Collateral Damage - Marc Cerasini [79]
When the elevator door closed on Tanner and his companions, the doorman spoke. "Gee, do you think they're clubbing tonight?"
The desk clerk shrugged.
Outside, three late-model Cadillac SUVs were lined up on Central Park West. The doorman scanned the cars for a glimpse of scantily clad models. But the only occupants he could see were tough-looking urban males.
"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
2:02:52 A.M. EDT
Eighth Floor, BeresfieId Apartments
Central Park West
New York, New York
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.
* * *
2:05:19 A.M. EDT
Corner of Howard and Broad Streets
Newark, New Jersey
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, jefe. I thought you was a customer in that chariot."
"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