Don Driscoll raised his arms in mock surrender. "Whatever you want, Jaycee."

In his mind, Jack had already decided to summon a CTU forensics team to examine the scene and perform an on-site autopsy, even if their arrival aroused suspicion among the staff. He'd find some way of explaining it all. Right now he only suspected Farrow's death was homicide. Before he could make his next move, he had to know what really happened, because if Max Farrow was murdered, there was a traitor in his ranks. And that traitor had to be weeded out as soon as possible, before the turncoat did more damage.

4

THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 3 P.M. AND 4 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME.

3:01:16 p.m. PDT Mesa Canyon Townhouses North Buffalo Drive, Las Vegas The streets surrounding Mesa Canyon, a sun-washed residential development on the outskirts of Las Vegas, were deserted. Paul Dugan parked his Dodge Sprinter right outside the gate of Compound One, on the corner of Smoke Ranch Road and North Buffalo Drive. He opened the truck's door, and immediately knew why. With nothing but concrete and sand all around, there was no shade, so the residents had taken refuge from the punishing heat and relentless sun inside the air conditioned comfort of their mock adobe townhouses.

Fair-haired, tall and lean - despite hours of relative inactivity spent behind the wheel - Dugan retained his boyish good looks late into his third decade. That's precisely why he was hired by Fit-Chef on the very day he filed an employment application, before he even pa.s.sed his background check. Ric Minelli, Fit-Chef's smooth talking Las Vegas regional manager, was a former salesman himself. Ric understood his company's clientele and realized immediately that Dugan's home-spun charm would play well with his customer base, which was ninety-six point five percent female.

Paul had been with for Fit-Chef for a year now and liked his job. Fleeing a ma.s.sive layoff in the blighted northeast, he left Johnstown, Pennsylvania and his shrew of an ex-wife, hoping to relocate to Los Angeles where he had friends. But the transmission on his car failed just shy of the California border, and while Paul waited in a Las Vegas garage for repairs, he met another driver for Fit-Chef. The man told Paul that the most popular food service in Nevada was always looking for an experienced delivery driver. Now Paul was another transplant to the fastest growing urban area in the United States.

Feeling the burn on the back of his ruddy neck, Dugan unlocked the back of the white panel truck, checked the manifest on his electronic pad. "T. Baird" was his next delivery destination. Paul grinned in antic.i.p.ation. Tiffany Baird played a scantily-clad vampire at the new Goth extravaganza at the Castle Casino. Though he'd never actually seen the show, Paul couldn't help but notice the ubiquitous ad campaign, in which Tiffany's figure was prominently displayed. Of course, in reality Tiffany was nothing like her showgirl persona. She was actually rather sweet.

In the shade of the truck's interior, Paul fumbled around until he located the right order. Hefting the box, he closed the truck. As an added precaution, Dugan primed the alarm system. After what happened this morning, he knew it was wise to be careful.

Whistling tunelessly, Paul carried the boxes to the gate, pressed the buzzer. The intercom crackled immediately. "Yeah? h.e.l.lo..."

"Fit-Chef," Paul replied. The lock clicked and he pushed through the metal gate, entering a circular plaza surrounded by townhouses. In the center of the complex, the blue waters of a swimming pool shimmered invitingly, though the poolside was as deserted as the streets outside.

Tiffany's was the fourth door to the left, but Paul didn't need to press the doorbell. She stood outside, awaiting her delivery. Even without makeup, Tiffany Baird was a stunner. Today she wore a baby blue nylon kimono that ended mid-thigh. Her long legs were naked, tiny feet slipped into matching blue plastic flip-flops. Her red hair was pulled back into a ponytail that spilled down her shapely back, held in place by an elastic hair band. Once again Paul noticed the third finger of her left hand lacked a ring.

Tiffany Baird greeted him with a smile that was tempered with surprise. "What are you doing here?"

"h.e.l.lo, Miss Baird," Paul replied. "I guess I got lucky."

"I thought that Mexican kid was delivering today."

Paul frowned. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were disappointed to see me."

"Not at all," Tiffany cried, pushing an unruly lock of hair away from her face. "It's just that the delivery is coming so late and all, I figured something must have happened."

Dugan handed her the package. She set it down on a plastic lawn chair, signed the electronic manifest he presented.

"Actually, Ignacio's day turned to c.r.a.p," Dugan said. "His truck got jacked a couple of hours ago. The punk who stole it pistol whipped Iggy, put him in the hospital."

