When the evacuation order had come through his earbud, the Secret Service agent had been at his post in the lobby. He’d followed standard operating procedures and immediately moved to a set of utility stairs that led directly to the evacuation route—in this case a long, avocado-green corridor running beneath the theater, which led to a pair of glass doors that opened onto a loading dock.

Earlier that day, Auburn had walked the route with the bomb detection team. A service elevator was located near the loading dock exit and he personally locked it into an open position to maintain the security of the route.

Now that he’d arrived at the end of the corridor, Auburn was surprised to see that he was the first agent on the scene—and nearly six minutes after the flight order had been given. He moved through the glass doors, weapon drawn, to make sure the exit was clear of threats.

Something’s wrong, he thought immediately. No other agents were outside, or any of their vehicles.

While it was possible they’d gotten the two wives out by another route, no one had communicated a successful evacuation—or anything else for that matter. Auburn’s earbud had been quiet. He’d assumed the detail was maintaining radio silence, but now he suspected something else was happening and he couldn’t hear it.

He walked back into the corridor, tried to hail his boss, Ron Birchwood, but got no response. Then he heard a loud clanging boom right behind him and realized with a shock that a pair of steel fire doors had just closed off the only exit on this end of the corridor. He searched for some way to open the doors or override their lock, but could see no key pads or control panels. Nothing.

The sound of approaching gunfire came next. Auburn drew his weapon and ran toward the noise. Four people were entering the far end of the hallway through the open stairwell door. He immediately recognized the Vice President’s wife and the Russian First Lady. Marina Novartov was limping, trailing blood, from a wound in her calf. Assisting her were a

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young man in a blue blazer and a pretty, young woman with straight brown hair. Auburn knew they were two low-level members of the Vice President’s staff, but he couldn’t recall their names.

Behind the foursome, Auburn saw Special Agent Ron Birchwood, and the head of Russian security, Borodin. They had their weapons drawn and were pumping off shots while retreating. A red tracer burned down the hall and tore through the Russian’s chest. A crimson explosion, and Borodin’s arms flew out as he fell backward.

A masked man appeared in the stairwell doorway. Birchwood pumped off a shot, then two more. When the man vanished again, Birchwood glanced over his shoulder.

“Auburn! There’s a whole hit team behind me. Caught us right outside the Presidential Box. The others are down...they’re gone. Communications are jammed. I’ll try to hold them off, buy you time while you evacuate the women.”

The foursome moved past Auburn. “The exit’s cut off!” he cried to them, stepping behind them to guard their back. “Get into the elevator.”

When they were all inside, Auburn plugged the key into the elevator panel and called to his boss. “Come on, Ron! It’s clear.”

Before he could even turn around, the hail of gunfire tore Special Agent Ron Birchwood to pieces. Auburn turned the key. The doors closed and the elevator moved down the shaft.

7:38:12 P.M. PDT Downtown Los Angeles

Jack Bauer raced through the streets, running traffic lights without a siren. For the twentieth time, he auto-dialed Teri’s cell phone. Once again, he reached her voice mail.

It was obvious she’d turned off her phone for the duration of the Silver Screen televised broadcast. The show had probably requested it of its audience, so he wasn’t surprised, but he was damned frustrated. With the Chamberlain Auditorium compromised, he wanted her out of there.

By now Jack had realized that CTU had become non-operational. He’d come to that conclusion back in Valerie Dodge’s office when he’d tried to summon forensics and cyber-unit teams to the site.

From what he’d seen of the schematics on Dodge’s computer screen, Jack had suspected more information was locked in the hard drive. He could be sitting on a gold mine of intelligence, but he couldn’t safely access it without a cyber-unit’s help. And with CTU in operational chaos, he knew he wouldn’t be able to get that help anytime soon. So he’d powered down the PC, yanked its connections, and dumped it into the back of his vehicle.

Knowing CTU channels would be dead, he’d tuned his car radio to the Los Angeles Police band. That’s when he’d learned that the attack at the Chamberlain Auditorium had already begun.

Slaloming around slower vehicles, he flew through the streets with one hand on the wheel, one hand on the speed dial of his cell, trying to reach his wife. He hit the first police barrier five blocks from the auditorium.

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“I’m Special Agent Jack Bauer, Counter Terrorist Unit,” he told the uniformed officer who’d asked for his ID. “I need to speak with your superior, immediately.”

The man spoke softly into a shoulder radio. Listened to a response in his headset, nodded.

“Okay, Special Agent Bauer. Captain Stone wants to speak with you. Park your car and follow me, sir.”

Escorted by the uniformed officer, Jack walked two blocks along eerily deserted streets in the middle of downtown Los Angeles. A hot wind blew in from the desert, only to be scattered by the beating blades of helicopters circling the theater. Columns of white, beaming down from their belly-mounted searchlights, crawled along the pavement, across roofs, down walls.

Around the next corner, Jack was still three blocks away from the brilliantly lit facade of the Chamberlain. Hugging the walls of buildings, a line of black armored vehicles were positioned to remain invisible from the auditorium’s view. Jack realized they belonged to his old outfit, the Los Angeles Special Weapons and Tactics unit.

Captain Gavin Garrett Stone was inside the mobile command center armored-up and loaded for bear. As tall as Jack and at least fifty pounds heavier, his physical presence had nothing on his personality. He was a hardened police officer who’d distinguished himself many times over on the job. As forces of nature went, the man was a Category Five.

Around the Captain, other members of the SWAT team were preparing for a physical assault of the complex. Jack approached Stone, hand extended. The man gave Jack a cold, don’t-piss-on-my-parade stare.

“We’ve been trying to contact CTU, Bauer. Finally sent a squad car out to your headquarters. Some kind of computer attack, they said. Your Tac Team leader,

Chet Blackburn, checked in with us over LAPD radio.”

“Good,” said Jack.

Stone made a show of checking his watch. “Blackburn claimed he’d be here. But he and his team are obviously having trouble getting out of the gate—or through traffic—or both.”

“Homeland Security?” asked Jack.

“The Director’s already spoken to the Governor. The California National Guard has been activated to help us secure the perimeter. With CTU offline—or, for all we know, sabotaged from within—Homeland Security is advising that LAPD take point.”

Jack jaw tightened. “What are you planning, Captain?”

“What’s it look like?”

“Have the terrorists identified themselves or made any demands? Have they executed any of the hostages? Released anyone? Have you even made contact with them, opened a line of communication?”

Stone brushed past Jack, gestured to a television monitor. A single camera displayed a long shot of the stage. Men in black masks were gesturing, waving Agram 2000s, a compact Croatian-manufactured submachine gun, easily recognizable by the unique ring grip under the front of the barrel.

“There are three men on the stage,” Stone said. “We figure maybe a dozen more among the audience. They’ve sealed the fire doors. They think we’re screwed. But we have an override ready to go on two doors—” Stone showed Jack a blueprint. It looked eerily familiar. “The doors are here ...and here.”

The attack points were on opposite ends of the auditorium. It looked good on paper, but Jack shook his head. “It’s too neat, too tidy. It could be a trap.”

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Stone sneered. “I won’t let this siege go on. The longer these guys have control of the situation, the worse it’s going to get.”

“Listen,” said Jack, holding the man’s gaze, “what you probably have here is a reprise of the Moscow Opera House scenario. That means there may be dozens of terrorists in there, strapped with bombs. If you charge into that auditorium, they’ll set off those bombs and hundreds will die. You’ve got to wait for a better plan—”

Another voice interrupted. “We’re out of time, Special Agent Bauer. The Vice President’s wife and the wife of the Russian President are both inside that building—”

Jack turned. “And you are?”

The man stepped closer. The dim light of the monitor illuminated his face. His skin was dry parchment, eyes hard behind lines and creases. “Evans, Secret Service. One of ours, an agent named Auburn, managed to get the two women down a service elevator to a sub-basement. He’s holed up there now with them and a pair of White House interns. The terrorists haven’t gotten to them yet. Auburn has the elevator locked. But it’s only a matter of time. FBI’s with us on this. We can’t wait.”

“How are you communicating with Auburn?” Jack asked.

“Crank phone, connected to a temporary land line. It was left there with tools and equipment by a crew working on the air conditioning system. Good thing, too. Cell phone and radio transmissions are being jammed.”

Jack noticed one of the command center monitors was tuned to the television station that had been carrying the Silver Screen Awards show. A commercial was running. Jack pointed to the screen. “What does the public know?”

“Nothing yet,” said Evans. “The network put a twenty-second delay on the broadcast feed. Someone at the network hit the panic button as soon as the bad guys showed up on stage. All Mr. and Mrs. America saw was the screen going dark for twenty seconds, then a commercial. Now they’re playing a rerun of a show that usually appears in the same time slot, but their news people want to know what’s happening.”

“What are you telling them?”

The Secret Service agent paused. “You have a suggestion?”

Jack nodded. “Cut the power grid in the downtown area. A blackout is a visible event and television news can show it to the world. The public becomes convinced it’s a technical glitch, and if the men inside that auditorium insist on making some kind of broadcast statement to the world, we can tell them the power’s out, tough shit.”

Captain Stone and the Secret Service agent exchanged glances. Evans nodded, and Stone motioned another SWAT officer over.

“Talk to the power company,” Stone said. “See that the power is cut in a ten-block radius around the Chamberlain as soon as possible.”

Relieved he’d gotten the proverbial inch, Jack tried for the yard. “Captain, you have to rethink this assault. Lives could be lost unnecessarily—”

Stone cut him off. “I’ve spoken with the Mayor and the Governor. It’s my call to make and I’ve made it—”

“But—”

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“Enough,” Stone said. “You guys at CTU are supposed to prevent this type of attack. You didn’t. Once my assault team’s ready, I’m going to see this is finished before it gets worse.”

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THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 8 P.M. AND 9 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME

8:01:01 P.M. PDT CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles

Almost as soon as the computers went down, Nina Myers arrived at the Cyber-Unit with a security team in tow, and took Lesser into custody. He didn’t resist. A crooked smile broke over his face as they led him off to a cell.

For an hour after that, Milo, Doris, and Jamey worked frantically to restore CTU’s computers. No matter what they tried, the servers seemed to be stuck in a loop. Reboots and restarts, flushing and washing all failed to purge the system. Calendar rollback programs—which should have restored the system to

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the point where it was before the attack—simply wouldn’t function. There was no help coming from outside, either. The CIA’s computers had caught the bug and were down, too.

After half an hour, Jamey began to panic. The LAPD had shown up and delivered the news of the hostage situation down at the Chamberlain; and CTU couldn’t even get its satellite televisions on line to see the events unfold like the rest of the world. The situation, and pent up emotion over Fay Hubley’s murder, sent Jamey over the edge.

“I’m a programmer, not security expert!” she cried, her voice rising in volume. “That’s your job, Milo. Why don’t you do it?!”

Jamey threw up her hands as she watched countless files vanish into cyberspace.

Then Milo hit on an idea. He rebooted one computer, the very one they’d isolated and intentionally infected with Lesser’s midnight virus. Milo used the rollback program to purge the non-executed virus string, then washed the memory. Now he had a clean computer. With Doris’s help he tried to use it to hack into the infected mainframes and put Humpty Dumpty back together again.

8:12:54 P.M. PDT Interrogation Block CTU Headquarters

Ryan Chappelle entered the cell and sat down at the small table opposite Richard Lesser. The computer whiz had been searched, his hidden thumb drive taken from him. Now the two men silently eyeballed one another. The unspoken challenge? Who would talk first.

Chappelle, a master of bureaucratic silence, won the match.

“Why are you bothering me, pinhead?”

Ryan didn’t reply.

“What?” continued Lesser. “Is this some kind of silent torture? Sitting across from you, looking at your sorry, earthbound face.”

“Earthbound,” said Ryan. “That’s an interesting choice of adjective.”

