prologue

He found Jack Bauer hunched over the conference room table, head cradled in his arms. It took Administrative Director Richard Walsh only a moment to realize his agent was fast asleep. Setting the digital audio recorder on the table, Walsh wondered how Jack could find peace amid the chaos that still reigned on the other side of the wall, in CTU’s war room, hours after the crisis had presumably passed.

Walsh unbuttoned the suit jacket that seemed to stretch too tightly across his broad shoulders. He would have preferred to leave Jack to his dreams. God knows, the man earned his rest. But with his bosses at Langley demanding answers—probably because their bosses in the House and Senate Intelligence Committees were demanding same—Walsh had no choice but to gather all the statements as soon as possible, and deliver his findings. The Administrative Director of CTU shut the door, sat down in a steel chair across from the sleeping man.

Jack awoke at the sound, instantly alert. He sat up, arrow-straight, fully aware of his surroundings. Jack self-consciously rubbed the stubble on his jaw, combed his sandy-blond hair back with his fingers, embarrassed to appear before his superior in such a disheveled state.

“ ’Morning Jack. Have a nice nap?”

Bauer shrugged off the gentle jibe as his superior tossed him a sympathetic smile. It vanished a moment later when Walsh keyed his digital recorder.

“Log number 32452, subheading IAC. Debriefing Special Agent Jack Bauer,” said Walsh, adding Jack’s service tag, the day, date, and time. Then Walsh scratched his closely shaved chin and fixed his pale-blue gaze on the man across the table.

“Ryan Chappelle tells me that a raid on a major movie studio triggered this unpleasantness. What the hell were you and Blackburn’s tactical team doing in Hollywood?”

“Utopia Studios is not a major movie studio and it’s not in Hollywood,” Jack replied. “Utopia was a marginal direct-to-video production company until they fell on hard times—a combination of rising production costs and diminishing interest in the soft-core porn and low-rent horror films they were peddling did them in.”

“So Utopia Studios became a threat to national security?”

“Utopia Studios doesn’t exist. Not anymore,” said Jack. “Its CEO declared bankruptcy, incorporated a brand new firm with a new financial partner and shifted production facilities to Montreal. The move saved him a bundle but left his old studio on the ass-end of Glendale’s industrial zone vacant, its proprietorship a matter of ongoing litigation. In the meantime, narco-terrorists moved in and set up shop—or at least, that was the intel we had at the time.”

Walsh studied the sheaf of papers in front of him.

“According to the DEA this was primarily a drug raid.”

“That’s true. Chet Blackburn and I were members of a joint task force working with the DEA—part of District Director Ryan Chappelle’s interagency initiative.”

“Yeah. I think I got the memo on that,” Walsh said dryly.

“The initiative was launched because the CIA and the DEA unearthed intelligence indicating a new level of cooperation between international terrorists and certain drug cartels. Chappelle thought it best to team up with the Drug Enforcement Agency in order to better manage the problem—”

“And spread some of the responsibility around in case things went south.”

Jack nodded. “That too.”

“So beyond some faulty intelligence, what was the rationale for this interagency initiative?”

“Things are heating up. In the past twenty months, the DEA has captured military-grade weapons in several raids along the U.S.–Mexican border. And you recall that CTU recently thwarted a plot to use smuggled North Korean Long Tooth shoulder-fired missiles to down U.S. commercial airliners.”

Walsh smoothed his walrus moustache with his thumb and index finger. “You’re talking about Hell Gate.”

It wasn’t a question so Jack didn’t reply.

Walsh shifted in the steel chair, which seemed too small for the brawny man.

“Chappelle also tells me that despite the obvious threat to national security, you initially resisted this assignment. Now why would you do that, Special Agent Bauer?”

Walsh was staring at Jack now, waiting.

“Permission to speak freely, sir.”

Walsh turned off the audio recorder. “Talk.”

“When it comes to the Counter Terrorist Unit, interagency cooperation has always been a one-way street,” Jack began. “CTU gave, the FBI, the DOD, the DEA took. Period.”

“It’s gotten better,” said Walsh. His lined face was impassive, unreadable.

“I’ll concede that the situation has improved in recent months. But CTU is still getting squeezed out of the big picture—by some of the same people Chappelle ordered me to work alongside.”

“You could have refused the assignment. You could have come to me and I would have handled things with Chappelle. You had to make a choice here.” Walsh paused. “So what changed your mind, Jack?”

“Karma.”

Richard Walsh activated the recorder. “Tell me everything that happened to you and members of the Los Angeles unit in the past twenty-four hours, Special Agent Bauer. Start at the beginning...”

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 5 A.M. AND 6 A.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME

5:01:01 A.M.PDT Atwater Village, Los Angeles

Jack Bauer gazed at Utopia, or so the sign proclaimed. But beyond the vacant security gate and tattered chain link fence, Bauer saw only an expanse of pitted asphalt abutting an interconnected cluster of ugly, graffiti-stained concrete block buildings.

Squinting through a telescopic imager, Jack scanned the shuttered loading docks and steel doors, the windows boarded up tight. He double-checked one particular entrance, with the number 9 painted on its flat steel door. Then he tucked the tiny device into a sheath on his night-black assault suit. Now that the sun was creeping above the horizon, he no longer required the imager’s thermal or light-enhancing capabilities to pierce the gloom.

Sprawled on his belly atop a rocky brown rise that separated Utopia from another dusty industrial park, Jack lowered his head behind a clump of scrub-grass and adjusted the assault rifle in the Velcro zip holster strapped across his back. He had arrived at his position hours before, moving into place along with five members of Chet Blackburn’s CTU assault team, now scattered and invisible among the rocks and low hills around him. Though Jack could not see them, he knew another tactical squad from the Drug Enforcement Agency lurked in the bluffs on the opposite side of the complex. When the signal came, the two assault teams would converge on the buildings in a coordinated two-pronged attack.

In the dead of the hot dry night, the tactical units had converged to surround the supposedly abandoned production studio, unseen and undetected by those inside. Then they waited until the sun was a hot yellow ball surrounded by hazy dust, until the arrival of the big fish both agencies were hoping to scoop up in their net.

Jack shifted position, clenching and unclenching his sweaty hands, stretching his sleepy arms and legs, always careful not to expose his position. He moved a stone that had been chafing him, rubbed his sore neck. Compared to his days as a member of Delta Force, this was not a particularly unpleasant mission. In the line of duty Jack had experienced far worse things than watching the Southern California sun rise from a quiet bluff. Perhaps it was merely his age that made his joints ache, his muscles stiff from inactivity. Perhaps creeping old age also explained why, as zero hour approached, Jack felt an uncharacteristic edginess, an impatienceashewaitedfor thesignaltomove.

Or perhaps it was the fact that Jack Bauer had to wait for that command, just like everyone else. Working in tandem with the DEA was not part of Bauer’s job description, nor did he appreciate taking orders from others. That’s why, when Ryan first handed him this assignment weeks ago, Jack refused it. Chappelle didn’t seemed surprised by Bauer’s reaction; rather he advised Jack to look first, then decide.

“Go to the briefing this afternoon,” Ryan said. “Listen to what the DEA has to say. It may change your mind.”

To Jack’s surprise, his mind was changed after the DEA briefed him and other select members of the intelligence community about the dangers of Karma, a potent new drug poised to hit the streets of America, a narcotic that had the potential to make the crack epidemic of the 1980s look like an ice cream party.

According to researchers who studied a sample of this substance, Karma was a type of super methamphetamine. But Karma wasn’t merely a powerful stimulant. The drug also induced a sense of invulnerability and euphoria in the user, sometimes accompanied by mild hallucinogenic reactions. The pharmacological experts who studied the new compound and its effects on the brain believed Karma to be more addictive than crack cocaine or even heroin.

Karma was ingested orally—dissolved under the tongue like a lozenge or simply swallowed—and the drug’s ease of consumption was an element of its appeal. Virtually undetectable, it could be dissolved in a flavored or alcoholic beverage, which made it the perfect date-rape drug.

No one knew what criminal or narco-terrorist group initially synthesized Karma, but the drug had first appeared in the streets of Eastern Europe, Russia, and the Chechen Republic nearly a year before. Karma was not available in America or Western Europe as yet, because it was difficult to manufacture. It required real laboratory conditions to be synthesized properly. Even after synthesis, the compound broke down rapidly, making for a relatively short shelf life. Complicated, well-equipped labs for churning out the stuff had to be established locally.

The upside for criminal producers was that once the network was up and running, labs would be difficult to find. No illegal smuggling was involved in the manufacturing process. Karma’s ingredients were not controlled substances; they were common chemicals available commercially. Already, at least one overseas crime lord was bankrolling the establishment of Karma labs in Los Angeles, San Francisco, Seattle, Montreal.

According to the DEA’s best intelligence, the illegal manufacturing facility inside of the Utopia Studios complex was the first of the U.S. labs to go on line. The DEA wanted to shut it down and capture its operators before their poison ever reached the street.

His musings were interrupted when Jack’s earbud chirped.

“This is Angel Three. A car’s just come off North San Fernando Road. It’s moving east along Andrita.”

“This is Angel Two. Roger,” Jack replied, voice calm.

Angel Three—Agent Miguel Avilla—was a twenty-year veteran of the DEA. Thin, wiry and acerbic, Avilla was positioned in plain sight, right outside the studio gate and across Andrita Street from the abandoned movie studio. Unwashed and unshaven, shuffling around wrapped in a dirty blanket, Agent Avilla had posed as a homeless man for the past nine days while he’d observed the activities at the old studio.

To better reconnoiter the facility, Avilla had taken up residence among a copse of twisted trees in an empty lot, where he swilled booze openly, urinated in the gutter, and generally elicited no notice from those who worked along the lightly traveled street. He also made hourly reports to his superiors at the Los Angeles DEA office—relating the number of trucks arriving at and leaving the supposedly deserted studio, and observing several visits by a well-known representative of a Midwest narcotics distributor.

On his third day living on Andrita Street, several cholos emerged from Utopia Studios and dished Avilla a pretty severe beating. They punched and kicked him while going through his filthy clothes. Not satisfied, the punks tore up the rickety shopping basket Avilla pushed around, scattering its contents across the empty lot. Fortunately Avilla was careful and the punks found nothing but a half-bottle of cheap wine, which they poured in the gutter. After that, Avilla had established his authenticity in their minds, and the punks working at the studio pretty much ignored the homeless man just like everyone else. As a precaution, Agent Avilla continued to bury his radio and weapon in a shallow grave at the base of a scrub oak.

“This is Angel Three. The car has stopped outside the gate. Repeat, the car has stopped.”

“This is Angel One. Roger that. Probably waiting for someone to unlock the gate...These goons don’t have a clue what’s coming for them. Over and out.”

Even over the headphones, Jack could hear the tension in the other man’s voice, tension masked by too many words, too much bravado. It was obvious to Jack that DEA Agent Brian McConnell—Angel One— was not yet ready to make command decisions or lead an assault team in a raid of this scope and importance.

So why was he put in charge of the tactical teams?

“This is Angel Three. Someone’s coming out to open the gate.”

“This is it,” cried Angel One, voice tight with tension. “Get ready to move.”

Breaking protocol, Jack spoke. “This is Angel Two, hold your positions. Hold your positions.”

But no one was listening. No one from the DEA anyway. Jack could see men in black assault gear and lumpy body armor rising from cover on the opposite side of the studio compound.

“Get your men down before they’re observed, Angel One,” Jack commanded. As he spoke, Jack slipped the Heckler & Koch G36 Commando short carbine from its sheath across his back, chambered a 5.56mm armor-piercing round.

Another voice broke into the net. “This is Archangel. Stand down, Angel One. Wait for a positive ID on the men in the car.”

Jack was relieved to see the men on the opposite bluff melt back into the terrain.

Archangel was DEA chief Jason Peltz, the overall commander of this operation. Late forties, stoop-shouldered with salt and pepper hair balding in the middle, Peltz more resembled a high school history teacher than a major force in the Drug Enforcement Agency with two decades of experience. Last year Peltz had moved into the top spot at the DEA’s Los Angeles office. Since then, he’d become more of a bureaucrat than a front line operative. But Peltz was savvy enough to surround himself with dedicated, competent and incorruptible veterans of the drug wars like Miguel Avilla, so his pension was secure.

If Jack had an issue with Peltz’s management style, it was that the man chose to issue orders from a portable command center hidden inside a dirty van parked a block and a half away. As Jack saw it, Peltz should have been here, on the ground, among his troops. It troubled Jack that Peltz left the heavy lifting to an inexperienced assault team leader like Brian Mc-Connell, who was clearly not up to the task.

No harm done, but the snafu should not have occurred.

“Angel Three, this is Angel One. Do you have a positive ID on the car, the passengers?”

“It’s a different car, Angel One,” Avilla replied. “I think it’s the same driver, though. There are three other men in the vehicle but I can’t get a good look at them through the tinted glass.”

“Listen to me, Avilla. I need a positive ID, pronto, or we can pack up and go home right now.”

“I’m trying, McConnell. Give me a fucking minute.”

Jack chafed at the breach of radio discipline. Communications were breaking down and Agent Mc-Connell was making the situation worse by badgering Avilla.

“Angel One, this is Angel Two,” said Jack. “I observe movement on the northeast corner of the second building. Can you confirm.”

Jack had seen a bird fluttering on the roof and recognized what he’d seen. But he wanted to divert McConnell’s focus away from Avilla long enough for the man on the street to do his job.

“This is Angel One. I see no activity in the northeast. You probably saw a bird.”

“Roger that,” Jack replied.