Tiffany ripped the lid off the box. "Jesus. Ain't n.o.body safe?" she grunted.

"Apparently not," Dugan replied. "It's crazy, too. It's not like he's driving a Brinks truck, just a s.h.i.t load of diet food - er, pardon my French."

Tiffany sniffed, frowning at the contents of a plastic container. "Edamame again. They call this this protein?" protein?"

Paul watched her rummage through the box, realized she wore nothing under the thin kimono.

"If you ever get sick of that rabbit food, let me know. I'll buy you a steak at Smith and Wollensky's."

The bold invitation had come out of Paul's mouth before he realized what he was saying. Now, face flushed with embarra.s.sment, he waited for the polite rebuff - and felt like kicking himself.

Tiffany licked teriyaki sauce off her fingers. Then she grinned. "Fit-Chef is a real full service company, huh?"

"I... I'm sorry," he stammered.

"Don't be," Tiffany replied, tapping his nametag with an ebony enameled finger. "In fact, you better watch yourself, Mr. Dugan. I might just take you up on your offer."

Dugan blinked. "How about this Sat.u.r.day?"

Tiffany's grin broadened. "How about Sunday. I work Fridays and Sat.u.r.days."

Paul nodded, speechless.

"You've got my phone number in that little computer of yours," Tiffany said, hefting her delivery. "Give me a call on Friday and we'll set a time."

Dugan stood blinking in the sun for a full thirty seconds after Tiffany Baird closed her front door. Finally he turned and, whistling again, headed back to the truck.

Crossing the sidewalk, Paul Dugan was too distracted to notice the late-model black Ford Explorer with tinted windows parked across the street. Still lost in a fog of euphoria, he deactivated the alarm and unlocked the door.

A shadow suddenly crossed the sun, then something exploded inside Paul Dugan's head. A sharp jolt of pain roiled his spine. His knees gave out and he dropped to the hot asphalt. Seemingly in slow motion, he reached out to steady himself - only to have the truck's keys s.n.a.t.c.hed out of his semi-limp fingers. Paul grunted in protest, and another blow came down on the back of his head, slamming him flat.

He moaned as someone stepped over him. Hot tar burned his cheek. The wheels right next to his head spun, squealing, as the truck roared away. A moment of throbbing silence followed. Then a red haze engulfed his vision, and Paul Dugan's world faded to black.

3:09:26 p.m. PDT North Buffalo Drive, Las Vegas "Big Ed's got the keys and made it away clean," said the fidgeting man in the pa.s.senger seat.

"Let's go," the driver grunted.

Toomes threw the Explorer into gear, pulled away from the curb. As they drove by, Drew peered through the tinted gla.s.s at the man on the ground.

"Jesus, I hope Big Ed didn't kill 'em," he said, one hand clinging to the dashboard.

"So what if he did?" Toomes kept his eyes on the highway, his giant hands wrapped around the steering wheel. His rubbery jowls bounced like jelly on the rough pavement.

"G.o.dd.a.m.n construction," he cursed.

Drew dropped back into his seat. He lifted his wrist to display his plastic Seiko watch. "It's after three. We should have been back by now."

"Relax. We're done. We're gonna pick up the other trucks."

"Yeah, we're done. But was it done smart?" Drew's voice was high. His eyes were close together, and bulged a little, like fish eyes. Now they darted nervously. "Listen, Hugo told us to s.n.a.t.c.h three trucks in Reno, Toomes. Not Vegas, Reno. Reno. That's 'cause he doesn't want them turning up on the Metro Police stolen vehicle sheet for twenty-four hours..." That's 'cause he doesn't want them turning up on the Metro Police stolen vehicle sheet for twenty-four hours..."

Toomes snorted. "Hugo Bix gives the cops in this town way too much credit. Why should I give up my winning seat at a high stakes table at the Bellagio, to drive to Reno in the middle of the stinking night. All that, just to jack three trucks?"

"It's what the boss wanted..."

"Bix is getting getting what he wants," Toomes replied. "He wanted three Dodge Sprinter panel trucks, and that's what we jacked. He said it would be better if they were white, and they're white." Toomes slapped the steering wheel. "Dream come true." what he wants," Toomes replied. "He wanted three Dodge Sprinter panel trucks, and that's what we jacked. He said it would be better if they were white, and they're white." Toomes slapped the steering wheel. "Dream come true."

Drew calmed a little. "We're in the clear, as long as Big Ed don't say nothing to Hugo before we get there..."