“Yeah, earthbound. You’ll never know the ecstasy I felt when I was touched by God.”

“Don’t you mean Allah? What’s a nice Jewish boy like you going to say when he meets his new Muslim pals. Shalom?”

“You wouldn’t understand. God. Allah. It’s all the same. I’ve been to Paradise. I know.”

“Paradise? You mean that place in the mountains?”

Lesser’s eyes narrowed. He pointed his finger. “Now you’re trying to trick me. But you can’t.” He leaned forward, lowered his voice. “You don’t understand how I’ve been changed. Transformed. Only one man understands.”

“Hasan?”

Lesser sat back in his chair, fingered a button on his shirt. “Even you’ve heard of him. All of you people in your government cubicles, your marble matrixes, your subversive multinational corporate castles—Hasan already has you quaking in your military-industrial complex boots. He’s the real deal, the prophet, the savior, he’s—”

“The Messiah? Is that why you’re working for him?”

Lesser smirked. “I don’t work for Hasan. I serve

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him. Just like you’re all going to serve him. Like everyone is going to serve him. All of this you serve now, it’s nothing, vacant and pointless. All of human life, all of it, is a blink in cosmic time. You, me, everyone, we live in the past, the constant, continual past. Hasan is the future—”

“Whereas you don’t have a future, Mr. Lesser.” Chappelle leaned back, causally folded his arms. “You’ll be seventy before you walk out of a federal penitentiary, unless we drop you in the general population with cartel members, mob assassins and the like. You may last a week, but it won’t be a pleasant seven days.”

Lesser’s smirk vanished. His face clouded, brow furrowed in thought. Chappelle waited, hoping Lesser would bargain for a shorter sentence in exchange for cooperation. Finally, Lesser spoke.

“I guess I have no choice.”

Chappelle nodded, pleased he’d broken through.

“Goodbye, Mr. Chappelle,” said Lesser. In one fluid motion, he ripped the top button from his shirt, slipped it into his mouth, and bit down.

8:16:03 P.M.PDT Terrence Alton Chamberlain Auditorium Los Angeles

Teri Bauer winced. Carla Adair was squeezing her hand so tightly her fingers were turning purple. Between moans, Carla took deep, noisy breaths through her mouth, just as she’d been taught to do in her Lamaze classes. Finally, she released Teri’s hand.

Carla’s labor pains began shortly after the auditorium was taken over. Nancy Colburn, in her fringed flapper dress, who had given birth herself just two years before, had helped Teri lift the armrests of the plush blue seats for Carla to lie across them. Their old boss, British producer Dennis Winthrop, had covered the pregnant woman’s gown with his formal evening jacket.

“It’s the adrenaline,” whispered Nancy. “The fear she’s feeling is inducing labor.”

“Christ,” hissed Dennis.

Now Carla was propped on her elbows, face flushed, brow sweaty. Chandra Washington was about to tear off a section of her violet wrap dress, then spied a white silk scarf someone had left on his seat. She picked it up and used it to mop Carla’s brow.

Pieces of elegant outfits were strewn all over the theater. During the crowd’s vain race for the exits, stiletto mules and strappy sandals had been kicked off, satin wraps and beaded handbags had been dropped, jewelry had been ripped away. Teri noticed a single diamond earring with a platinum setting, a broken necklace of rose gold.

Are the owners of these items even still alive? Teri couldn’t help wondering. At least two dozen people had been shot during the initial mad rush for the exit doors. Then the terrorists demanded everyone drop to the floor wherever they stood. Now clusters of people were sitting in the aisles and by the theater’s back doors.

Teri closed her eyes and tried to calm down by picturing Kim at her cousin’s. But then the inevitable questions came. How much had her daughter seen of the awards show? Were the terrorists broadcasting scenes from inside? Was Kim watching now? Was she scared?

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Carla moaned again.

Teri opened her eyes and glanced at her slim, jeweled watch. “The pains are coming closer together,” she told Chandra.

“We need a doctor,” whispered the young woman.

Carla heard the exchange, her face was twisted with pain. “I don’t want to lose my baby,” she rasped.

“You won’t,” Teri assured her. “I won’t let that happen.”

Carla laid back again, her shoulder-length auburn hair fanning out against the blue velvet theater seats.

“Gary and I cleared out the second room last month,” she murmured, meeting Teri’s eyes, “we got it all ready...you should see the wallpaper. It’s this beautiful sunrise yellow...and the baby furniture . . . it was delayed so long we thought maybe the baby would come before the furniture ...but it came two days ago.” Sweating and tearful, she sobbed in a tiny voice, “I want to go home.”

So do I, thought Teri, scanning the crowd. Most of the audience was quiet now. Like her, they’d all given up trying to use their cell phones. Teri couldn’t get a signal and neither could anyone else. She could only assume the terrorists had activated jamming equipment.

She watched silently as ten armed men with black headscarves wrapped around their faces moved around the auditorium, lapping the aisles in slow circles. The rest of the terrorists—and Teri had counted over twenty of them during the initial assault—were nowhere to be seen.

When the terrorists had first taken over the auditorium, they’d emptied the mezzanine, forcing everyone down to the ground floor where they could be guarded with a single perimeter sweep. Soon after, the masked men had led four women into the room. Teri had recognized one as the beautiful young usher who’d escorted their party to their theater seats.

All of the women had changed out of their evening gowns and swathed themselves from head to toe in black robes. Members of the audience had gasped when they’d seen what else the women now wore— bricks of plastic explosives strapped to belts around their waists. With beatific smiles on their faces and push-button detonators clutched in their hands, the women had moved into position, one in each corner of the room.

When the audience first realized that suicide bombers had been placed among them, a second burst of panic had ensued, put down with more shots fired into the air, more pistol whippings.

After that, Teri had witnessed dozens of brutalities and strange little dramas. Cowards tried to broker deals for their own lives. Heroes tried to protect those near them without regard for their own safety. But the most memorable act of courage was still to come.

“I’m so thirsty,” Carla murmured, her eyes closed. Teri could see the woman’s lips were dry and she was having difficulty swallowing.

Dennis Winthrop stood up. “There’s a pregnant woman here!” he cried. “She’s going into labor. She needs a doctor!”

Two masked men immediately confronted him. One man slapped him across the face, but his British pluck remained. He refused to back down, just stood in front of them, waiting for an answer. Finally, he told them, “If you can’t get this woman help, at least get her some water.”

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One of the men had replied to his demand in perfect English. “If you want water, come with me. The rest of you remain here and make no trouble.”

That’s when Nancy jumped to her feet. “I’m going too,” she declared, a crusader in flapper fringe. “I can bring back water for everyone.”

The masked men said nothing, simply pushed the pair forward with the barrel of their submachine guns. With worry, Teri and Chandra had watched them go, until they were lost in the crowd.

Ten minutes went by, then twenty, but Dennis and Nancy had not returned. Not for the first time Teri began to ask herself where Jack was. She checked her watch again, wondering whether he knew what was happening in the auditorium and what he and his CTU team would do once they found out.

“Where’s Nancy? And Dennis?” Chandra fretted. “When are they going to come back with the water?”

Teri’s heart nearly stopped when she heard muffled but clearly audible sounds of gunfire from somewhere behind the stage. There were two short bursts from an automatic weapon, then nothing more.

“Teri?” rasped Chandra, her eyes wide with fear.

Willing her hands to stop shaking, Teri checked her watch again. “They’ll be here soon,” she assured the young woman. “Soon.”

8:36:50 P.M. PDT Terrence Alton Chamberlain Auditorium Los Angeles

A ring of shadows now surrounded the brilliantly lit auditorium. The power had been cut in a twenty-twoblock radius, but the Chamberlain didn’t need the grid to continuing glowing like a torch in the night. Its own generators supplied electricity for lights, water pumps, and the air circulation and cooling system.

Over twelve hundred people were trapped inside the sealed structure, according to the seating chart. A hundred more counting the Chamberlain’s service staff, stagehands, and broadcast technicians. No attempt would be made to shut down the Chamberlain’s generators. Without air conditioning, lights, and water, the situation would go from bad to worse for the hostages.

Jack Bauer was well aware his wife, Teri, was among them.

While preparations for the assault were finalized, Jack continued to argue against the attack. “You have to give us more time to formulate a rational response,” he badgered Stone. “We can’t just blunder in there, guns blazing.”

“We have two of the most important women in the free world trapped inside that building,” Stone replied, his patience obviously wearing thin. “We have limited communication with the single agent protecting them through a temporary land line that might be cut at any moment. There’s no time for negotiation.”

A member of Stone’s team interrupted them. “Deputy Chief Vetters and the men from the fire department are here, sir.”

Three firemen swathed in heavy gear and helmets,

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stepped forward. Captain Stone faced the oldest of them, a ruddy-faced man with a gray moustache.

“I understand you’ve performed fire drills with the Chamberlain’s management, that you can open these steel fire doors.” He gestured to the schematic on a monitor.

Chief Vetters nodded. “We have the codes to open those doors. They’re both designated fire department entry points. But there are twenty-four other steel fire doors we can’t open.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Stone replied. “We only need two doors. Your men are coming with us to work the locks. Then my SWAT teams are going in.”

Vetters did not appear happy with the plan, but he said nothing. The Fire Chief huddled with his men, then all three firemen moved toward a pair of armored assault vehicles outside. Jack followed Vetters to the vehicles, pulled him aside.

“Chief, you have doubts about this, like I do,” said Jack by way of introduction.

The Chief looked over Bauer, as if sizing him up. “As a rule, I don’t like armchair quarterbacks, and I have the Mayor telling me to obey Stone’s orders.”

“But?” Jack sensed there was one in there.

“But I was a Ranger in the First Gulf War, and this smells like a trap to me.”

Rather than return to the crowded command center. Jack stood side-by-side with Vetters, waiting for the operation to begin. When the black armored assault vehicles rolled down a dark, deserted four-lane avenue toward the luminous auditorium, Jack pulled out his mini-binoculars to better observe the action.

One vehicle circled around the Chamberlain and out of sight. The second rolled right up to the glassfronted facade, crashed through it a moment later to reach the fire door and the theater entrance behind it.

“There they go,” Jack informed the Chief. “Your man is out, flanked by the SWAT team. He’s at the fire door...It’s opening.”

The chatter of automatic weapons reached their ears before Jack realized what had happened. “Dammit!” Jack cried. “The SWAT team’s getting slaughtered. Your man is down. Wounded. Not dead. A cop’s grabbing him, pulling him clear. No, the cop’s down too.”

“Christ,” muttered Vetters.

Jack was about to lower the binoculars when he saw two civilians moving through the chaos, dodging bullets. A man and a woman. The man wore a dark suit, the woman was clad in an ivory evening gown. They raced out of the auditorium, hand in hand, using the armored vehicle for cover. But as soon as they reached the rear of the assault vehicle, the pair was pinned down by the hail of gunfire that poured out of the auditorium.

“Two people just escaped. They’re trapped out there,” Jack told the Chief. Scanning the street, Jack spied a third armored assault vehicle parked behind the command center.

“Come on, let’s go.” Chief Vetters was right behind him. As they crawled into the vehicle, Vetters placed himself behind the wheel.

“I commanded a Bradley fighting vehicle in Desert Storm. Same damn thing,” said Vetters by way of explanation.

The engine roared to life and they were off. The vehicle rolled on giant puncture-proof tires which gave it a much smoother ride than the tracked fighting ve

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hicles both men were accustomed to. And it was fast. They reached the auditorium in under a minute.

Vetters stopped the assault vehicle behind the shot up one near the fire door. Jack popped the side hatch, saw the formally dressed man and woman crouched behind the meager cover. Sporadic gunfire still erupted, but Jack could see the fight was over— everyone from the assault team had been massacred.

