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
“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.
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.”
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
