waited for the results of Boca’s transmission scan.
“You’re certain there is a watcher?” Balboa asked, glancing at his brother, then at the Cubans.
“You’re the jamming expert, Balboa. What do you think?” Carlos stared at the Rojas brother. Balboa nodded.
“Whoever’s spying, they have attempted to send a data transmission, either from a PDA or a laptop computer. Then, just now, the observer also tried to make a phone call. I blocked both signals with the jamming system,” Carlos explained.
Pizarro Rojas faced Hugo Bix. The American cowboy was over a head taller than the squat, wide Colombian. “Have your men checked that abandoned building across the street?” Pizarro demanded.
Bix pursed his lips and scratched his stubbled chin under the handlebar moustache. Then he glanced at his partner. “I reckon Roman here will know,” Bix replied.
“No one’s been in there, man. What’s the point. Not even bums will sleep there ’cause the building’s full of rattlers,” Roman told the Colombian.
Pizarro frowned. “There are more than snakes around. My man says you are being watched, which means that someone is inside that building across the street.”
“If that’s true, then Roman here can deal with the situation,” Bix replied smoothly.
Roman nervously wiped his upper lips. He hated snakes.
Carlos Boca set the black box on the hood of a car. “My brother and I will take care of this.”
“No,” Pizarro Rojas countered. “I need you both here, to examine the quality of the American’s work. We can’t afford any mistakes.”
Carlos nodded, gestured to three men from the other SUV. He gave them terse instructions in Spanish, and the men retrieved AK–47s from their vehicle. Then they headed for the back door of the garage.
“What if the intruder gets away?” Bix asked. “Out of range of that do-hickey of yours?”
Carlos watched as the trio slipped outside, then split up. “Don’t worry. He won’t,” Boca vowed.
Inside the garage, Pizarro Rojas peered at the sprinters lined up in a neat row. “The trucks are prepared, I see.”
“Six of them, just like you ordered,” Bix replied. “They’ve all been stolen hundreds of miles from here, and we’ve supplied phony license plates and electronic key cards with the proper vendor codes. Each of these trucks has been customized to breeze right through the Babylon’s security without arousing suspicion.
“Behind the wheels of these babies—” Bix thumped the hood with the flat of his callused hand, “—you and your boys can roll right into the underground delivery area and park where you want.”
Bix’s homespun smile broadened. “Best of all. every one of those damn trucks is loaded for bear.”
The bell rang and the doors opened. Lilly Sheridan’s daughter Pamela looked up, blinking with astonishment at the man stepping into the elevator.
The new passenger was perhaps the largest man Lilly had ever seen. Not only tall — this man’s shoulders were as wide as the refrigerator back at her crummy rent-a-house. He wore a tailored suit that Lilly just knew cost more than she earned in a month, even counting her tips.
The man’s face was a mask of concentration. Brows furrowed, he rubbed his chin. Suddenly, he seemed to realize she was there. The man’s face relaxed, his brown eyes met hers.
“Hi,” Lilly said shyly.
“Hello.”
The man’s voice was deep, almost a rumble. He noticed Pamela then, and his smile became dazzling. “Do you like the ride?” he asked.
Pamela nodded. “Makes me queasy, though.”
He nodded. “Me too.”
The elevator slowed. “Have a good evening,” the man said. “Enjoy your stay at the Babylon,” Lilly replied. He turned and smiled. “Thank you,” he said, and the doors closed again.
“Mom, who was that man?”
“I don’t know,” Lilly replied, distracted. She was worried the banquet manager would be waiting at the entrance to the ball room. Evelyn did that sometimes, to make sure everyone had dressed properly. She didn’t want the woman to see Pamela. Too much to explain, and Evelyn would figure out her scam.
“No babysitter, no job,” she’d say, sending Lilly home rather than letting her stash her daughter in the dressing room for a couple of hours, where the child wouldn’t do any harm.
The bell rang again and the doors opened. The ballroom doors were open wide, but there was no sign of Evelyn or her assistant Janet.
“Hurry, let’s go,” Lilly hissed, pushing her daughter toward the glittering banquet room.
8. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 7 P.M. AND 8 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME
Curtis spotted the gunman approaching the tool and die factory the moment he slipped through the hole in the back wall. It was a close call for the CTU agent, with Curtis emerging into the fading afternoon just as his stalker rounded the corner. Fortunately the man’s eyes were fixed on the sand at his feet — most likely wary of rattlesnakes — so Curtis managed to slip around the building without being seen.
Using the forgotten collection of Dumpsters for cover, Curtis kept glancing over his shoulder, trying to get a better look at his pursuer. A quick glimpse convinced him the man was one of six who’d arrived in the second SUV. All of those men had the same spare, hardened look of ex-military types, and the man certainly carried his assault rifle with assured familiarity.
Curtis paused in a narrow gap between two rusty steel containers, to stare up at the purpling sky. The sun was low on the horizon, but it would be over an hour before it was truly dark. Unfortunately, with at least one man on his trail and possibly more, Curtis could not afford to wait for night to hide his movements — he had to get out of here now.
On his knees, peering out from between two dented containers, Curtis watched as the armed man discovered the hole in the wall, then carefully crouched low and crawled through it.
The moment his stalker disappeared inside the factory, Curtis was moving. He had about thirty feet of barren, sand-swept concrete to cross before reaching the cover of a lone Dumpster set apart from the rest. He’d use it to boost himself over the eight-foot fence, then he’d cross three vacant lots beyond the fence to reach Pena Lane, where he’d parked his car.
Feet pumping, Curtis traversed the stretch of concrete in under three seconds — only to be stopped in his tracks when another man stepped out from behind the Dumpster, his AK–47 leveled at Agent Manning’s stomach. Immediately, Curtis threw his hands over his head.
“Don’t shoot,” he cried, resorting to Plan B. “I know I was trespassing. I lost all my money at the craps table and was lookin’ to find a place to crash, that’s all.”
The man was young, Curtis guessed in his early twenties. By haircut and physique, the CTU agent pegged him as ex-military. But this man was clearly a private in some socialist state’s army, because he was clearly not accustomed to thinking or acting independently. Curtis saw the man’s confused expression, knew he was wondering if he’d cornered the wrong guy, and if the real culprit was getting away.
“Get on the ground and take out your weapon,” he commanded in a thick Cuban accent.
“Chill man! I don’t have any weapons,” Curtis cried, adding a touch of hysteria to his performance while remaining on his feet.
“Get on the ground,” the man roared, moving perilously close. But still the gunman didn’t fire. Either he was reluctant to pull the trigger on the wrong man, or he feared alerting his prey. In any case, the youth stood there,
