Jack was considering taking the Beretta and silencer attachment, too, when the phone on the nightstand rang.
Jack froze for a moment, startled into a single second of paralysis. By the second ring, however, he’d already made the decision to answer. “Hello,” he said, imitating the Albino’s dry rasp.
“It’s nama, Dubic,” a man said in Serbian.
“Jest, Dubic,” Jack replied.
“We are back on track,” Dubic continued, still speaking Serbian. “Ungar has secured a second dispensing unit from the NATO arsenal, along with an expert to install the device. I’m on my way to Newark Airport to bring them both back to the lab.”
“Vrlo dobar,” Jack rasped.
“I understand that Montel Tanner is on his way to you.
He’s going to pick you up and bring you back to Newark personally.”
“Da. I will be ready,” said Jack.
“Be careful. The mood is ugly with these men. When Dr. Kabbibi discovered the engineers had installed the first dispenser improperly, and damaged it beyond repair, the two men responsible were beheaded. I saw the whole thing. These cultists are savage animals. Worse than the Bosnians.”
“Da,” Jack rasped in agreement.
Dubic sighed. “I will say goodbye now. If all goes according to plan, I’ll meet you in front of the big bull tomorrow morning. Good luck.”
“You, too,” Jack rasped.
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Dubic hung up, and Jack dropped the phone into its cradle. He snatched his own cell from his pocket, punched the buttons.
“O’Brian here,” said Morris, at CTU’s Operations Center.
“Is Tony Almeida still in Newark?”
“Hello, Jack. Yes, he is. I was just about to call you—”
“Connect me with Tony and stay on the line. I want you aware of some new intel.”
Tony answered on the first ring.
Inside of ten minutes, Jack and Tony had devised a plan to intercept the “package” coming from Newark Airport and infiltrate the Thirteen Gang’s Crampton Street headquarters.
1:56:59 A.M. EDT
The Beresfield Apartments
Central Park West
New York, New York
The doorman admitted the trio into the marble-appointed lobby. As they passed him, he eyed the men with curiosity.
The shortest was a good-looking African-American man with a muscular build, a shaved head, and a polished demeanor—his deep blue, tailored pinstriped suit appeared to be worth more than the doorman’s monthly salary. The others were built like linebackers and looked like members of a gangsta rapper’s posse.
The black man in the suit approached the desk. “Montel Tanner to see Mr. Tobias.”
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The desk clerk smiled. “Yes, Mr. Tobias left word that he was expecting you. Take the elevator to the eighth floor.
Suite 801.”
“Thank you, my man,” Tanner said, gesturing to his comrades to follow.
When the elevator door closed on Tanner and his companions, the doorman spoke. “Gee, do you think they’re clubbing tonight?”
The desk clerk shrugged.
Outside, three late-model Cadillac SUVs were lined up on Central Park West. The doorman scanned the cars for a glimpse of scantily clad models. But the only occupants he could see were tough-looking urban males.
“I wonder where they’re going,” said the doorman.
“Hip-hop clubs probably. Funny, Tobias never struck me as that type.”
“Mr. Tobias is rich,” replied the desk clerk, “and you know the rich.”
“Yeah.” The doorman snorted. “They know how to have a good time.”
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THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE
BETWEEN THE HOURS OF
2:00 A.M. AND 3:00 A.M.
EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME
2:02:52 A.M. EDT
Eighth Floor, Beresfield Apartments Central Park West
New York, New York
The loud rapping on the apartment door took Jack Bauer by surprise. He’d just finished his phone conversation with Tony Almeida when he’d heard the knocking—loud enough to reach the Albino’s bedroom.
Jack cursed. He’d expected the desk clerk to call before allowing visitors upstairs. The knocking came again, and Jack crossed to the Albino’s armoire. He grabbed the M9
Beretta that he’d found during his search, along with a length of rope.
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“Wake up, Tobias,” someone yelled through the door.