“This is Angel Three. I have a positive ID on the passenger. The target is in the car. Repeat, the target is in the car.”

“This is Angel One. Let’s move. Go, go, go.”

Jack burst from cover, his chukkas kicking up dust as he sprinted across the bluff and descended the rocky slope, balancing with one arm, the other gripping his assault rifle. Behind him, three more figures emerged from cover—Chet Blackburn and members of his CTU tactical team.

Jack’s feet hit the asphalt before anyone else. He flicked off the safety, then aimed the muzzle of the G36 at the steel door marked with the number 9. Feet pounded the pavement at his shoulder. It was Chet Blackburn, covering his back.

They hit the wall simultaneously three seconds later, flattening themselves on either side of the door. Already, Blackburn had sculpted a wad of C-4 plastic explosives into a donut to encircle the doorknob. He draped it around the metal lock, plugged in the detonator.

“Five seconds,” Chet Blackburn warned.

It seemed longer. Jack had pressed closer to the wall, waiting. When the blast finally came, he felt the shock ripple along his spine. The door blew off its hinges, spun away. Jack heard the clang as it landed somewhere inside the studio. The noise of the blast quickly faded. Bauer and Blackburn moved cautiously but quickly through the door. The other two men remained outside, guarding their backs and making sure no one escaped the net.

Then, from the opposite side of the studio compound, and near the front gate, the CTU agents heard shots.

5:22:56 A.M.PDT Highway 805, south of Chula Vista

Squinting against the glare, Tony Almeida slipped heavy-framed sunglasses over his eyes. Already the Southern California sun was over the horizon and burning too bright, too hot. The L.A. basin was experiencing the most severe drought in fifteen years. Down here near the border it was even worse. A haze hung over the hills from the brushfires.

But this was nothing new. Since Tony had moved to the City of Angels after his stint in the Marine Corps, Southern California seemed to be in one crisis mode after another. Droughts and the resulting wildfires. Mudslides. Riots. And the ubiquitous earthquakes.

He glanced at the TAG Heuer steel chronograph on his wrist. Nearly 5:30 with six miles to go, and traffic so thick he might not make it in time. Tony cursed, swerved the late-model Dodge truck to get around a meandering driver, nearly adding to the dents and scrapes that covered the vehicle’s exterior. The woman in the seat next to him squealed. She’d spilled some of her steaming hot coffee on her low-riders.

“Slow down, Tony. What’s the rush?”

Tony downshifted, applied the brake—not to appease Fay Hubley, but because traffic had once again slowed to a crawl in all four lanes. When they rolled to a complete stop a moment later, Tony lowered the window. Dust and hot dry air filled the cabin. Fay, dabbing at the brown stains on her faded denims, coughed theatrically. Tony ignored her, stuck his head out in a futile effort to see around a lumbering truck that filled his windshield. An aircraft heading in to Brown Field Municipal Airport roared overhead, adding to the cacophony.

Tony closed the window, slumped behind the wheel. The rattle of the air conditioner replaced the ear-battering road roar.

“Thank god you didn’t get any coffee, you’re so tense,” said Fay. “Are we late? Is that why you didn’t want to stop? I mean, we lost like two minutes at the Starbucks drive-through.”

Tony let go of the steering wheel, stroked his black goatee, a larger amount of beard than he was used to beneath his lip. His hair felt strange, too. Long in the back and bunched into a small ponytail at the nape of his neck.

Fay glanced at Tony from under long blond lashes, then looked away. She pursed her glossed lips, brushed dangling strands of curly blond hair away from her tanned face.

“Chill out, will you, boss? It’s not like we’re on a deadline, right?”

“Actually we are on a deadline, Agent Hubley. If we don’t cross the border at the right time, with the right border guard on duty, we risk the chance that we might get stopped. And if they found the stuff in the back of this truck we’d have some explaining to do.”

“It’s not like we’re the bad guys. We can tell the border patrol who we are, what we’re doing.”

“Yeah, let’s let some border guard in on classified information,” Tony replied, his tone impatient. “Hell, for all we know the guard we talk to could be the same corrupt son of a bitch who let Richard Lesser escape across the Mexican border in the first place.”

Fay turned away from Tony, gazed out the passenger side window.

Tony regretted his tone, if not his words, as soon as he said them. It wasn’t Fay Hubley’s fault that she was inexperienced, that she had never gone undercover before, never even worked in the field. She wouldn’t be doing it now if circumstances didn’t demand her involvement. Tony needed Agent Hubley’s computer expertise to sniff out their prey’s cyber trail while Tony ran down the fugitive in the real world.

The man they were hunting, Richard Lesser, was approximately the same age as Fay. A graduate of Stanford, Lesser held a Master’s degree in Computer Science. He was also one of the top programmers in his class. Not satisfied making a cool half-million dollars a year creating security protocols or designing computer games, Lesser decided his first career move after university would be to hack the computer of America’s top computer security specialists, then hold its entire database hostage. Boscom Systems paid up to protect their reputation—to the tune of five million dollars. Ultimately their own cyber-sleuths managed to identify Lesser from a piece of errant coding his “Hijack” program inadvertently left buried in Boscom’s mainframe.

Two weeks ago, Lesser had managed to jump across the border hours before an indictment against him was handed down. Since his crimes were purely economic and limited to a narrow scope of damage, he wasn’t the type of malefactor CTU usually hunted. But in the past eight days, persistent and urgent chatter had been detected between two known Central American narco-terrorist groups and an unknown cell led by a shadowy figure named Hasan. All three groups mentioned Richard Lesser by name. One of these cells was located in Colombia, the other was based in Mexico City, and the third somewhere in the United States. All placed the fugitive Lesser somewhere in Tijuana, and analysts believed all three groups were dispatching representatives to snatch him up.

The intercepts set off alarm bells inside of CTU’s Cyber-Division—Fay Hubley’s unit. After being briefed, Special Agent Larry Hastings, Director of CTU’s Cyber-Operations in Washington, told Ryan Chappelle he believed Lesser to be the most dangerous fugitive of his kind in the world because of the knowledge and skills the man possessed. Hastings felt it was imperative Lesser be captured and returned to the United States, or prevented from linking up with the terrorists by whatever means necessary. With Washington’s stamp of approval, Tony’s and Fay’s mission was hastily assembled.

On the road, the traffic began to move again. Tony shifted into first and drove on in silence, still rueful over his sharp rebuke. It didn’t help Almeida’s mood that he hadn’t showered or shaved in nearly twenty-four hours. That it wasn’t even 6 a.m. and he could already feel the heat suffocating him, the grit collecting around the collar of his denim jacket, the sweat pooling in his Steve Madden boots.

“I can tell you’re not relaxing,” Fay Hubley said, trying to break the tension.

“I’ll relax when we get to Tijuana,” Tony replied, eyes forward.

Tony Almeida would have preferred to leave Fay Hubley safe in front of her computer in L.A. Under normal circumstances, that’s just what he would have done. But for this high priority mission to be successful, Tony required the help of someone who could keep constant tabs on the computer activity of the man they were hunting, to monitor Richard Lesser’s bank accounts, credit cards, his computer use and Internet activity. No one was better at this type of cyber-detective work than Fay Hubley, CTULA’s newest recruit.

Agent Hubley was twenty-five, fresh out of Carnegie Mellon University graduate school and eager to serve her country. Instead of returning to her family in Columbus, Ohio, and taking a job with some dot.com, Fay Hubley was recruited by the Counter Terrorist Unit, where she served first in Washington, D.C., later in the Los Angeles division.

It was Administrative Director Richard Walsh who brought Agent Hubley to the West Coast after he learned she’d created a bloodhound program that could trace a computer user using a phone line to a specific telephone number, or even a Wi Fi zone. Already CTU had used her protocols to trace the activities of a computer hacker who had nearly cracked the CIA database at Langley. The man was currently behind bars and awaiting trial.

For her first undercover mission, Fay Hubley’s computer skills required the use of a quarter of a million dollars’ worth of hardware and software, now riding in the back of their van along with eye candy—several hundred stolen credit cards and a few magnetic strip detectors—there to mask their true mission.

If Tony or Fay ran afoul of the Mexican authorities, they had a credible cover story and evidence to back it up. And Tony Almeida—a.k.a. Tony Navarro, gringo credit card fraud and identity thief—had enough cash on hand to get him and his girlfriend free of any corrupt Mexican law enforcement officials.

They would face far less danger here if they were thought to be white-collar criminals than U.S. government agents working undercover. As far as Tony was concerned, DEA Agent Enrique Camarena Salazar was still a valid cautionary tale. Salazar had been snatched off the streets of Guadalajara and tortured to death by drug traffickers, who’d been tipped off by corrupt Mexican police officials.

“Look! We’re almost there,” Fay cried. “Two miles to the border.”

She gestured at the sign, sloshed more coffee on her jeans.

Tony glanced at the woman’s attire, finding it hard to reconcile Fay Hubley’s quiet, conservative, sometimes drab appearance at CTU with her current undercover persona. At one time in his life, Tony Almeida had been accurately described as a street punk. Growing up in a tough, violent neighborhood in Chicago he became tough and violent, too. Though that period in his life was long gone, Tony could still summon enough of his former self to convince the badguys that he wasone of them.But tryashe might, Tony could not imagine what hidden aspect of her personality Fay Hubley mined to create her false identity.

Over sandals and form-fitting low-riders Fay wore a scarlet, belly-baring cotton blouse with dangling, retro-1970s fringe. Sleeveless, the top revealed a tattoo of intertwined vines encircling Fay’s upper arm. Another tattoo of an elaborate dragonfly spreading its wings across the small of her back was also on display. Fay’s finger and toenails were polished bright purple to match her eye shadow and lipstick.

Last night, after the pre-mission briefing, as the pair was preparing to depart CTU Headquarters for Tijuana, Jamey Farrell got a look at her co-worker in disguise.

“Whoa,” she said, “who knew Fay Hubley was more Bratz than Barbie?”

Tony was not certain if the tattoos were real or temporary, but the mission was assembled so quickly therewould havebeennotimefor Faytoget her navel pierced—yet a delicate silver dragonfly now swung on a thin chain that dangled from the woman’s navel ring.

Tony looked away before Fay noticed his stare. Man, he thought, the quiet ones can really surprise you.

5:46:01 A.M.PDT Utopia Studios

They’d made it inside the abandoned studio, only to be stopped by a hail of gunfire. Now Jack Bauer and Chet Blackburn huddled back to back, between the concrete wall and a dumpster in one of Utopia Studios’ large sound stages. Armor-piercing rounds battered the metal container with enough force to pierce the steel and ricochet like mad inside the dumpster.

“They’re cornered. They’re not going anywhere. Why the hell didn’t they just give up?” Blackburn cried over the noise. Under his faceplate, the man’s dark skin was shiny with sweat.

“They brought guns,” said Jack. “They figured they had to use them.”

Jack hunkered down, wiped the stream of blood that leaked from his nose. He yanked off his helmet, wondering why the communicator had stopped working. He discovered that the transmitter inside the liner had been shattered by the same round that had grazed his headpiece a moment before.

“Try to reach Angel One,” Jack said, spitting crimson. “Find out what’s happening on the other side of that wall.”

Cautiously, Jack poked his head out. Across fifty feet of sound stage cluttered with movie props—everything from ornate period furniture to grandfather clocks, fake laboratory machinery, even a suit of armor—Jack saw another steel door that was still sealed. His movement attracted a short crackle of fire. As Jack ducked back behind cover, metal rounds splattered against the wall, spraying the two men with shrapnel and dust. Jack grunted. A shard of hot metal had pierced his battle suit, burning a hole into his left arm at the biceps. Jack swallowed bile, ignored the fiery sting.

“Angel One’s team should have been through that door by now,” Jack told Blackburn.

“They can’t get through,” Blackburn replied. “That door’s been welded shut to protect the lab from this kind of raid. The DEA has taken the lab, captured the big fish, too. Now they’re looking for another way to reach us.”

“They better hurry,” said Jack.

Blackburn eyed the stain on Bauer’s arm. “You know we can’t sit here and wait. We move or we die.” Then a wry smile appeared. “You know, we could go out the way we came in. These guys are only goons and they aren’t getting away. We could wait them out, or come back in with more muscle.”

Bauer shook his head. “Let’s finish this now, before someone gets hurt. How many shooters did you spot?”

“I counted two,” Blackburn replied. “One at three o’clock. Another one’s lurking over there near that suit of armor, or he was a minute ago.”

Now the man could be anywhere. They both knew it. Jack shook the shards of broken transmitter out of his Kevlar assault helmet, slipped it on. Jack lowered the cracked visor, then he and Blackburn checked their weapons.

“Let’s go,” Jack said.

They rolled away from one another, emerging in a sprint on either side of the pockmarked dumpster. Jack aimed the G36—at air. His prey had vanished.

Chet Blackburn was luckier. His man rose up from behind cover and opened up with twin .45s. Hispanic, mid-twenties, the cholo wore athletic gear, white sneakers and enough bling to open a jewelry store. He clutched the handguns in a sideways gangsta grip, too—a tactic impressive in a drive-by shooting but hardly effective in this situation.

Blackburn stood his ground as the first two shots warbled past his ears, winced when the third round nicked his body armor and tore away a chunk of battle suit. Then he fired twice. His first shot struck the shooter between the eyes, snapping his head back. The second entered under the man’s chin, blew away the top of his skull. The dead man flopped to the ground, the twitching hand pumping off one last shot, which ricocheted off the wall.

Jack spied his quarry racing across the old movie set. He raised his G36 to fire, then lowered the muzzle and slung the weapon over his shoulder. Deciding on a capture, Jack took off in a sprint. He would try to head off the youth at the edge of the set.

