The “fasten seatbelt” light went off and the air steward popped the main door. Hot, dry desert air flooded the air conditioned compartment.
“Come along, Senator,” Megan Reed said, rising and straightening her skirt. “Corporal Stratowski should be waiting on the tarmac with a Hummer.
He’ll drive us over to Hangar Six where the demonstration will take place…”
Sherry Palmer had just returned from an intimate luncheon with the mayor’s wife and twenty-two of her closest female friends — wives of party leaders, community board members and large donors, mostly. It was an unglamorous and exhausting affair, but necessary for building useful bridges to help her husband triumph in this state’s primary, and later in the national elections.
Sherry had kicked off her shoes and was rubbing her tired feet when the suite’s phone rang. She nodded and Lev Cohen answered for her.
“It’s Larry Bell,” Lev said a moment later, his hand covering the receiver. “Tell him David isn’t taking any calls,” Sherry replied.
“He doesn’t want David. He wants to talk to you.”
Sherry took the phone, her expression doubtful. “Hello, Larry.” “Sherry,” the Congressman purred. “How was your luncheon?”
“About as charming as that impromptu press conference this morning,” Sherry replied, her hackles rising at the memory.
She heard a chuckle. “What’s so funny?” Sherry demanded.
“That was just a little demonstration I cooked up,” Bell replied. “I thought you’d appreciate it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Sherry, you and I both know your husband is running for president—”
“That hasn’t been determined yet—”
“Cut the crap, woman. He hasn’t announced yet, but he’s caught the fever. I can see it. You forget that I’ve known David almost as long as you have.”
“What’s your point,” Sherry snarled.
“Now I can be a good and loyal ally and help David reach his goal, or I can be a friendly — or even a not so friendly rival. It’s really up to you.”
Sherry eyes narrowed. “What are you angling for, Larry?”
“For now, I only want you to meet a friend of mine. He’s a businessman with very deep pockets, who’s interested in David’s political career.”
“And later?”
Sherry could feel Larry’s smile across the wires. “The House of Representatives is a very crowded place. Very crowded,” he said. “It’s hard for a man of my aspirations to shine. A better fit for me would be a cabinet position in the Palmer Administration, don’t you think?”
Bell fell silent for a moment. Sherry’s knuckles strained as she clutched the receiver, her self control slipping.
“My friend is in the hotel. Why don’t I fetch him, bring him up to that luxury suite of yours right now, and make the introductions.”
There was a long pause before Sherry replied. “I’m willing to listen,” she said at last.
“Great.” Bell’s tone was triumphant. “See you in ten.”
The line went dead and Sherry dropped the receiver into the cradle.
“What did he want?” Lev asked.
“He wants to be in David’s cabinet.”
Lev jumped to his feet. “What?”
Sherry shook her head, slipped her heels back on. Then she rose and, faced her husband’s chief of staff. “We’re going to have a visitor,” she announced. “I want you to stay and listen to what this man has to say. This could work out very well for David’s campaign, but only if we play our cards right.”
“You’re scaring me, Sherry,” Lev replied, his ruddy face suddenly pale. “You can’t buy and sell cabinet positions.”
“Don’t panic, Larry. Nothing’s been decided yet,” Sherry replied. “What Larry Bell wants and what he gets are two entirely different things. And if the esteemed Congressman thinks he can buy himself a cabinet position in my husband’s administration, he better know that it’s going to cost him and his deep pocket friend a lot of money and a lot of influence…”
Curtis Manning had used the abandoned factory to stake out Bix’s operation several times before. A shattered front window commanded a perfect view to the entrance of Bix Automotive, just across street. Better still, because the deserted tool and die works was completely boarded up, no one suspected the building could possibly be occupied, even by a homeless vagrant.
On one of the early reconnaissance missions, Curtis found a back entrance known only to a nest of rattlesnakes he was forced to quietly eradicate before taking sole possession of the property. After he’d found the broken window with the strategic view, Curtis set up a bent steel chair behind an ancient desk and used them for his observation post.
In the beginning, Curtis Manning believed Jack’s goading of Hugo Bix was both reckless and a waste of CTU resources. While it was known that Bix was a powerful player on the local crime scene, there was no evidence the man was connected with the stolen military technology. Now Curtis knew differently, and he was man enough to admit it to anyone who asked, especially his boss, Jack Bauer.
Manning had several years’ experience as a member of CTU’s tactical team, but this was his first real covert operation. Because of his inexperience, Curtis looked to Jack for instruction and Bauer was proving to be a
Today, Jack had provided Curtis Manning with a dangerous new challenge. Every other time he had infiltrated this property, he’d done so at night. This time Curtis would have to slip into the old factory in broad daylight, which meant taking special precautions. First he parked his car many blocks away, in an alley behind an apartment building on Pena Lane. Then Curtis crossed two yards, three empty lots, and climbed two chain link fences to get behind the abandoned factory without being spotted. Weaving his way through a gauntlet of dozens of dented and forgotten Dumpsters, Curtis finally reached the rear of the abandoned tool and die factory.
The back door was blocked by an old steel grate, but Curtis had found another way in — a hole in the wall masked by a sheet of plywood lodged in a pile of debris. He tossed the wooden panel aside and stepped through the ragged gap. Once inside the building, he used shafts of afternoon sun streaming through holes in the collapsing roof and broken windows to guide his way through the factory’s gloomy interior — right to the battered desk he’d placed near a hole punched in the grease-stained front window.
Curtis had hidden some bottles of water under a pile of wooden boxes and was relieved to see they were still untouched. After checking for scorpions, he grabbed a plastic container and sat down at the desk. Curtis no sooner unscrewed the cap on the water and focused his CTU issue mini-binoculars on Bix’s establishment, when a white panel truck arrived at the gate. Curtis recognized the man behind the wheel, too. It was Drew Hickam, one of Bix’s goons.
Curtis dutifully recorded the event on his PDA. He noted that the truck was a Dodge Sprinter, late model, and that the vehicle was sporting dealer plates. He tapped in the numbers, sure they were fake, and noted the time in the log. A garage door opened and the truck drove through. The door immediately closed again, but before it did Curtis noticed plenty of activity inside. Yet the place was shut tight. Odd on a day like this. So many people working inside, no one drifting out for a smoke, a break. Something big was going on, big enough for Bix to hide his activities from prying eyes.
Curtis had only been at it for twenty minutes, but already the afternoon heat was oppressive. In a few hours the sun would go down and it would become cooler — maybe even cold. But for now, Curtis stripped off his jacket, then the Kevlar vest underneath, draping them both behind his rickety chair. He loosened his shirt and rolled up sleeves already damp with perspiration. He left the shoulder holster carrying the fully-loaded Glock in place.
Manning spotted another truck pulling up to the gate a few minutes later. This one was driven by Frank “Fat Frankie” Toomes, a high stakes gambler closely associated with Hugo Bix. Curiously, the white panel truck was also
