“I wonder where they’re going,” said the doorman.
“Hip-hop clubs probably. Funny, Tobias never struck me as that type.”
“Mr. Tobias is rich,” replied the desk clerk, “and you know the rich.”
“Yeah.” The doorman snorted. “They know how to have a good time.”
20. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 2:00 A.M. AND 3:00 A.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME
The loud rapping on the apartment door took Jack Bauer by surprise. He’d just finished his phone conversation with Tony Almeida when he’d heard the knocking — loud enough to reach the Albino’s bedroom.
Jack cursed. He’d expected the desk clerk to call before allowing visitors upstairs. The knocking came again, and Jack crossed to the Albino’s armoire. He grabbed the M9
Beretta that he’d found during his search, along with a length of rope.
“Wake up, Tobias,” someone yelled through the door.
“It’s Montel Tanner!”
M9 clutched in both hands, the rope looped over his shoulder, Jack approached the door, peered through the spy hole.
A thirty-something African American sporting a blue pinstriped suit and a shaved head stood in the hallway, flanked by two massive bodyguards. Jack could tell by the way the big men carried themselves that they were armed.
The black man in the pinstriped suit was pounding on the door. As Jack backed away, he heard one of Tanner’s men speak.
“This ain’t right. Maybe we should take down the door.”
Jack moved quickly back to the living room, stood over Tobias’s corpse. He unwound the rope, tied it to the thick leg of the dead man’s heavy chair. Then Jack went to the computer and yanked it off the table, breaking it free of its cables.
A shoulder slammed into the front door, but the stout wood failed to give.
Jack hurled the computer through the plate glass of the locked sliding door. The glass came down in a shower of crystal shards.
The men outside obviously heard the racket because they began to shout. Jack grabbed one end of the long, nylon rope and moved through the shattered sliding door.
As he crossed the flagstone balcony, he heard the door finally break open behind him.
Gripping the rope, Jack climbed over the balcony’s railing and began rappelling down the terra-cotta side of the luxury building.
The black Ford Explorer stopped at the corner of the run-down neighborhood, its chrome shining dully in the glow of the streetlight. The driver’s window opened automatically.
“Yo, Hector,” called the twenty-two-year-old African-American driver. “Over here, man…”
The nineteen-year-old Hispanic called Hector tucked his stash into the pocket of his baggy pants, then stepped off the curb. He approached the Ford Explorer warily.
“Leroy? Who’s in there with you?” Hector demanded.
“Nobody, man, this ain’t no damn ambush. I wanted you to be the first to check out my wheels.”
Hector grinned, flashing gold teeth. “Sweet. Too sweet for you,
“Drivin’ this, the hos can smell my money.” Leroy grinned wickedly. “Yes, sir. Crack has its privileges, so long as you don’t go sampling your own merchandise.”
Leroy glanced at the twitchy young Hector and realized that piece of advice came too late. “So was’sup?”
Hector snorted. “Slow night. Been a lot of slow nights late—”
To Leroy, it seemed a shadow rose up from behind the car and struck Hector down. One second, the Latin King was talking, the next minute, Hector was bleeding, pistol-whipped to the ground by some yuppie-looking Latino dude.
The black youth reached for the stick shift to peel out, but the yuppie beaner was already on him, jamming the gun barrel into his temple.
“Get out or I’ll shoot.”
Lifting his arms, Leroy showed his hands. He was too afraid to look the man in the eyes, so he tried to check him out in the mirror. He saw dark hair, sideburns, a soul patch.
“You gotta be a cop, right?”
“How many cops would blow your head off for this car?”
said the dude. “Now get out or I
Keeping his eyes to the dirty pavement, Leroy stepped out of the car, gingerly avoiding the body on the ground.
“Listen, man,” Leroy said, “you don’t know who you’re messin’ with—”
The gun butt struck him on the chin. Leroy flew backward, bounced off the Explorer’s door, and sank to the ground beside the other crack dealer.
Tony Almeida stepped over them and climbed behind the wheel. He honked the car’s horn twice, paused, and honked again.
Hearing the signal, Judith Foy appeared a moment later.
“Two at a time. And you make it look easy,” she said, stepping over the unconscious punks.
Tony glanced away. “Yeah.”
The woman climbed into the passenger seat, buckled her shoulder strap. Tires squealing, the Explorer pulled away from the curb and raced down Crampton Street.
Slipping a.38 from its holster, Montel Tanner pushed through the broken door. His bodyguards followed, clutching.45s that looked tiny in their huge fists. They immediately heard the sound of something scraping across the floor.
Tanner reached the living room first — and stopped in his tracks.
He saw the wrecked chamber, the broken glass, Erno Tobias tied to a heavy leather chair. The Albino was obviously dead, but the chair was
Tanner blinked in shock. “What the f—”
The chair scraped across the balcony’s flagstones, then jammed to a stop against the balcony railing, the pale corpse falling limply over the chair arm. That’s when Tanner saw the nylon rope tied to the chair, the other end dangling over the edge of the balcony.
“He’s climbing down the side of the building!” Tanner shouted. “Get him.”
Tanner’s bodyguards blundered forward, jumping through the shattered frame of the sliding door, while Tanner himself stayed in the living room and hit speed dial on his cell phone.
As the first bodyguard peered over the balcony’s iron railing, Tanner heard a pop and saw the top of the man’s head explode. The big bodyguard fell backward, pitching to the flagstone floor. Tanner clutched the cell to his
