24 Declassified: Vanishing Point 2d-5 Page 7

  “I need some coffee, Jaycee,” Stella moaned, one hand pulling back her hair.

  “I’ll have someone bring it up.”

  While Jack made the call from a phone on the nightstand, Stella rubbed the sleep out of her eyes with the backs of her hands, then used the sheet to wipe away her ruined lipstick.

  “Hungry?” Jack asked, receiver to his ear.

  Stella shook her head.

  “Just coffee,” Jack said into the phone. He hung up and lay back, avoiding her eyes. Stella reached out and stroked his arm with long, fuchsia fingernails.

  “Where have you been, Stella?” Jack asked with an air of masculine disinterest.

  Stella rolled onto her back.

  “I had to make myself scarce,” she said with a sigh. “Lilly had custody of her daughter for the week. Her ex is coming to town today or tomorrow to snatch the kid back. In the meantime, she’s stuck with the little rug rat.”

  Lilly Sheridan was Stella’s roommate, a hostess at one of the Babylon’s four star restaurants — the mammoth casino hotel had three of them. The women shared an expensive house on the outskirts of Vegas. Jaycee had met Lilly once or twice, but Jack never knew until now that Lilly had a daughter, or a failed marriage in her past.

  “So where’d you go, baby?” Jack asked.

  Stella stretched her arms over her head and yawned. “Drove to Reno and subbed for a friend. Three sets a night, two grand per show. Nice bling for taking my clothes off.”

  “How’s the Babylon feel about you working for the competition?”

  Stella threw back her head, shook out the long locks of raven hair. “They don’t have an opinion. Why should they. I didn’t sign an exclusive contract. I’m not that kind of girl.”

  Jack swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Seen Hugo Bix lately?”

  Stella smirked. “Jaycee… Are you having me followed?”

  “Should I?”

  “Okay, sure,” she replied. “I went over to Bix Automotive today. The radio stopped working in my Beamer while I was in Reno. I figured, since Bix bought the car for me, the boys at his garage could fix it.”

  Jack shot the woman a sidelong glance. Feigning annoyance he asked, “Did you see Hugo?”

  Stella’s smirk turned triumphant. “Are you jealous, Jaycee?”

  When he remained silent, she rolled her eyes. “Honestly,” she said, hand over her heart as she mimicked a southern drawl. “You two big strong men should stop fighting over lil’ ol’ me. Why, I’m hardly worth the trouble…”

  Suddenly Stella’s eyes narrowed into angry slits. “Anyway, this caveman bit between two bull apes is getting tired. I’m not property, Jaycee. Get it through your head. I’m with who I’m with ’cause that’s where I want to be. You don’t own me and neither does Hugo Bix.”

  She wrapped the sheets around her lush body, slid to the edge of the bed. She was hardly on her feet before Jack grabbed her arm and pulled her onto the bed again. Stella didn’t struggle.

  “Hugo’s a son of a bitch, we both know that,” Jack said. “And he’s probably not very happy with you after you dumped him and took up with me. I don’t want you messed with, that’s all.”

  Stella’s anger faded like a passing storm cloud. “I can take care of myself. That’s what I was doing long before you blew into town.”

  She rolled over in Jack’s lap and bit his arm. Jack felt the sting of sharp white teeth, then the silky caress of her tongue. Soon her lips were pressed against his.

  A knock interrupted them and Jack pulled himself free. “That’s the coffee,” he whispered hoarsely.

  With a theatrical sigh, Stella flopped onto her back, pulling the sheet with her. Her long legs stretched naked across the bed. Jack rose and slipped on his pants. Shirtless, he unlocked the door. Curtis entered the suite, tray in hand. The big man moved carefully to avoid stepping on the clothing strewn around the room.

  “Hey, Curtis,” Stella called with a casual wave.

  “Hi, Stella,” Curtis replied, eyes diverted.

  Jack took the tray from the other man’s hands. Curtis leaned close. “Driscoll had to get back to work, so his assistant Perry is watching the prisoner,” he said softly.

  “Call LA and tell them to expect a prisoner.”

  “Farrow?”

  Jack nodded. “Get him ready for the move, then I want you to take him to the airport yourself.”

  Curtis glanced over Jack’s shoulder, to the woman in the bed. “And you?”