“It’s Montel Tanner!”
M9 clutched in both hands, the rope looped over his shoulder, Jack approached the door, peered through the spy hole.
A thirty-something African American sporting a blue pinstriped suit and a shaved head stood in the hallway, flanked by two massive bodyguards. Jack could tell by the way the big men carried themselves that they were armed.
The black man in the pinstriped suit was pounding on the door. As Jack backed away, he heard one of Tanner’s men speak.
“This ain’t right. Maybe we should take down the door.”
Jack moved quickly back to the living room, stood over Tobias’s corpse. He unwound the rope, tied it to the thick leg of the dead man’s heavy chair. Then Jack went to the computer and yanked it off the table, breaking it free of its cables.
A shoulder slammed into the front door, but the stout wood failed to give.
Jack hurled the computer through the plate glass of the locked sliding door. The glass came down in a shower of crystal shards.
The men outside obviously heard the racket because they began to shout. Jack grabbed one end of the long, nylon rope and moved through the shattered sliding door.
As he crossed the flagstone balcony, he heard the door finally break open behind him.
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Gripping the rope, Jack climbed over the balcony’s railing and began rappelling down the terra-cotta side of the luxury building.
2:05:19 A.M. EDT
Corner of Howard and Broad Streets Newark, New Jersey
The black Ford Explorer stopped at the corner of the run-down neighborhood, its chrome shining dully in the glow of the streetlight. The driver’s window opened automatically.
“Yo, Hector,” called the twenty-two-year-old African-American driver. “Over here, man . . .”
The nineteen-year-old Hispanic called Hector tucked his stash into the pocket of his baggy pants, then stepped off the curb. He approached the Ford Explorer warily.
“Leroy? Who’s in there with you?” Hector demanded.
“Nobody, man, this ain’t no damn ambush. I wanted you to be the first to check out my wheels.”
Hector grinned, flashing gold teeth. “Sweet. Too sweet for you, jefe. I thought you was a customer in that chariot.”
“Drivin’ this, the hos can smell my money.” Leroy grinned wickedly. “Yes, sir. Crack has its privileges, so long as you don’t go sampling your own merchandise.”
Leroy glanced at the twitchy young Hector and realized that piece of advice came too late. “So was’sup?”
Hector snorted. “Slow night. Been a lot of slow nights late—”
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To Leroy, it seemed a shadow rose up from behind the car and struck Hector down. One second, the Latin King was talking, the next minute, Hector was bleeding, pistol-whipped to the ground by some yuppie-looking Latino dude.
The black youth reached for the stick shift to peel out, but the yuppie beaner was already on him, jamming the gun barrel into his temple.
“Get out or I’ll shoot.”
Dang, thought Leroy, this dude ain’t nothing like the Wall Street yuppies I sell to in Hoboken!
Lifting his arms, Leroy showed his hands. He was too afraid to look the man in the eyes, so he tried to check him out in the mirror. He saw dark hair, sideburns, a soul patch.
“You gotta be a cop, right?”
“How many cops would blow your head off for this car?”
said the dude. “Now get out or I will kill you. And leave the keys.”
Keeping his eyes to the dirty pavement, Leroy stepped out of the car, gingerly avoiding the body on the ground.
“Listen, man,” Leroy said, “you don’t know who you’re messin’ with—”
The gun butt struck him on the chin. Leroy flew backward, bounced off the Explorer’s door, and sank to the ground beside the other crack dealer.
Tony Almeida stepped over them and climbed behind the wheel. He honked the car’s horn twice, paused, and honked again.
Hearing the signal, Judith Foy appeared a moment later.
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“Two at a time. And you make it look easy,” she said, stepping over the unconscious punks.
Tony glanced away. “Yeah.”
The woman climbed into the passenger seat, buckled her shoulder strap. Tires squealing, the Explorer pulled away from the curb and raced down Crampton Street.