Blackburn glanced up from securing the dead man’s weapons. He watched Bauer catch up with the running man, seize the nape of his neck, a handful of long dark hair. Together the two men slammed into the suit of armor, which was actually a sculpture of welded steel. Jack grunted, the wind knocked out of him as the other man’s body cushioned the impact.

Chet Blackburn winced. Even from ten meters away he’d heard the sickening crunch when the fugitive’s nose flattened, his front teeth shattered against the iron breastplate.

After stumbling to his feet, Jack leaned against the medieval prop. He used plastic zip cuffs to secure the bleeding man’s arms behind his back. But before he could haul his prisoner to his feet, the studio was rocked by another explosion. Dust billowed from a far corner of the massive sound stage as a chunk of the wall blew away in a tumble of shattered plaster. Angel One, along with three other members of the DEA assault squad, emerged from the smoke.

Jack turned to face them. A trickle of blood ran down from his nose. More blood stained his battle suit. But Jack Bauer stood tall, still gripping the battered prisoner under the shadow of the medieval armor.

“Well, well,” said Chet Blackburn, teeth flashing white against his dark skin. “Here comes the cavalry, right on time.”

5:59:56 A.M.PDT Santa Monica

The sound of the phone on the nightstand shook Teri Bauer out of her sleep. She rolled over, reached across the bed. The sheets were cool, unruffled. She lifted the receiver. “Jack?”

“Teri?” The voice was male, a higher octave than Jack’s, with a British accent.

Teri sat up, eyes wide. “Dennis? Is that you?”

The man laughed. “I can’t believe you recognize my voice after all this time.”

“It was the accent that gave you away. And it’s only been a year or so.”

“Nearly two, and I’ve been counting the hours.”

Teri ran her hand through her short, raven hair, not sure what to say next. The last thing she expected was a call from her former employer, Dennis Winthrop.

“Look, I know it’s a crazy time to call, but I just got off the red-eye from London—”

“London, wow. Long trip.”

“—and I remembered how you used to wake up at four a.m. and get a couple of hours of design work done before you had to get your daughter ready for school. You always showed up at the production office around noon with really fantastic stuff.”

Teri smiled. “Oh, come on.”

“No. no, don’t sell your work short.” The man paused. “You were awake, right? I’d hate to think I got you out of bed.”

“Oh, yeah,” Teri lied. “Been up for hours now. So what’s going on?”

“Well, I’m back in town because of the awards show tonight. You know, the Silver Screen Awards...”

“Right, right. The Silver Screen Awards,” said Teri, recalling she’d seen something about the awards show on the cover of an entertainment magazine she’d flipped through on line at the supermarket.

“Did you know that Demon Hunter is up for three awards, including one for production design?”

“My god, I didn’t know. That’s great, Dennis. Really great. Congratulations.”

“Look, I know it’s short notice, but I opened my

L.A. office this morning and found sixteen tickets for tonight’s show sitting on my desk. My staff is going, the cast is going...and I wanted you to come.”

“I’m speechless. That’s really generous and thoughtful—”

“Not at all. You’re as much a part of the design as anyone else. You were involved and I want you to be there to share the glory. I’m calling Chandra and Carla, too. And Nancy is coming.”

“Nancy! Oh, I’d love to see Nancy again.”

“She’s had a baby you know. A son.”

“I didn’t know.”

“And Carla is engaged.”

“My god...”

“Everyone is getting married or engaged or having babies, it seems.” A short silence followed. “You’re still with Jack?”

“Oh, yes. You know.”

“Well that’s great. You can tell me about Jack and Kim tonight. You’re coming, right?”

“Well I ...I...”

“Say yes.”

“Okay, I’m coming,” Teri said, relenting at last. “But this thing is on television, right? What do I wear?”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something. You’ll look lovely no matter what you choose.”

“Okay,” said Teri nervously. “What time?”

“I’ll send a limousine to pick you up at five o’clock.

It’s early but the show is broadcast live on the East Coast.”

“I don’t need a limo, Dennis,” Teri said.

“Don’t worry about it. The studio is paying for everything. It will be fun. And, Teri . . .” His voice lowered an octave. “It will be great to see you again.”

Teri felt her cheeks flushing warm. “It will be really good to see you too, Dennis.”

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 6 A.M. AND 7 A.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME

6:01:31 A.M.PDT Utopia Studios

One ambulance departed with Jack Bauer’s prisoner strapped to a stretcher, while two paramedics worked on Jack. He let them strip away his shoulder armor, Kevlar vest, knee and elbow pads. He sat in cooperative silence while they patched up his arm and stanched his bleeding nose. But trouble started when one paramedic tried to put Jack on a stretcher, too. He refused, became argumentative. Finally a female emergency worker stepped forward and tried to reason with him.

“I don’tcarehow hard that helmet is,orhow tough you think you are, Officer Bauer. You most likely have a concussion and you ought to get it checked out.”

“Listen . . .” Jack checked the woman’s ID tag. “Ms. Besario...Inez. I’m fine. Really. I’m not feeling drowsy. I’m not going into shock. My vision’s fine and I don’t even have a headache.”

Her eyes were large and round and very dark. From her set expression Jack could see Inez Besario was as stubborn as he was. “You have a lump on your head and your nose has barely stopped bleeding.”

Jack smiled, touched her shoulder. “I’ll have the docs check me out after I get back to headquarters. Thank you for your concern.”

She stared up at Jack through long lashes. Then she flashed him a sly smile. “You cops are all alike. You think you’re supermen.”

Jack noticed the wedding band on her finger. “Sounds like you speak from experience.”

“Special Agent Bauer. Over here.”

Jack turned at the call. Agent Brian McConnell didn’t wait for Bauer to follow. He turned on his heels and walked back to the white van parked near the blown-out door to studio nine.

“Excuse me,” Jack told the paramedic.

She nodded. “Better go, Special Agent Bauer.”

Inez Besario joined the other emergency workers administering first aid to Chet Blackburn’s leg. Jack hurried across the parking lot. He spied Agent Avilla, tightening the flex-ties on one of the cholos who’d worked him over the other day. Finally Jack caught up with Angel One at the door to the battered van. McConnell slapped the dirty side panel twice with the palm of his hand.

“Come,” a muffled voice called from inside.

McConnell jerked the handle and slid the door open. Inside the command center, Jason Peltz sat in a chair bolted to the van’s floor. The man was surrounded by computers, flickering monitors and banks of communications equipment. There was even a small chemical lab inside. A technician with gloved hands was working with vials, testing a sample of the narcotic found inside Utopia Studios. Peltz powered down his station, yanked off his headset, and stepped out of the cluttered van.

“Good job, Bauer. And you can pass on my thanks to Agent Blackburn and his people. Through intraagency cooperation, we shut down the largest methamphetamine laboratory on the West Coast and captured those responsible—”

“Wait a minute,” Jack interrupted. “Did you say methamphetamine lab? This lab was supposed to be producing Karma.”

“It appears our intelligence was faulty,” Peltz said. “My forensics people can’t find evidence this lab was used for anything more than the production of high quality crystal meth.”

Peltz frowned. Like his smile, the mask of expression never reached the man’s eyes. “I’m really sorry, Jack.”

Bauer was angry, but he couldn’t show it. He looked at Brian McConnell, but the man would not meet his gaze. Jack didn’t know if Angel One was suffering from disappointment or guilt—which meant that Jack didn’t know if this was just another DEA snafu, or if he and CTU were being played.

Reflexively, Jack massaged his throbbing temple. “That’s a bad break,” he said evenly. “Where does that leave us, Peltz?”

Peltz sighed, slapped his thigh. “Right now, we say goodbye.”

“What?”

“This is a pretty big bust, and my bosses in Sacramento wanted to make some hay out it.” Peltz paused. “The press is being alerted, Jack, even as we speak. The cameras will be here any minute. I’ve already ordered my men out. You’d best get your team out of here if you don’t want to see the faces of your undercover operatives on the network news.”

Seething, Jack turned and crossed the parking lot. He found Chet Blackburn leaning against an ambulance, studying the bandage around his leg.

“Assemble your team and get them out of here. The press is on its way.”

Blackburn blinked. “That was fast.”

Bauer looked at the white van. “Someone tipped them off. I’ll ride back to headquarters with you.”

“Don’t you want to say hello to your old pal first?”

Jack turned. Chet was grinning. Behind him a man leaned against a blue, late-model Lexus. About the same age as Jack, he wore khaki pants and a polo shirt. His arms and face were deeply tanned under light brown, thinning hair.

“Frank! Frank Castalano.” Jack grabbed the man’s hand.

“Good to see you, Jack.” Castalano slapped his arm and Jack winced. “In the shit again, eh?”

“As I recall, Frank, you were never far from the stink yourself.”

Chet sniffed the air. “I don’t smell any stink on him, Jack. He sure isn’t kicking down doors anymore. All this heat and he hasn’t even broken a sweat.”

Jack grinned. “That’s because he’s Detective Frank Castalano of the Los Angeles Homicide Bureau now. So what are you doing here, partner?”

Frank caught Jack’s eye. “Actually, I wish this were a social call, but it’s not.”

“Chet, you can go ahead back to headquarters and file your report,” said Jack. “I’ll find my own way back.”

Blackburn had caught the exchange. Now he was feeling the chill. “Okay then,” he said “It was nice seeing you, Frank. Keep in touch.”

After Chet and the rest of his tactical assault team piled into a black CTU tactical van and drove away, Detective Castalano opened the passenger side door of his Lexus.

“Let’s go for a ride, Jack.”

“Am I under arrest?”

Frank laughed, moved to slap Bauer’s arm again then checked himself. “Thirty minutes of your time, Jack. That’s all I ask. Then I’ll take you home. You still live in Santa Monica, right?”

6:23:44 A.M.PDT Tijuana, Mexico

They’d made it to the border crossing on Route 5 with seconds to spare. Tony eased the van through the second gate from the right, as per his briefing. The border guard recognized the car and Tony’s disguise and waved the van right through the checkpoint.

The area around the border crossing resembled a war zone, with layers of chain link fences topped by curls of barbed wire, blades glinting in the sun. No plants grew in this no-man’s land. The only movement were the tiny tornadoes of dust that swirled over the scorched stretch of rocky desert.

Along the last few miles, they’d seen more and more bilingual signs. Now everything—the road signs, the advertisements, everything—was in Spanish. Tony steered the van to the bridge. They really weren’t in Tijuana until they crossed the Tijuana River Canal. Because of the drought, the “river” more resembled a muddy creek, and the entire town seemed to be coated with a fine, powdery dust.

Tony rolled down the window to pass a slow moving truck. Fumes filled the cab and Fay’s nose curled. “Somebody ought to Midasize it.”

“That’s leaded gasoline. It’s legal down here. Get used to it,” said Tony.

On the other side of the river, Tony drove a few blocks through a market area, then turned onto Revolucion. Though early, some of the bars and restaurants were open for business. Already the food carts were filling the hot dry morning with the smell of burned charcoal and seared meat.

“Is the whole town like this?” Fay asked.

“This is the tourist area.”

She smiled knowingly. “I get it. This is the sleazy part of town.”

“No. This is the nice part.”

Tony stayed on Revolucion, right through Centro—Tijuana’s downtown—until the avenue ended. He turned left at Amacusac, then made another left on winding Murrieta. On Juan Escutia Tony pulled up in front of a three-story brick building with rickety balconies fronting the structure on the second and third floors. The sign above the single door read la hacienda. Tony cut the engine.

“We’re here,” he said. He released his seatbelt. Fay Hubley reached for the door handle. Tony stopped her.

“Remember your instructions. Use first names only, but remember your cover. I’m Tony Navarro. You’re Fay Kelly. Best not to get into any conversations, and don’t look anyone in the eye. And remember, if we get separated or if something happens to me—”

“Go directly to the United States Consulate and tell them who I am.”

Tony nodded. “All right. Let me activate the security system, and we’ll go.”

He reached under the dash, to a small laser lens hidden under the upholstery near his left foot. Tony flatted his thumb against the glass eye, pressed. His thumbprint verified, Tony heard a beep resembling a seatbelt warning tone. That sound told him a half-dozen devices had been activated, making the van impenetrable and immobile. The engine was impossible to start, even if the ignition was bypassed, and the wheels locked with a built-in system that worked like a traffic cop’s car boot. Even a tow truck would have trouble hauling the van away

While Tony secured the vehicle, Fay stared through the tinted windshield at the neighborhood. The area was mostly composed of ramshackle two- and three-story wooden or brick buildings. Single-story shops were squeezed between more durable buildings, mostly produce markets and food stalls. Laundry waved like banners from dirty ropes strung between the buildings. The few trees Fay could see were brown from the persistent drought.

“God, I can’t believe we’re staying here.”

Tony understood the woman’s jitters. This was the first time Fay Hubley was doing field work, and she wasn’t technically even a field agent. Her training was limited to several briefings in the past twenty-four hours. And on top of that, Fay Hubley probably had never even walked into a dive like La Hacienda, let alone spent the night there.

“Look. I’ve stayed at this inn before. It’s not as bad as it looks,” Tony told her in a tone meant to be reassuring. “I’m recognized here, but not known. No one should mess with us. We’ll be fine.”

Outside, the heat hit them like a hammer. It was already close to one hundred degrees, and the day would only get hotter. Gas fumes and cooking smells filled the air, mingling with the ever-present dust. As soon as they exited the vehicle, the pair was mobbed by nearly a dozen children—beggars. Tony moved through the horde as if he were wading through the surf. Fay grinned at the children, and Tony shot her a warning look.