  “Call me on this phone in fifteen minutes,” Jack replied. “I’m almost done here.”

  Curtis got the message and hastily departed. Jack set the tray on the nightstand, opened the warm carafe. Then he sat on the bed and waited for Stella to pour. She quickly got the message. With an exasperated groan the woman rose to her knees and slowly crawled across the bed to the night table, her naked curves brushing against Jack’s body like a kitten petitioning for a bowl of milk.

  Jack pretended not to notice.

  “When you were at Bix Automotive, did you hear about any scams you old boyfriend is running,” he asked, accepting a steaming cup, sans milk or sugar.

  Stella stared at him. “No. Should I?”

  Jack sighed. “Caught a cheat at the roulette wheel earlier today. This guy had a predictive computer. A good one. Claims he bought it from Hugo Bix.”

  Stella glanced away. “First I’ve heard of it.”

  “But he has sold that kind of stuff before, right? Cheating devices, I mean…” Jack knew he had to probe gently. He could see Stella was holding back.

  The woman shrugged. “Doesn’t sound like his style, but if you say so.”

  Jack stared at his coffee. “This is only the beginning. I think Hugo’s about to make a move.”

  “Well if he is, he’s making a big mistake.” Stella took a long sip from her own coffee cup. “Hugo ain’t that bright. Not nearly as smart as you, Jaycee. I doubt he’s got the cojones to buck you, and why should he? He’s got his share and you got yours.”

  “We’re the two biggest punks on the block. We’re gonna mix it up sooner or later. I know it, and Bix knows it.”

  Stella rolled her eyes. “Well, I’m going back to the garage later, to pick up my car. I can ask around, quiet like.”

  “If you do, be careful.”

  “I told you I can take care of myself.” Stella waved a dismissive hand, then put down her cup and threw her arms around Jack’s neck. “Enough about him, Jaycee. I’m getting hungry again, and not for dinner…”

  The phone rang, too soon. Jack wasn’t finished grill

  ing the woman yet. Irritated, he grabbed the receiver.

  “Jaycee, here.”

  “It’s Curtis. I need to see you down in the basement.”

  Jack dropped the phone, climbed out of bed.

  “Where are you going?” Stella cried.

  “Trouble on the floor,” Jack grunted, buttoning up his shirt.

  “Great. Just great,” she moaned, rolling out of bed. “I’m gonna use your shower, okay? And by the time you’ve finished your business downstairs—”

  Stella Hawk heard the door slam. She turned around.

  Jaycee was gone.

  2:22:59 P.M. PDT Microwave Tower, Experimental Weapons Testing Range Groom Lake Air Force Base

  Tony Almeida reached the bottom of the ladder and stepped carefully around several bundles of wire, each as thick as an overstuffed cobra. Some ran from the generator to the microwave emitter at the top of the steel skeleton. Others were connected to the control panel set up under a nearby tent. With each step, Tony felt his shoes stick to the scorching concrete.

  Shading his eyes with his hand, he looked around. Dr. Megan Reed was under the open flap of the tent, discussing the logistics of today’s demonstration with Corporal Stratowski. From under the brim of an oversized Air Force-blue hardhat, fluttering strands of reddish-blond hair framed her freckled face. The headgear seemed incongruous, clashing with the project head
’s summer suit and high heels.

  Near the pair, Phil Bascomb was busy running a diagnostic on the control panel, and the others had gathered at the water station, soothing their parched throat.

  Tony looked up. Steve Sable was almost finished connecting the last power cable. He’d be climbing down the ladder in a minute or so. Now was the time.

  Tony casually leaned against the hot metal, right next to the ladder — really a series of metal bars screwed into the steel structure. He quickly drew a wrench out of his pouch, slipped it over one of two metal bolts that held the fifth rung from the bottom in place. The tower had been erected only a few hours ago, and Tony expected the bolt to be looser than it was. In the end, he had to use both hands to break the seal. After that, it took only a few seconds to loosen the screw enough to fail the moment it was tested.

  He’d barely slipped the wrench back into its pouch when he heard Sable’s boots on the ladder. Tony stepped down and waited, feigning a yawn. As a final touch, he wrapped his foot around the power cable Sable had just connected.

