Just as the church van rolled onto the highway, the muted, unidentified noise Laney heard before was suddenly a deafening roar. Racing full-throttle, a crimson sports car squealed around the corner, rushing toward the packed van for a head-on collision. Tires squealed and the vehicle fishtailed as Thelma tried to get out of the way of the oncoming hot rod. Her quick maneuver avoided a total smash-up, and the two vehicles struck with a glancing blow.
Laney heard the sound of tearing metal, saw sparks. Shards of glass rained down on the highway as the windows blew out of the van. Careening off the sports car, the van slammed into a guardrail that had already been weakened by a minor landslide. Its velocity, and the vehicle’s heavy weight, ripped the base of the rail out of the ground and sent the van tumbling down the steep side of the mountain.
Helpless to do more than scream, Laney watched the SUV roll down the steep embankment. Clutching her head in horror, she ignored the sports car as it rolled onto the shoulder of the road and skidded to a halt in a shower of dirt and rocks.
The young woman bolted across the highway, watched as the church van flipped over and tumbled end over end into a deep, tree-lined chasm. Over the crunch of metal and the crash of sliding rocks, Laney heard Thelma’s cries and the screams of the children. But when the bus finally struck the bottom of the canyon, all human sounds abruptly ceased.
Laney fell on her knees, sobbing, beating the pavement with her fists. She looked around, hoping for someone to help, for a miracle. Only then did she spot the red Jaguar. The driver had never even gotten out of the car. Now he was trying to back out of the shoulder of the road, onto the roadway. Laney realized the speeder was trying to get away.
“Stop!” Laney screamed. “They need help! You can’t just leave them.”
The car finally skidded onto the pavement. Laney saw that the driver’s side window was gone— shattered—and the car door crushed. Inside, a swarthy man in a white T-shirt with dirty brown stains sat behind the wheel, sunglasses covering his eyes. The tires smoked as the man gunned the engine, trying to speed away. Finally the wheels gained some traction and the swarthy man raced away without a backward glance.
Though she was shaken to the core of her being by the tragedy she’d just witnessed, Laney had the presence of mind to pull the cell phone out of her purse and call the police. She reported the accident, its location, and the license plate of the vehicle that had fled the scene.
It took the LAPD only thirty seconds to positively identify the vehicle involved in the hit and run accident—a cherry-red 1998 Jaguar registered to Mr. Hugh Vetri, film producer, vanity plate number FYLMBOY. The automobile had been reported stolen from a crime scene in Beverly Hills earlier that day. Within two minutes, an all-points bulletin had been issued, and a statewide manhunt for the fugitive driver had begun.
8:23:06 A.M.PDT La Hacienda Tijuana, Mexico
A single rap on the door launched Tony off the rickety bed. On bare feet, he moved silently across the floor and pressed his ear to the scarred wood. Across the room, Fay sat up in the second bed, tense with worry.
Tony caught her eye, placed his index finger to his lips.
“Who’s there?” he called.
“Hey, Navarro...It’s me. Ray Dobyns.”
Only then did Tony peer through the peephole. He recognized Dobyns at once and cursed silently.
Ray Dobyns was a transplant from Wichita, Kansas. His grifts in his home state, and in Arkansas, Texas, and California, finally caught up with Dobyns a decade ago and he fled south to extradition-free Mexico. Since then, Ray had made a marginal living by pulling off similar grifts to the ones Tony’s cover “Navarro” was supposedly running right now— credit card fraud, Internet fraud, passing bad checks.
As Navarro, Tony Almeida had had some dealings with Dobyns two years ago in Ensenada when he’d been working another case. Now Tony tried to recall if he’d given the man any reason to suspect he was more than a petty con man.
“Come on, let me in, man,” Dobyns called from the other side of the thin, battered wood.
“Give me a second,” Tony called. Then he faced Fay Hubley, “Get dressed,” he whispered, “and when I introduce you, talk as little as possible.”
Fay crossed to the bathroom, closed the door. Tony stripped off his shirt, tossed it on the bed and rumpled it among the sheets, Clad only in his chinos, he unbolted the door and flung it open.