“Ignore them,” he barked. “And the flower girls over there, too. They’re probably pickpockets.”

“What is this, Oliver Twist?”

“You’re not in Kansas anymore.”

“I’m from Ohio, Tony. I told you I’m from Ohio.”

“Forget it.”

Tony led the way as they pushed through a flyspecked screen door. Fay heard a persistent and angry buzzing, looked up. Her nose wrinkled in disgust when she saw a long strip of orange flypaper covered with writhing black bodies. The pest strip was dangling above her head. Fay hurried through the door.

It was ten degrees cooler inside La Hacienda’s small lobby. The floor consisted of multicolored tiles, some of them chipped and stained. The peeling walls were pale blue, a large ceiling fan turned in lazy circles high above them, and near the door sat several empty chairs, newspapers scattered on the floor around them.

Tony stepped up to a wooden partition covered with scratched green Formica. A door opened, and a young man greeted them in Spanish. Tony replied in kind. Tony booked the room, paid in U.S. dollars, and signed the registry. Then they climbed a flight of shabbily carpeted stairs to the second floor. At the top of the steps, a portrait of Mexican President Vicente Fox grinned at them beneath the flag of Mexico.

“Room six, here we are.”

Tony turned the key, pushed the door open.

The room wasn’t as bad as Fay feared it would be. Two curtained windows, a dresser, a small battered desk, two rickety-looking beds, a lumpy armchair, and a telephone. A tiny bathroom next to a walk in closet. Enough room for a shower but not a bathtub.

The room was hot and stuffy. Fay opened the heavy curtains to find the windows were barred. She reached around the iron barrier and unlocked the window, but she could only slide it open about six inches before a security bolt stopped her.

Tony dropped his backpack on the bed near the window. The springs squeaked like irritated mice. He opened the curtain blocking the other window, found the air conditioner. It rattled so much when he flipped it on, he thought it might fall out the window. But the unit soon settled down and began pumping outcoolair.

“Fay, start setting up. I’m going back down to the truck to bring up the rest of the equipment. When I get back, we’ll contact CTU—we’re going to need an update on Lesser’s activities over the past four hours before we can start our operation here.”

6:54:23 A.M.PDT Beverly Hills

Detective Castalano drove southeast on north San Fernando Road, toward Fletcher Drive, then headed south on California Route 2. Traffic was heavy already, and the going was slow. The police radio inside the Lexus crackled once. Frank turned it off.

“It must be nice, living so close to the ocean,” Castalano said. “Do much surfing these days?”

Jack Bauer shook his head. “Nah. Too busy with work. The family. Been teaching Kim to surf, though. Sometimes she even pretends to enjoy it.”

Castalano chuckled. “Yeah, family time can be far more complicated than the job. How’s Teri?”

“Itching to get back to work, full time. That’s fine with me, but she’s not having much luck finding work that suits her. How’s Rachel, and Harry?”

“Rachel’s great, still teaching. Harry’s twelve now and a holy terror. Second year in Little League—”

“No kidding?”

“The team sucks, they haven’t won a game yet but he loves it. Nat Greer is the coach. You remember Nat?”

“Sure. How’s he like retirement?”

“Forced retirement due to injuries. He’d be the first to clarify that, which tells you all you need to know about how Nat’s enjoying his golden years.”

Castalano merged onto U.S. 101, heading north. Traffic was thick, but moving.

“I would ask you if you missed the excitement of the old days, Jack, but I can see your life is still full of thrills. What was going on back there on Andrita Street?”

“My agency was working with the DEA on a drug bust. It will be all over the evening news, apparently.”

“Still kicking down doors.”

Jack stared at the road ahead, rubbed his temple. “When I have to.”

“I always got the impression the LAPD was holding you back,” Castalano said. “Too many drills, too many training sessions, not enough real-time action. The rest of us were humping to keep up with the training, the missions—shortchanging our families and burning our candles at both ends. Meanwhile you were bored.”

“I was younger then.”

The traffic stopped moving suddenly. Castalano braked and the Lexus rolled to a halt. The detective turned to face Jack.

“Nat Greer told me you were always a thrill seeker. Says you were a biker, a surfer, back in high school. before the military. He said you got into some secret shit, too. Special ops stuff.”

“Nat talks too much.”

Castalano swerved onto the Sunset Boulevard ramp. Traffic was lighter off the highway, and moving pretty steadily along Sunset. The sun beat through the tinted windows. Jack’s head began to throb and he was tired of banalities. “Where are we going?” he asked.

Castalano answered Jack’s question with one of his own. “Do you ever work freelance these days, Jack? Private detective or consulting work, maybe? Special work for some corporation?”

“No. That’s impossible with the job I do now.”

“I knew you guys do spooky stuff at CTU. I didn’t figure there’d be much opportunity for moonlighting.”

Jack was unable to mask his impatience any longer. “Look, Frank, what the hell is this about?”

Castalano’s face was grim, eyes straight ahead. They were climbing the hills now, on a winding road. “I can tell you what this is about, Jack. But it’s better if I show you. And I can do that in another minute or two. We’re almost there.”

Near the crest of a hill, Frank made a sharp right turn. The Lexus pulled into a narrow driveway fairly well masked by the trees around it. Despite the drought, the lawns, the trees were greener, more lush up here.

“We’re in Beverly Hills,” said Jack.

Though the driveway continued on, Frank rolled up to circular-stone structure not much larger than a freestanding garage. The Lexus stopped under an arch, where a small wall fountain trickled. In the cool shade, Frank cut the engine while Jack studied his surroundings.

The building had a large glass door behind a cast iron gate. The gate was wide open, the door ajar. Farther along the driveway, Jack spied several other vehicles huddled together under a copse of spreading eucalyptus trees—two unmarked police cars, two ambulances, and a black crime scene van. Jack also noticed a tan Rolls-Royce convertible with the top down. Except for a plainclothes detective loitering around and trying to look nonchalant, no one else was in sight. All of the vehicles were deep enough inside the grounds to be invisible from the road, and Jack thought that was intentional. The authorities were deliberately trying to hide something.

“Have you ever heard of Hugh Vetri?” Frank asked.

The name jogged something in Jack’s memory. “Maybe. Should I know him?”

“Let’s go,” said Frank. “I’ll introduce you.”

As they climbed out of the car, a member of the LAPD Crime Scene Unit came through the glass door. The man saw Frank with a stranger and frowned. He approached, handed them both latex gloves.

“We’re finished in the bedroom and the study. We’re working on the nanny’s room now,” the forensics man told Castalano. “But I still don’t want anyone going in there who doesn’t have to.”

“We’ll make it quick,” Castalano replied. The other man had more questions so he and the detective huddled for a few minutes. Not wishing to eavesdrop, Jack moved a discreet distance away, pulled on the gloves. The morning sun was already scorching, even in the cool shade. Jack massaged his forehead, squeezed his eyes shut to block out the glare for a moment. Finally, Castalano broke away from the other man, waved Jack through the door.

A moment later, Jack found himself in an air-conditioned glass-enclosed entranceway which housed a wide staircase made of a single steel beam stacked with marble stairs. Hugh Vetri’s mansion had been constructed vertically, down the side of the hill. Each of its three glass-fronted stories shared a spectacular view of the valley below, already swathed in haze and smog.

“Down here, Jack.”

Castalano led Jack down the curved staircase. Modern art and hanging sculptures dominated the walls, the ceiling. The lamps, the furniture resembled the art; it was all made of cold steel, glass and chrome. When they arrived on the first level, Jack heard many voices. The tone was professional, but their voices muted, respectful, whispered. That’s when Jack knew someone had died in this place.

“Who is this Hugh Vetri?” Jack asked, his professional instincts aroused. “A movie star or director?”

“Vetri’s an independent producer,” Castalano replied. “A couple of years ago he made some fantasy movie that turned into the blockbuster of the year. He’s about to release the sequel, or he was.”

“Was?”

Castalano halted in front of an ornately carved oaken door, pushed it open. “Meet Hugh Vetri.”

The smell hit Jack first. Spilled blood, emptied bowels and bladder—the stink of the abattoir. His eyes followed a trail of clotted brown blood that led to a large oak desk. A man was sprawled across it, arms and legs out, like a frog on a dissecting table. Leather belts and silk ties had been used to bind the man’s wrists and ankles, and like some biological specimen, the victim had been eviscerated. Ribbons of entrails lay scattered across the room. On the floor, a chunk of the man’s liver gleamed dully in the sunlight streaming through the glass wall. The organ lay amid the scattered contents of the desk top—only the corpse and a computer monitor remained on the oak surface. The computer was running, on the monitor a screensaver with an ocean view played in an endless loop.

Jack tamped down his revulsion enough to study the corpse without touching it. Of particular interest was the positioning of the body, the binding wounds on the arms and legs, the bright bruise on the cheek, under the right eye. Most revealing was the expression on the dead man’s face—one eye open, the other closed, mouth gaping and blood flecked, tongue black and distended. This man’s death was deliberately prolonged. He’d experienced hours of torture before being released.

Detective Castalano broke the silence. “His wife, Sarah, is in the master bedroom. Her throat was cut. Vetri’s daughter is in the bathhouse. Whoever did this found her while she was taking a midnight swim. She was the first to die, but it was mercifully quick, unlike this poor bastard.”

“Anyone else?” Jack’s voice was brittle.

“The live-in nanny and an infant son. They’re both in the nursery. Want to see those crime scenes?”

“No.”

“That’s smart. Their murders were savage enough, Christ knows. But whoever did this saved their real fury for Hugh Vetri.”

“How did the murderer get in?”

“That’s the funny part,” Castalano replied. “The alarm company says the alarm was activated at eight p.m., then turned off again around midnight. The code was used. Whoever did this may have been an insider. We’re checking out that angle now, along with some others.”

Castalano glanced at the corpse, looked away. “It’s like fucking Charles Manson all over again. I thought hippies were extinct.”

Jack began to back out of the room. Castalano caught his arm. “Sorry. There’s more you have to see, Jack.”

The detective crossed the room to the computer still sitting on the corner of the desk. The keyboard had been knocked on the floor, but the wireless mouse was lying on its pad near the dead man’s head.

“Hugh Vetri was using his computer when he was murdered,” Castalano said. “He was viewing the information from a CD-ROM.”

Using a gloved hand, Castalano reached out and touched the wireless mouse. The screensaver vanished and the computer jumped to the last file on display. Jack stifled a shocked gasp when his own face appeared.

To go with the picture there was an accurate profile of Jack, complete with the names of his family members, his home address, and all of his numbers, including his home phone, his cell, and the office telephone at CTU Headquarters. Jack leaned closer to the monitor. On second glance, it appeared this file came right out of CTU’s own database.

“Where did Hugh Vetri get this information?”

Castalano shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe the experts can tell us both, once they data mine the dead man’s hard drive.”

Jack studied the monitor. “Who found the bodies?”

“We’re thinking the killer called it in,” Castalano replied. “911 received an anonymous tip five hours ago. We’ve got some leads; the call came from a pay phone and we traced it. Nothing definitive yet, though.”

There was a pause. “Jack. I have to ask you this.”

Jack nodded. “Shoot.”

“Do you know any reason why Hugh Vetri would be interested in you or any member of your immediate family?”

“Not a clue,” Jack replied.

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 7 A.M. AND 8 A.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME

7:05:11 A.M.PDT La Hacienda Tijuana, Mexico

Tony dragged the remaining backpack out of the cargo bay, set it on the hot pavement. Music blared on the street. Not a traditional Mexican ballad or even brassy mariachi music—just raucous urban hip-hop chanted in Spanish. Men, old and young, headed to jobs or to look for work. Children traipsed off to school in groups, darting among the cars as they raced across the crowded streets, while stalled traffic continued to pump noxious fumes into an already smog-choked atmosphere.

The back of the van was empty now. This would be Tony’s final trip. Upstairs, Fay Hubley had already gotten the satellite interface up and running. The computer system would be next.

Before he closed the driver’s side door, Tony considered pocketing one of the two Glock C18s hidden in a secret compartment in the floor—then changed his mind. Guns were trouble and the fugitive they hunted wasn’t prone to violence. Tony hoped he could get through this mission without resorting to weapons.

He was almost finished when he suddenly felt his sweat-dampened skin prickle. Someone was observing him. He could feel it. Without looking up, he reset the van’s security system and slammed the door. While adjusting the backpack on his shoulders, Tony casually glanced around. A policeman leaned against a squad car on the opposite side of the street. His gray uniform appeared crisp, despite the melting heat; his face was impassive, unreadable; his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses.

Tony considered the possibilities. He could be eyeing the van for towing later. Though the vehicle was legally parked, auto extortion was common enough in Tijuana, especially cars with U.S. license plates. Vehicles disappeared only to be returned after a hefty “towing fee” was paid to the policia.

On the other hand, the guy could be watching out of natural curiosity, the need to know what’s happening on his beat. Tony hoped it was the latter. Among other things, the CTU pre-mission briefing reminded him and Fay that criminal gangs did, on occasion, kidnap Americans and hold them for ransom. Corrupt police had been known to get a piece of that action as well.

With a final yank on the strap, Tony circled the van and walked through the doors of La Hacienda. With every step he could feel the cop’s eyes boring into his spine.

Back in room six, things seemed suddenly cluttered. Several laptop computers, interconnected with a small server to form a network, were now spread out across the small desk and one of the two beds. Lights blinked and disk drives whirred, but Fay was nowhere in sight. Tony saw the closed bathroom door and heard water running. He peeled the pack off his shoulder and set it down next to five others just like it—all empty now.