“Come on!” screamed Jack. The pair didn’t hesitate. They bolted the five feet to the hatch, the woman making good time on high heels, the man rushing her along. They leaped through the door and Jack slammed the hatch with a clang.

Vetters swung the vehicle around as bullets pinged off the armor. Jack faced the newcomers—a young, attractive Chinese-American woman, and a Japanese-American youth with a digital camera dangling around his neck.

“Who are you?” Jack asked.

“Christina Hong, entertainment reporter for KHTV, Seattle. This is—”

“Lon Nobunaga. I’m a photographer.”

“You were both inside the auditorium,” Jack prompted.

The pair nodded. “I got there late,” the man replied. “I was sneaking in through a side entrance when everything started to go bad. I tried to get out, got trapped in the lobby when the fire doors came down, so did Christina—”

“We both hid inside a storeroom. We watched the terrorists line up at the fire doors, waiting to fire on the police. They knew the cops were coming. It was an ambush!”

The man nodded, wiped sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his evening coat. “In the middle of the firefight, I saw a path through the mess and grabbed Christina. We made our move, got outside.” Nobunaga paused, shook his head. “We were lucky. Those terrorists, or whoever they are—they’re crazy and they don’t care about anything or anyone. I saw them shoot people, beat women in the head with guns. Unless they’re stopped, they’re going to kill everyone in that place!”

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THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 9 P.M. AND 10 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME

9:02:06 P.M. PDT Terrence Alton Chamberlain Auditorium Los Angeles

In the rows nearest the stage, where the celebrity presenters had been instructed to sit, Hollywood publicist Sol Gunther shifted nervously in his seat. He opened his cell phone, saw there was still no signal. He tucked the phone away, whispered to his star client.

“What do you think they’ll do?”

“Like everybody in this town, they’ll make a deal,” Chip Manning replied. “You don’t think they’re nuts enough to kill themselves, do you?”

Sol shrugged. “Maybe they are, maybe they aren’t.

But if they aren’t, then you don’t have a career unless the network cut away before you bolted off that stage and let your co-presenter take one to the head. It’s not exactly heroic to leave a woman behind.”

“Listen, Sol,” Chip whispered, propping his ostrich-skin boots on the back of the seat in front of him. “I’m not gonna die because some over-hyped bim can’t run on high heels.”

Sol rubbed his chin and sighed. “Why don’t the damn cell phones work?” He checked for a signal again. “I want to call my wife. I want to talk to her.”

Chip Manning didn’t respond to his publicist. The man had been chanting the same mantra since the hostage situation had begun. Bored, Chip’s gaze skipped around the nearby seats and settled on Abigail Heyer’s stunning profile—a far more interesting vision than the sight of documentary filmmaker Kevin Krock blubbering hysterically into the arms of his agent. The actress sat quietly, only a few seats away, her face expressionless, her manicured hands resting on her bulging stomach.

“She’s a cool one, eh?” Manning whispered to Sol. “I mean, look at her. Not even fazed. I wonder who knocked her up? Lucky bastard, that’s for sure.”

“If you’re feeling so damn rambunctious, why don’t you use those martial arts skills of yours to take out a couple of these guys?”

Manning snorted. “Don’t fall for your own hype, buddy. Breaking boards in a dojo is a far cry from facing down a bunch of armed men.”

“But you could do something,” Sol pointed out. “You have more skills than the rest of us. Act like a man.”

“Please, Sol. Let the fascists take these bums down.

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Better the LAPD break out their guns here than in some oppressed neighborhood like South Central.”

9:09:16 P.M. PDT CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles

Milo Pressman continued struggling with the CTU’s infected mainframe, using the only isolated computer. He’d restored a modicum of functionality by running various virus dump protocols. The work was slow, inefficient, and minimally effective. To top it off, his focus was off. Thoughts of Richard Lesser continuously overran his concentration.

Chappelle had told Milo what had happened less than an hour before: “Lesser said he’d tasted Paradise. He didn’t care what he we did to him. He’d found religion and said he was ready to die. Then he committed suicide.”

Milo’s jaw had gone slack at Chappelle’s words. “You’re saying Lesser’s... dead?”

Chappelle had nodded. “A button on his shirt was actually a cyanide capsule.”

“But Lesser’s a secular, agnostic iconoclast, not some kind of religious fanatic.”

“Hasan managed to turn him into a believer. Used drugs to dull Lesser’s mind, broke down his will. Call it mind control. Brainwashing. A coerced religious delusion.” Ryan shrugged, “I didn’t believe it was possible either, until I saw it for myself.”

Ever since that conversation, memories of Lesser had crashed over Milo in waves—the arguments, the insults, the struggle for one pretty classmate’s attention that neither ended up getting. Even back in grad school Lesser had displayed a vicious anti-social streak. Twice he’d sabotaged the Stanford University computer labs, reveling in the chaos he’d caused for others. Just when students were sure their projects were ruined beyond repair, Lesser would sweep in, tap a few keys, restore everything.

Just then, Milo’s fingers paused over the keyboard. “Wait a minute.”

“What?” asked Doris.

“Is the mainframe still up?”

“It’s up, but it’s ignoring all commands.”

Milo spun in his chair, rolled across the floor and muscled Doris out of the way at her station.

“What are you doing?” Doris cried. “If you shut it down, it will take me twenty minutes to get it up again!”

“I have a hunch,” said Milo.

“A hunch! This is no time for a hunch!”

Milo ignored her, entered a series of commands.

“What commands are you issuing?” Doris asked, afraid to look.

“It’s something Lesser used back in grad school.”

Doris was aghast. “And you actually think that will work?”

Milo launched his hunch and held his breath.

For a moment nothing happened. Then every system, every monitor came back on line—fully functional—as if it had never gone down in the first place. Cries of surprise, joy, relief and scattered applause exploded all over the situation room.

Milo heard the sound of pounding feet. Ryan Chappelle rounded the corner at a run. He stopped so quickly he skidded on his Oxfords.

“How?” he asked.

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Doris pointed to Milo. “Ask him.”

“Pressman, you know what? It doesn’t matter how. You’re a genius!”

Milo sighed. “Good enough for government work.”

9:41:22 P.M. PDT Avenue de Dante Tijuana, Mexico

Minutes after Tony Almeida lost all contact with CTU, two Chechen technicians pulled up in front of the house in a late-model Ford. The men climbed out of their car, chatting in their native tongue as they walked to the front door.

Tony waited for them to enter the house, then finished them off with the Glock he’d given Fay for protection—rough justice, but earned in Tony’s estimation.

The last of the wet work wrapped up, Tony had spent the next two hours scanning the contents of the computer database. Fortunately for Tony, the Chechens had been careless—they’d left the system running, the security protocols bypassed, allowing Tony full access to the mainframe and all of its contents.

Using the computer’s log, Tony opened the active files in reverse order, one at a time. Occasionally he would cross-reference a name or address, to uncover another rich cache of intelligence. After an hour of fitting together seemingly unconnected data, Tony began to grasp the bigger picture.

He learned that Richard Lesser had created the Trojan horse in this very house. After burying the virus inside the movie, he’d sent it into cyberspace using the server ticking in the corner. Inside that Gates of Heaven download, Lesser had hidden an overlord virus that took control of a program called CINEFI. Hugh Vetri, who had an office in the Summit Studios complex, found the pirated version of his yet-to-be released film on the Web and downloaded it—releasing the Trojan horse into the studio’s computers, where it lay dormant until a couple of hours ago. At that time the virus woke up, took control of Chamberlain Auditorium. Fire doors were closed, the telephone system was shut down, the hostages locked inside.

But that was only phase one. Richard Lesser had not been lying about the midnight virus or its potential to wipe out the World Wide Web’s infrastructure. That virus was to be released from this facility by the two Chechens who were currently staring at the ceiling with dead eyes.

Tony sighed with relief. At least he’d thwarted that part of Hasan’s plan.

Clearly, Lesser had never intended to hand that virus over to CTU as he’d claimed—he’d been a living Trojan horse, sent to wreck CTU’s computer system. Judging by the agency’s silence, Tony assumed Lesser had accomplished his mission.

Continuing to mine data, Tony came up with the names of people who were either accomplices or dupes of Hasan—Nawaf Sanjore, Valerie Dodge, Hugh Vetri.

It was architect Sanjore, or someone in his firm, who had provided Hasan with plans for the auditorium. It was ex-supermodel Valerie Dodge, or someone inside her modeling agency, who placed Hasan’s assassins at Silver Screen Awards in the guise of ushers.

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From the files in the computer Tony learned about Hugh Vetri. The producer had accidentally stumbled onto part of Hasan’s plot—not much, but enough to recognize a threat. So Vetri and his family had to be silenced before Hugh went to the authorities.

After two headache-inducing hours there were still dozens of files unopened, but Tony’s time had run out. Before he left, he decided to fill every blank disk, pen drive, and removable memory chip he could find with data culled from the system.

In the middle of the process, his cell chirped. It was Jamey Farrell. “Tony? Is everything okay?”

“Yeah. What happened?”

“Lesser infected the mainframe,” Jamey replied. “But the problem’s been corrected.”

“What about Lesser?”

“That problem’s been solved, too. He’s dead.”

Tony didn’t ask how. He didn’t care. “Listen, I think the Chamberlain Auditorium is a target for terror—”

“Too late, Tony,” Jamey interrupted. “The place has already been seized. There are hundreds of hostages.”

Tony cursed. “Look, I want to send you the contents of Lesser’s computer. There are dozens of files.”

“Fine, I’ll open a secure line, you transfer the data. Dump it all in Cache 224QD.” Tony and Jamey worked together and Tony quickly dispatched the files.

“I’ve got them,” Jamey said a moment later. “Ryan wants to know when you’re coming back.”

“I have one more job to do,” Tony replied.

He ended the conversation, went downstairs to the kitchen, shoved the stove away from the wall, exposing the natural gas pipe, which he broke open with several kicks of his booted foot.

When he heard the hiss of leaking gas, Tony grabbed a cloth sack full of computer disks, paper files—any piece of intelligence he thought might be useful—and headed for the front door. He paused in the living room just long enough to set a paper fire in front of the television.

Tony Almeida was behind the wheel of his van and halfway down the block when the place blew, shattering the quiet evening. His rearview reflected tongues of crimson vainly trying to burn the sky.

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THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 10 P.M. AND 11 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME

10:00:04 P.M.PDT LAPD Mobile Command Center

The command was Jack’s now. After Captain Stone’s disastrous assault, and after word reached the Mayor, Governor, and Director of Homeland Security that CTU’s computer capabilities had been fully restored, the Captain was quietly relieved.

Jack’s first act as operations commander was to make things right with Stone. He vowed to utilize the man’s resources as soon as a new plan was finalized. Until that time, he positioned the Captain and the rest of his SWAT team to a forward position, where they could assist the National Guard in securing the perimeter.

Before Jack contacted CTU, he called Teri’s cousin.

He was relieved to hear that Kim had fallen asleep waiting for the Silver Screen Awards show to resume. Like the rest of the nation, Teri’s cousin believed the downtown blackout had caused the cancellation of the rest of the show. Jack didn’t enlighten her. He simply explained that Teri would be delayed and asked if Kim could spend the night. He thanked the woman, ended the call, then it was back to business.

He phoned Ryan Chappelle. Chet Blackburn’s tactical team had arrived at the staging area, but Jack requested that one of CTU’s own mobile command units be dispatched to the scene as well.

Chappelle agreed. “I’ll send one immediately. Milo will join the team coming out to you. I’ll keep Jamey here to coordinate things.”

“Have Milo pick up a computer from my car. The vehicle’s a few blocks from here. I’ve activated the GPS chip so he’ll have no trouble finding it.”

“What computer?” Chappelle asked. “Where did it come from?”

