Vanishing Point - Marc Cerasini [35]
Surrounded by stacks of yellowing racing forms and old license plates, a large Pennzoil sign and an array of pornographic calendars highlighting sex industry beauties from the past decade, Hugo Bix was slumped in a sagging office chair. He clutched the sports page in his large, callused hands, his scuffed, size-thirteen boots resting on a battered wooden desk.
At thirty-four, Bix's hard gray eyes and pockmarked features gave him the look of a man decades older. His skin browned by the sun, chin perpetually unshaven around a natty handlebar moustache, Bix resembled a cowpoke at a local rodeo more than Las Vegas' most powerful crime lord. Bix wore his working class roots with pride. His arms were laced with prison tattoos and roped with muscle. His hair, bleached by the sun, was long and wavy.
A cell phone on the desk rang once. Bix put it to his ear but said nothing.
"It's Roman, boss. I'm at the front gate."
"Go on,"
"Big Ed's here. He said Toomes and Drew are right behind him. They got the goods."
A slight smile curled the corners of Bix's thin lips. "Any sign of our friends from down south?"
"Not yet."
"How about the Wildman and his boys?"
"They arrived last night. They're holed up at Baxter's Motel on the edge of town, and getting antsy."
Bix grinned. "They'll have plenty to do in a couple of hours. Wildman is my ace in the hole."
Bix closed the phone. He swung his big feet off the desk, rose to his full height. Swaggering like a movie cowboy, or like the outlaw biker he once was, Bix walked to the door.
"How's it going down there?" he called.
The lead mechanic looked up. "We're almost done here. The trucks we have are loaded and there's only a few stencils left to apply. We're waiting for the other trucks you promised us."
Bix nodded, turned his back on the workmen. "I reckon they'll be here any minute."
"Then what?" the mechanic called back.
"Then you'll do your jobs and stop asking questions," Bix replied before closing his door.
* * *
3:57:19 p.m. PDT
The Cha-Cha Lounge, Las Vegas
Jack waited in the Tiki Lounge, his mind still focused on Henderson's phone call.
"You wanted to see me, Jaycee?"
Jack nodded. "Sit down, Curtis. Any sign of Ray Perry?"
Curtis shook his head. "Driscoll put out some feelers. Found out Perry wasn't hiding out at Circus, Circus. Don talked to Perry's girlfriend and she hasn't seen him in two days."
Curtis leaned close. "Do you think it was really Perry who wasted Max Farrow?"
Jack smiled humorlessly. "That would be convenient, sure. Ray's gone so we don't have a spy among us. That's what someone wants us to think."
"Who do you think it is then, Jack?"
"It could be anyone. It could be Ray Perry. Or Don Driscoll. Or Chick Hoffman. Hell, it could even be Nancy over there." To Curtis Manning's surprise, Jack laughed once. "We'll know soon enough. I think Hugo's about to make his move."
"You think sending Max Farrow here was the beginning of something?"
"I think whatever Hugo's planning, it's already begun. That's why I want you to go over to Bix Automotive and keep an eye on the place."
Curtis nodded. "Can do, Jack. I've already established a reconnaissance position inside a vacant tool and die factory across the street."
"Go now. Call Morris with updates every hour. And be careful. This whole operation is already in jeopardy. One more strike and we're out."
5THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 4 P.M. AND 5 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME
4:00:01 p.m. PDT
Groom Lake Secure Terminal
McCarran Airport, Las Vegas
After helping the Senator pass through the restricted terminal's extensive security protocols, which included X-ray scans, metal detectors, and a fingerprint check, Air Force Colonel Vincent DeBlasio handed David Palmer off to the scientist in charge of the Malignant Wave Project. Palmer, who understood the silent language of the military hierarchy, saw this as a sign that the Air Force was not comfortable with the direction the project had taken,