Read Online 24 Declassified: 03 - Trojan Horse by Marc Cerasini - Free Book Online
Authors: Marc Cerasini
Tags: Fiction, General, Suspense, Media Tie-In, Thrillers, Action & Adventure, Espionage, Terrorism, Computer viruses, Award Presentations
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glass rained down on the highway as the windows blew out of the van. Careening off the sports car, the van slammed into a guardrail that had already been weakened by a minor landslide. Its velocity, and the vehicle’s heavy weight, ripped the base of the rail out of the ground and sent the van tumbling down the steep side of the mountain.
Helpless to do more than scream, Laney watched the SUV roll down the steep embankment. Clutching her head in horror, she ignored the sports car as it rolled onto the shoulder of the road and skidded to a halt in a shower of dirt and rocks.
The young woman bolted across the highway, watched as the church van flipped over and tumbled end over end into a deep, tree-lined chasm. Over the crunch of metal and the crash of sliding rocks, Laney heard Thelma’s cries and the screams of the children. But when the bus finally struck the bottom of the canyon, all human sounds abruptly ceased.
Laney fell on her knees, sobbing, beating the pavement with her fists. She looked around, hoping for someone to help, for a miracle. Only then did she spot the red Jaguar. The driver had never even gotten out of the car. Now he was trying to back out of the shoulder of the road, onto the roadway. Laney realized the speeder was trying to get away.
“Stop!” Laney screamed. “They need help! You can’t just leave them.”
The car finally skidded onto the pavement. Laney saw that the driver’s side window was gone— shattered—and the car door crushed. Inside, a swarthy man in a white T-shirt with dirty brown stains sat behind the wheel, sunglasses covering his eyes. The tires smoked as the man gunned the engine, trying to speed away. Finally the wheels gained some traction and the swarthy man raced away without a backward glance.
Though she was shaken to the core of her being by the tragedy she’d just witnessed, Laney had the presence of mind to pull the cell phone out of her purse and call the police. She reported the accident, its location, and the license plate of the vehicle that had fled the scene.
It took the LAPD only thirty seconds to positively identify the vehicle involved in the hit and run accident—a cherry-red 1998 Jaguar registered to Mr. Hugh Vetri, film producer, vanity plate number FYLMBOY. The automobile had been reported stolen from a crime scene in Beverly Hills earlier that day. Within two minutes, an all-points bulletin had been issued, and a statewide manhunt for the fugitive driver had begun.
8:23:06 A . M .PDT La Hacienda Tijuana, Mexico
A single rap on the door launched Tony off the rickety bed. On bare feet, he moved silently across the floor and pressed his ear to the scarred wood. Across the room, Fay sat up in the second bed, tense with worry.
Tony caught her eye, placed his index finger to his lips.
“Who’s there?” he called.
“Hey, Navarro...It’s me. Ray Dobyns.”
Only then did Tony peer through the peephole. He recognized Dobyns at once and cursed silently.
Ray Dobyns was a transplant from Wichita, Kansas. His grifts in his home state, and in Arkansas, Texas, and California, finally caught up with Dobyns a decade ago and he fled south to extradition-free Mexico. Since then, Ray had made a marginal living by pulling off similar grifts to the ones Tony’s cover “Navarro” was supposedly running right now— credit card fraud, Internet fraud, passing bad checks.
As Navarro, Tony Almeida had had some dealings with Dobyns two years ago in Ensenada when he’d been working another case. Now Tony tried to recall if he’d given the man any reason to suspect he was more than a petty con man.
“Come on, let me in, man,” Dobyns called from the other side of the thin, battered wood.
“Give me a second,” Tony called. Then he faced Fay Hubley, “Get dressed,” he whispered, “and when I introduce you, talk as little as possible.”
Fay crossed to the bathroom, closed the door. Tony stripped off his shirt, tossed it on the bed and rumpled it among
Helpless to do more than scream, Laney watched the SUV roll down the steep embankment. Clutching her head in horror, she ignored the sports car as it rolled onto the shoulder of the road and skidded to a halt in a shower of dirt and rocks.
The young woman bolted across the highway, watched as the church van flipped over and tumbled end over end into a deep, tree-lined chasm. Over the crunch of metal and the crash of sliding rocks, Laney heard Thelma’s cries and the screams of the children. But when the bus finally struck the bottom of the canyon, all human sounds abruptly ceased.
Laney fell on her knees, sobbing, beating the pavement with her fists. She looked around, hoping for someone to help, for a miracle. Only then did she spot the red Jaguar. The driver had never even gotten out of the car. Now he was trying to back out of the shoulder of the road, onto the roadway. Laney realized the speeder was trying to get away.
“Stop!” Laney screamed. “They need help! You can’t just leave them.”
The car finally skidded onto the pavement. Laney saw that the driver’s side window was gone— shattered—and the car door crushed. Inside, a swarthy man in a white T-shirt with dirty brown stains sat behind the wheel, sunglasses covering his eyes. The tires smoked as the man gunned the engine, trying to speed away. Finally the wheels gained some traction and the swarthy man raced away without a backward glance.
Though she was shaken to the core of her being by the tragedy she’d just witnessed, Laney had the presence of mind to pull the cell phone out of her purse and call the police. She reported the accident, its location, and the license plate of the vehicle that had fled the scene.
It took the LAPD only thirty seconds to positively identify the vehicle involved in the hit and run accident—a cherry-red 1998 Jaguar registered to Mr. Hugh Vetri, film producer, vanity plate number FYLMBOY. The automobile had been reported stolen from a crime scene in Beverly Hills earlier that day. Within two minutes, an all-points bulletin had been issued, and a statewide manhunt for the fugitive driver had begun.
8:23:06 A . M .PDT La Hacienda Tijuana, Mexico
A single rap on the door launched Tony off the rickety bed. On bare feet, he moved silently across the floor and pressed his ear to the scarred wood. Across the room, Fay sat up in the second bed, tense with worry.
Tony caught her eye, placed his index finger to his lips.
“Who’s there?” he called.
“Hey, Navarro...It’s me. Ray Dobyns.”
Only then did Tony peer through the peephole. He recognized Dobyns at once and cursed silently.
Ray Dobyns was a transplant from Wichita, Kansas. His grifts in his home state, and in Arkansas, Texas, and California, finally caught up with Dobyns a decade ago and he fled south to extradition-free Mexico. Since then, Ray had made a marginal living by pulling off similar grifts to the ones Tony’s cover “Navarro” was supposedly running right now— credit card fraud, Internet fraud, passing bad checks.
As Navarro, Tony Almeida had had some dealings with Dobyns two years ago in Ensenada when he’d been working another case. Now Tony tried to recall if he’d given the man any reason to suspect he was more than a petty con man.
“Come on, let me in, man,” Dobyns called from the other side of the thin, battered wood.
“Give me a second,” Tony called. Then he faced Fay Hubley, “Get dressed,” he whispered, “and when I introduce you, talk as little as possible.”
Fay crossed to the bathroom, closed the door. Tony stripped off his shirt, tossed it on the bed and rumpled it among
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