“The Valerie Dodge Modeling Agency. Ms. Dodge was responsible for staffing the auditorium with ushers, seat fillers, celebrity escorts. I have reason to believe she was duped by an employee into sending terrorists to the auditorium instead. There are plans and schematics of the Chamberlain Auditorium in the computer hard drive. I want Milo to review all the data as soon as possible.”

At the communications console, a young police technician clutched his headset, looked up.

“Special Agent Bauer!” he called. “I have someone on the outside line. He claims to be the leader of the hostage takers. He demands to speak to the person in charge.”

“Put him on speakerphone. Record the call for dig

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ital analysis,” Jack commanded. The technician activated the recorder, switched lines, nodded.

“This is Jack Bauer, Special Agent in Charge of the Counter Terrorist Unit, Los Angeles. You wanted to speak to me.”

“You have seen what we can do. Your dead litter the street. Another attempt to assault this place will result in the deaths of a hundred hostages.” The voice was flat, emotionless.

“Who do you represent? What are your demands?”

“For now, our demands are simple. Restoration of broadcast capabilities in the next fifteen minutes—”

“That might be difficult,” Jack interrupted. “There’s a blackout in progress. We have no power in the downtown area—”

“Find a way. If we are not permitted to make a statement to the world in the next thirty minutes, we will begin to kill the hostages. One life will be taken every five minutes until you comply.”

“Wait—”

But the line was dead. Jack faced the communications technician. “Send the recording to CTU for voice analysis.”

Evans spoke up. “We can’t let them use America’s airwaves as a soapbox.”

“No. we can’t,” said Jack. “But if we look like we’re acceding to his demand, it will buy us some time to formulate a new plan of attack.” Jack massaged his forehead. His headache was returning with a vengeance. “There must be a way we can fool them into believing they are getting their message out.”

10:29:09 P.M.PDT Outside the Chamberlain Auditorium

Everything was ready, thanks to the work of broadcast technicians culled from rival networks on the scene to cover the Silver Screen Awards.

At Jack Bauer’s request they had cooperated to accomplish the impossible. In under twenty-five minutes, these experts in their fields had managed to locate the fiber optic cables under the street and tap into them—the first step toward controlling the images the terrorists saw on their television screens inside the auditorium.

CTU knew there were dozens of monitors hooked up to cable inside the Chamberlain. The terrorists would surely be watching to see their own broadcast on the local channels, or perhaps on the 24-hour cable news nets. That meant those channels and only those channels would have to be jammed and replaced with bogus broadcasts. It seemed an impossible task, but the technicians assured Jack they could accomplish it.

“Trust us,” said one producer. “We’re in the illusion business. We can make the audience believe anything, for a little while at least.”

“I hope a little while is all we’ll need,” Jack replied.

Now the cameras were in position. The brilliantly lit auditorium had been carefully framed as a backdrop. As Christina Hong awaited her cue, her makeup was perfected by a feature film stylist, her hair was sprayed stiff by a famous anchorwoman’s personal assistant. Her entire segment had been put together by an Emmy Award-winning producer. It was about to be directed by a veteran of one of the national networks. The whole thing was something of a dream come true

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for a girl seen three times a week on a local station in Seattle.

“I’m about to give the performance of my television career,” she muttered, “and no one but a bunch of psycho terrorists will ever see it.” Half-exhilarated and half-terrified of the consequences should she fail to pull it off, Christina cleared her throat and squared her shoulders.

The makeup artist and personal assistant stepped back as the director loudly counted down. On the final three seconds, his voice disappeared. Three fingers were up, then two. He pointed—

“This is Christina Hong, broadcasting live from the Chamberlain Auditorium in Los Angeles. We’re interrupting your regularly scheduled programming with this breaking news. Unknown terrorists have taken control of the annual Silver Screen Awards ceremony and are holding hundreds of people hostage, among them many well known celebrities...”

Inside the command center, Jack watched a monitor. Ms. Hong was certainly convincing enough. From the logo on the lower right hand corner of his screen, Jack appeared to be watching Los Angeles News Channel One. He changed the channel. On Fox News he saw the same image of Christina Hong—now framed by the familiar Fox News logo.

“Officials of the United States government currently on the scene say they are awaiting an imminent statement from the unknown terrorist group, scheduled to begin in under a minute.”

Christina Hong’s image vanished, replaced by a man swathed head to toe in black, an ebony head-scarf obscuring his features. Only his eyes were visible. He clutched an Agram 2000 in the crook of his elbow. Jack winced when he recognized the green and black flag of the United Liberation Front for a Free Chechnya, an ultra violent splinter group of indeterminate size.

Though it was a menace to peace and stability within the region it operated, Jack Bauer had never regarded the United Liberation Front as a threat to national security, nor did he believe they had the intelligence or the resources to pull off a masterful takeover like this one—not without help.

Meanwhile Christina Hong’s impromptu voiceover continued. “Perhaps we will learn what these people want, and what cause they represent, and what drove them to such a desperate act. Here is their statement, coming to you live...”

After a pause, the masked man began to speak. He issued a long list of impossible demands—Russia was to end its presence in Chechnya, release all political prisoners, pay restitution to the victims of its occupation.

Jack noted that the masked terrorist claimed to be holding Russian First Lady and the U.S. Vice President’s wife hostage—lies, and Jack knew it. He’d briefly spoken with Craig Auburn in the sub-basement under the Chamberlain before the broadcast began, and they were still secure in their hiding place. This told Jack that he was facing a man willing to bluff his way through a difficult position.

10:51:39 P.M.PDT LAPD Mobile Command Center

Near the end of the masked Chechen’s twenty-minute tirade, Jack’s cell rang. It was Nina Myers.

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“Jack, we have a positive voice match on the terrorist leader.”

“Great!”

“The first phone conversation you sent us was inconclusive, but this broadcast provided us with all the voice samples the audio lab needed to make a positive match—”

“How positive?”

“Our audio people and the voice analysts are ninety-eight percent sure the man speaking right now is Bastian Grost, forty-four years old, a former associate of Victor Drazen and a member of his secret police force the Black Dogs.”

“Damn,” muttered Jack. “Drazen again.”

“You know Drazen?”

“I’ve...read a few files,” Jack replied.

“Bastian Grost is wanted by the United Nations War Crimes Tribunal,” Nina continued. “He fled arrest, vanished. Interpol suspected he’d been hired to train terrorist groups in Chechnya.”

“I can believe Grost is training terrorists,” said Jack. “But this type of suicide assault, it doesn’t fit his profile. Drazen’s legions were made up of political opportunists. They’re survivors not suicidal fanatics willing to die for a cause.”

“Unless Grost was brainwashed,” Nina replied, “like Ibn al Farad and Richard Lesser.”

Jack nodded. “Brainwashed by Hasan.”

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THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 11 P.M. AND 12 A.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME

11:01:01 P.M.PDT Chamberlain Auditorium Sub-Level Three

White House intern Adam Carlisle was worried. Secret Service Agent Craig Auburn had been sweating more than normal. Even in the recessed emergency lights dimly glowing in the walls, Adam could see the man’s face was gray. He didn’t look good.

For the past four hours Craig Auburn had been crouched in a dark corner, huddled with the battered portable phone, black plastic receiver in hand. Every few minutes he would speak in whispered words with someone on the other end of the line. Another Secret Service agent? The FBI? CTU? Adam didn’t know. All

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he knew was that there were probably hundreds of people working feverishly to rescue them from this sub-basement—well, the First Lady Novartov and the Vice President’s wife, anyway.

The two political wives sat at a card table in two folding chairs, the only furniture in the dank, dark sub-basement. They’d kept pretty much to themselves, keeping stiff upper lips.

In the first hour, after they’d left the service elevator, Adam had found a steel lunchbox. Among its contents was an empty thermos. He cleaned it at a spigot mounted in the wall on the opposite end of the sub-basement, the water draining through a circular hole in the inclined floor. He brought the ladies water and asked them to please let him know if they needed anything else. After that, he and fellow intern Megan Gleason had kept pretty much to themselves.

About an hour before, Megan, exhausted from the adrenaline spike of fear followed by inaction, had drifted off to sleep. Now she began to stir. Suddenly she opened her eyes wide. They were filled with panic.

“It’s okay,” Adam whispered, worried she’d scream or something—Special Agent Auburn had cautioned them early and often to keep quiet. At one point, they’d heard crashing sounds and voices echoing through the vents from above, and they knew the terrorists were hunting them.

“What time is it?” Megan asked, sitting up and brushing back her straight brown hair.

“After eleven,” Adam replied.

“I can’t believe I fell asleep,” she whispered.

“You were close to shock. We all were. But the phone still works, and the Special Agent vows they’re coming for us.”

The concrete floor was cold. Megan had lost her heels in the chase and her stockings were shredded, her feet bare. Clad only in a filmy black dress, she began to shiver. Adam took off his evening jacket and wrapped her in it.

“Thanks,” she said, teeth chattering. “God, I’m starved. I didn’t have time to eat anything since this morning.”

Adam smiled. “Look at this,” he whispered conspiratorially. From his jacket’s pocket he pulled a cellophane-wrapped Ho Ho he’d found in that battered lunchbox. “It’s only a day or two past the freshness date, I checked. Frankly I think these things contain so many chemicals they’re eatable after a decade.”

Megan reached for the cake with a shaky hand, then paused. “Shouldn’t we offer the Ho Ho to First Lady Novartov, as a point of protocol?”

Adam glanced over his shoulder. “Don’t you remember, while we were helping the VP’s personal assistant coordinate post-show party appearances, they were stuffing themselves with a gourmet dinner at Spago’s. I think they can wait a little longer ...and the VP’s wife doesn’t look like she’s in any danger of starving.”

Megan gaped at her fellow intern, then shook her head. “I can’t believe you said that.”

“Eat,” Adam commanded. “I told you this job had perks.”

“Adam.”

Special Agent Auburn waved him over. It took only one glance to see why. The man was having trouble breathing. His features were twisted. He was obviously in pain.

“Sir, are you all right?” Adam whispered in alarm.

He leaned close. “I think it’s my heart.”

“Sir, what can I do for you?”

“Don’t tell the others.” He reached into his jacket,

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pulled something out and thrust it into Adam’s hands.

The intern looked down. He saw two pounds of black metal.

“I’m going to instruct you how to use it,” whispered the agent, “just in case anything happens to me. Okay? You with me?”

Adam nodded.

“This weapon is a forty-five caliber USP Tactical— a Universal Self-loading Pistol,” Craig Auburn whispered. “It’s hard-hitting, but it’s got a good recoil-reduction system, so when you fire, the kick will be dampened. Are you following me, son? Don’t be afraid.”

Actually Adam wasn’t afraid. After seeing who the terrorists had hurt and killed, knowing who they intended to hurt and kill ...mostly what Adam felt was anger.

“Yes, sir. Go on.”

11:23:46 P.M.PDT Terrence Alton Chamberlain Auditorium Los Angeles

“It’s been over three hours since Dennis and Nancy were taken away,” Chandra said, frowning. “Where did they take them? What did they do to them?”

Teri Bauer ignored the questions, checked on Carla. Her contractions seemed to have stopped. The woman’s eyes were open and she was pale, sweating.

“Carla?” Teri whispered. “Talk to me.”

“I don’t know what’s worse,” Carla replied. “When the contractions come, I think I’m going to die. Now that they’ve stopped, I’m terrified that something bad is happening to my baby.”

“Try not to worry,” Teri replied. “I was in labor with Kimberly for over twenty-two hours. My contractions stopped and started many times. My cousin’s stopped altogether and had to be induced.”

“I don’t know, I don’t know...I’m so scared.”

“You have to think positively, Carla. It’s the only way to get through something like this. For the sake of your baby, you have to keep your spirits up, believe things will turn out all right.”

Carla nodded, swallowed with difficulty, forced a smile.

“Hey, watch it there!” an angry voice suddenly cried.