With a tired groan Tony sank into a lumpy chair and pulled off his boots. Leaning into the seat, Tony crossed his arms, propped his legs on the edge of the laptop-covered bed and closed his eyes. The persistent rattle of the air conditioner had nearly lulled him into sleep when he heard the bathroom door open. Fay bounded out in a cloud of steam, swathed in nothing more than a towel. Her hair was pinned up and she smelled of citrus. Tony shifted position to let her pass, uncomfortable with the woman’s choice of attire—or lack thereof.

“Any word on Lesser?” Tony asked.

Fay sat down on the edge of the bed, across from Tony, and crossed her long legs. “He hasn’t logged onto the Internet yet, but we’re watching for him,” she replied. “Of course, Richard Lesser may have some fake identities, servers and accounts we don’t know about, but he can’t launch any attacks without using his signature protocols, and when he does that we’ve got him.”

As she spoke Fay undid her hair. Blond locks tumbled down around her pale shoulders. Though she clutched the towel to her breasts, the terrycloth had dipped low enough for Tony to see the dragonfly tattoo on her lower back. He looked away, his gaze settling on the computers scattered all over the hotel room.

“Back at CTU, your boss Hastings said you required a half-million dollars worth of stuff to find Lesser,” said Tony. “But all I see are a few laptops, a server, a satellite hookup, and some network connections.”

Fay laughed. “Most of the expensive stuff is back at CTU,” she told him. “I’m sure Hastings was talking about the cost of allocating all of CTU’s resources for a single manhunt. This stuff here just interfaces with the systems and protocols running back at CTU’s cyber division.”

Tony leaned forward, glanced at one of the monitors. Data scrolled along the flat screen. Though he was hardly a novice, Tony could make no sense of the information being displayed.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Well,” said Fay, sliding across the bed to the largest monitor. “As you know, originally CTU used two separate computer systems to gather intelligence information. One system mined data from unclassified but secure sources—credit card companies, airline logs, banking records, state and federal bureaus, chemical supply stores, stuff like that. Since your average terrorist lives in the real world, they have to do everyday things like eat, buy things, go places, work at jobs and pay the rent. By utilizing an algorithm similar to the mathematical model employed by Able Danger—”

Tony rubbed the black stubble along his jawline, scratched his new goatee. “You’re talking about the clandestine DOD project to hunt al-Qaeda?”

“That’s the one. By using a similar system, algorithms and protocols, CTU has had some success in locating and capturing terrorists within our borders.”

“Using CTU’s random sequencer, right?”

Fay nodded. “We also have a second system which mines data, but this one collects its intelligence from closed, or even classified sources. With it CTU can access private accounts, trace secured transactions, search classified CIA and DOD files, the State Department and Commerce Department files, telephone logs, corporate computers, secure medical data—even Interpol files. In the case of Richard Lesser, we’re running protocols that will even let us know if he phones his bank for a balance. Any electronic activity at all will show up on our radar.”

“That still doesn’t tell me what you’re up to with this setup.”

Fay tossed long blond curls over her shoulder. “Using the random sequencer, I’ve managed to set up a third system. This one mines data from the World Wide Web, all of it—including a lot of stuff once considered secure.”

“What, like a super search engine?”

Fay grinned, her pride evident. “More like a super bloodhound. Once I know who I’m looking for, what computer, server or ISP is being used, then my program and CTU’s mainframe working in tandem with my magic fingers will hunt them down.”

Tony was skeptical. “How close can you get?”

“From this laptop I can trace a subject’s activity to a specific server, then on to a specific phone number or Wi Fi zone. If I’m on top of my game—which is, like, always—no matter how many times Lesser washes his system or tries to cover his tracks, he’s mine. With the warrant we have, I can legally access all kinds of data that the government was barred from collecting before.”

Tony folded his arms. “Funny how extending the RICO Act makes some people crazy. But if we can use these laws to prosecute drug dealers, why not apply the same laws to stopping terrorists, too?”

“Yeah, strange how no one complains about the IRS knowing every single financial transaction a citizen makes in a given year, but knowing what book a suspect borrows from the library is suddenly a problem.”

“It’s the theoretical versus the real world,” said Tony. “Most people aren’t lying awake at night worrying whether the Feds know what book they borrowed from the library. They’re worried red tape is going to prevent the government from failing to stop a terrorist attack like Beslan, or Bali, or London.”

Fay fumbled with one of the laptops, almost losing her towel. “Here, check this out.”

She rose, tiptoed over to Tony and set the portable PC in his lap. Fay moved behind him, leaned over his shoulder to point at the screen. He could feel her breasts pressing against his shoulder, long hair tickling his nose.

“Richard Lesser has two other identities that we know of, only he doesn’t know we know because he thinks he’s covered his tracks. Those identities are represented by these two graphs right here. Of course, he might just use his real name—he’s not a fugitive down here, so I’ve covered that with this box right here...As you can see, there’s no activity yet, from any of the three protocols CTU is running, but it’s only a matter of time.”

“Time?”

“Remember what I said about living in the real world,” Fay replied. “Sooner or later, Richard Lesser is going to write a check, withdraw cash from one of over a dozen accounts, use a credit card, or turn on his computer. I’ll trace the activity back to the point of origin and we’ll know where he is—or where he was in the past thirty minutes or so, anyway.”

Tony rubbed his stiff neck. “I’m impressed.”

Fay brushed Tony’s short, newly grown ponytail aside, moved her hands over his neck and shoulders, kneading his aching muscles. He allowed the intimacy for a minute—mainly because it felt so damn good.

Finally, Tony leaned forward, out of Fay’s reach, while pretending to study the activity on the monitor. “So how do you know Lesser hasn’t launched another worm or some kind of cyber-attack, like the one against Boscom?”

Fay stepped around the chair, sat on the bed and crossed her bare legs. “The folks at Boscom Systems found Richard Lesser because he got lazy and left some errant codes buried in his invader virus. I did a little research and found out he tried a similar stunt on Microsoft when he was still at Stanford. Jamey Farrell got me a copy of Lesser’s bug from an old friend at MS security. True to form, that virus has the same code buried inside. It’s like his signature, a fingerprint.”

“So you think he’ll make the same mistake again?”

Fay nodded. “Sure. Richard Lesser is smart, maybe a genius, but he’s impatient or he wouldn’t be a criminal. He wants results now, which means he takes shortcuts. And he’s a creature of habit.”

Fay adjusted the hotel’s threadbare towel. “So what do you want to do now, Tony?...” She smiled. “I mean, we can’t go out because I have to stick around here and monitor these computers, but...”

Tony swallowed. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt Fay Hubley’s feelings. For starters, hard feelings might compromise the mission. But then so would having casual sex with her in a Tijuana dive. Bottom line, for the duration of this mission, Tony was her supervisor. Any sort of intimacy would be completely inappropriate.

“I think it’s time we got a little sleep, but in shifts,” Tony declared. “Once Richard Lesser decides to make a move, we might be busy for hours or even days. Better rest while we can.”

“You’re the boss,” said Fay, trying hard to mask her disappointment.

7:55:34 A.M.PDT Santa Monica

On his quiet suburban street, Jack Bauer watched Frank Castalano’s Lexus swing around the corner and out of sight. The hint of a breeze from the ocean, nearly a mile away, slightly reduced the scorching heat of the day, but not Jack’s pounding headache. Bypassing the stone sidewalk, he crossed the lawn and strode toward the front door of his split-level, ranch-style house.

He glanced at his watch and realized he’d missed seeing Kim. Her school bus had come and gone. By now she was already sitting in homeroom. But then, missing his daughter on this particular morning might have been a blessing. Jack touched his wound. Under a thin jacket he was still clad in his black battle suit, the bloodstained bandage wrapped around his arm. Bad enough he kept weapons in the house. He didn’t like reminding Kim of the hazards that came with his job.

Looking forward to a cool shower and a few hours of sleep, he fumbled for his keys, felt the CD-ROM in his pocket, packed in an LAPD evidence bag. Though it took plenty of convincing, Detective Castalano allowed a team from CTU’s Cyber-Unit to take Hugh Vetri’s computer back to headquarters for analysis by Jamey Farrell. Jack’s argument—that CTU could do a much better job of mining the data on the hard drive than the LAPD—was logical and accurate. But both men knew the real, unspoken motive for Jack’s request.

It was the violation. The fact that Bauer’s privacy had been invaded and details about his personal life and the lives of his family had been compromised, perhaps putting them in jeopardy. Jack Bauer needed to know how and why that happened, and what he must do to protect those he loved.

That’s why he’d held on to the CD-ROM. He would slip that disk to Jamey later, unofficially and in private, and ask her to deliver her results to him personally.

The thought that his family might be in danger sent a jolt of adrenaline through him, and Jack paused before opening the door, to collect himself. Tamping down his fears, he steadied his hand. It was imperative that his family never see the anxiety, the uncertainty, the dread on his face. For Jack Bauer, bringing home his job, or its dangers, was not an option.

After unlocking the front door, Jack stepped into the foyer and then the living room, which was empty but hardly quiet. Kim had left the television on again—that, or his wife had taken to watching MTV. He slipped off his jacket, hung it in the closet. Then he quickly tore away the stained bandages and rolled thesleevedowntocover thewound.Heflexed his arm, moved it from side to side, happy to see the limb still worked and the pain had receded to a dull throb. Jack crossed the living room and switched off the television.

In the kitchen he stuffed the bandages deep into the garbage can. A fresh pot of coffee had just been brewed. The aroma was tempting, but Jack resisted it, knowing he needed a few hours’ sleep.

“Honey?” he called, walking toward the bathroom.

“In here,” came a muffled voice from farther down the hall.

Jack found his wife in the bedroom, still in her pajamas. She had pretty much emptied her closet, the clothes spread out across their queen-sized bed, the chair, desk and dresser, the shoes scattered across the floor.

“What’s going on?” Jack asked, leaning against the doorframe.

“What’s going on is I don’t have a thing to wear.” Teri crossed the room, pecked her husband on the cheek. If she noticed his attire, she didn’t comment. Nor did she mention the lump on his head, though Jack wasn’t sure it was even visible.

“Are you going somewhere special?”

“I might be,” Teri replied. “Depends.”

Jack’s eyebrows arched. “Depends on what?”

“On whether I have something to wear tonight. Something suitable for television.”

“Oprah’s taping in L.A.?”

“Not even close.”

Jack emptied his pockets, tossed his key, wallet, cell phone on the dresser. “Okay, I give up. What’s going on?”

Teri draped a little black dress over herself and examined her reflection. “Do you remember when I had that freelance job with Coventry Productions?”

Jack moved some clothing, sat down on the edge of the bed. “The animation studio? I remember. You worked with that other artist ...Natalie.”

“Nancy.”

“That’s right. Nancy.”

Jack mind raced back to that time, two years before. What sprang to mind first were his CTU missions. Since coming to CTU, his missions had become the measure of Jack’s life. Two years ago, Operation Jump Rope was wrapping up and Operation Proteus was just launching. And at home—well, Jack wasn’t home enough to know, he remembered that much. Kim was entering her teens and the mother-daughter bond became a pact of mutual destruction.

Jack recalled that Teri was working long hours then, too. With some British animator named Dennis at an office in Century City. Jack never met the man beyond hearing his voice when answering the phone, but Teri seemed impressed with him—Jack remembered that much, too.

“So what’s up with Nancy?” he asked.

“Well I heard she just had a baby. A little boy.”

“You heard? From Nancy?”

Teri tore through another pile of clothing. “Actually Dennis Winthrop called. He was Nancy’s boss. I don’t think you ever met him so you wouldn’t remember his name.”

“No.”

“Anyway, Demon Hunter—the animated feature Coventry Productions produced—has been nominated for a Silver Screen Award. Since I worked on the art direction, I was invited to the show tonight. It’s going to be broadcast live on television.”

“That’s great,” said Jack. “Are you going to get a trophy if you win?”

“Don’t be stupid.” Teri laughed. “I worked as a freelance assistant for the background artist. I’m lucky to be invited. I can’t wait to see Nancy. And Carla and Chandra, too.”

Jack stood up, embraced his wife. “Since you might be on television, why don’t you go out and buy something brand new to wear?”

“That’s silly, Jack. I’ve already decided on the black dress.”

“Good,” he smiled. “You look pretty hot in that.”

“You don’t mind, do you Jack?”

“Of course not. Kim and I can get take out pizza.”

“Great. But don’t get pepperoni. Kim’s a vegetarian again.”

Jack snorted skeptically. “Since when?”

“Since I cooked meat loaf last night.”

“Well, we’ll have a great time trying to spot you during the broadcast.”

Teri laughed. “Don’t blink then.”

Jack sat back down on the bed, yanked off his chukkas, and tossed them into the corner. Teri walked to the mirror, brushed the short locks of dark hair away from her face with her long fingernails and studied her features in the glass.

“One more thing,” Jack said, rising and heading for the bathroom and a quick shower. “lf you do win, don’t forget to thank your faithful and supporting husband in your acceptance speech.”

Teri smiled, catching Jack’s eye in the mirror. “You and Kim are always first on my list, Jack. You know that.”

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 8 A.M. AND 9 A.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME

8:03:41 A.M.PDT Angeles Crest Highway Angeles National Forest

Although it was not nearly as spectacular as the famous Sierra Nevadas to the north, the San Gabriel Mountains and its surrounding national park had a more distinct advantage for the people of L.A.—it was only a thirty minute drive from the Glendale corridor. The San Gabriels were forested with oak, pine, and cedar and graced with clear streams, small lakes, waterfalls, and steep canyons perfect for fishing, hiking, and camping.