  The moment Sable put his weight on the loose rung, it gave way with a metallic clang. Still clutching the rails, Sable’s body bounced against the ladder. He grunted, the wind knocked out of him, and his grip on the rail slipped. He would have landed hard, but Tony was there to catch him. Tony eased the man to the ground in one smooth motion.

  “Are you okay, Steve?” Tony said in mock alarm.

  “Sure, sure,” Sable wheezed. Sitting up, he pushed Tony away. “Just let me catch my breath, Alvarez…”

  Tony looked around, satisfied it had happened so quickly, no one even noticed. Sable checked himself out. Tony yanked his foot, disconnecting the power cable at the top of the tower. It dropped down, coiling around them like a dead snake.

  “Son of a bitch,” Sable cursed. “Who the hell put this tower together, the Army Corps of Engineers?” Then he spied the end of the power cable he’d just attached and cursed again.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll fix it,” Tony offered.

  But Sable stumbled to his feet. “I’ll reconnect the damn thing. I broke it,” he said, obviously trying to save face. A moment later, Sable was moving up the ladder again, the end of the fallen line strapped to his belt. This time he carefully avoided the defective rung.

  Tony stepped back, watching the man climb. When Sable reached the halfway mark, Tony strolled over to his computer, sitting under the limited shade of a wooden packing crate open on one side. Pretending to check the power grid, Tony slipped his fingers into a secret compartment in the side of his PC, found the data cable stored there. He plugged the cord into a jack in the cell phone he’d lifted from Sable’s pocket.

  Tapping the keys, Tony called up a hidden program embedded in the computer’s engineering software. Before Sable was finished reattaching the power line, Tony had completely downloaded the cell phone’s memory, including all the numbers stored in the directory and calling log. As Tony saved the data in a hidden file for examination later, he smiled, remembering how he’d picked up the skill he’d practiced so well today — and it wasn’t from CTU’s cursory training.

  During his misspent youth on the South Side of Chicago, Tony had been a devoted Cubs fan, but he never had the cash for game tickets. After riding a crowded el for an hour, however, he always had enough pilfered money to buy tickets at Wrigley Field for himself and his younger cousin, and even a few snacks. It was a smooth operation, and he was never too greedy, stealing just enough to get by and returning the wallet without his mark ever catching on.

  The petty thefts were a sin, and his pious grandmother would have beaten him silly if she’d found out. She never did. By the time CTU got around to training him in the art of picking pockets, Tony discovered he could teach his class a few things.

  “Okay, Tony, I’m coming down,” Sable called from the top of the tower.

  Tony pocketed the man’s cell and sauntered back to the base of the ladder.

  “Good job,” Tony said, patting the man’s back with one hand, while slipping the cell back into Sable’s pocket with the other.

  “Yeah,” Sable said, squinting up at the microwave emitter. “Now let’s power it up and see if this baby actually works.”

  2:46:21 P.M. PDT The Cha-Cha Lounge, Las Vegas

  Max Farrow lay on his back in the holding cell, his throat a jagged slit. Clotting blood pooled on the green linoleum floor, caking his hair and arching outward like an obscene halo. Mouth open, jaws slack, the man’s dead eyes, wide and seemingly startled, stared at the fluorescent lights embedded in the ceiling. Farrow’s left arm was twisted and lay under him, his right was bent at the elbow. In that fist, Farrow still clutched a blood-stained splinter of orange fiberglass, a shard from the shattered chair.

  Farrow was alone in the room. Don Driscoll, Curtis Manning, and Jack Bauer observed the grim tableau through the two-way mirror, like it was some macabre museum display. Jack’s eyes roved the scene, seeking clues. Don Driscoll stammered at his side.

  “Ray Perry was supposed to be watching him, Jaycee. I gave him the orders myself. I don’t know what the f—”

  “Where’s Perry now?” Jack asked, cutting the other man off.

  Driscoll shook his head. “The guys are looking for him, but he ain’t turned up yet. I… I think he ducked out last week to bang some chick over at Circus, Circus. Maybe that’s where he is now…”

  Driscoll’s voice trailed off, his eyes still glued to the corpse on the other side of the glass. “Hell of a way to die…”

  “What?” Jack demanded.

  “I said that’s a hell of a way to die,” Driscoll replied. “Suicide, I mean…”

  Jack and Curtis exchanged glances, neither convinced the death was a suicide.