2:06:13 A.M. EDT
Eighth Floor, Beresfield Apartments Central Park West
New York, New York
Slipping a .38 from its holster, Montel Tanner pushed through the broken door. His bodyguards followed, clutching .45s that looked tiny in their huge fists. They immediately heard the sound of something scraping across the floor.
Tanner reached the living room first—and stopped in his tracks.
He saw the wrecked chamber, the broken glass, Erno Tobias tied to a heavy leather chair. The Albino was obviously dead, but the chair was moving, sliding across the blood-slick floor and through the shattered sliding door.
Tanner blinked in shock. “What the f—”
The chair scraped across the balcony’s flagstones, then jammed to a stop against the balcony railing, the pale corpse falling limply over the chair arm. That’s when Tanner saw the nylon rope tied to the chair, the other end dangling over the edge of the balcony.
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“He’s climbing down the side of the building!” Tanner shouted. “Get him.”
Tanner’s bodyguards blundered forward, jumping through the shattered frame of the sliding door, while Tanner himself stayed in the living room and hit speed dial on his cell phone.
As the first bodyguard peered over the balcony’s iron railing, Tanner heard a pop and saw the top of the man’s head explode. The big bodyguard fell backward, pitching to the flagstone floor. Tanner clutched the cell to his ear.
“Pick it up, damn it.”
“Yo,” his driver answered at last.
“There’s a guy climbing down the side of the building.
I want him— alive.”
Tanner moved to the railing, carefully looked down. Tobias’s murderer was already past the Caddies parked in the street. He’d crossed all four lanes of Central Park West and was now hopping over a stone fence. A split-second later, he melted into the shadows, escaping into the wooded ex-panse of Manhattan’s largest park.
Too late, Tanner’s men tumbled out of the Caddies below.
“He’s gone into the park!” Tanner shouted into the phone. “Go after him!”
The men drew their weapons and followed Tanner’s orders.
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2:14:26 A.M. EDT
Central Park, near Columbus Circle Jack Bauer was outnumbered and outgunned, but that didn’t bother him. During his training as a lieutenant in the Combat Applications Group—a.k.a. Delta Force—
he’d learned night combat tactics from instructors of the Seventy-fifth Army Ranger Battalion, an outfit whose credo was “We own the night.”
Now, Jack moved from shadow to shadow, hearing Sergeant Ryder’s voice in his head. Evade. Encircle. Move in.
Take ’em down.
Behind him, a deserted road ran through this section of Central Park. Jack could hear Montel Tanner’s men blundering along it.
Untrained and undisciplined, they made every mistake in the book. They called out to one another instead of using hand gestures. They clustered under lampposts instead of sticking to the shadows. Two men carried flashlights—
making them easy targets in the darkness.
Crouching between the hollow of two gnarly trees, Jack counted seven pursuers, all armed. One man had long dreadlocks streaming down his back. Another had a jewel-studded eye patch over his left eye and carried an Uzi. For a long time, Jack just watched them while they checked behind the wall he’d hopped, and the trees that clustered there.
Finally, the men fanned out, moving in a loose formation deeper into the park. Within a few minutes, they moved right past Jack’s hiding place without spotting him.
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Jack smiled.
As the men continued on, a straggler hung back, gripping his .45 nervously in sweating hands. When he finally passed Jack’s position, Bauer rose up behind him.
One hand covering his victim’s mouth, Jack slid the bayonet between his ribs and deep into the man’s heart.
The man bucked in Jack’s arms, groaned under his hand.
Then his eyes rolled up in his head and he went limp. Silently, Jack lowered the corpse to the grass, then bolted for the shadows under the next line of trees.
“Hey, over there!” someone called.
For a split second, Jack thought he’d been spotted. Then he heard the boom of a .45. In the muzzle flash Jack saw a bearded man, his toothless mouth gaping in surprise.
One gunman with a flashlight moved in, played his beam on the corpse.
“Damn it, Tyrell, you shot some bum!”
