Vanishing Point - Marc Cerasini [32]
He moaned as someone stepped over him. Hot tar burned his cheek. The wheels right next to his head spun, squealing, as the truck roared away. A moment of throbbing silence followed. Then a red haze engulfed his vision, and Paul Dugan's world faded to black.
* * *
3:09:26 p.m. PDT
North Buffalo Drive, Las Vegas
"Big Ed's got the keys and made it away clean," said the fidgeting man in the passenger seat.
"Let's go," the driver grunted.
Toomes threw the Explorer into gear, pulled away from the curb. As they drove by, Drew peered through the tinted glass at the man on the ground.
"Jesus, I hope Big Ed didn't kill 'em," he said, one hand clinging to the dashboard.
"So what if he did?" Toomes kept his eyes on the highway, his giant hands wrapped around the steering wheel. His rubbery jowls bounced like jelly on the rough pavement.
"Goddamn construction," he cursed.
Drew dropped back into his seat. He lifted his wrist to display his plastic Seiko watch. "It's after three. We should have been back by now."
"Relax. We're done. We're gonna pick up the other trucks."
"Yeah, we're done. But was it done smart?" Drew's voice was high. His eyes were close together, and bulged a little, like fish eyes. Now they darted nervously. "Listen, Hugo told us to snatch three trucks in Reno, Toomes. Not Vegas, Reno. That's 'cause he doesn't want them turning up on the Metro Police stolen vehicle sheet for twenty-four hours..."
Toomes snorted. "Hugo Bix gives the cops in this town way too much credit. Why should I give up my winning seat at a high stakes table at the Bellagio, to drive to Reno in the middle of the stinking night. All that, just to jack three trucks?"
"It's what the boss wanted..."
"Bix is getting what he wants," Toomes replied. "He wanted three Dodge Sprinter panel trucks, and that's what we jacked. He said it would be better if they were white, and they're white." Toomes slapped the steering wheel. "Dream come true."
Drew calmed a little. "We're in the clear, as long as Big Ed don't say nothing to Hugo before we get there..."
"If Big Ed says anything, he won't get paid. And Big Ed likes to get paid."
Toomes braked for a traffic light. Traffic was particularly heavy along this stretch near the Lakes.
"Man, we're later and later," Drew whined.
Wheezing, Toomes glanced at his own watch. The Rolex seemed tiny on his thick wrist, the band tight around flesh and muscle.
"It's not even three-thirty," the big man wheezed. "Hugo's boys have plenty of time to prime the trucks. We'll go fetch the two we jacked this morning and drive them over to the garage. Bix will be so happy to see us he'll never know the difference."
* * *
3:13:08 p.m. PDT
The Cha-Cha Lounge, Las Vegas
Crossing the game floor to the Tiki Lounge, Jack heard his cell phone beep over the jangling slots. He slipped into an alcove near the rest rooms, an area marginally shielded from the noise.
"Jager," he answered.
"It's O'Brian."
"Where are you, Morris?"
"Up in the rafters with the rest of the bats."
Jack automatically glanced up. Somewhere behind the one way mirrors that made up the ceiling, Morris O'Brian was watching him.
"Got a call for you, Jack. It's Henderson, across the special line."
Jack tensed, sure it was more bad news. "Put him through."
A long silence. Then Jack heard a breath inhaled hundreds of miles away, at CTU, Los Angeles.
"You don't have many fans upstairs, do you Jack?" Christopher Henderson's voice was delayed a second and oddly distorted — byproducts of Morris O'Brian's audio encryption system. But at least no one could possibly intercept the call, either here or at CTU.
"What's going on?" Jack asked.
"I have a bureaucrat by the name of Alberta Green up my ass. You know the woman?"
"Yes."
"She's been questioning our operation from its inception, even though she doesn't have a clue what we're doing. Now she's talking about pulling the plug