Vanishing Point - Marc Cerasini [72]
A flash exploded in Jack's night vision goggles as Wildman opened fire. Tracers lit the walls as they tore down the corridor. Silhouetted in the muzzle flash, Jack saw Don Driscoll drop. The leader of the hit team was exposed now, and Jack fired his last round. Wildman slammed into the wall and slid to the floor, the top of his head blown away.
Jack stepped over a dead man to reach Don Driscoll. He didn't have to check the body to know the man was dead. Wildman's random shots had cut Don Driscoll's body in half.
Jack cursed. He'd hoped to grill the man about Hugo Bix's next move. Holstering the Glock, Jack reached into his back pocket for his cell, pressed speed dial.
"O'Brian," Morris answered.
"It's over," Jack announced. "Give me some lights down here..."
The lights sprang on a moment later. The grotesque scene was not improved by the harsh fluorescent glare.
"Jack, could you come upstairs. We have another development," said Morris.
Jack touched his forehead, looked away from the dead men sprawled on the floor. "I'll be right up."
Jack closed the cell phone — and it chirped immediately. He checked the display, didn't recognize the number.
"Jaycee," he answered.
"Jaycee! What is Stella doing? Why is she threatening to hurt my daughter?"
"Lilly, is that you? Slow down. What's going on?"
"Some man, with Stella. They're here at the Babylon. They've got my daughter, Jaycee! They say they'll hurt her if I don't do what they want..."
Jack's mind raced. There was something at the Babylon tonight... He'd seen it in the daily threat report. An anti-drug conference with VIP guests.
"Where are you right now?" Jack cried.
"I'm in the ballroom, the speeches are about to start. I..."
Suddenly the line went dead. Jack tried for a signal, got one immediately. He hit redial and after three rings, was transferred to Lilly's voice mail. Jack raced down the corridor and took the stairs two at a time.
* * *
10:46:01 p.m. PDT
Babylon Hotel and Casino, Las Vegas
Curtis stomped on the gas pedal, crashed the Dodge Sprinter through the security gate at the entrance to the hotel's underground parking garage. Over the squeal of tires, Curtis heard the guard's shouted commands to halt.
Good, he thought. That got their attention.
He circled the first level of the parking garage, looking for the other truck bombs. He realized only then that there were six levels to this parking garage, enough space for thousands of cars, light trucks, and SUVs. He could never find the bombs in time. Not without help.
Curtis skidded to a halt, snatched the shotgun off the seat and jumped out of the truck. He'd spied a fire alarm box near the elevators. Curtis broke the glass with the butt of the shotgun and pressed the red button.
The teeth rattling sound of a dozen alarm bells filled the garage. Covering his ears, Curtis moved on to another alarm box and smashed it open.
He knew that triggering the fire alarms was an act of desperation. Curtis did it because he'd run out of options. For the last hour, he'd experienced the deja vu feeling he was trapped in one of those nightmares he'd experienced as a child, dreams where you try to make an important phone call but keep messing up the numbers, or you try to yell for help and can't find your voice. Curtis had never felt more ineffectual or more isolated.
The irony was that ten minutes after he left the dead cops, Curtis believed his problems were solved. He steered the truck into a strip mall where he'd spotted an all night liquor store with a pay phone under its sign. Standing in the neon's glare, Curtis punched in the ten digit emergency phone number to CTU, a number unique to this current operation. He hoped to reach Jamey Farrell or Milo Pressman, convince them to issue a Code Red and dispatch emergency teams to the Babylon.
Instead, Curtis was connected to an electronic voice telling him the number he called was no longer in service. He hung up and called again, fearing he'd erred in the dialing. Curtis