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 fl ecking 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, fi ring 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 fi ngers 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.

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  The policeman saw the wires around Curtis’ arms and legs. But instead of freeing him, Offi cer 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 fi rm 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 fl esh 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 fi nally got through to Offi cer 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

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  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 fl owers 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

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  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.

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  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.

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  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

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  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.

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  “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 fl oral arrangements aren’t on the dessert table in fi ve 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 fl owers. 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 fl irtatious smile.

 

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