Vanishing Point - Marc Cerasini [29]
The moment Sable put his weight on the loose rung, it gave way with a metallic clang. Still clutching the rails, Sable's body bounced against the ladder. He grunted, the wind knocked out of him, and his grip on the rail slipped. He would have landed hard, but Tony was there to catch him. Tony eased the man to the ground in one smooth motion.
"Are you okay, Steve?" Tony said in mock alarm.
"Sure, sure," Sable wheezed. Sitting up, he pushed Tony away. "Just let me catch my breath, Alvarez..."
Tony looked around, satisfied it had happened so quickly, no one even noticed. Sable checked himself out. Tony yanked his foot, disconnecting the power cable at the top of the tower. It dropped down, coiling around them like a dead snake.
"Son of a bitch," Sable cursed. "Who the hell put this tower together, the Army Corps of Engineers?" Then he spied the end of the power cable he'd just attached and cursed again.
"Don't worry. I'll fix it," Tony offered.
But Sable stumbled to his feet. "I'll reconnect the damn thing. I broke it," he said, obviously trying to save face. A moment later, Sable was moving up the ladder again, the end of the fallen line strapped to his belt. This time he carefully avoided the defective rung.
Tony stepped back, watching the man climb. When Sable reached the halfway mark, Tony strolled over to his computer, sitting under the limited shade of a wooden packing crate open on one side. Pretending to check the power grid, Tony slipped his fingers into a secret compartment in the side of his PC, found the data cable stored there. He plugged the cord into a jack in the cell phone he'd lifted from Sable's pocket.
Tapping the keys, Tony called up a hidden program embedded in the computer's engineering software. Before Sable was finished reattaching the power line, Tony had completely downloaded the cell phone's memory, including all the numbers stored in the directory and calling log. As Tony saved the data in a hidden file for examination later, he smiled, remembering how he'd picked up the skill he'd practiced so well today — and it wasn't from CTU's cursory training.
During his misspent youth on the South Side of Chicago, Tony had been a devoted Cubs fan, but he never had the cash for game tickets. After riding a crowded el for an hour, however, he always had enough pilfered money to buy tickets at Wrigley Field for himself and his younger cousin, and even a few snacks. It was a smooth operation, and he was never too greedy, stealing just enough to get by and returning the wallet without his mark ever catching on.
The petty thefts were a sin, and his pious grandmother would have beaten him silly if she'd found out. She never did. By the time CTU got around to training him in the art of picking pockets, Tony discovered he could teach his class a few things.
"Okay, Tony, I'm coming down," Sable called from the top of the tower.
Tony pocketed the man's cell and sauntered back to the base of the ladder.
"Good job," Tony said, patting the man's back with one hand, while slipping the cell back into Sable's pocket with the other.
"Yeah," Sable said, squinting up at the microwave emitter. "Now let's power it up and see if this baby actually works."
* * *
2:46:21 p.m. PDT
The Cha-Cha Lounge, Las Vegas
Max Farrow lay on his back in the holding cell, his throat a jagged slit. Clotting blood pooled on the green linoleum floor, caking his hair and arching outward like an obscene halo. Mouth open, jaws slack, the man's dead eyes, wide and seemingly startled, stared at the fluorescent lights embedded in the ceiling. Farrow's left arm was twisted and lay under him, his right was bent at the elbow. In that fist, Farrow still clutched a blood-stained splinter of orange fiberglass, a shard from the shattered chair.
Farrow was alone in the room. Don Driscoll, Curtis Manning, and Jack Bauer observed