"If Big Ed says anything, he won't get paid. And Big Ed likes to get paid."

Toomes braked for a traffic light. Traffic was particularly heavy along this stretch near the Lakes.

"Man, we're later and later," Drew whined.

Wheezing, Toomes glanced at his own watch. The Rolex seemed tiny on his thick wrist, the band tight around flesh and muscle.

"It's not even three-thirty," the big man wheezed. "Hugo's boys have plenty of time to prime the trucks. We'll go fetch the two we jacked this morning and drive them over to the garage. Bix will be so happy to see us he'll never know the difference."

3:13:08 p.m. PDT The Cha-Cha Lounge, Las Vegas Crossing the game floor to the Tiki Lounge, Jack heard his cell phone beep over the jangling slots. He slipped into an alcove near the rest rooms, an area marginally shielded from the noise.

"Jager," he answered.

"It's...o...b..ian."

"Where are you, Morris?"

"Up in the rafters with the rest of the bats."

Jack automatically glanced up. Somewhere behind the one way mirrors that made up the ceiling, Morris...o...b..ian was watching him.

"Got a call for you, Jack. It's Henderson, across the special line."

Jack tensed, sure it was more bad news. "Put him through."

A long silence. Then Jack heard a breath inhaled hundreds of miles away, at CTU, Los Angeles.

"You don't have many fans upstairs, do you Jack?" Christopher Henderson's voice was delayed a second and oddly distorted - byproducts of Morris...o...b..ian's audio encryption system. But at least no one could possibly intercept the call, either here or at CTU.

"What's going on?" Jack asked.

"I have a bureaucrat by the name of Alberta Green up my a.s.s. You know the woman?"

"Yes."

"She's been questioning our operation from its inception, even though she doesn't have a clue what we're doing. Now she's talking about pulling the plug on our budget if we don't show some results."

"She can do that?"

The pause seemed overlong this time. "She can, especially with Ryan Chappelle making the same noise. Unless we show some progress, we could be shut down tomorrow."

Jack chose not to hide his impatience. "We've made made progress. I'll put you through to Morris again. He'll update you." progress. I'll put you through to Morris again. He'll update you."

Before his boss could reply, Jack put Henderson on hold and punched up Morris.

"I heard, Jack. And I might say that from up here, you don't look particularly happy."

"Morris, I want you to brief Henderson about the technology we seized today."

"Will do. Should I mention our corpse down in the bas.e.m.e.nt?"

"Say nothing for now. If Henderson asks, tell him I'm still interrogating the suspect. I need to find out who killed Max Farrow before I can reveal his death."

O'Brian paused. "Gambling again, Jack?"

"Morris. Don't second guess me. Just do your job."

"Right-O, chief. I'll..."

Jack hung up, slipped the cell into his pocket. He felt an impotent rage welling up inside of him. He already knew this operation was running on borrowed time, but Jack was hoping that today's discovery of stolen technology would breathe new life into the investigation. The death of Max Farrow had thrown more than a crimp into his plans. Ironically the man's capture had been their first break, but Farrow's death - once revealed - might end the operation immediately. Before Henderson's call, Jack felt he still had a little time to maneuver. Now, with the entrance of Alberta Green into the equation, his window of opportunity had been reduced from days to hours.

A hand on his shoulder broke Jack's concentration. "Hey, Jaycee. Have you seen -?"

"What?" Jack snapped.

Lilly Sheridan took two steps backwards. "Jesus, I'm sorry I bothered you."

The woman turned away. Jack grabbed her arm.

"Whoa, Lilly. Don't go. I'm sorry I took your head off."

Lilly pulled back. "Don't, Jaycee..." Her eyes were locked on his fingers. Jack released her arm.

"Look, I didn't mean anything," Jack told her. "I'm having a rough day, that's all. You're looking for Stella, right?"

She hugged herself, nodding. "I'm supposed to give her a ride somewhere before I go to work."

Jack nodded. "Yeah, over to Hugo's garage."

The woman frowned. "I didn't want to say."

"Yeah, well..." Jack grunted, in character.

Lilly shrugged. "Look, I don't know what's what... Who knows what game Stella's playing."

"No game, so she says. Just a repair job," Jack replied.

He watched Lilly's expression, saw the skepticism there. He wondered if Lilly was lying. If she really did know something he didn't. Was Stella still working for Hugo Bix? Was Stella still working for Hugo Bix?

"Let's go to my table at the Tiki," Jack offered. "Stella's using the shower. She'll be down in a minute."