Teri looked up to see two masked men approaching, machine guns slung over their shoulders. They were dragging the limp form of an older man between them. In the row in front of Teri, there was a line of empty seats, and the terrorists tossed the injured man into one of them.

“Nazi bastards,” the man muttered, spitting blood. Crimson rivulets poured down his face and onto his white shirt, open at the collar, the bow tie undone. One eye was swollen shut and there was a bloody gap in his jaw where a tooth used to be.

Another older man, still wearing his evening jacket, hurried up the aisle. He moved toward the injured man’s side, only to be yanked back and cuffed by one of the masked men. The man tore the Rolex off his own wrist and held it out to the masked men. Brushing the offering aside, the two walked away, laughing.

“Ben, Ben,” said the newcomer to the injured man. “Why did you have to shoot your mouth off?”

“Lousy Nazis. I should spit at them again.” Then Ben’s bloodied mouth grinned. “I sure pissed them off, didn’t I, Hal?”

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“And look what it got you, you putz!”

Teri leaned forward. “Here, clean him up with this,” she said, handing Hal a discarded satin wrap.

“Thank you,” he said and went to work on his bleeding friend.

“I’m Teri Bauer.”

“Please to meet you. I’m Hal Green, the director of this miserable turkey.” He pointed to his friend. “And this big mouth here is my AD, Ben Solomon. We were in the control booth when everything went down. Tomas Morales and his security people tried to stage an attack but the terrorists gunned them all down. Then, after these nuts took over, they forced me to set up a camera in the booth and teach one of them how to operate it. Then they dumped us down here.”

Hal Green scanned the auditorium. “How are things down here? We’ve been out of touch upstairs.”

“They’re giving us bathroom breaks now. Ten people at a time. Abigail Heyer and her entourage got first dibs—”

“No surprise there.” Chandra snorted. “Once Hollywood royalty, always Hollywood royalty.”

“Still no food or water for the rest of us,” Teri added. Then she glanced up at the glass booth high over their heads and leaned in close to Hal so Carla wouldn’t hear. “You said they wanted to use a camera up there?” she whispered.

“That’s right.”

“They must be preparing to issue demands then. And if their demands aren’t met, they’ll start killing hostages.”

Hal Green eyed Teri. “What are you, doll, an FBI agent? CIA?”

“Close,” she replied.

11:38:46 P.M.PDT LAPD Mobile Command Center

Jack Bauer, Chet Blackburn, and a group of hastily assembled consulting engineers had been reviewing the blueprints for the Chamberlain Auditorium for over an hour. As one of only two people who’d escaped the terrorists, Lonnie Nobunaga was among them. Jack thought that since the photographer had actually been inside the auditorium, he might offer some insight.

The group deduced that the terrorists were unaware of a new air conditioning and filtration system being retrofitted to the auditorium to meet new state government standards for indoor air quality. The ducts being assembled were large and extensive enough to move armed snipers through the building unseen. But they would have to get into the building’s basement to reach the duct ports.

They studied the city’s water and storm drain system, but ran into another dead end. Nothing larger than a twenty-inch pipe ran into or out of the auditorium—too narrow for a human to pass through. The only building close to the auditorium was the Summit Studios offices, which actually abutted the theater. But the offices shared the same fire door system as the auditorium itself and was just as impenetrable.

“The walls of that auditorium are three feet thick in places,” said Jon Francis, a portly engineer in a rumpled Hawaiian shirt with a bald head shaved clean as a billiard ball. By day a professor of engineering at a local college, Francis freelanced as a CTU advisor. “It would take a construction team an hour to break through—maybe more,” he warned.

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“And the terrorists would detonate their bombs as soon as they heard the first jackhammer,” Jack added.

Evans spoke up. “What makes you so sure they have bombs?”

“The Chechens were responsible for the siege at the Moscow Opera House,” Jack replied, “and you know how that went down. The terrorists seized the theater, used Chechen war widows with bombs under their clothing to cow the authorities into inaction. Eventually President Putin authorized the Russian police to use sedative gas to knock out everyone—that option isn’t available to us in this situation.”

“Why not?” asked Lonnie Nobunaga. “We have non-lethal gases in our arsenal, don’t we?”

“Unfortunately there’s no such thing as a nonlethal chemical attack, no matter what the experts say,” Jack replied. “Fentanyl or other calmative gases are deadly in large enough concentrations, and massive amounts would be needed to fill up the Chamberlain. That would mean death to a large number of people in the crowd. Children would be most susceptible, but everyone under a certain weight will overdose. Those who are allergic will have adverse, possibly fatal reactions. People with prior medical conditions could die from complications, and pregnant women will most surely miscarry. Over a hundred hostages lost their lives in the Moscow siege—most because of the gas, not the terrorists.”

Lonnie’s face fell. “I see your point.”

Evans frowned at the schematics on the monitor. “This place is impenetrable. With the fire doors closed, it’s like a fortress.”

A police technician approached the group. “Special Agent Bauer? Nina Myers is on the horn for you.”

Jack Bauer accepted the headset, slipped the earbud into place. “Nina. What have you learned about the terrorists?”

“The United Liberation Front for a Free Chechnya has been around for about eight years. The organization began small, but has tripled in size and power very quickly. It’s violent—sort of Chechen version of the Hezbollah. The group has become so influential that two years ago Nikolai Manos, the head of the Russia East Europe Trade Alliance, assisted the State Department in secret negotiates with its rebel leaders.”

“Nikolai Manos. Can we reach him?” Jack asked.

“I tried,” Nina replied. “Unfortunately Mr. Manos is unavailable. He was in the Los Angeles headquarters of his organization for a press event early this afternoon, but his aides tell me he’s left the city on a secret trade mission.”

“A bit too convenient. Find out all you can about Manos and his organization.”

“I’m already on it,” Nina replied.

Jack ended the call, looked at the monitor where Christina Hong continued her bogus broadcast in the likely event the terrorists were still tuning in.

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THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 12 A.M. AND 1 A.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME

12:10:59 A.M.PDT CTU Mobile Command Center

Edgar Stiles needed no mirror to tell him he was a short, dumpy man. He was not handsome, nor was he a slave to fashion—his khaki pants seemed to wrinkle as soon as he put them on, and he wore shirts buttoned all the way up to his thick neck. But Edgar was not stupid. He grasped the tactical dilemma facing Jack Bauer almost immediately.

Sitting in the eight-wheeled CTU mobile command and control unit within sight of the Chamberlain Auditorium, Edgar could glance out the door and see the LAPD mobile command center parked just across the street. Only a few yards separated the two massive vehicles; for Edgar, however, they might as well have been parked on opposite sides of the planet.

Less than six weeks on the job at CTU, Stiles had not been happy to be torn from his familiar workstation and assigned to a glorified mobile home sitting only a few blocks from a terrorist crisis. When he’d arrived on the scene, Milo Pressman, his immediate supervisor for the evening, had assigned him the mind-numbing task of scanning and digitizing blueprints. The schematics came from all over—the Los Angeles Department of Water and Sewage, the Pacific Power and Light Company, LA Cablevision, and the California Department of Highways.

It didn’t take long for Edgar to deduce that Special Agent Bauer and Tactical Unit Chief Chet Blackburn were trying to find a way inside the Chamberlain Auditorium without alerting the hostage-takers to their presence.

Though Edgar’s first instinct was to devalue his own self-worth, he knew very well that in this situation he possessed information that might possibly help his superiors and save lives. Still, Edgar vacillated, wondering whom he should approach with the information. For fifteen minutes he mulled over this dilemma. Finally, he decided to speak with Milo—although he wasn’t particularly at ease with the idea. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Milo. Edgar just didn’t feel comfortable with him.

“E-excuse me,” Edgar said, so nervous he was already flustered. “I need to speak with someone—”

“If you need help, talk to Dan Hastings,” Milo said. “Dan knows this command center like the back of his hand. I’m kind of swamped right now.”

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“Oh, sure . . . S-sorry,” Edgar replied. “I won’t bother you again, sir.”

Deflated, Edgar returned to his workstation. He labored to deplete the pile on his desk, then he took a break, stepping outside for a breath of fresh air. Through an open hatch in the LAPD command center, Edgar could see Jack Bauer in quiet consultation with Blackburn and the others.

“You have to say something,” Edgar muttered to himself.

Twice he took halting steps toward the vehicle’s doorway, only to turn back, or pace nervously in the dark street. More minutes passed, and Edgar realized he’d better return to his workstation in case more files came in for him to scan. But as Edgar turned to go, he heard raised voices coming through the hatch.

“It’s like Masada!” exclaimed Chet Blackburn in a frustrated voice.

“No fortress is impenetrable. The Chamberlain Auditorium must have some weakness we can exploit. We just have to find it.”

The second speaker was Jack Bauer himself, and just hearing the man close up made Edgar want to bolt in the opposite direction.

This guy’s killed people. He’s been in every kind of dangerous situation imaginable. How can a slob like me help someone like him?

Yet the longer Edgar eavesdropped on the conversation, the more he became convinced that the information in his brain—trivia, really—could actually help. And if he could help, then didn’t he owe it to the innocent lives at stake to do all he could?

Summoning his courage, Edgar took a deep breath and walked into the operational command center. As he moved through the busy control hub, crowded with monitors, communications gear and high-tech workstations, Edgar fully expected to be challenged and summarily tossed out on his ear. Instead, no one paid attention to him. Obviously they were too wrapped up in their tasks to notice a newcomer.

Edgar approached Jack Bauer. The man’s face was lit by the digital image displayed on a horizontal screen of the map table. The harsh light made the man’s already pale face seem almost white as bone.

“Mr. Bauer, sir?” Edgar cringed inwardly when he heard his own voice, strained by nervousness and too loud. “Can I have a word with you?”

Jack, jolted out of his thoughts, faced Edgar. “Excuse me?”

Face-to-face with the Special Agent in Charge of CTU, Edgar fought the urge to flee. Instead, he cleared his throat and spoke up. “I wanted to speak with you, sir. I think I have information that could help.”

Now Jack’s sharp eyes were fixed on Edgar, and the lowly computer technician shrunk under his intense, expectant gaze.

Edgar continued. “Do ...Do you know anything about the building the Chamberlain Auditorium replaced?”

Chet Blackburn was listening now, and so were the engineers.

“No, we don’t,” Jack replied. “What’s your name again?”

“Stiles, Mr. Bauer, sir. Edgar Stiles. I work in the computer services division—”

“Under Dan Hastings?”

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“Yes, sir, and for tonight also Milo Pressman.”

“So what were you saying about the Chamberlain Auditorium?”

“Actually, sir, I was talking about the site where the auditorium was built.”

One of the engineers remarked, “As I recall, this part of downtown was pretty depressed.”

“Yeah,” said Edgar. “But it had one of the greatest old movie palaces in the city. They tore the place down to build the Chamberlain.”

“How does this information help us?” Jack asked.

“The Crystal Palace was built in the 1930s, before the Great Depression,” Edgar replied. “It was one of those huge old theaters with balconies and everything. A real showplace.”

“I recall reading about that theater,” Blackburn remarked. “But I thought it was farther west.”

“No!” Edgar cried, again too loudly. “It was right here, at this intersection.”

“Really,” said Chet, suppressing a chuckle.

“My mother worked in that theater in the 1960s and ’70s, during the Cold War. She told me there were four or five sub-basements under the theater. The two lowest levels were used as air raid shelters by Civil Defense. They stocked the place with water cans, radiation detectors, the works.”

The engineers were the first to react. “That would explain that notation on one of the blueprints,” said Jon Francis. “Something about an existing underground structure, a wall or something.”

“You’re sure about this, Edgar?” Bauer asked.

Edgar nodded. “My mom saw Fail-Safe on television and had a lot of nightmares after that. She told me that if a nuclear war ever broke out, she would head right down to the Crystal Palace, where the basements were so deep she knew she’d be safe from radiation.”

