Vanishing Point - Marc Cerasini [53]
"No babysitter, no job," she'd say, sending Lilly home rather than letting her stash her daughter in the dressing room for a couple of hours, where the child wouldn't do any harm.
The bell rang again and the doors opened. The ballroom doors were open wide, but there was no sign of Evelyn or her assistant Janet.
"Hurry, let's go," Lilly hissed, pushing her daughter toward the glittering banquet room.
8THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 7 P.M. AND 8 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME
7:02:11 p.m. PDT
Tunney and Sons Quality Tool and Die
Browne End Road, Las Vegas
Curtis spotted the gunman approaching the tool and die factory the moment he slipped through the hole in the back wall. It was a close call for the CTU agent, with Curtis emerging into the fading afternoon just as his stalker rounded the corner. Fortunately the man's eyes were fixed on the sand at his feet — most likely wary of rattlesnakes — so Curtis managed to slip around the building without being seen.
Using the forgotten collection of Dumpsters for cover, Curtis kept glancing over his shoulder, trying to get a better look at his pursuer. A quick glimpse convinced him the man was one of six who'd arrived in the second SUV. All of those men had the same spare, hardened look of ex-military types, and the man certainly carried his assault rifle with assured familiarity.
Curtis paused in a narrow gap between two rusty steel containers, to stare up at the purpling sky. The sun was low on the horizon, but it would be over an hour before it was truly dark. Unfortunately, with at least one man on his trail and possibly more, Curtis could not afford to wait for night to hide his movements — he had to get out of here now.
On his knees, peering out from between two dented containers, Curtis watched as the armed man discovered the hole in the wall, then carefully crouched low and crawled through it.
The moment his stalker disappeared inside the factory, Curtis was moving. He had about thirty feet of barren, sand-swept concrete to cross before reaching the cover of a lone Dumpster set apart from the rest. He'd use it to boost himself over the eight-foot fence, then he'd cross three vacant lots beyond the fence to reach Pena Lane, where he'd parked his car.
Feet pumping, Curtis traversed the stretch of concrete in under three seconds — only to be stopped in his tracks when another man stepped out from behind the Dumpster, his AK-47 leveled at Agent Manning's stomach. Immediately, Curtis threw his hands over his head.
"Don't shoot," he cried, resorting to Plan B. "I know I was trespassing. I lost all my money at the craps table and was lookin' to find a place to crash, that's all."
The man was young, Curtis guessed in his early twenties. By haircut and physique, the CTU agent pegged him as ex-military. But this man was clearly a private in some socialist state's army, because he was clearly not accustomed to thinking or acting independently. Curtis saw the man's confused expression, knew he was wondering if he'd cornered the wrong guy, and if the real culprit was getting away.
"Get on the ground and take out your weapon," he commanded in a thick Cuban accent.
"Chill man! I don't have any weapons," Curtis cried, adding a touch of hysteria to his performance while remaining on his feet.
"Get on the ground," the man roared, moving perilously close. But still the gunman didn't fire. Either he was reluctant to pull the trigger on the wrong man, or he feared alerting his prey. In any case, the youth stood there, eyes darting left and right, wondering what he should do next.
"I know... You're looking for the other guy," Curtis stammered, he hoped convincingly. "I saw him in the factory. He took off before I did. The dude had a phone in his hand, maybe a gun too..."
The gunman blinked, lowered the assault