Dobyns was nearly a head shorter than Tony— around Fay Hubley’s height. But his girth more than made up for his lack of stature. If anything, Dobyns had only gotten fatter since the last time Tony had seen him. At five-six, Dobyns had to be tipping the scale at three hundred pounds.
“Hey, Ray, come on in,” said Tony, stepping aside.
Dobyn’s face was round, florid, and freckled. Sweaty strands of short-cropped red hair protruded from under the brim of a white Panama hat. He was probably forty, but his baby fat made him appear ten years younger. Pudgy arms dangled from the sleeves of a long Hawaiian shirt, and thick, hairy legs stuck out of white linen shorts. On his wide-splayed feet, dirty, ragged toenails thrust out of the tips of his worn leather sandals.
“Did I interrupt you?” Dobyns asked with a leering grin. He looked around the room. His eyes instantly settled on the computers scattered on the desk, the floor, the bag of plastic credit cards and magnetic card readers stacked in the corner.
“Ah, I see you’re up to your old tricks, Navarro.”
Tony closed the door. “The usual thing. I’m using the Internet to fill a warehouse in Pasadena, only the stuff’s going in one door and out the other, if you get my drift. In another week I’ll disappear with two-hundred thousand dollars’ worth of merchandise.”
Dobyns nodded, impressed.
“What about you, Ray? What have you been up to?”
Dobyns removed his hat, tossed it on the bed. “A little of this, a little of that. Lately I’ve been moving Prada knockoffs north—some of the top boutiques in Beverly Hills are my best customers, too. Can’t trust anybody these days.”
“How did you know I was in town?”
“A little birdy told me. One of those official-type birdies.”
Tony remembered the Mexican policeman watching him unload. Dobyns always did have great connections. Then again, a guy like him would need protection to survive down here.
The bathroom door opened and Fay Hubley emerged. She’d dressed in a short denim skirt and skimpy purple tank top.
“I did interrupt you,” said Dobyns with a lewd smirk.
“This is Fay, my new partner,” said Tony.
Fay crossed the room, entwined her arm in Tony’s. “I’m his girlfriend, too, but he’s too afraid of commitment to admit it,” she said. Fay nuzzled Tony’s neck, gently bit his earlobe.
Dobyns’s smirk widened. “I’d say get a room but you already got one.”
Tony gently pushed Fay away. “Get back to work.”
Fay tossed her long, curly blond hair and strolled over to the desk, Dobyns’s eyes following her every move. “Lucky man,” he said.
“Want to go get a drink?” Dobyns asked.
Tony shook his head. “Anything you have to say to me you can say in front of Fay,” he told the man.
“Fair enough,” said Dobyns. “Last week I lost a shipment. Prada handbags. Fourteen thousand units—fuckin’ Feds snapped them up on the border. The goddamn line wasn’t moving anyway—”
Tony cut the conversation short. “What’s this to me?”
Dobyns’s eyes moved from Tony to Fay, then back again. “I was wondering if you’ve got room on your score for a third party. Things are getting tough down here. The gangs are muscling in on all the action— MS-13, Seises Seises, the Kings—that’s one of the things I came here to warn you about.”
Tony sighed and rubbed his neck. Fay pretended to study the monitor in front of her.
“This grift is marginal, not much left to go around,” said Tony. The man’s face fell. Tony figured it was time t
o throw him a bone. He placed his arm around Dobyns’s shoulder. When he spoke again, it was in a conspiratorial whisper. “Hey, listen Ray. Maybe I can cut you in on one piece of action.”
Dobyns grinned. “Speak, kemosabe.”
“There’s a guy down here, showed up in the last two or three days. He’s another con man who uses computers, just like me. His name’s Richard Lesser and he owes me a lot of money. If you can steer me in Lesser’s direction, I can promise you a piece of action.”
Dobyns stared at Tony through watery green eyes. “How much cash are we talking here?”
Tony pretended to consider the question. “I guess it’s worth a grand up front. Ten more if you lead me to Lesser.”
Dobyns blinked. “This guy must be into you big time. You got a deal, Navarro.”
Tony reached into his chinos, pulled out a thick wallet. He peeled off ten crisp one-hundred-dollar bills, stuffed them into the man’s sweaty hands. Then he pushed Ray Dobyns toward the door.