“Jesus,” grunted Jon Francis. “If this guy’s right, those sub-basements may still exist. And even if they don’t, the air shafts that fed them may still be buried beneath the facility even if the basements are gone.”

“But what good does that do us?” Chet asked. “We don’t know where the shafts are, or the basements for that matter.

“No, but somebody does,” Francis replied. “The plans for the Crystal Palace are on file somewhere, probably with the County of Los Angeles House of Records, or maybe City Hall.”

“What about the old Civil Defense files?” Special Agent Evans asked. “There’s got to be blueprints for those air raid shelters filed with the Federal government.”

“We’ve got to locate all the information we can gather about this, ASAP,” said Bauer. “If these tunnels, those basements still exist, that’s our way in.”

Jack spun around. “Where’s the Mayor’s liaison?”

“Right here, sir,” replied a young woman in an immaculate pinstriped suit.

“I need you to locate some records, as soon as possible.”

Meanwhile the engineers spooled the digital schematics back several pages, trying to locate the existing wall one of them spied on the blueprints. Activity was now swirling all around Edgar Stiles, but he was not a part of it. He watched the men scramble for a few minutes, then assumed they didn’t need him anymore.

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Knowing that a new batch of paper files were probably already piled high on his desk, Edgar Stiles left the command center and returned to his workstation, unnoticed.

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THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 1 A.M. AND 2 A.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME

1:01:56 A.M.PDT CTU Mobile Command Center

Milo thought it was a total waste of time to mine the late Valerie Dodge’s computer. He couldn’t have been more wrong.

Inside the PC there were lots of files about the modeling agency, but only one file that was secure. It took Milo only a few minutes to bypass the password system and open the file—a large multimedia affair full of bells and whistles.

“W00t,” he cried.

Milo quickly located a schematic of the Chamberlain, then found photos and profiles of female suicide bombers—Chechen women whose husbands had died

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or simply disappeared during the ongoing insurgency against the Russians. Next he found the photos and profiles of twenty Chechen gunmen smuggled into the United States by a company called MG Enterprises, then hired on as ushers for the Silver Screen Awards show.

As he moved through the file Milo found that it was all in here—the timing for the raid, the entry and exit points—most importantly, the position of the suicide bombers inside the auditorium.

Everything was here, a gold mine of intelligence.

1:07:19 A.M.PDT LAPD Mobile Command Center

Milo had just delivered the good news to Jack, when the engineers returned, all smiles.

“We’ve got something for you, Jack, and you’re going to like it,” said Jon Francis. He plugged a pen drive into the digital map table and called up a file.

“That little guy was right,” Francis began. “The old Crystal Palace movie theater was located on the site currently occupied by the Chamberlain, and that old theater had five—count ’em, five sub-basements. If you look hard enough, some of the old walls appear in the Chamberlain’s blueprints.”

“But can we get inside the auditorium through those basements?” Jack asked.

“We can cut a hole into the old sub-basement through this storm drain, right here,” a man from the Department of Water and Sewage explained. “That will put you under the Chamberlain. You’ll probably have to cut a hole somewhere else, but you’ll be inside.”

“It’s all completely underground,” Jon Francis interrupted. “The security cameras outside the auditorium, the ones the terrorists are using to watch us, they won’t see a goddamn thing.”

“The noise will be a problem, though,” another engineer cautioned. “We’ll need to use a jackhammer for five minutes or so to get through this wall—it’s over two feet thick. Normally we’d blast something this stout, but in this case . . .”

“That’s okay,” said Jack. “We’ll set up loudspeakers around the Chamberlain, blast music. It will drown out the sound of the jackhammer.”

“What will the terrorists think?” Francis asked.

“They’ll think we’re practicing psychological warfare techniques,” Jack informed them.

“Techniques that aren’t effective, and everyone knows it,” Secret Service Agent Evans interjected. “Won’t that make us look foolish?”

In the harsh white light of the map table, Jack held Evans’s eyes. “Let the terrorists think we’re helpless. If they underestimate us they’ll get careless, make a mistake. Then we’ll take the bastards down.”

1:18:06 A.M.PDT In the storm drains

Jon Francis brought in a digging team from Pacific Power and Light. Armed with picks, shovels, flashlights, and a portable electric jackhammer, they entered the sewer system three blocks away from the auditorium.

Led by a team of inspectors from the Department of Water and Sewage, they moved efficiently through the murky, ankle deep water that flowed through a maze of seven-by-ten-foot concrete tunnels. Bringing

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up the rear, two technicians from the telephone company unspooled a long telephone wire—a land line that connected the construction team to Jack Bauer in the LAPD command center.

The inspectors led the team to what seemed like a dead end.

“Yep, this is the place,” grunted Jon Francis, shining a mini Maglite on a paper map—he never used digital versions in the field. “There’s eight inches of poured concrete right here. Behind it two feet of solid brick. Think you can break through without dynamite?”

“Stand back,” said the man with the jackhammer.

Using the land line they laid on the way in, Jon Francis contacted the command center. “Cue the music,” he declared.

1:25:50 A.M.PDT Terrence Alton Chamberlain Auditorium Los Angeles

From his throne-like chair in the center of the massive stage, Bastian Grost maintained a confident facade in front of his men, and in front of the hostages. His headscarf dangled around his neck—he did not care who among this crowd saw his face, for they would all be dead soon. Casually but authoritatively, he clutched his Agram 2000 in the crook of his arm in a gesture that suggested power and confidence.

So far his strategy had worked. Even the high and mighty members of the Hollywood elite averted their eyes when he fixed his glacial gaze on them. Despite his cool exterior, however, inside Sebastian Grost was boiling with rage. As an operational mastermind, he cursed his men’s missteps and missed opportunities, their inability to follow even the simplest order without indulging in violence of every sort, including the violation of some of the female hostages. Indeed, everything had gone wrong from the start.

After the successful seizure of the awards show, his trained strike team had failed to capture Russia’s First Lady, Marina Novartov, or even the wife of America’s Vice President. Most of Grost’s team had been shot during their firefight with the American and Russian security teams, and none of his men had witnessed exactly where the women had fled. It was possible the women had gotten out before the fire doors had slammed shut. It was also possible the two had escaped into a service elevator.

That elevator, Grost subsequently discovered, had not been in the auditorium’s original blueprints, nor was it controlled by the facility’s computer. Grost could find no way to unlock and reactivate the elevator, but he didn’t waste much time on that effort. He knew from his study of the blueprints provided to him that this structure had only four floors to search: the mezzanine, the theater floor, the ground floor, and the basement.

Hours had passed now, and the few men Grost could spare from guard duty had failed to locate the women. He would have to accept that he could not show the women on camera. He could only bluff that he had them in his custody.

The second problem arose at 11 p.m., when Hasan had failed to contact them through a secure and secret landline that connected the Chamberlain Auditorium to the computer center in Tijuana, even though Hasan had promised he would make “a final statement to the martyrs,” as he put it.

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Then, at midnight came the final blow. The destructive virus that was supposed to destroy the West’s computer infrastructure had not been launched as scheduled. Grost knew that was true because he dispatched men to the auditorium’s roof, to watch the Los Angeles skyline beyond the blacked-out area around them. They reported that city lights still blazed, traffic lights functioned, and there were even passenger airliners lining up in the sky overhead as a prelude to landing at LAX.

At that point, Grost could no longer deny what he knew to be true.

The computer center at Tijuana must have been compromised, perhaps destroyed, which means that we are truly on our own—

Bastian Grost’s thoughts were interrupted by a curious sound—the throbbing beat of American hip-hop music. The sound was muffled, but still loud enough to be heard throughout the auditorium. He listened stone-faced for a minute, then he began to chuckle, inviting a curious stare from a lieutenant on stage with him.

One of the foot soldiers arrived on stage a moment later. “They have set up loudspeakers in the street outside,” he reported. “What does it mean?”

“It’s a tactic right out of the Americans’ counterterrorism text book,” Grost replied with a sneer. “They mean to drive us out of this place with bad music. A ridiculous tactic that has no chance of success.”

Bastian Grost shouldered his machine gun. He wrapped his head with the long, night-black scarf hanging at his neck. It pleased him to think that his enemies were so helpless.

If this is the best CTU can come up with, then the final phase of Hasan’s plan—the mass murder of everyone in this auditorium during L.A.’s morning rush hour, in front of a million eyewitnesses—is in no danger at all.

1:33:09 A.M.PDT LAPD Mobile Command Center

The pre-mission briefing was so populated it packed the vehicle from one end to the other. Every chair was occupied, and many stood, including Lonnie Nobunaga, who managed to hang around long after his active role in the proceedings had ended. Even Christina Hong was there, after being spelled by a well-known network journalist who was doing a masterful job of bogus reporting for his audience of terrorists.

Despite the air conditioner laboring overtime, it was sweltering inside the command center. The hatches and doors had been shut tightly to guarantee security, and block out the music blasting around the auditorium.

Most of the men who occupied the room were snipers, ten of them, culled from Chet Blackburn’s Tactical Unit, the FBI, and Captain Stone’s SWAT team.

Jack began the briefing without preamble. “The auditorium and over a thousand hostages are being held by twenty Chechen gunman, all well-trained, all armed with 9mm Agram 2000 submachine guns. Their leader is this man—”

A face appeared on the wall-mounted flat screen monitor.

“Bastian Grost. He’s not a Chechen by birth, but he is, as far as we can determine, fanatically dedicated to their cause.”

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The image on the screen changed again. Portraits of four women appeared, some in headscarves.

“More dangerous than the twenty gunmen are five suicide bombers placed in the audience—”

The women were replaced by the seating chart of the auditorium.

“—From the plans in Valerie Dodge’s computer, we know that the bombers have been positioned to do maximum damage to the structure’s five support columns when the explosives are detonated. You see from this chart that they are planted here and here, and two in the back of the auditorium. There is also a bomber close to the stage, seated among the celebrities.”

Jack paused. “The plan is simple. Five of our operatives—all female, all dressed in evening clothes, take out the female bombers. At the same instant, the snipers each take out two gunmen in quick succession. Our timing has to be perfect, and because the terrorists are jamming all radio signals, individual groups will be out of contact once we enter the auditorium and separate.”

“Jesus,” muttered an FBI sniper.

“The takedown has to be timed perfectly. We’ll prearrange a time for the strike, and everyone will have to act at the same split second.”

Groans and sighs greeted the news.

“Unfortunately, timing’s not the worst of our problems.” Jack paused until everyone quieted down. “While we have photos and names for four of the bombers, the identity of the fifth bomber is unknown—”

Outcry greeted this news.

“That means one bomb will most likely go off,” an FBI sniper shouted.

“Not necessarily,” said Jack, raising his voice to be heard over the mounting commotion. “We know where this bomber is located—down among the celebrities. We’re going to send the female strike team in ahead of the sniper attack. If we’re lucky, Nina Myers and her fellow operatives will locate and neutralize this unknown bomber along with the other four.”

“Wait a minute,” Lonnie Nobunaga cried. “You said the unknown bomber is in the celebrity seating area?”

“Yes,” Jack replied. “She has to be. That’s what the terrorists’ plans indicate and that’s also where the fifth support beam is located. If they miss just one support beam, the structure may not collapse even after the blasts.”

“And you’re sure it’s a woman?”

“That’s how the Chechens have done things up to now,” Jack replied. “Your point?”

Nobunaga took a deep breath. “Listen. This may have nothing to do with the terrorists—”

“Get to the point. We’re running out of time here.”

“Abigail Heyer rolled into Hollywood for the award’s show very pregnant—”

“No surprise,” said Christina Hong. “Gossip is she and Nikolai Manos are an item.”

Jack blinked. “Did you say Manos?”

Christina nodded. “It’s in all the tabloids, including that low-rent rag Lonnie works for.”

