed, spry, he moved with an energetic stride.
He crossed to his vehicle, a beat-up old food vendor's truck, with a front cab and a quilted metal box behind. Mounted atop the cab was a mini-sized loudspeaker.
Jack and Pete separated as they closed in, approaching the suspect from the side, maneuvering to take him in a pincer movement.
Someone else got there first.
The food truck was parked in a row of parked cars that was at right angles to the highway. About seven or eight vehicles away, toward the roadside, an SUV stood idling.
A man got out of the front passenger side, walked around the front of the SUV and down an aisle at the head of the row toward the store.
The newcomer was a few paces ahead of Jack and Pete. He came abreast of the old man as the latter stood on the driver's side of the food truck, opening the cab door.
At that moment, a car came rolling down the lane, cruising, trolling for a parking space. Temporarily blocking Jack and Pete and barring their progress, but not before they got a good look at the newcomer's face.
"Paz!"
* * *
Several moments earlier, Colonel Paz had watched Beltran go behind the back of the Kwik-Up building. Yes, the white-haired old man was indeed the Generalissimo. Unlike the CTU agents, Paz knew Beltran and recognized him immediately.
Paz sat in the SUV's front passenger seat, Vasco was behind the wheel, and Fierro was in the back. Paz said, "I've got some business to take care of."
He reflexively reached for his Saint Barbara medallion to give it a squeeze, only to receive a shock. It was missing.
His heart lurched in his chest. He experienced a sensation not unlike grabbing for one's wallet and finding it's not there. A sensation multiplied tenfold.
He cursed under his breath. He felt around his bull neck, stubby fingers encountering the thin but tough length of chain from which the medallion hung. He hauled it out from under the top of his bulletproof vest, only to come up with the chain and no medallion. The catch of the chain had broken, allowing the medallion to slip free of it.
Paz swore again, sticking his fingers inside the top of the bulletproof vest — a tight fit — groping around for the medallion, not finding it. When had he seen it last?
He knew he'd had it when leaving the slaughter site of the hat company building, because he'd made obeisance to it then. It might have fallen off then. Perhaps his handling of it then had been what caused the chain to snap.
The medallion could have dropped off before he got into the Explorer to make his getaway. Or since.
It might be trapped in his clothes even now, pinned between the vest and his flesh. If it was there, he couldn't feel it, though.
Which might mean nothing, because the flak jacket was heavy and hot and he was tired from a long day of being on the boil, seething with kill-lust since surviving the predawn ambush.
Think! Back at Supremo, after ritualisticaUy squeezing the medallion, he hadn't gone far, not more than a dozen paces before getting into the van. Maybe it had fallen out of the bottom of the vest, into the top of his pants.
He felt around his waistband, running his fingers along the inside of it. No luck.
Spreading his meaty thighs, he felt around the seat cushion for it.
Nothing — nada.
Vasco glanced curiously at him. Fierro leaned forward, said, "A problem?"
Paz broke into a sweat. Fighting to keep his voice calm, neutral, he said, "Turn on the light."
Vasco switched on the overhead dome light, illuminating the front cab. Paz raised up out of his seat, squirming, looking at the seat cushion and the floor mat at his feet. No medallion.
Vasco said, "What is it, jefe?"
Paz spoke through clenched teeth. "I lost something — my religious medal." He opened the door, stepping out carefully, ears alert for any ringing noise of the medallion falling to the pavement. Hearing none.
Standing outside the Explorer, he reached around the seat, under the seat cushion where it met the vertical backrest. Coming up blank.
He ducked down, squatting as he peered at the floor. It was too dark to see under the seat. He ran his fingers over the mat and reached under the seat. Results nil.
Fierro had been keeping watch over the storefront and now he stirred. "The old one is coming back."
Paz swore again. He'd told the others nothing of his plans. He was not in the habit of explaining himself, figuring it made him look weak. Vasco and Fierro knew nothing of Beltran, who he was or what his role was in the chain of events that had led them to the Supremo killing ground.
24 Declassified: 07 - Storm Force Page 26
