“Alvarez, where the hell are you?”
“Yo!” came the call from the back of the hangar. Dr. Antonio Alvarez stuck his head out of the interior of a malfunctioning electrical generator.
“Front and center, now!” Dr. Reed commanded.
Alvarez hurried forward, a power coupler in one hand, the end of a long electrical cable in the other. The wire in his hand unwound until it reached its limit, nearly jerking him off his feet. With an embarrassed frown, Alvarez dropped the cable and tossed the power coupler onto a crate. Standing before Dr. Reed, he wiped his greasy hands on his white lab coat.
“You called?”
Dr. Reed stared at the newest member of her team. She’d known many “eccentric” scientists and researchers in her day, but few were as clueless as Dr. Alvarez. She studied the man, from the dark tangle of his unkempt hair; black, thick-framed glasses; and perpetual five o’clock stubble; all the way down to the baggy, oversized sweatpants.
If Dr. Reed applied some of the considerable powers of observation she used for her research, she might have noticed that Alvarez was as tall as she was — a fact disguised by his submissive demeanor and perpetually slumped shoulders. Also masked was the man’s muscular, former-Marine physique, his strong shoulders and arms strategically camouflaged by a lab coat two sizes too big.
“Does that… that pole belong to you?” Dr. Reed asked through gritted teeth.
Alvarez followed Reed’s gaze to the tetherball stand outside.
“Yes, Dr. Reed.”
“Could you move it.”
“Of course, sorry. I was trying to fix the backup
generator. It blew yesterday, when we tested the
coupler set up. I had to reconfigure a few of the—”
“Move the pole. NOW!”
Alvarez flushed red. Pushing up his thick glasses,
he tucked his head into his chest and ran to the tetherball pole. He yanked on the rope until the pole toppled. Corporal Stratowski joined him and together they used the concrete-filled tire to roll the post out of the way. A moment later the tractor rumbled through the door of Hangar Six.
“Got it, partner?” Stratowski asked.
“Sure, Corporal,” Alvarez replied. “Thanks for the help.”
A crane rolled out of another hangar and approached the steel tower. Stratowski joined the others, following the tow vehicle to the base of the structure. Dr. Reed and Dani Welles passed Alvarez on their way out. The Team Leader glanced at the nerdy technician, who was struggling to position the pole as close to the hanger wall as possible.
“A grown man and he still plays tetherball. Can you believe it?” Megan Reed said incredulously.
Dani shrugged. “He plays solo squash, too. Last week I saw him over at the dorms before sunup. I’m sure he didn’t know anyone was around. The dude’s hot. He was wearing nothing but shorts, and he whacked that ball like a pro. I was surprised to see how trim he is. Hides it under those ridiculous clothes.” Dani glanced over her shoulder at Alvarez. “A girl could do worse…”
Dr. Reed snorted. “Antonio? Please. It’s lonely out here in the desert, but not that lonely.”
When everyone was out of earshot, Dr. Alvarez reached around the pole, until his fingers located a small hole drilled into the metal. He probed inside, until he located two buttons hidden there. He tapped them in a precise sequence, heard a faint beep over the sound of the desert wind and rustling sand.
“Jamey, it’s Almeida. Can you hear me?”
The voice that answered was faint, broadcast from CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles, hundreds of miles away.
“I hear you loud and clear, Tony,” Jamey Farrell replied after a split-second lag.
“How’s the reception. Do you have a clear image?”
“Crystal clear. I don’t know how you placed the surveillance camera so close to a top secret test in a photo restricted area. You have to tell me how you did it when you get back.”
Tony smiled. “Let’s just say that sometimes the best place to hide something is in plain sight.”
“Okay, I’ve activated the digital recorder,” Jamey said. “You have unlimited memory available to you, so you should have a complete visual recording of the weapon’s set up, the test, and the equipment break down afterwards.”
“Excellent. If anyone approaches that array we’ll have a photographic record,” Tony replied, glancing over his shoulders. “I better join the others now… Over and out.”
Jack Bauer’s right arm felt like lead. It hung limply at his side. With his left hand he wiped a splash of blood off his cheek and stared down at the man slumped in the corner of the room, amid orange shards of the shattered fiberglass chair.
“Who sold you the device and when did you buy it?” Bauer asked in a soft voice.
Max Farrow winced at the sound. His chin was buried in his chest, rivulets of blood ran out of his nose. His left eye was swollen shut when he lifted his face to stare at Jack.
“It was Bix,” Farrow croaked. “Hugo Bix. I bought it down at his garage… Paid seventy grand for it…”
“When?”
“Two days ago… Tested it out at the Chuck Wagon Casino yesterday… Big win… Then Bix sent me here ’cause he said the Cha-Cha was an easy touch…”
Farrow’s voice caught in a muffled sob. “The son of a bitch lied, and now that bastard Bix is gonna kill me for what I’m telling you…”
Jack looked up, nodded to Curtis Manning on the other side of the one-way mirror. The door lock clicked a moment later, and Jack left the cell. Manning glanced at the man huddled on the floor, then closed and locked the door.
“You heard?” Jack asked, wrestling the knuckle duster off of his swollen right hand.
“I’m not surprised,” Manning replied. “Thanks to the DEA, we already have a direct link between the Bix gang and the Rojas Brothers. Now we’ve linked Bix to the technology thefts. I think Hugo Bix is our man, Jack. You were right to go up against him.”
It was a tough admission for Curtis Manning. Initially he’d resisted the plan to begin undermining the most powerful gangster in Las Vegas. But Jack knew he wouldn’t get bites unless he started baiting. He hadn’t wanted to do it, either, but—
“We had no choice, Curtis,” Jack reminded him. “The local DA and the Nevada Prosecutor’s office have nothing on Bix, and when the FBI tried to trap him, their undercover agent ended up in a shallow grave in the desert.”
“You better proceed with caution. Bix has got a real hate on for you.”
To Manning’s surprise, Jack laughed, short and sharp.
“Good. That’s the way I want it,” Bauer said. “The more Jaycee Jager threatens Bix, the more desperate he becomes. We’ve been cutting into his drug trade and stealing away his customers for three months. By sending that cowboy to shake us down, Bix showed his hand. That was his first mistake.”
Jong Lee recognized his visitor the moment the man was ushered into the luxury suite. The face he had seen many times, on American television, and on the covers of American magazines and newspapers. Although Jong knew everything there was to know about this man — from his humble birth in the deep South to his impressive athletic and political careers — nothing could prepare him for Congressmen Larry Bell’s size and physical presence.
Hùnzhàng! Where does this brute purchase his clothing? Lee wondered.
Smiling affably, Jong Lee rose and moved to greet the newcomer. At nearly six feet, Jong was tall for a Chinese man. But the former pro basketball player towered over him. When they shook, Lee’s pale hand disappeared in the American’s ebony fist. Protocol demanded Jong bow, so he did. Not deeply, but enough to show respect. Tradition also dictated that Jong’s head should never be lower than his visitor’s — symbolic of his own dominant position in the coming negotiations. But in this case, he would have to forego tradition.