Several roads climbed into the 700,000-acre park, all of them twisting, steep and narrow, but the main route through the mountains was the Angeles Crest Highway. It rose steadily from La Canada Flintridge, eventually peaking at nearly eight thousand feet above sea level, before descending to an eventual end in the flat, blasted wasteland of the Mojave Desert.

Veering off a sharp curve in this highway was an unmarked road. At the end of the short, bumpy dirt path, flanked by tall pines, sat three wooden buildings, several picnic tables, a flagpole, and a half-dozen tents. This small no-frills campground had been established by two inner city churches in the late 1980s—the Lion of God Church in South Central, Los Angeles, and the Baptist Church School of Compton, a small Christian congregation operated out of a dilapidated storefront.

With a sharp cliff presenting perfect vistas of higher mountain peaks, they could give urban kids a few days of escape from the scorching heat of the city and fulfill their mission statement for all retreats: here the children could witness the glories of God as reflected in nature, rather than the sins and hubris of mankind cast in concrete; they could inhale the scents of plants and trees instead of smog; they could listen to birdsong, while they received biblical instruction, instead of the constant assault of subwoofers in gangbanger SUVs.

Nine of the kids who’d come for this particular retreat session—four boys and five girls between the ages of twelve and fourteen—were now seated around a pair of picnic tables. Breakfast had ended, the paper plates had been gathered up, and Reverend Landers, tall and reed thin with a hide like brown leather and white hair bristling over an expansive forehead, was leading them all in a goodbye prayer.

Fifty feet away, twenty-five-year-old Laney Caulder emerged from the camp’s largest building to stand on its porch. Squinting against the morning glare, the slender young African-American woman with long hair braided into a beautiful cascade of cornrows, looked away from the yellow sun blazing in the sky before covering her head with a baseball cap.

“Sure is gonna be hot down in the city. I almost hate to leave these mountains,” Laney said.

Behind her, a heavyset black woman in her late fifties rolled out of the building on an electric wheelchair.

“It’s hot all right,” Rita Taft observed. “But I can feel a chill in the wind coming off the highlands. Winter’s coming. In a couple more weeks the Reverend’s gonna have to close this place down till spring.”

The older woman scanned the distant mountains with tired eyes. Then, using a chin control to operate the wheelchair, she circled around to face the younger woman.

“Back when this place first opened up, back twenty years ago, you could see snow on the mountains every summer—even in July. But this year’s different. With the drought and all, there’s been no snow. Not one little flake.”

Rita paused, fixed her gaze on the younger woman. “I been thinking that maybe things are better without the white powder, if you know what I mean...”

Laney Caulder nodded. “It’s better.”

“So you’re telling me you ain’t gonna need that nasty snow no more, not even when you get back to the city? Back to that world and all its evil influences?”

The younger woman shook her head. “I’ve been off the drugs nine months now, free and clear. Thanks to you and the Reverend, I found me a better way. I’m not gonna backslide...”

Rita Taft’s grin lit up her round face. “God bless you girl. Keep it up and next year you can take over

my job!”

Laney’s brown eyes opened wide. “I could never—”

“You said the same thing six months ago when the Reverend made you a camp counselor. Now you’re the kids’ favorite.”

“I sure do love ’em.”

A cloud of dust appeared above the trees at the end of the camp. A moment later the church van arrived to take the kids home. Laney glanced at the bus nervously, hesitant to leave.

Rita cleared her throat. “You have your cell phone. Don’t forget to call me when you get back to Compton,” she said. “And don’t fret. You’ll only be gone a few days. I’ll see you here next Tuesday when you come up with a fresh batch of kids.”

Laney stooped and kissed the old woman on the cheek. “Take care, Miss Taft, and make sure to remind Tyrell to recharge your battery or you’re gonna get stuck again.”

Rita jerked the chair forward playfully. “Go home, girl.”

Laney bounded off the porch and down to the bus—really a large van with four rows for passengers. Already the kids were climbing inside choosing seats. She circled around to the passenger door and climbed aboard. Thelma Layton, a mother of five with cocoa skin and short black curls, greeted her with a wide grin from behind the steering wheel. “Girl, you are gonna regret going back to that city. Hell has got to be cooler than Compton.”

“Shhh,” hissed Laney. “Watch your language in front of the kids.”

Thelma threw her head back and laughed. “Those kids don’t scare me, and they ain’t listening anyway. I do watch my mouth in front of Miss Taft, however. Once I used the F word and she whacked me in the shins with that damn chair of hers.”

Laney shot her friend a shocked look. “You’re lucky she didn’t have Tyrell wash out your mouth with soap.”

Thelma offered Laney a sly smile. “I don’t worry about Tyrell nor the Reverend either. They’re both too old to catch up with me.”

Thelma checked the passengers through the rearview mirror.

“Okay, everyone, buckle up,” she called loudly over the laughter and cries of the children. A moment later she started the engine, kicked up the air conditioner. The bus circled the camp one last time, then climbed back up the hill toward the highway.

The wooden gate was closed. Thelma braked and the dust cloud they’d kicked up washed over the bus. “I told Tyrell to leave that gate open. Where was he going, anyway?”

“The Wal-Mart in Verdugo City. Miss Taft needed some stuff,” Laney replied. “Don’t worry. I’ll open the gate.”

Shepoppedthe door andhoppedout,ran to the wooden gate and dragged it open. A few yards beyond the entrance, the concrete ribbon of highway began.

“Get in!” Thelma called.

Laney shook her head. “I don’t want to leave the gate open. Go through and wait for me on the highway.”

Thelma waved and moved the vehicle forward. Over the rumble of the van’s engine, Laney thought she heard another sound—a roar like an airplane.

Just as the church van rolled onto the highway, the muted, unidentified noise Laney heard before was suddenly a deafening roar. Racing full-throttle, a crimson sports car squealed around the corner, rushing toward the packed van for a head-on collision. Tires squealed and the vehicle fishtailed as Thelma tried to get out of the way of the oncoming hot rod. Her quick maneuver avoided a total smash-up, and the two vehicles struck with a glancing blow.

Laney heard the sound of tearing metal, saw sparks. Shards of glass rained down on the highway as the windows blew out of the van. Careening off the sports car, the van slammed into a guardrail that had already been weakened by a minor landslide. Its velocity, and the vehicle’s heavy weight, ripped the base of the rail out of the ground and sent the van tumbling down the steep side of the mountain.

Helpless to do more than scream, Laney watched the SUV roll down the steep embankment. Clutching her head in horror, she ignored the sports car as it rolled onto the shoulder of the road and skidded to a halt in a shower of dirt and rocks.

The young woman bolted across the highway, watched as the church van flipped over and tumbled end over end into a deep, tree-lined chasm. Over the crunch of metal and the crash of sliding rocks, Laney heard Thelma’s cries and the screams of the children. But when the bus finally struck the bottom of the canyon, all human sounds abruptly ceased.

Laney fell on her knees, sobbing, beating the pavement with her fists. She looked around, hoping for someone to help, for a miracle. Only then did she spot the red Jaguar. The driver had never even gotten out of the car. Now he was trying to back out of the shoulder of the road, onto the roadway. Laney realized the speeder was trying to get away.

“Stop!” Laney screamed. “They need help! You can’t just leave them.”

The car finally skidded onto the pavement. Laney saw that the driver’s side window was gone— shattered—and the car door crushed. Inside, a swarthy man in a white T-shirt with dirty brown stains sat behind the wheel, sunglasses covering his eyes. The tires smoked as the man gunned the engine, trying to speed away. Finally the wheels gained some traction and the swarthy man raced away without a backward glance.

Though she was shaken to the core of her being by the tragedy she’d just witnessed, Laney had the presence of mind to pull the cell phone out of her purse and call the police. She reported the accident, its location, and the license plate of the vehicle that had fled the scene.

It took the LAPD only thirty seconds to positively identify the vehicle involved in the hit and run accident—a cherry-red 1998 Jaguar registered to Mr. Hugh Vetri, film producer, vanity plate number FYLMBOY. The automobile had been reported stolen from a crime scene in Beverly Hills earlier that day. Within two minutes, an all-points bulletin had been issued, and a statewide manhunt for the fugitive driver had begun.

8:23:06 A.M.PDT La Hacienda Tijuana, Mexico

A single rap on the door launched Tony off the rickety bed. On bare feet, he moved silently across the floor and pressed his ear to the scarred wood. Across the room, Fay sat up in the second bed, tense with worry.

Tony caught her eye, placed his index finger to his lips.

“Who’s there?” he called.

“Hey, Navarro...It’s me. Ray Dobyns.”

Only then did Tony peer through the peephole. He recognized Dobyns at once and cursed silently.

Ray Dobyns was a transplant from Wichita, Kansas. His grifts in his home state, and in Arkansas, Texas, and California, finally caught up with Dobyns a decade ago and he fled south to extradition-free Mexico. Since then, Ray had made a marginal living by pulling off similar grifts to the ones Tony’s cover “Navarro” was supposedly running right now— credit card fraud, Internet fraud, passing bad checks.

As Navarro, Tony Almeida had had some dealings with Dobyns two years ago in Ensenada when he’d been working another case. Now Tony tried to recall if he’d given the man any reason to suspect he was more than a petty con man.

“Come on, let me in, man,” Dobyns called from the other side of the thin, battered wood.

“Give me a second,” Tony called. Then he faced Fay Hubley, “Get dressed,” he whispered, “and when I introduce you, talk as little as possible.”

Fay crossed to the bathroom, closed the door. Tony stripped off his shirt, tossed it on the bed and rumpled it among the sheets, Clad only in his chinos, he unbolted the door and flung it open.

Dobyns was nearly a head shorter than Tony— around Fay Hubley’s height. But his girth more than made up for his lack of stature. If anything, Dobyns had only gotten fatter since the last time Tony had seen him. At five-six, Dobyns had to be tipping the scale at three hundred pounds.

“Hey, Ray, come on in,” said Tony, stepping aside.

Dobyn’s face was round, florid, and freckled. Sweaty strands of short-cropped red hair protruded from under the brim of a white Panama hat. He was probably forty, but his baby fat made him appear ten years younger. Pudgy arms dangled from the sleeves of a long Hawaiian shirt, and thick, hairy legs stuck out of white linen shorts. On his wide-splayed feet, dirty, ragged toenails thrust out of the tips of his worn leather sandals.

“Did I interrupt you?” Dobyns asked with a leering grin. He looked around the room. His eyes instantly settled on the computers scattered on the desk, the floor, the bag of plastic credit cards and magnetic card readers stacked in the corner.

“Ah, I see you’re up to your old tricks, Navarro.”

Tony closed the door. “The usual thing. I’m using the Internet to fill a warehouse in Pasadena, only the stuff’s going in one door and out the other, if you get my drift. In another week I’ll disappear with two-hundred thousand dollars’ worth of merchandise.”

Dobyns nodded, impressed.

“What about you, Ray? What have you been up to?”

Dobyns removed his hat, tossed it on the bed. “A little of this, a little of that. Lately I’ve been moving Prada knockoffs north—some of the top boutiques in Beverly Hills are my best customers, too. Can’t trust anybody these days.”

“How did you know I was in town?”

“A little birdy told me. One of those official-type birdies.”

Tony remembered the Mexican policeman watching him unload. Dobyns always did have great connections. Then again, a guy like him would need protection to survive down here.

The bathroom door opened and Fay Hubley emerged. She’d dressed in a short denim skirt and skimpy purple tank top.

“I did interrupt you,” said Dobyns with a lewd smirk.

“This is Fay, my new partner,” said Tony.

Fay crossed the room, entwined her arm in Tony’s. “I’m his girlfriend, too, but he’s too afraid of commitment to admit it,” she said. Fay nuzzled Tony’s neck, gently bit his earlobe.

Dobyns’s smirk widened. “I’d say get a room but you already got one.”

Tony gently pushed Fay away. “Get back to work.”

Fay tossed her long, curly blond hair and strolled over to the desk, Dobyns’s eyes following her every move. “Lucky man,” he said.

“Want to go get a drink?” Dobyns asked.

Tony shook his head. “Anything you have to say to me you can say in front of Fay,” he told the man.

“Fair enough,” said Dobyns. “Last week I lost a shipment. Prada handbags. Fourteen thousand units—fuckin’ Feds snapped them up on the border. The goddamn line wasn’t moving anyway—”

Tony cut the conversation short. “What’s this to me?”

Dobyns’s eyes moved from Tony to Fay, then back again. “I was wondering if you’ve got room on your score for a third party. Things are getting tough down here. The gangs are muscling in on all the action— MS-13, Seises Seises, the Kings—that’s one of the things I came here to warn you about.”

Tony sighed and rubbed his neck. Fay pretended to study the monitor in front of her.

“This grift is marginal, not much left to go around,” said Tony. The man’s face fell. Tony figured it was time to throw him a bone. He placed his arm around Dobyns’s shoulder. When he spoke again, it was in a conspiratorial whisper. “Hey, listen Ray. Maybe I can cut you in on one piece of action.”

Dobyns grinned. “Speak, kemosabe.”

“There’s a guy down here, showed up in the last two or three days. He’s another con man who uses computers, just like me. His name’s Richard Lesser and he owes me a lot of money. If you can steer me in Lesser’s direction, I can promise you a piece of action.”

Dobyns stared at Tony through watery green eyes. “How much cash are we talking here?”

Tony pretended to consider the question. “I guess it’s worth a grand up front. Ten more if you lead me to Lesser.”

Dobyns blinked. “This guy must be into you big time. You got a deal, Navarro.”

