eyes darting left and right, wondering what he should do next.
“I know… You’re looking for the
The gunman blinked, lowered the assault rifle’s muzzle, just a little.
“He went that way,” Curtis said. He kept his left hand over his head while he moved his right arm across his body, moving as if he were going to point. While the gunman was focused on the action over his left shoulder, Curtis dipped his hand into his jacket.
The Cuban spotted the move too late. Curtis whipped out the Glock, slapped the rifle barrel aside with his hand. The man jerked the trigger and the AK–47 chattered, blowing out chunks of concrete. Before he could recover, Curtis shoved the muzzle of his Glock into the man’s chest and fired twice.
Blown backwards by the impact, the gunman slammed into the steel trash container, then slid to the pavement. The man’s heart and lungs poured out of the basketball sized exit wound in his back, splattered to the ground. Curtis was more concerned with the assault rifle, which clattered to the ground a few feet away.
Spitting dust and concrete shards, Curtis lunged for the fallen rifle. But a sudden burst from an automatic weapon peppered the ground around the AK–47, denting the barrel and splintering the stock.
Unable to locate the direction of the fire, Curtis abandoned the now-useless rifle, rolled across the pitted concrete and onto his feet. More tracers tore the air around him as he took off in a run. He had no choice but to head right back to the forest of Dumpsters. Another burst struck the ground around his pounding feet, then punched holes into the steel containers.
Curtis hit the ground on his belly, used his elbows to drag himself forward, deeper into the tangle of steel boxes. Bullets ricocheted over his head, occasionally striking concrete. He felt hot pain and realized a piece of shrapnel had torn a hole in his leg.
Gasping, Curtis touched the wound, satisfied it was not life threatening. With the shooters’ location un certain, he decided to wait a few minutes before moving again. While listening intently for any sound, he rolled onto his back and yanked the PDA out of his pocket. He checked the display, silently cursing the continuing lack of signal. Then he activated the homing beacon inside the device and stuffed the personal digital assistant into a rust hole eaten into the side of a dirty Dumpster. He thrust his cell phone there, too. Curtis knew that if he was killed or captured, Morris or Jack, or another CTU agent could locate and retrieve these items and the data they contained, once the jamming was lifted.
Curtis heard angry voices. Two men. They’d found the corpse of their comrade. He strained to hear the instructions quietly issued by the leader. From what he could understand, the men were circling the Dumpsters to flank him. Keeping his head, Agent Manning noted that the leader spoke Spanish with refined Castillian accent — another Cuban, Curtis guessed.
When he’d counted to a hundred, Curtis adjusted his grip on the Glock. Then he rolled over onto his belly again and slithered among the Dumpsters until he found a place where he could stand.
With two eight-foot fences to climb and long, empty stretches to cross, Curtis knew that the gunmen would easily cut him down before he ever reached Pena Lane. Since that escape was blocked, Curtis decided to surprise his hunters and head right back where he came from — the factory. If he reached the building, which was right on Browne End Road, he could probably hold off a siege until help arrived.
Not that he was expecting to be rescued. Neither Jack nor Morris knew he was in trouble. But an explosion of automatic rifle fire, even in such a remote section of town, would probably attract someone’s attention, even if it was only the junkies at crack houses along Pena Lane.
Counting on the timely arrival of a Metro Police squad car was a flimsy plan at best, but it was the only one he had. Cautiously, Curtis rose to a crouch and moved back to the factory. He made it all the way to the hole in the back wall before shots rang out. Shells smacked the bricks above his head as Curtis dived across the threshold.
Without sunlight pouring through broken windows and holes in the roof, the factory’s interior was nearly pitch black. Fortunately, Curtis knew his way around the building, and he stumbled blindly forward, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. Behind him, he heard a crash, then a burst of fire raked the room he’d just fled.
At least one of the gunmen was inside the building, too.
Clutching the Glock, Curtis groped for the door to the next room. He found the doorway, slipped through it — and the butt of a rifle slammed into his guts.
Curtis doubled over, the breath dashed from his lungs. Dimly, through a haze, he saw the dark silhouette in the darker void as the man loomed over him. He raised his Glock feebly, and another sharp blow set it flying from his stunned hand.
To avoid a third strike, Curtis rolled onto his side, kicked out with the last of his strength. He heard a satisfying grunt as his booted foot connected with flesh. Curtis kicked again — this time with both legs— and his timing was perfect. His attacker was falling forward, kneecap shattered, when Curtis’ boots sunk into his midriff. Helpless, the man was lifted up and thrown backwards by the powerful double-kick. He crashed through the front window, plunged onto the curb of Browne End Road.
Curtis clutched the battered desk and hauled himself to his feet. He heard heavy footsteps behind him. With nowhere else to go, Curtis followed the man through the window. His victim, sprawled on the ground, clutched at Curtis as he tried to limp away. Agent Manning smashed the man’s throat with a booted foot, felt bone and cartilage snap under his heel. The groping hands fell away. Stumbling forward, Curtis searched vainly for the dead man’s AK–47.
Across the street, at Bix Automotive, men were streaming out of the garage, a few of them armed. Curtis turned and loped down the street, one leg stiffening from the still bleeding wound. He knew running was useless, but he wasn’t ready to give up yet. He glanced over his shoulder. Already his pursuers were in the street. In another few seconds, they’d start shooting and it would be over. Only a miracle could save him now.
Amid shouts of surprise, Curtis heard the roar of a high-performance engine, the squeal of tires. The men in the street scattered as the vehicle raced through them, threatening to run down anyone who didn’t get out of the way. Then the custom painted cherry red BMW skidded to a halt between Curtis and his pursuers. The passenger side door opened.
“Hurry up, get in,” a familiar voice called.
Crouching, Curtis dashed to the car, dived into the seat. The woman reached her arm over him, slammed the door. Still half-sprawled across the front seat, Curtis was slammed backwards by the sudden acceleration. Hand against the dashboard, he pulled himself up. Out the windows, Browne End Road was speeding by. Bix Automotive and the men chasing him shrank in the rear view mirror.
Curtis faced the woman behind the wheel. “Thanks, Stella… I don’t know what you were doing here, but you saved my life.”
Stella Hawk said nothing, her eyes on the road. Finally she peeked at Curtis through long eyelashes. “You’re bleeding on my leather upholstery.”
Curtis looked down. Blood seeped from the bullet graze in his leg. He’d also gashed his side on jagged glass when he jumped through the window.
“Sorry,” he grunted. “I’ll have it cleaned for you.”
Curtis stared at the road, orienting himself. “Make the next right,” he told the woman. “I need to get back to the Cha-Cha Lounge as soon as possible.”
Tires howled again as Stella negotiated the turn without slowing down. Sniffling, she reached a manicured hand into her purse.
“I’m not kidding, Stella,” Curtis said, touching his guts gingerly. “You really pulled my ass out of the fire back there.”
Curtis blinked in surprise when he saw the thing in her hand. Before he had time to react, Stella Hawk raised the.38 and shot him in the chest.
Sherry Palmer returned from her pre-banquet appointment at the Babylon’s beauty spa, to find her husband standing alone on the balcony. Motionless, he watched the neon of the Las Vegas Strip blot out the stars under in the early evening sky. Sherry dropped her purse on the glass coffee table, and went out to greet him.
“David, I was worried you wouldn’t get back in time for the event.”