  “When you find Ray Perry, I want to see him. Immediately,” Jack said through gritted teeth.

  “You got it, Jaycee.”

  Then Driscoll tapped the glass. “What do we do about him.”

  “I’m going to seal the room for now. Nobody comes down here until I say so. Nobody…”

  “Why don’t I have the guys dump this stiff in the desert. Nobody will be the wiser—”

  “No,” Jack shot back. “I’ll deal with the problem my way…”

  Don Driscoll raised his arms in mock surrender. “Whatever you want, Jaycee.”

  In his mind, Jack had already decided to summon a CTU forensics team to examine the scene and perform an on-site autopsy, even if their arrival aroused suspicion among the staff. He’d find some way of explaining it all. Right now he only suspected Farrow’s death was homicide. Before he could make his next move, he had to know what really happened, because if Max Farrow was murdered, there was a traitor in his ranks. And that traitor had to be weeded out as soon as possible, before the turncoat did more damage.

  4. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 3 P.M. AND 4 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME

  3:01:16 P.M. PDT Mesa Canyon Townhouses North Buffalo Drive, Las Vegas

  The streets surrounding Mesa Canyon, a sun-washed residential development on the outskirts of Las Vegas, were deserted. Paul Dugan parked his Dodge Sprinter right outside the gate of Compound One, on the corner of Smoke Ranch Road and North Buffalo Drive. He opened the truck’s door, and immediately knew why. With nothing but concrete and sand all around, there was no shade, so the residents had taken refuge from the punishing heat and relentless sun inside the air conditioned comfort of their mock adobe townhouses.

  Fair-haired, tall and lean — despite hours of relative inactivity spent behind the wheel — Dugan retained his boyish good looks late into his third decade. That’s precisely why he was hired by Fit-Chef on the very day he filed an employment application, before he even passed his background check. Ric Minelli, FitChef’s smooth talking Las Vegas regional manager, was a former salesman himself. Ric understood his company’s clientele and realized immediately that Dugan’s home-spun charm would play well with his customer base, which was ninety-six point fi
ve percent female.

  Paul had been with for Fit-Chef for a year now and liked his job. Fleeing a massive layoff in the blighted northeast, he left Johnstown, Pennsylvania and his shrew of an ex-wife, hoping to relocate to Los Angeles where he had friends. But the transmission on his car failed just shy of the California border, and while Paul waited in a Las Vegas garage for repairs, he met another driver for Fit-Chef. The man told Paul that the most popular food ser vice in Nevada was always looking for an experienced delivery driver. Now Paul was another transplant to the fastest growing urban area in the United States.

  Feeling the burn on the back of his ruddy neck, Dugan unlocked the back of the white panel truck, checked the manifest on his electronic pad. “T. Baird” was his next delivery destination. Paul grinned in anticipation. Tiffany Baird played a scantily-clad vampire at the new Goth extravaganza at the Castle Casino. Though he’d never actually seen the show, Paul couldn’t help but notice the ubiquitous ad campaign, in which Tiffany’s figure was prominently displayed. Of course, in reality Tiffany was nothing like her showgirl persona. She was actually rather sweet.

  In the shade of the truck’s interior, Paul fumbled around until he located the right order. Hefting the box, he closed the truck. As an added precaution, Dugan primed the alarm system. After what happened this morning, he knew it was wise to be careful.

  Whistling tunelessly, Paul carried the boxes to the gate, pressed the buzzer. The intercom crackled immediately. “Yeah? Hello…”

  “Fit-Chef,” Paul replied. The lock clicked and he pushed through the metal gate, entering a circular plaza surrounded by townhouses. In the center of the complex, the blue waters of a swimming pool shimmered invitingly, though the poolside was as deserted as the streets outside.

  Tiffany’s was the fourth door to the left, but Paul didn’t need to press the doorbell. She stood outside, awaiting her delivery. Even without makeup, Tiffany Baird was a stunner. Today she wore a baby blue nylon kimono that ended mid-thigh. Her long legs were naked, tiny feet slipped into matching blue plastic flip-flops. Her red hair was pulled back into a ponytail that spilled down her shapely back, held in place by an elastic hair band. Once again Paul noticed the third finger of her left hand lacked a ring.