Tony reached into his chinos, pulled out a thick wallet. He peeled off ten crisp one-hundred-dollar bills, stuffed them into the man’s sweaty hands. Then he pushed Ray Dobyns toward the door.

“I’ll be right here, waiting,” said Tony. “But only for a couple more days. Locate Richard Lesser and tell me where he’s hiding, and there’s more bills just like those coming your way.”

8:46:18 A.M.PDT South San Pedro Street Little Tokyo

Lonnie snapped up the receiver on the first ring. “This is Nobunaga. Speak.”

“Up and at ’em, samurai. I can’t believe you’re still at home. You’re burning daylight, dude. This is your big day, and opportunity only knocks once.”

Lon greeted his editor by name. Even if hadn’t recognized Jake Gollob’s voice, he’d have recognize the man’s style of discourse. Gollob spoke fluent cliché.

“Been up for hours, Jake,” Lon replied. “Getting ready to go now.” He pulled another delivery uniform out of the closet—this one from Peter’s Pizza—and tossed it, hanger and all, on top of a pile of shirts and overalls already on the bed.

He caught sight of his own reflection in the full-length mirror. At five-eleven he was tall for a Japanese-American. Thin, bordering on scrawny from lack of sleep and a lousy diet. Black hair askew. By his own assessment, Lon didn’t really look much different than he had during his sophomore year at UCLA—the year he’d dropped out.

“The cameras are all packed and I’m heading downtown in fifteen minutes,” Lon told his boss, “just as soon as I settle on the appropriate camouflage.”

He yanked a pair of overalls out of the closet. The tag read Pacific Power and Light.

“What do you think?” Lon asked. “Should I go with the Peter’s Pizza delivery man outfit, or stick to House Dynasty Chinese Restaurant disguise?”

“You got a Singapore Airline uniform in your closet?”

Lon paused. “What’s up?”

“A stringer for Reuters spotted Abigail Heyer boarding an airplane in Singapore.”

“Yeah, so? She’s giving out an award at the Silver Screens tonight. It’s on the schedule, man.”

“Listen, Lon,” Gollob was almost whispering now. “My guy said she was pregnant. Maybe six months or more. She was showing, for sure.”

Lon dropped the overalls on the floor. “No shit? Do you think the father’s that Tarik Fareed guy, the Turk she was dating in London? Or that Nikolai Manos guy she was seeing on that last movie shoot in Romania?”

“How the hell should I know?” Gollob shot back. “I just found out the bitch was knocked up five minutes ago. I know something else, though—”

Oh shit.

“I want a picture of Ms. Heyer on next week’s cover.”

“Jesus, boss. Wait ten hours and you’ll have photos from every wire service to choose from.”

“If I pay a wire service for my cover photo, why the hell am I paying you?” Gollob barked.

“Good point.”

“Listen, Lon. Abigail Heyer’s flight lands at LAX in an hour and a half, if it isn’t delayed. Get out there and get me a photo.”

“Come on, boss man—”

But the line was dead. His editor had hung up already. Angrily Lon punched the phone number of Midnight Confession magazine on Sunset Strip. Then an idea sprang into his mind and Lon cancelled the call.

Why the hell should I drive all the way out to the airport, get into a shoving match with fifty other paparazzi, all to get essentially the same freaking shot as everyone else? That’s just nuts, especially when I have a better way to get a picture...an exclusive picture.

Lon snatched up his bag of tricks—a large garment bag stuffed full of clothing collected over the years. Then he draped the camera bag over his shoulder.

For luck, Lon touched an eight-by-ten color glossy on his way out the door.

Lots of folks identified with movie characters. For some it was Batman, others adored tough guys like Humphrey Bogart. Lon’s hero was hanging on the wall near the light switch—a photograph of actor Danny DeVito from L.A. Confidential.

8:55:13 A.M.PDT Over Verdugo City

Detective Frank Castalano could barely hear his partner’s transmission. The LAPD helicopter he rode in was cruising at top speed, at less than six hundred feet over the city’s northern suburbs. At that low altitude, the roar of the engine and the sound of the beating rotors bounced off the ground, magnifying the deafening clamor inside the aircraft.

“Say again,” Castalano roared, clutching the headset tightly to his ears to shut out all other sound.

“I said everyone’s in on the manhunt now,” Detective Jerry Alder replied. “The uniforms, the State Police, the sheriff’s office, even the goddamn Park Rangers. There’s a ring around Angeles National Park the Rams couldn’t break through, and a chopper is tracking the Jaguar—”

“Hopefully from a discreet distance.”

“You know how that goes,” Alder replied.

Castalano cursed. It was his case, but he was losing control of it. Bad enough Jack Bauer convinced him to turn over the victim’s computer. Though Castalano knew he would get an analysis of the computer’s hard drive and history faster from CTU than from his own department, it was a double bind—Jack or his bosses could also withhold information from the LAPD in the name of “national security.”

“Christ, Jerry,” Castalano moaned, “with so many squad cars and guns around here, the odds for a capture instead of a kill are looking as bad as a Vegas slot machine. And the fucking air dispatcher warned me that word was getting out about the church bus full of kids the perp ran off the road.”

“That was bad,” Alder replied. “But it gets worse.”

“Enlighten me.”

“Nina Vandervorn of TV News Nine just phoned the chief,” Alder said. “The station has got footage of the police cars in front of Vetri’s house, the ambulances coming and going. Says she’s running with the footage on the noon news—”

“Shit.”

“We can’t keep this buried much longer,” Alder warned.

“Noon is a couple of hours away,” Castalano said, his mind racing. “If we can snatch up this asshole in the Jag, we might solve our case. Go ahead and get permission to schedule a news conference for eleven o’clock. We might have our man by then. Either way, we’ll control release of the information—and steal Ms. Vandervorn’s thunder.”

8:59:43 A.M.PDT Santa Monica

Jack Bauer opened his eyes the instant Teri’s hand touched his shoulder. He didn’t need to check his watch to know he hadn’t slept long. His hair was still damp from the shower, and his head still throbbed.

Teri stood over him, the cordless phone in one hand. “Sorry to wake you, Jack. It’s Nina Myers.”

Jack sat up, took the phone. He held the receiver to his naked chest until Teri exited the bedroom. Then he put the phone to his ear.

“Nina?”

“What are you doing, Jack?” Nina cried. “Ryan Chappelle flew back from D.C. on the red-eye and hit the roof.”

“I don’t follow.” Jack rubbed his injured arm, now stiff from sleep.

“The raid at Utopia Studios. It was supposed to be a clandestine operation. Now it’s on the morning news.”

“Jesus,” Jack groaned.

“I talked to Chet Blackburn. He told me you took off with some Los Angeles detective. Something personal. Does that computer the Cyber-Unit brought in have something to do with it?”

“Yes.”

“Needless to say, I kept those facts from Ryan. He’s angry enough as it is.”

“Thanks, Nina, I’ll explain everything when I get there.”

“You’d better fly.”

Jack glanced at his watch. “Give me half an hour.”

Nina sighed. “I’ll do what I can.”

“I owe you, Nina.”

“Yes, Jack. You do.”

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 9 A.M. AND 10 A.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME

9:00:35 A.M.PDT CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles

When CTU’s head programmer, Jamey Farrell, arrived at her workstation to start the day, she was surprised to find Milo Pressman at the diagnostics platform. Milo was a network and encryption specialist and head of CTU computer security. Snapped up by CTU just out of Stanford University, he had soulful eyes, black, curly hair, and still wore the earring he’d acquired in graduate school.

Petite, wiry, and Hispanic, Jamey was only two years older than Milo, but as a divorced single mother of a toddler son, she often felt more like a decade older in maturity. Case in point: Milo never arrived early for work, yet here he was, downloading the memory from a Dell desktop.

“Welcome home, stranger. Back so soon?” Jamey said, dropping her purse.

Pressmen sat back in his chair. “Miss me?” he teased.

“No,” Jamey declared, popping the lid on her Star-bucks. “It was nice not having a man around the house. When did you get back?”

“I took the red-eye from Washington last night. Flew in with Ryan Chappelle—first class. He gave me a ride back to headquarters with him, too.”

“Ohhh, I’m impressed.” Jamey’s tone implied she wasn’t.

“Come on, Jamey. Cut the guy some slack. Chappelle’s not so bad. Looks to me like he’s stuck between a rock and a hard place.”

Jamey waved his comment aside. “You’ve been in Washington too long. You’re talking like a bureaucrat.”

“Langley’s in Virginia.”

Jamey sipped her French Roast—cream, triple sugar—while she eyed Milo’s set up. “What’s all this?”

Milo shrugged. “Found it wrapped in plastic on the table. The directive clipped to it said Jack sent the PC over for analysis. Arrived this morning, according to the manifest.”

“You need any help with that?”

“I got it under control,” Milo replied. “Where’s Fay?”

“She’s in the field with Tony Almeida. Down in Mexico looking for some guy named Lesser.”

Milo gaped. “Richard Lesser.”

Jamey looked up. “How did you know?”

“Let’s say I’m not surprised. I knew ‘Little Dick’ Lesser at Stanford. He was a total asshole then. Called himself the Goddess Silica’s gift to programming.”

“The Goddess Silica?”

Milo shrugged. “Some gaming shit. Let’s backtrack a bit...Did you say Fay’s looking for Lesser in Mexico?”

“It’s all in the daily update. Red file seven.”

“Who’s got time to read the update? I just got here after two weeks at the Puzzle Palace, and another week spent almost entirely in an emissions-proof and windowless cave at Foggy Bottom. I haven’t slept for twenty hours. Anyway, I’ve—”

Suddenly Milo was on his feet. “What the hell? I just got an unknown virus warning.”

Jamey heard the warning tone a moment later, and nearly dropped her coffee. “Where did it come from?”

“I was downloading the memory from this desktop and my security protocols went crazy. How long has it been since the archives were updated?”

CTU’s computer security archives stored a copy of every worm, virus, spyware, and adware program released onto the World Wide Web as soon as it made an appearance. The ongoing collection and analysis of computer “mayhem ware” as Milo dubbed it was one of CTU’s mandates, and the Cyber-Unit’s most important tasks. Jamey was scrupulous about updating the system at least twice a day and Milo knew it.

“Listen, Milo...I updated the archives last night at nine o’clock, before I went home. You can see the update log right on the screen.”

“Calm down. I’m not accusing you of anything.”

“Can you isolate it?”

“W00t!” cheered Milo “I already have.”

Milo stroked his keyboard as he quarantined the virus in a secure file, assigned the data a PIN, then dispatched it to the archives. He kept a copy isolated in his own system, too, for analysis.

While Milo was hunched over his computer, typing away, Jamey lifted Jack Bauer’s directive from the top of a ball of clear plastic wrap the Dell had been swathed in.

“The virus is in one mother of a file—a Trojan horse. It’s hidden inside a movie download,” said Milo.

“That makes sense,” said Jamey. “This computer belongs to Hugh Vetri. He’s a movie producer.”

“Cool,” said Milo. “How did you know?”

Jamey waved the directive under his nose. “Because I actually read this memo past page one.”

Milo blinked. “This download. The file’s called Gates of Heaven. Isn’t that the name of a new movie?”

“If it doesn’t star Brad Pitt or Vin Diesel, I don’t pay any attention,” said Jamey after a gulp of caffeine.

9:18:40 A.M.PDT Route 39 Near the Morris Reservoir

Detective Castalano popped the door and leaped out of the chopper. His feet hit the rocky ground before the helicopter’s skids touched down. Crouching under the whirling rotors, he raced across the roadway toward a cluster of California State Police cars and Parks Department vehicles.

Castalano almost had his man—almost. The tricky part was yet to come. The roadway in front of him consisted of two narrow lanes, pitted and cracked, a faded yellow line down the middle. About two hundred yards before the roadblock, the road vanished around a sharp curve. The shoulder of the road was raised on both sides and topped with thick tangles of trees and brush. The State Troopers had chosen their spot well. It looked perfect.

Across the road, the helicopter lifted off again, kicking up dust and blades of sere scrub grass. Castalano ran a hand through his thinning brown hair, combing it back into place as he approached the phalanx of official vehicles. A California State Policeman stepped forward to greet him.

“Castalano? Frank Castalano? I’m Captain Lang.”

They clasped hands. The state policeman was as broad as a linebacker and at least a head taller than the LAPD detective. He had a sunburned hide, iron-gray hair, and deep lines around his eyes. His black boots shined like mirrors, and Castalano would bet the farm the man had scared the bejesus out of more than a few California motorists over the years.

“Can you give me an update, Captain?”

Lang steered Castalano toward an emerald-green Parks Department Hummer. Hanging out the door, a Park Ranger in a dun-colored uniform held a large topographical map of the area around them. Another man standing over his shoulder spoke through the vehicle’s radio.

“With the help of a helicopter pilot hovering out there somewhere, these two Rangers are tracking the Jaguar’s movements, which you can see on the chart,” Lang explained. Castalano studied the map.

“The fugitive was wandering aimlessly for a while,” the Captain continued. “Then he managed to find the old access road that connected 39 to the Angeles Crest Highway. Using this service road, he came to this stretch of Route 39. But the road’s been closed for years, and he’s got himself bottled up. He can’t turn around and go back the way he came—it’s blocked by a hundred police cars by now. And back this way”—Lang jerked a meaty thumb over his shoulder—“road’s blocked by a landslide.”

“What’s your plan, Captain?”

Lang gestured toward the point on the horizon where the deserted highway vanished around the curve.

