Vanishing Point - Marc Cerasini [6]
The fact that Rojas assassins were lying in wait for Gordon Guiterrez proved Jack correct on the first count — not that this validation brought him any satisfaction. But at least Jack now understood the reason why he'd been ordered not to tell Tony about the device unless it became necessary.
Christopher Henderson didn't trust Tony Almeida any more than Jack trusted agents Burwell and Cantrel.
* * *
For a few seconds, all Tony could see were people running, all he could hear were fearful shouts and high-pitched screams. As he moved toward Guiterrez, he tried in vain to keep his eyes on the Uzi-wielding assassin, but his path was constantly blocked by panicked civilians.
Screw this...
Without slowing, Tony swerved off the sidewalk and into the street. A horn blared. He spun to see a red Toyota. The driver wasn't stopping — but Tony wasn't moving. Instead of dashing out of the car's path, he threw himself onto the hood. The thin aluminum crumpled under his weight. The vehicle's momentum slammed Tony's spine against the windshield, cracking the safety glass.
Clock extended — finger off the trigger — Tony rode the hood as the vehicle continued to veer down Bolivar. When the stunned driver finally slammed on his brakes, momentum threw Tony forward. He landed on his feet, stumbled, then quickly regained his balance.
The assassin was now standing directly in front of Tony. The man still held the Uzi in one hand, but his attention was focused on the retreating Guiterrez.
Unnoticed, Tony took two steps forward, halting behind the assassin's back. As he raised his Glock, the man whirled. His dark eyes went wide, his mouth opened in surprise. Tony could smell the gunman's breath as he placed the dock's muzzle against his temple.
The assassin lifted his Uzi.
Tony pulled the trigger.
Blood and brains splattered the restaurant wall, the spent shell shattering harmlessly against the bricks. Francesco Rojas jerked once, then dropped to the pavement.
* * *
Amid the chaos, Gordon Guiterrez managed to reach the opposite side of the street. Still leaking blood, he'd stumbled through traffic, then dropped to his knees at the curb.
He heard gunfire again, a single discharge from... a Glock?
He dragged across the sidewalk, using his arms, because his lower body had become oddly numb. Chest heaving, daggers of pain traveling up his torso, he braced his spine against the construction site's rough wooden wall and sat up.
With a rush of triumph, he realized his right hand was still gripping the handle of the attache case. His misty vision became even hazier, casting a red veil over the world. Still, Guiterrez could see that the sidewalk was nearly empty now... except for one man. A pale Anglo resembling one of Henderson's CTU men appeared to be running toward him, gun in hand.
Not sure whether Jack Bauer was an illusion, Guiterrez attempted to focus his fading vision when a hard jerk jolted his right arm. Someone was pulling at the attache case in his grip. He turned his head to find a boy about sixteen in a New York Mets T-shirt, his thick brown forearms mottled by the telltale scars from the coca labs. Behind the boy's back, an older Colombian chollo, this one wearing a red bandana and holding an Uzi, was obviously watching the boy's back.
Amid the screams and traffic noise, Guiterrez heard Bauer's voice. "Caiga su arma у paso lejos!"
The chollo with the Uzi turned — Jack's two quick shots tore the top of the chollo's head off, bandana and all. At the same moment, the handle broke away so suddenly from the attache case that the teenage boy toppled to the sidewalk.
Guiterrez stared numbly at the handle still clutched in his fist. This shouldn't have happened, he thought in a cloud of shock and pain. I would have used handcuffs, if I'd had a pair. One cuff around the handle, another around my wrist. No one would have snatched the case away from me then.
Problem was, inside the Rojas compound where he'd been living, handcuffs were hard to come by. Explosives were easier