Nobunaga smirked. “I’m wounded.”

Jack fixed his gaze on Lonnie. “So you’re telling me Abigail Heyer is pregnant with Manos’s child?”

Lonnie shook his head. “I’m telling you that she’s been faking her pregnancy the whole time. Wearing a harness, just like she did in the movie Bangor, Maine. I have the photo to prove it. Shot it this morning on

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the woman’s estate.” He dangled the thumb drive from his key ring.

One of the snipers spoke up. “That’s crazy. How could Abigail Heyer get a belly full of explosives past auditorium security?”

Even Lonnie knew the answer to that one. “The celebrities walk the red carpet. They don’t pass through security. It would be like wanding the President and First Lady. You don’t screen the people you’re supposed to protect.”

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THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 2 A.M. AND 3 A.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME

2:09:03 A.M.PDT Chamberlain Auditorium Sub-Level Three

White House intern Adam Carlisle awoke with a start. He began to stir, but his back was stiff from sleeping on the cold concrete. His movements awoke Megan Gleason, who had been using his thigh for a pillow.

“What’s wrong?” she whispered.

“I heard a noise,” said Adam, rising quickly.

Though the two wives had been dozing in their chairs, they were awake now too, and whispering nervously. In the sub-basement’s gloom, Adam spied Craig Auburn close to the crank phone, where he’d

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collapsed. He was lying on the ground now, his right hand still holding his left arm. His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow.

A terrible crash boomed, as loud as a landslide.

“Jesus,” Megan whispered. “What’s that?”

Adam informed her, “From what Special Agent Auburn said before he passed out, that’s the calvary....I hope.”

Megan blanched. “You hope?”

At the far end of a long corridor, Adam saw flashlights stabbing through the darkness. Dark silhouettes appeared a moment later.

Raising the USP Tactical that Special Agent Auburn had given him, Adam walked resolutely toward the flashlights, the weapon leveled at the man on point.

“Who are you?” Adam loudly demanded.

“Special Agent Jack Bauer, Counter Terrorist Unit,” Jack replied.

With an audible exhale, Adam lowered the weapon. A moment later the sub-basement was filling with armed men. One of them approached the two ladies.

“I’m Special Agent Evans, Secret Service,” he told them.

“Thank god,” said the VP’s wife.

More men emerged from the gloom, flanking the two ladies and helping Marina Novartov stand on her injured leg. Adam told Evans about Auburn’s serious condition. A medic and another man were summoned to help.

“We’re walking out of here, right now,” he told the ladies and the interns. “Follow these two agents and stick close. We’re not out of danger yet.”

The group walked the length of the dark basement, until they came to an open steel hatch set in the concrete wall. Adam had found the hatch earlier and tried to open it, but it had been locked from the other side.

Just then, five women in fashionable evening gowns and high-heeled shoes emerged from the hatch. Megan shot Adam a curious look. He shrugged, shook his head. Don’t ask me.

Evans stepped up to them. “Let’s go. Through that hatch, to the sewers.”

Megan shuddered. “The sewers?”

Adam smiled and put his arm around her shoulders. “Didn’t I tell you when I first welcomed you to Washington—”

“I know, I know,” she said, “this job has its perks.”

2:13:32 A.M.PDT Chamberlain Auditorium Sub-Level Three

Jack checked the digital map display strapped to his forearm. It glowed green in the dimly lit subbasement. He assembled everyone in front of a large metal grill set into the wall. Using a universal key, Jack picked the lock. The grill swung wide like a door.

Behind the steel mesh grill an aluminum shaft climbed straight up to the Chamberlain’s roof. Steel rungs were embedded in the walls of the shaft, leading upward and out of sight. Jack could see light shining into the shaft from grills on the upper levels—the occupied floors.

“Okay, women first,” Jack whispered. Nina stepped forward, wearing a black spangled dress. The other four women were similarly attired. Jack addressed them all.

“Climb until you pass four more grills, then exit

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through the fifth. You’ll come out in a corridor right next to the women’s rest rooms on the main floor. Presumably the terrorists are allowing people to take bathroom breaks. I want you to mingle with the women returning to the auditorium, then get as close as you can to your respective targets. Understand?”

The women nodded, their faces tense.

“Take them down as soon as you hear the first shot. We’ll fire at exactly 2:45 a.m.—not a second sooner.”

Jack paused. “Remember, the success of the entire mission rests on your actions. Do not hesitate to do what is necessary to save lives. If you fail, hundreds may die.”

Jack and the snipers watched the women enter the shaft. When they climbed out of sight, Jack closed the grill behind them.

“Let’s go,” he said, leading his snipers to the next air shaft, where they would make their own climb.

2:32:27 A.M.PDT Chamberlain Auditorium Mezzanine

Jack peered through the ornate brass grill of the auditorium’s deserted mezzanine. He’d climbed the air shaft with his team of snipers following behind. Now Jack carefully scanned the darkened area, using night vision goggles to determine that every seat was empty. Listening intently, Jack heard the murmur of the crowd on the main floor below.

Silently he slipped his universal key into the slot on the grill and jiggled it. The rattle of metal sounded like an explosion, but the simple lock mechanism was easily tripped. With the squeak of metal on metal, Jack opened the ornamental grill and squirmed through the opening.

He crawled forward on his belly, moving down the aisle between rows of seats. The glass control booth was behind and above him, but it overhung the mezzanine, and even if the booth was occupied, no one would be able to see him.

As he crawled down a carpeted aisle to the mezzanine’s edge, snipers silently emerged from the shaft behind him. Jack used hand signals to position the shooters at various points until they had a complete field of fire.

Finally, Jack peered over the edge of the balcony. Below him he saw hundreds of people, in seats or sprawled on the floor. Debris was scattered on the carpet, clothing draped over seat backs. Circling the hostages along the perimeter of the auditorium, Jack counted sixteen masked men, another two on the stage. There were still two shooters unaccounted for and Jack hoped they were escorting hostages to the rest rooms. As he watched, the missing pair appeared. They began chatting with the man seated on an ornate, throne-like chair in the middle of the expansive stage.

With hand signals, Jack issued the command for the shooters to assemble their weapons. Then he assembled his own.

Jack opened the soft cloth bags he’d slung over his back during the long climb up the shaft. Carefully he unwrapped the barrel, the magazines, the sniper scope and the two receivers and stuffed the cotton packing cloths back into the bag. Quickly and efficiently, Jack assembled the 7.62mm Mark 11 Mod 0 Type Sniper Rifle System.

The Mark 11 was a highly accurate precision semi

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automatic rifle. Men who used it in the field dubbed it “an M16 on steroids.” Light, versatile and portable, the rifle could be broken down into two main sections, which made it perfect for an operation like this one.

When Jack completed assembly, he shoved a magazine in place and flipped the control switch to semiautomatic. He had to hit at least two targets in rapid succession and wanted the fastest rate of fire possible.

Near one of the auditorium’s rest rooms, Nina had just closed the brass grill behind her and smoothed her dress when a masked man appeared at the end of the marble-lined corridor. He spied the knot of women and hurried forward.

“Hey, what for you do?” he bellowed in fractured English. The man slipped the black submachine gun off his shoulder, waved it menacingly.

“Bathroom,” Nina cried, throwing up her hands. “We just went to the bathroom, that’s all.”

The other women followed Nina’s lead, threw up their hands, started to babble.

“Shuddup! Shuddup!” the gunman commanded. “Go back now. Back!”

The masked man gestured them forward, down the long marble lined corridor toward the auditorium.

As they approached the audience, Nina could hear the quiet murmur of the crowd. Another gunman who’d been guarding the doors stepped aside to allow Nina and the other women to enter the vast space. “In, in!” the armed man barked.

“Okay, we’re going,” Nina replied.

Immediately, Nina’s senses were assaulted. The interior of the auditorium reeked—an unsavory combination of stale air, fear sweat, and spilled blood. To move down the aisle, Nina had to walk past a pile of elegantly attired corpses, stacked like cordwood against a wall, rivulets of blood staining the lush carpeting. The muted roar of a thousand people talking, crying, sighing, whispering filled her ears.

Once inside the auditorium, the women quickly dispersed, each subtly maneuvering to move as close to their respective targets as they could get. Nina had the farthest to go—from the back of the auditorium to the front row seats where international film star Abigail Heyer waited to blow herself and a thousand of her closest Hollywood friends to Kingdom Come.

Not only did she have a long way to go, Nina had the toughest job. The other women only had to kill their targets, knocking the detonators from their hands and slitting their throats with hidden knives before the suicide bombers had a chance to set off the explosives. Nina had to stop Abigail Heyer from setting off her bomb without killing her. Nina was tasked with taking the movie star alive.

2:43:16 A.M.PDT Chamberlain Auditorium Main Floor

Carla bit down on the pink satin handbag. Her face was flushed, her skin coated with a thin sheen of perspiration. A whimper escaped her lips, which were pale and white. Dark shadows hollowed her eyes, her gaze seemed far away and lost in jets of agony.

“Oh, Jesus. Oh, God,” Carla wailed.

Teri Bauer kneeled on the floor, both hands grasping Carla’s arms to steady the woman. The contractions had started up again. Now they were less than three minutes apart. The baby was on its way.

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“You! American bitch. Keep her quiet!”

Teri looked up. A masked man watched her from the aisle, just two empty seats away. He clutched a machine gun, the strap draped over his shoulder.

Teri bit her lip. Carla howled again, louder.

“Shut her up!” barked the gunman.

Carla cried out just then, oblivious to the danger.

Angrily, the man stepped forward. “I shut her up,” he grunted.

Teri Bauer jumped to her feet, blocked the assassin’s way. Her knees trembled, but her veins were suddenly filled with burning ice and she refused to back down.

2:44:06 A.M.PDT Chamberlain Auditorium Mezzanine

Peering over the edge of the balcony, Jack had already taken aim at the masked man seated center stage. The way the others deferred to him, and the way the man clutched his Agram 2000 in the crook of his arm—“Palestinian style”—told Jack this was their leader, Bastian Grost. Though the Serbian fugitive might prove to be a valuable prisoner, Jack decided he would not take the man alive. Victor Drazen’s killers had a knack for eluding justice. But Bastian Grost wouldn’t get away with anything. Not this time.

Jack checked the digital clock inside his sniper scope. It was less than a minute before the strike. His grip tightened on the pressed Kevlar handle, his finger rested on the grooved steel trigger. As he prepared to fire, Jack’s attention was drawn to a commotion in the aisles. A gunman was gesturing wildly at a woman.

Even from this distance he recognized his wife. Jack tensed when he realized it was Teri. He swung the Mark 11 away from his target, to level the barrel at this new threat.

Squinting through the scope, he placed the crosshairs over the masked man’s forehead. As the seconds ticked down, Jack steadied his hand and held his breath.

Five seconds—

The gunman stepped into the aisle. Teri jumped to her feet to block him.

Four seconds—

“Leave her alone,” Teri shouted.

The man raised an arm, poised to strike her down, possibly kill her with a blow from the butt of his machine gun.

Three seconds—

Jack pulled the trigger. The man’s head exploded.

2:45:00 A.M.PDT Chamberlain Auditorium Main Floor

Rifles seemed to pop all over the auditorium at roughly the same time, followed by supersonic cracks as the bullets warbled toward their targets.

Everywhere armed men in black jerked wildly, or spun around, or threw their arms wide as 7.62mm rounds tore bloody holes through their flesh, bones and organs.

One masked man, his skull shattered by a single round, flopped onto the lap of Chip Manning, still

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seated beside his agent. The dead man’s brains spilled out on the star’s Helmut Lang jacket.

Tough guy Manning squealed like a little girl.

Abigail Heyer jumped to her feet when she heard the supersonic crack. She’d been watching Bastian Grost, who suddenly flew backward as two bullets blew a massive hole through his chest, and the back of his chair.