“I’ll be right here, waiting,” said Tony. “But only for a couple more days. Locate Richard Lesser and tell me where he’s hiding, and there’s more bills just like those coming your way.”
8:46:18 A.M.PDT South San Pedro Street Little Tokyo
Lonnie snapped up the receiver on the first ring. “This is Nobunaga. Speak.”
“Up and at ’em, samurai. I can’t believe you’re still at home. You’re burning daylight, dude. This is your big day, and opportunity only knocks once.”
Lon greeted his editor by name. Even if hadn’t recognized Jake Gollob’s voice, he’d have recognize the man’s style of discourse. Gollob spoke fluent cliché.
“Been up for hours, Jake,” Lon replied. “Getting ready to go now.” He pulled another delivery uniform out of the closet—this one from Peter’s Pizza—and tossed it, hanger and all, on top of a pile of shirts and overalls already on the bed.
He caught sight of his own reflection in the full-length mirror. At five-eleven he was tall for a Japanese-American. Thin, bordering on scrawny from lack of sleep and a lousy diet. Black hair askew. By his own assessment, Lon didn’t really look much different than he had during his sophomore year at UCLA—the year he’d dropped out.
“The cameras are all packed and I’m heading downtown in fifteen minutes,” Lon told his boss, “just as soon as I settle on the appropriate camouflage.”
He yanked a pair of overalls out of the closet. The tag read Pacific Power and Light.
“What do you think?” Lon asked. “Should I go with the Peter’s Pizza delivery man outfit, or stick to House Dynasty Chinese Restaurant disguise?”
“You got a Singapore Airline uniform in your closet?”
Lon paused. “What’s up?”
“A stringer for Reuters spotted Abigail Heyer boarding an airplane in Singapore.”
“Yeah, so? She’s giving out an award at the Silver Screens tonight. It’s on the schedule, man.”
“Listen, Lon,” Gollob was almost whispering now. “My guy said she was pregnant. Maybe six months or more. She was showing, for sure.”
Lon dropped the overalls on the floor. “No shit? Do you think the father’s that Tarik Fareed guy, the Turk she was dating in London? Or that Nikolai Manos guy she was seeing on that last movie shoot in Romania?”
“How the hell should I know?” Gollob shot back. “I just found out the bitch was knocked up five minutes ago. I know something else, though—”
Oh shit.
“I want a picture of Ms. Heyer on next week’s cover.”
“Jesus, boss. Wait ten hours and you’ll have photos from every wire service to choose from.”
“If I pay a wire service for my cover photo, why the hell am I paying you?” Gollob barked.
“Good point.”
“Listen, Lon. Abigail Heyer’s flight lands at LAX in an hour and a half, if it isn’t delayed. Get out there and get me a photo.”
“Come on, boss man—”
But the line was dead. His editor had hung up already. Angrily Lon punched the phone number of Midnight Confession magazine on Sunset Strip. Then an idea sprang into his mind and Lon cancelled the call.
Why the hell should I drive all the way out to the airport, get into a shoving match with fifty other paparazzi, all to get essentially the same freaking shot as everyone else? That’s just nuts, especially when I have a better way to get a picture...an exclusive picture.
Lon snatched up his bag of tricks—a large garment bag stuffed full of clothing collected over the years. Then he draped the camera bag over his shoulder.
For luck, Lon touched an eight-by-ten color glossy on his way out the door.
Lots of folks identified with movie characters. For some it was Batman, others adored tough guys like Humphrey Bogart. Lon’s hero was hanging on the wall near the light switch—a photograph of actor Danny DeVito from L.A. Confidential.
8:55:13 A.M.PDT Over Verdugo City
Detective Frank Castalano could barely hear his partner’s transmission. The LAPD helicopter he rode in was cruising at top speed, at less than six hundred feet over the city’s northern suburbs. At that low altitude, the roar of the engine and the sound of the beating rotors bounced off the ground, magnifying the deafening clamor inside the aircraft.
“Say again,” Castalano roared, clutching the headset tightly to his ears to shut out all other sound.