“The fugitive can’t see the roadblock until he’s right on it. We have tire shredders spread out at the base of the curve. Another set fifty yards ahead of the first. One second after he comes around that corner he’ll be cruising on rims, I guarantee it.” Lang faced the detective. “If the plan’s okay with you, that is.”

“You’re in charge here, Captain Lang. All I ask is that your men do everything they can to take this fugitive alive.”

The Captain stared at the vanishing point. “I’m afraid that’s not really up to my men, Detective. With all those tire shredders on the road, the suspect’s overall health will depend on how fast he comes around that corner.”

“He’s a suspect in a multiple murder investigation—”

“I heard about those kids in the bus.”

“Not only them,” said Castalano. “He also killed a family in Los Angeles. And he may not be acting alone. I need to bring him back to L.A. alive and interrogate him.”

“Is he armed, Detective?”

“No firearms were used in the murders.” Castalano knew that wasn’t an answer. As far as anyone knew, the perp could have a fifty-caliber machine gun for a hood ornament.

The Ranger on the radio gestured for silence, listened intently. “He’s less than two miles away, coming up fast,” he said at last. “Ninety seconds, maybe less.”

Lang faced his men. “Everyone in position,” he bellowed loud enough to be heard without a bullhorn. “Get behind those vehicles. The suspect is probably not armed. Repeat, the suspect is probably not armed. Use Tasers to subdue him if you must, but no deadly force. I want this man taken alive.”

Castalano nodded his thanks to Captain Lang, studied the faces of the other men. The State Troopers were keyed up, ready to go. The Rangers looked worried as they moved behind the steel wall of vehicles.

In less than thirty seconds everyone was in position, listening. For a long moment, the only sound they heard was the winds whistling through the mountains, the rustling of trees.

Far up the road, near the curve, a State Trooper acting as an advance spotter popped out of his camouflaged position near the curve. He waved to Lang, then ducked out of sight.

The Captain touched the handle of the .357 Magnum in its holster. “He’s almost here,” Lang warned in a voice like muted thunder.

The roar of the Jaguar’s high-performance engine rapidly rose in volume and lowered in pitch, a blur of chrome and crimson raced into view. Then came the explosive blast as the two front tires blew at the same instant. Castalano winced, fearing for a moment that some trigger-happy State Trooper had opened fire. Two more sharp pops followed, and the Jag dropped to the cracked concrete. Shredded rubber rolled free, and the engine’s rumble was replaced by a terrible scraping squeal. Sparks erupted as the undercarriage hit the pavement. The Jag fishtailed, leaning so far to one side that Castalano thought the hurling steel projectile would flip over. Instead, the vehicle careened into the raised shoulder of the road, to slam to a halt in a cloud of dust and a shower of sparks and rocks.

Feet instantly pounded the ground. Castalano followed the State Troopers as they burst from cover and ran toward the car. The first helmeted trooper who reached the Jag extended his arms, aiming a Taser with both hands.

The passenger side door swung wide. A chunk of chrome clanged to the ground.

“Do not move!” the Trooper cried. “Keep both hands on the steering wheel and remain seated or I will shoot.”

Castalano was still fifteen feet away when he saw a figure leaping out of the shattered automobile like a wolf vaulting toward its prey. The Trooper fired the Taser. It struck the man squarely in the chest, but the momentum of the driver’s attack carried both men to the ground. That’s when Castalano saw the driver’s teeth buried in the State Trooper’s neck, blood rapidly pooling on the weathered roadway.

Detective Castalano drew his service revolver, his vow to capture the man alive forgotten in the savagery of the attack. A wall of State Troopers closed around the thrashing men on the ground, more Tasers flashed. Castalano saw pops and sparks, heard a sharp cry of anguish. The stench of ozone stung his nostrils, mingling with a raw smell of sweat, the metallic stench of blood. Sharp copper tips pierced flesh, electricity crackled and the suspect jerked and howled, yet continued to fight.

Castalano pushed through the wall of muscle and black leather. His foot came down on the pavement and he slipped in a pool of blood—the Trooper’s carotid artery had been ripped open. Twitching, eyes wide in astonishment, the man poured his life on the ground while the maniac tore at him. Finally a booted foot crashed down on the back of the attacker’s head. The man grunted, went limp. Captain Lang followed with a second kick that sent the blood-soaked fugitive rolling off the Trooper and across the concrete. The other Troopers descended on the struggling man like vultures, punching and kicking.

“No!” Castalano yelled, “take him alive.”

More angry cries. Someone jerked the suspect to his feet. Though blood poured from his nose and his head lolled to one side, the man was still conscious. For the first time, Castalano got a good look at the suspect. He was five-nine or ten, maybe twenty-five, Middle Eastern. His clothes, his face were caked with gore. Fresh rivulets of blood rolled down his chin, his neck. Some of it was his. Most belonged to the State Trooper. There was old blood, too. Caked and brown. Hugh Vetri?

The man’s eyes remained unfocused. Then he caught Castalano watching him. Helpless, his arms cuffed behind him, a dozen hands restraining his hands and legs, the man spat a mouthful of hot blood in Castalano’s face.

“Hasan bin Sabah! The old man on the mountain! He sees all and when he moves his hand, no infidel will be safe.”

The man spoke through battered lips and broken teeth, his eyes wild. Yet the words were spoken clearly, precisely, in an Oxford-educated accent.

What followed his pronouncement was an incoherent scream. The man’s eyes glazed once again and he struggled anew. His cries were in another language now. Castalano figured it was some form of Arabic because the words Allah Akbar were repeated many times—never a good sign.

“Get him into the chopper,” said Castalano in disgust. “I’m flying this bastard back to headquarters for interrogation.”

As the suspect was hauled away to the clearing to await the helicopter, Detective Castalano stumbled suddenly, leaned against the hood of the smashed Jaguar. Gagging, he yanked a handkerchief out of his pants and wiped the gore off his face.

He peered inside the Jaguar. The tan leather seats were brown with dried blood, but he could see no knife or any kind of murder weapon. He did notice several empty glass vials on the floor of the car. They looked like crack vials. Then Castalano saw a vial that was still full. It contained a blue crystalline substance, definitely not crack cocaine or crystal meth— he’d seen enough of both to know the difference. The crime scene unit from L.A. had not yet arrived and Castalano decided not to wait. He snapped on a pair of latex gloves, reached into the vehicle and fumbled for the vial, which he quickly pocketed.

When he was finished, Castalano looked up to find Captain Lang looming over him.

“Good job,” the detective said hoarsely. “How’s your man doing?”

A shadow fell across Lang’s face. He shook his head.

9:27:14 A.M.PDT CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles

Jack Bauer entered the conference room, clad in char-coal-gray slacks with a knife-sharp crease, a newly pressed cobalt-blue shirt. Ryan Chappelle, presiding over the hastily assembled meeting, looked up from his chair at the head of the table.

“Good of you to join us, Jack.”

Jamey Farrell sat tapping a pencil. Next to her Milo Pressman shuffled the pages of a print out. Nina Myers was there, too. She offered Jack a warning look.

“Sorry about the mix-up Ryan. I should have returned to headquarters after the raid—”

“That would have been nice,” Chappelle interrupted. “Then I wouldn’t have heard the bad news from the television report.”

“We had bad intelligence, that’s all—”

“Let’s drop this subject, Special Agent Bauer. Jamey Farrell and Milo Pressman brought me up to speed on that other matter.”

Jack took a seat opposite Nina. “The other matter?” he said.

“The computer you sent us for analysis this morning,” said Jamey. “Your instincts were correct. What we found connects up with another investigation—”

Chappelle stared at Jamey. “Are you saying Jack knew what was on this computer?”

“He reads the daily reports,” Jamey replied. “He knows Richard Lesser is a person of interest in an ongoing investigation.”

Jack knew Jamey was trying to cover for him, but he wasn’t having it. “Wait a minute,” he said. “Are you saying this computer ties in with the Richard Lesser investigation?”

This time it was Milo Pressman who spoke. “It sure does, Jack. There was a pirated movie download inside the hard drive, a copy of Gates of Heaven. I traced it right back to Lesser’s server down in Mexico. If that isn’t enough proof, there’s more. Inside of that download there was a hidden program—a Trojan horse virus.”

“You said it was a pirated copy of Gates of heaven,” said Jack. “That makes no sense.”

Chappelle spoke up. “Enlighten us, Jack. Start with telling us how and where you got this computer.”

Jack told them about Detective Frank Castalano’s visit, the murders at Hugh Vetri’s house—still not public news. He carefully left out the existence of the CD-ROM still in his pocket and the personal information on Bauer and his family the disk contained, hoping no one would ask why an LAPD detective contacted him in the first place.

“I see Jack’s point now. Why would Hugh Vetri download his own movie?” Chappelle asked.

“He knew the film was pirated. Maybe he wanted to see what the thieves really had,” offered Milo. “If he saw the pirate version, he might be able to trace it backward, to the thief who stole the digital file in the first place.”

“Or maybe he knew about the Trojan horse and wanted to stop the virus before it spread,” said Jamey.

“Any clue what this virus does?” Jack asked.

Milo shrugged. “We turned it loose inside an isolated computer. So far, nothing’s happened. The virus is encrypted too well to crack easily. We might have to reverse-engineer the sucker to figure out what it’s designed to do.” Milo paused. “That, or we can catch Little Dick Lesser. If I know the guy like I think I do, he’ll crack pretty easily.”

Jamey closed her eyes and quietly sighed. How stupid can Milo be, she wondered. And instead of shutting up, he just keeps on talking, digging his grave a little deeper with every dumb word out of his stupid mouth.

“Dick Lesser’s fingerprints are all over this program,” Milo declared, throwing his hands in the air.

“This is just the kind of crap he used to pull at Stan

ford!”

Ryan Chappelle looked at Milo and grinned.

Here it comes, thought Jamey.

“Mr. Pressman. Are you saying you know this Richard Lesser?”

Milo, of course, never saw the hammer. “Yeah, sure,” he said, nodding. “I went to graduate school with him...When I was a TA, I had an office right next to his.”

Chappelle placed the palms of his hands on the table, pushed himself to his feet. “Mr. Pressman, I’m authorizing you to take a helicopter to the Mexican border, pick up a car from CTU’s safe house and head south. I want you to link up with Almeida in Tijuana as soon as possible.”

Milo blinked. “Hey, wait a minute. I don’t do espionage. I’m not a field agent.”

“Neither is Fay Hubley. You’ll join her in Mexico, too. Don’t worry. Tony will be there to handle security while you hunt for Lesser.”

“Me?” Milo cried, hand over his heart. “How am I gonna hunt Richard Lesser?”

“You know this guy,” Ryan replied. “Lesser’s psychology, quirks, things not found in any file.”

“But—”

“Get on it, Milo. Now.”

Chappelle crossed the conference room. He paused at the door. “And Jack—I’ll expect your after-action report on this morning’s botched raid on my desk within the hour.”

When Chappelle was gone, Jamey whirled on Milo. “I told you not to shoot your mouth off in front of Chappelle. You thought Chappelle was your pal. Now he’s sending you into harm’s way.”

Nina rose, waited at the door for Jack. He waved her off, approached Jamey Farrell.

“I need to see you in my office,” Jack said softly. “Twenty minutes.”

“Okay, boss,” Jamey replied with a puzzled expression.

Jack caught up to Nina in the hallway. “Thanks again, Nina.”

“What happened this morning, Jack?” she asked.

“You mean the raid? Like I told Chappelle. Bad intel, that’s all. It was a meth lab. Nothing more. Still haven’t found the Karma lab.”

“Well the DEA is making hay over the bust anyway. I saw the district head on the news ten minutes ago.”

Jack frowned.

“Stroke of genius bringing in that computer,” Nina continued. “Nothing like a diversion to redirect Ryan Chappelle’s attention away from a major snafu. I’m impressed. You’re starting to play bureaucratic politics like a chess master.”

Jack sighed. “I just want to do my job, Nina. That’s all.”

9:56:52 A.M.PDT La Hacienda Tijuana, Mexico

The curtains were drawn, the room was dark, the hum of the air conditioner a constant, white noise. When the knock came, a single rap, Tony rose from the bed and looked through the peephole.

Ray Dobyns stood on the other side of the scarred wood, rocking on his heels. The portly man wore a smug smile that told Tony the informant had found something.

Tony opened the door. Dobyns didn’t enter. Instead, he stood on the threshold, gazing past Tony at Fay, her face illuminated by the light from the monitor.

“Hey, old buddy. I was wondering if I might have a word with you. In private.” As he spoke, Dobyns’s eyes lingered on Fay, who pointedly ignored them both.

Tony slipped into the hallway, closed the door behind him. “What’s up?” he asked in a low voice.

“I think I may have a lead on Lesser,” Dobyns replied. As he spoke, he dabbed beads of sweat from his upper lip with a stained handkerchief. “Ever hear of a bar called Little Fishes? The address is Cinco Albino, just west of Centro.”

Tony shook his head.

“Yeah, well, Little Fishes is more than a bar. There’s a brothel upstairs. They deal drugs there, and stolen goods move through the warehouse behind the whorehouse. The whole set up is reputedly run by the SS.”

SS was short for Seises Seises. A Mexican outfit named after the prison cellblock—66—where the gang originated. The SS was the most recent criminal gang to spring from the corrupt and brutal Mexican penal system. So far their activities had been confined to Northern Mexico and the Baja, but like all cancers, Tony knew their contagion was bound to spread.

“What’s this got to do with Lesser?”

Dobyns shifted uneasily. “Word is a gringo came to the Little Fishes about a week ago. Brought a lot of computer shit with him. Been holed up on the third floor of that dump ever since. Sound about right to you, Navarro?”