When the Heyer woman stood up, Nina Myers spied a plunger in her hand. It was black, about the size of a large hypodermic needle, and trailed two thin wires that flowed into her clothing.

Nina leaped over a seat, grabbed the woman’s arm and twisted it backward until she heard the satisfying snap of bone. The actress howled, the plunger dropped from her limp hand. But Nina didn’t relent. She jerked the broken wrist upward, forcing Abigail Heyer to bend double. Then Nina brought her forearm down on the back of the woman’s neck, smashing her to the ground.

Nina dragged the still struggling woman into the aisle, flipped her over and cut the dress away with the Gerber Guardian II double-edged knife she’d tucked into her garter. Under the shreds of designer clothing, Nina saw the white harness. She sliced the straps and yanked the prosthetic loose. The inside of the fake belly was stuffed with explosives.

“Clear!” Nina cried at the top of her lungs.

From other parts of the auditorium, she heard her words echoed several times. What she didn’t hear told the real story. There was no deafening thunder of a detonating bomb, and Nina knew CTU had won this round.

320	24 DECLASSIFIED
	***
“Go, go, go!”

Captain Stone screamed the words into his headset. Not even a second passed before dozens of LAPD squad cars, armored vehicles, ambulances, fire trucks and emergency vehicles rolled out of cover and across the pavement to converge on the Chamberlain Auditorium. Sirens blared and dozens of emergency lights flickered like tiny red beacons.

There was no way for Stone to know if Jack and his team had met with success or failure but it didn’t matter anyway. His orders were to move his officers in to surround the building at precisely 2:45 a.m., to open the fire doors they’d opened before, and enter the auditorium with maximum force, and that’s exactly what he did.

Stone watched through binoculars as firemen opened the steel doors, then police and SWAT team units poured through the opening. He listened for a long time, waiting for an explosion, the sounds of a fire fight. Instead, a voice crackled over his headset.

“Area secure. Repeat, area secure. The hostages are safe ...”

2:59:09 A.M.PDT Terrence Alton Chamberlain Auditorium Los Angeles

Jack found his wife in the lobby. An emergency rescue team was wheeling Carla out on a gurney, with Chandra and Teri following close behind. As she rushed past him, Jack touched his wife’s arm and their eyes met.

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“Jack, Jack,” Teri cried, throwing herself at him. “I knew you’d come. I just knew it.”

“It’s okay,” Jack whispered, holding her close. “You’re safe now.”

For a long time they embraced, an island in a sea of swirling activity. Then Teri pulled back, tears dewing her face.

“Is it over, Jack? Is it really over?”

“Almost,” he replied.

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

3:09:10 A.M.PDT CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles

Jamey, Milo and Doris had taken control of the Cyber-Unit. It took all three of them to enter all the search parameters into Fay Hubley’s bloodhound program. Along with the names of the victims and players in the hostage drama—Bastian Grost, Nawaf Sanjore, Valerie Dodge, Hugh Vetri, Nikolai Manos—the names of their firms, companies, and institutes such as the Russia East Europe Trade Alliance, were also added to expand the search exponentially.

Once the program was launched, there would be so much information to correlate, so many places for

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the computer to search, that virtually every other computer function at CTU had to be shut down or curtailed.

“Ready?” Jamey asked when the programming was complete.

“Go,” Ryan commanded.

Jamey punched “execute” and they waited.

Jack and Nina observed the search from Jack’s glass-enclosed office on CTU’s mezzanine while they waited for a security team to process their prisoner, Abigail Heyer. Nina had expressed skepticism that the process would yield results, but Jack was willing to try anything. Milo, Jamey, and Doris all believed it was possible that the computer, augmented by CTU’s random sequencer, would come up with some clues— perhaps even answers—but none of them would state categorically that the program would work.

Only Tony Almeida, boots propped on a desk while he silently watched the process, truly believed Fay’s creation would find her killer. He remained cool when five minutes went by with no results.

The single screen that should have displayed promising leads remained dark.

Then, twenty-one minutes and six seconds into the process, the monitor abruptly lit up and the screen was filled with hundreds of possible clues. The operation was moving so fast Jamey had to step in and slow things down. In a steady stream, pertinent facts continued to emerge.

The single link that united all the disparate threads was Nikolai Manos. The program revealed that one of Manos’s shell companies hired a very expensive mapping firm to survey public land in the Angeles National Forest.

MG Enterprises, a Nikolai Manos-controlled shell company, paid for a series of deliveries of construction material to an area along Route 39—a road through the San Gabriel Mountains that had been closed to traffic for over a decade.

Pacific Power and Light recorded two years of mysterious power surges and incidents of voltage theft from high-tension wires running through the same region of the San Gabriel peaks where the survey had been conducted.

Three hikers and a pair of campers in an area near the spot where Ibn al Farad had been captured vanished without a trace over a fourteen-month period.

Rangers in the Angeles National Forest reported strange lights at night.

Unauthorized helicopter takeoffs and landings were reported to the FAA. A near miss between a light plane and an unauthorized aircraft was reported over that same area six months ago.

A 1977 article from the National Spelunking Institute—now posted on its website—featured an unconfirmed report of a large network of caverns discovered in the San Gabriels. Subsequent expeditions failed to locate the caves. The last one mounted just eighteen months ago ended tragically. The team’s vehicle was found at the bottom of a ravine, everyone dead inside. The incident was judged an accident, at the time.

Jamey Farrell kept narrowing the search until, at precisely 3:33 a.m., the program spit out a longitude and latitude in the San Gabriel Mountains, a threesquare-mile area just four miles from where Ibn al Farad was caught searching for his master.

Fay Hubley’s program had nailed the Old Man on the Mountain.

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3:46:17 A.M.PDT CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles

Abigail Heyer was seated in an aluminum interrogation chair. Both hands were strapped to the armrest, the woman’s broken right wrist, swollen and purple, had been treated with no more care than her left. The woman had been strip searched, had endured a thorough cavity check, and all of her clothes, jewelry and personal items had been taken from her. She would not get the opportunity to swallow poison, like Katya or Richard Lesser.

The international star wore an orange prison jumpsuit and nothing else. She stared straight ahead, unblinking, but Jack believed she knew he was right there, on the other side of the one-way mirror.

“Break her, Jack. Get her to confess.” Tony Almeida still wore his undercover clothing—black jeans, sweatshirt stained with blood, steel-tipped cowboy boots. His unshaven face was ravaged by fatigue, his eyes haunted. Jack knew Tony blamed himself for Fay Hubley’s death. Jack knew because he’d been in Tony’s situation himself, more than once.

Nina, still wearing the spangled dress, gazed impassively at the woman in the chair. It was Nina who’d brought Ms. Heyer back to CTU for interrogation. The woman had demanded her lawyers—plural, she had a team of them—and was denied. The actress went silent after that, not even answering Dr. Brandeis’s queries about her condition.

The doctor requested time to set her broken wrist— Jack vetoed that. Then Dr. Brandeis asked permission to administer a painkiller. Jack nixed that too. Brandeis did not ask to witness the interrogation. He already knew the answer.

Jack studied Abigail Heyer through the glass, his jaw moving. Nina touched his arm, leaned close and whispered, “The crisis has passed, Jack. Let the doctor take care of her. Hold her here until she’s willing to talk.”

Jack gently shook off Nina. “This ends now.” He swiped the keycard that dangled from a strap around his neck and entering the soundproofed interrogation chamber.

The woman refused to acknowledge his presence. Jack placed a metal chair in front of her, sat down. Still she resisted his gaze.

There were a number of ways to extract information, Jack knew—torture, drugs, sleep deprivation, the threat of death.

But such techniques wore the prisoner’s will down over time, and Jack was nearly out of it. Hasan had to be stopped. Now. They were never closer to the man than at this moment, and might never get this close again. He had to extract the confirmation he needed from his prisoner as quickly as possible.

Yet Jack knew in this case physical threats would also fail because Abigail Heyer was willing to blow herself up for Hasan, so she was not afraid of death. Which meant that he had to hit her fast and hard— with something she did fear.

“Hasan is dead,” Jack began. Despite herself, the woman winced.

“We knew about his hideaway—that place in the mountains. Five minutes ago we blew it up. Everyone inside perished. We’re assessing the damage now. I can show you the man’s corpse, when we find it.”

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“Hasan will never die,” Abigail Heyer said, a half-smile brushing her full lips.

“You may be right.” Jack nodded. Now was the time to take the chance, make the leap. “Hasan, as a symbol, an ideal, might never die. But Nikolai Manos, the man who called himself Hasan, is dead. I killed him.”

Jack studied the woman’s face. He watched her calm, controlled demeanor crack into a thousand tiny splinters. He saw a black void open up inside of her and swallow the woman whole.

Jack watched Abigail Heyer’s reaction, and he knew.

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24

THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 4 A.M. AND 5 A.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME

4:55:01 A.M.PDT Over the Angeles National Forest

Jack had called in every resource he could find for this raid. Chet Blackburn’s overworked Tactical Unit would lead the strike, but elements of the FBI, Captain Stone’s LAPD SWAT team, the California National Guard—even State Troopers under the command of Captain Lang—had been tapped.

Now a dozen helicopters circled the mountain, while CTU specialists used deep ground imaging to locate the hidden entrances to Hasan’s no longer secret underground lair.

“We found two exits, both covered now,” Chet Blackburn told Jack, shouting to be heard over the

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noise of the beating blades. “All the elements are in place. We’re ready to go once you give the word.”

Jack Bauer nodded, activated his headset. “Begin the assault . . .”

4:59:17 A.M.PDT Under the Angeles National Forest

Hasan’s anger was a physical force that battered everyone and everything around him.

Nawaf Sanjore followed a trail of smashed furniture and broken glass, to the deepest region of his master’s underground headquarters. He found several acolytes cowering in front of a steel door.

“Is he inside?” the architect asked.

The robed men nodded. “The master does not wish to be disturbed.”

Sanjore ignored the warning, pushed the heavy door inward. The chamber beyond was small, and crowded with computers and satellite communications equipment. Hasan sat in his command chair, his back to the door. He stared straight ahead, at a darkened monitor.

“Hasan?”

“Leave me.”

“Master. Such behavior is unseemly. This is a setback, not a defeat.”

The chair spun on its axis. Hasan faced the architect. “I have just learned that the communications center in Tijuana was destroyed hours before the virus was to be unleashed. The authorities have rescued the hostages, and CTU has captured Abigail Heyer—alive.”

“She knows nothing—”

“She knows enough. But I do not care about the

330		24 DECLASSIFIED
woman,	only	the	movement.	We have been
wounded—”

“We will survive,” Sanjore cried. “No one knows your true identity. No one could possibly know of this place. Even if that foolish actress implicates Nikolai Manos, who will believe her? The Old Man on the Mountain will endure.”

Hasan seemed mollified by Sanjore’s words, but a shadow of doubt crossed his face. “We have lost assets. Irreplaceable assets . . .”

“A mere setback. We can rebuild. The vision has not died.”

“But if I am exposed?”

“Then you shall continue your operations in secret, from this very base of operations. Do not forget that a great portion of your wealth is intact, unreachable in a Swiss account.”

“But we have lost so much.”

“But not all, never all. You are still alive, Hasan. And alive, you can still fight. The Americans, the Russians, they cannot harm you as long as you remain hidden in this impenetrable fortress. In time, from this secret place, we will again launch an attack.”

Hasan pondered the man’s words. “You restore my faith, Nawaf. Truly you are the most loyal and valuable of my followers.”

Nawaf Sanjore’s heart soared at his master’s compliment, rarely given. He bowed deeply.

“I live to serve you—”

The architect was interrupted by explosions, screams, gunshots. Then an amplified voice boomed throughout the underground cavern.

“This is CTU. Lay down your weapons. You are surrounded and cannot escape. Surrender now or you will be shot.”