Flanked by grave-faced men wearing dark suits and headsets, the ladies swept through the crowd, which parted like a body of water in a Cecil B. DeMille biblical epic.
Teri noted how much older the Vice President’s wife looked in person, and how tall Russia’s First Lady was — the tallest woman ever accepted to the Bolshoi, she had read somewhere. The dazzling women and their entourage were whisked through the archway and gone in a flash.
A moment later, a brace of uniformed ushers appeared in the doorway and began escorting singles and groups to their assigned seats inside the auditorium.
“God,” groaned Carla. “I hope they seat me near a bathroom. This close to the big day, I have to go all the time.”
“You know award shows,” said Nancy. “If this thing goes into double overtime, you might just have your baby right here.”
Alerted to their arrival, Ryan Chappelle intercepted Milo Pressman at the security desk. Flanked by four CTU agents who’d met them at the airport, the fugitives were hustled into a waiting area. On the way, a gurney rolled by carrying the shrouded figure of Fay Hubley to CTU’s morgue.
“Where’s Tony?” Chappelle demanded.
Milo cleared his throat. “He’s still down in Tijuana, following up some leads on Hasan.”
“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter. Tony’s down there playing John Wayne.” Ryan eyed the gurney rumbling down the corridor. “What he’s doing is fine with me, as long as I don’t have to read about it in the morning papers — or get a call from the State Department.”
“I’m sure he’ll be discreet,” said Milo.
Ryan’s gaze shifted to the newcomers. “Introduce me to your friends.”
“This is Richard Lesser—”
“You’re Chappelle, right? Milo’s told me all about you.” Lesser offered his hand. Ryan ignored it.
“This is Cole Keegan, Lesser’s bodyguard. And this young woman is Brandy—”
The woman stepped forward, offered Ryan her hand. “Pleased to meet you Regional Director Chappelle. My name is Special Agent Renata Hernandez, of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I was on an undercover mission in cooperation with the Mexican government, investigating a string of kidnappings of young girls in Texas and California, when I met up with your agents.”
Milo blinked in shock. Cole Keegan’s jaw went slack. Even Richard Lesser’s typically confident demeanor appeared stunned by the revelation.
“I told my contact down in Mexico that I’d be crossing the border this afternoon. I’ll like to contact my superiors in the San Diego office,” the woman continued.
“Of course,” said Chappelle, examining her identification.
“My compliments on the quality of your personnel,” Agent Hernandez continued. “Though obviously not a field agent, Mr. Pressman did what he had to do to rescue his colleague. I could not have acted alone and I frankly didn’t trust Cole Keegan here to get the job done.”
“Hey! That’s cold,” Cole whined.
“Thank you, Special Agent Hernandez. You can contact the FBI from my office.” Ryan faced the guards. “Take Mr. Keegan to the interrogation room for debriefing. He’s to remain here incognito until further notice.”
“Damn! That just ain’t right!” cried Cole.
“No, Mr. Keegan, but that’s how it is.” Ryan faced Milo next. “A Threat Clock is already running. I want you to take Mr. Lesser down to Jamey Farrell’s work station. She and Doris Soo Min are eager to ask this man some questions about his Trojan horse.”
Lesser smirked. “Government workers?” he muttered with disdain. “I’m not surprised they’re baffled.”
“We’re also eager to get a first-hand look at the second virus in your possession. We would appreciate it if you would help us find a cure for it before it is launched.”
Lesser nodded, smirk still in place. “Consider it done…as part of my immunity agreement, of course.”
Ryan matched Richard Lesser’s wry expression with one of his own. “We’ll talk terms later, Mr. Lesser…Or, if you prefer, I can turn you over to the CTU Behavioral Unit for extensive interrogation. You’ll find their methods are quite effective — for ‘government workers.’ ”
14. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 6 P.M. AND 7 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME
The Chechens finally arrived. Three big men in a black Ford Explorer. They swung into the driveway, but not the garage. Dobyns, dozing in his lounge chair near the pool, heard them coming. He got up and disappeared from view, presumably to go through the house to let them in the front door.
From his vantage point in the van, Tony could see Dobyns in the back yard, the Chechens in front. Watching the men through microbinoculars, he wondered which one of them molested Fay Hubley, who cut her throat. Fair skin, blond or brown hair, blue or green eyes, the men were interchangeable as they laughed, traded jibes in their native tongue. Two of them carried cases of beer. A third clutched an open bottle in his fist, drank deep — Miller time.
Tony’s eyes narrowed when he saw a gun tucked into one man’s belt. It was the Glock he’d given to Fay for protection. Tony watched the man until the front door opened and they went inside. They entered without bothering to check their surroundings. If they had, they might have spotted the CTU van. The Chechens were already sloppy, but Tony decided to give them a few more minutes of hard drinking before he started the party — it would make things go down that much easier.
While he waited, the heat seemed to abate a little as the sun dipped toward the horizon. Shadows stretched across the lawns, lights went on and curtains closed in the tidy houses up the block. Appetizing smells, familiar to Tony from his youth, saturated the air from the neighborhood kitchens.
After twenty minutes, Tony slipped the duster over his shoulders, the shotgun under his coat. With the Glock tucked in his belt, a universal key tucked between the fingers of his right hand, Tony climbed out of the van and crossed the empty street. As he approached the house, he heard slurred voices, peals of laughter, some kind of sports programming playing on a television. He walked up to the door and slipped the serrated metal prod into the lock, quietly jiggled it a few times, heard the tumblers click.
Tony left the key in the door, turned the knob and stepped inside. The foyer had desert-pink walls, a large bullfighting poster. A flight of polished hardwood stairs led to the second level, the arched doorway to his right opened into the living room. It was there the Chechens laughed and talked, oblivious to the arrival of their uninvited guest.
Tony felt no fear, only cold, calculating calm. Cautiously he approached the doorway, saw the men sitting in a circle around a large-screen television, watching a European soccer match. Dobyns was not in sight, but Tony knew he was the least dangerous of the bunch.
Tony quietly slipped the shotgun out from under his arm and gripped it in his right hand. With his left he pulled the Glock out of his belt. Then he stepped into the room.
The men looked up at once, but only one of them moved. The man’s fingers actually closed on the handle of Fay’s Glock before the shotgun blast did a Kurt Cobain to his head.
Gore spattered the other men, rattling them. With his left hand Tony aimed the Glock and fired six times — methodically assassinating the drunken men where they sat with a shot to the heart, two to the head.
The near-silence that followed was eerie because Tony knew it wasn’t real. The soundlessness was an illusion induced by temporary deafness from the noise of the shots. In reality, there were always sounds in the aftermath of violence. Cries of shock or surprise, moans of pain, blood splattering on the floor.
Tony dropped the shotgun, empty now, and shifted the half-empty Glock to his right hand. It was time to find Ray Dobyns. A quick check of the rest of the floor turned up nothing. The kitchen was empty save for beers in the refrigerator, the garage was full of stolen goods — mostly electronics, factory sealed, with some luxury items like