“I said everyone’s in on the manhunt now,” Detective Jerry Alder replied. “The uniforms, the State Police, the sheriff’s office, even the goddamn Park Rangers. There’s a ring around Angeles National Park the Rams couldn’t break through, and a chopper is tracking the Jaguar—”
“Hopefully from a discreet distance.”
“You know how that goes,” Alder replied.
Castalano cursed. It was his case, but he was losing control of it. Bad enough Jack Bauer convinced him to turn over the victim’s computer. Though Castalano knew he would get an analysis of the computer’s hard drive and history faster from CTU than from his own department, it was a double bind—Jack or his bosses could also withhold information from the LAPD in the name of “national security.”
“Christ, Jerry,” Castalano moaned, “with so many squad cars and guns around here, the odds for a capture instead of a kill are looking as bad as a Vegas slot machine. And the fucking air dispatcher warned me that word was getting out about the church bus full of kids the perp ran off the road.”
“That was bad,” Alder replied. “But it gets worse.”
“Enlighten me.”
“Nina Vandervorn of TV News Nine just phoned the chief,” Alder said. “The station has got footage of the police cars in front of Vetri’s house, the ambulances coming and going. Says she’s running with the footage on the noon news—”
“Shit.”
“We can’t keep this buried much longer,” Alder warned.
“Noon is a couple of hours away,” Castalano said, his mind racing. “If we can snatch up this asshole in the Jag, we might solve our case. Go ahead and get permission to schedule a news conference for eleven o’clock. We might have our man by then. Either way, we’ll control release of the information—and steal Ms. Vandervorn’s thunder.”
8:59:43 A.M.PDT Santa Monica
Jack Bauer opened his eyes the instant Teri’s hand touched his shoulder. He didn’t need to check his watch to know he hadn’t slept long. His hair was still damp from the shower, and his head still throbbed.
Teri stood over him, the cordless phone in one hand. “Sorry to wake you, Jack. It’s Nina Myers.”
Jack sat up, took the phone. He held the receiver to his naked chest until Teri exited the bedroom. Then he put the phone to his ear.
“Nina?”
“What are you doing, Jack?” Nina cried. “Ryan Chappelle flew back from D.C. on the red-eye and hit the roof.”
“I don’t follow.” Jack rubbed his injured arm, now stiff from sleep.
“The raid at Utopia Studios. It was supposed to be a clandest
ine operation. Now it’s on the morning news.”
“Jesus,” Jack groaned.
“I talked to Chet Blackburn. He told me you took off with some Los Angeles detective. Something personal. Does that computer the Cyber-Unit brought in have something to do with it?”
“Yes.”
“Needless to say, I kept those facts from Ryan. He’s angry enough as it is.”
“Thanks, Nina, I’ll explain everything when I get there.”
“You’d better fly.”
Jack glanced at his watch. “Give me half an hour.”
Nina sighed. “I’ll do what I can.”
“I owe you, Nina.”
“Yes, Jack. You do.”
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24
THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 9 A.M. AND 10 A.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME
9:00:35 A.M.PDT CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles
When CTU’s head programmer, Jamey Farrell, arrived at her workstation to start the day, she was surprised to find Milo Pressman at the diagnostics platform. Milo was a network and encryption specialist and head of CTU computer security. Snapped up by CTU just out of Stanford University, he had soulful eyes, black, curly hair, and still wore the earring he’d acquired in graduate school.
Petite, wiry, and Hispanic, Jamey was only two years older than Milo, but as a divorced single mother of a toddler son, she often felt more like a decade older in maturity. Case in point: Milo never arrived early for work, yet here he was, downloading the memory from a Dell desktop.
“Welcome home, stranger. Back so soon?” Jamey said, dropping her purse.
Pressmen sat back in his chair. “Miss me?” he teased.
“No,” Jamey declared, popping the lid on her Star-bucks. “It was nice not having a man around the house. When did you get back?”
“I took the red-eye from Washington last night. Flew in with Ryan Chappelle—first class. He gave me a ride back to headquarters with him, too.”
“Ohhh, I’m impressed.” Jamey’s tone implied she wasn’t.
“Come on, Jamey. Cut the guy some slack. Chappelle’s not so bad. Looks to me like he’s stuck between a rock and a hard place.”
24 Declassified: 03 - Trojan Horse Page 6