The shooter kicked the corpse. “How was I s’posed to know he was some lame-ass homeless dude?”
“The smell, bro.”
The men snickered.
Eye Patch silenced them. “Tanner wants this guy. Keep looking,” he growled, gesturing with his Uzi.
They crossed West Drive, a curved, four-lane road that was closed to traffic at this late hour. Then the group moved into a shallow valley. Here, beyond a path lined with wrought-iron benches, a baseball field was a gray patch in the moonless night. Jack continued to stalk them.
“Where’s Jackson?” Eye Patch demanded when they reached the edge of the ball field.
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The others shrugged. “Maybe he got lost in the dark,”
Dreadlocks said.
“Maybe,” the leader replied.
By his tone, Jack could tell the man was wary.
“You two, circle the field and meet me at those rocks over there,” the leader commanded.
The pair crossed the field until they were out of sight.
The other three, including Dreadlocks, headed for a tumble of rocks overlooking the field.
Moving through the shadows like a death-dealing ghost, Jack followed the trio. When they arrived at the boulders, the men discovered a narrow passage with stone steps leading to the top of a low hill. Eye Patch climbed the stairs first, the others watching his back. Then the second man entered the narrow staircase.
Before Dreadlocks could hit the stairs, Jack struck again. Seizing the man’s hair, he yanked his head back and slashed the M9 blade across his throat, cutting so deeply the vocal cords were severed along with the carotid artery.
With a gurgling choke, the man pitched forward, blood spraying the rocks.
Jack hopped over the corpse and dropped to one knee.
He aimed and hurled the bayonet at a second man at the top of the stairs. The blade tumbled end over end and struck his broad back, sinking to the hilt. The man went down, but not quietly.
Eye Patch heard his comrade’s death howl and raced back to the stairs. He loomed over Jack, a dark silhouette against the night.
The Beretta jerked in Jack’s hand; the sound suppressor C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 259
coughed. The bullet struck the leader in the forehead. The Uzi tumbled from the dead man’s grip, and he rolled down the stone steps.
Jack heard a shot, and a bullet pinged off the rocks beside his head. He grunted as sharp splinters struck his face. Jack crouched low, snatched the Uzi from the ground, and bolted up the stairs.
A second shot rang out, ricocheted off the rocks.
At the top of the steps, Jack found himself at the foot of an ornate, wrought-iron bridge. He heard footsteps gaining on him.
Instead of crossing the bridge—and making himself an easy target—Jack jumped over the railing and dropped twelve feet to the riding path below.
He landed with a grunt, his knee striking a fallen branch. Still clutching the Uzi, Jack rolled onto his back.
Above him, his pursuers ran to the middle of the span, their shoes clomping on the wooden surface.
Jack aimed the Uzi and opened fire.
In the hail of 9mm bullets, men jerked and sparks struck off the wrought-iron rail. With a double thump, the last of the hunting posse hit the wooden deck.
Pumped with adrenaline, Jack lay for a moment, catching his breath. Then he heard sirens, far away, but getting closer.
Time to go.
Jack cast the empty Uzi into a clump of trees and stumbled to his feet. Face bleeding, knee throbbing, he limped toward the brightly illuminated mid-rise apartment buildings along Central Park South.
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A few minutes later, Jack emerged from the trees at Fifty-seventh Street. Several cabs were lined up near the posh hotels, on the opposite side of the four-lane boulevard. Gratefully, Jack hailed one.
Using the edge of the Hawk’s utility vest to wipe the blood and sweat from his face, Jack climbed into the backseat and gave the Sikh driver the Hudson Street address for CTU Headquarters.
The man nodded. “Yes, sir. Right away,” he said, not at all surprised to find a bleeding man, wearing a black combat vest, crawling into his cab at two fifty-one in the morning.
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THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE
BETWEEN THE HOURS OF
3:00 A.M. AND 4:00 A.M.
EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME
3:00:46 A.M. EDT
Acorn Street
Boston, Massachusetts
Claudia Wheelock was dreaming of her two young children, scampering barefoot in front of her along the sand.
The Martha’s Vineyard setting was achingly familiar, a beloved island where her family had spent so many long, lazy summers. Just ahead was her father’s oceanfront shingle-style cottage. She was moved to tears, seeing him there again, relaxing on the wide, wooden porch, just as he had when he was alive. And her mother was nearby, laying out a luncheon of freshly made lobster rolls and sweet lemonade.
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In her early forties now, Claudia was still a strikingly beautiful woman, with a fit figure and short blond hair.
Her flaxen-haired children reflected that golden beauty as they ran ahead of her, giggling as they darted in and out of the white-capped surf. Claudia laughed, feeling the joy and luster of this moment, expecting all good things to be waiting for her and her children at the end of their little stroll—
Then came the crack of thunder.
The noise was sudden, almost deafening, and it completely shattered Claudia’s safe, idyllic vision. Another boom came, this one strong enough to shake the walls of her sister’s Federal-style row house on Beacon Hill.
Now Claudia was fully awake. For a moment, she lay staring at the ornamental tin ceiling, wondering if she’d dreamed the noises. But she could still hear the tail end of the last report. The rumbling echoed for several seconds through the narrow cobblestone streets before dissipating completely.
Claudia rose quickly, parted the guest room’s lacy curtains, and peered outside. The night sky was clear, though suffused with a strange red glow. Then Claudia heard movement in the hallway. The night had been humid and warm, and she was wearing only a flimsy tank top and underwear. She quickly threw on a short, white terry-cloth robe.
Before she opened the door, something possessed Claudia to fish in her suitcase for the item her husband had pressed upon her last year, when an unbalanced fan of her novels had begun aggressively harassing her with e-mails C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 263
and phone calls. The small handgun was there, still in its case. She checked to see if it was loaded, then slipped it into the pocket of her short robe.
When Claudia opened the door, her brother-in-law was already standing in the hallway, and her sleepy-eyed sister was peeking out of their master bedroom door.
“I think I heard a bomb going off,” Claudia said.
“A bomb?” Roderick practically sneered. “Don’t be ri-diculous, Claudia. A gas main probably ruptured or an old steam pipe cracked, nothing more than that. This is real life after all, not one of your thrillers.”
Claudia was about to remind Roddy that she wrote legal thrillers, and the only explosions that occurred in her novels were in the courtroom. But instead she kept her mouth shut, knowing she’d be wasting her breath. As Associate Dean of Humanities at Harvard University, Roderick Cannon held all works of popular fiction beneath contempt.
Besides, thought Claudia, things were already strained between them. They’d spent much of the previous night’s dinner arguing about her husband’s new job as Northeast District Director for the CIA’s Counter Terrorist Unit.
Roderick insisted on focusing on CTU’s old directives.
He kept bringing up the Unit’s supposed trampling of constitutional rights, illegal wiretaps, and alleged use of torture.
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taken the position, Nathan had abolished all racial and religious profiling within his command, made certain that his people placed wiretaps only on domestic calls to known terrorists overseas, and forbade any agent under his authority to engage in torture.
Claudia was very proud of her husband’s progressive policies. She herself had been a high-profile civil rights attorney before quitting to raise her children and write best-selling legal thrillers, and she was in the perfect position to help keep her husband’s career objectives on track, ensuring the civil rights of any suspect or prisoner were treated as a CTU priority.
The law was on Nathan’s side, too, of course, and it helped that the current Administration was in Nathan’s corner. It was only a matter of time before Claudia’s husband would be elevated to a much higher position within the Agency. Then Nathan’s regional policies could be implemented nationally, through every district and division of the CTU organization.
But Claudia’s arguments fell on deaf ears. Roddy’s mind was already made up. CTU was a useless, fascist organization that should never have been created, period.
Obviously sensing another argument in the works, Claudia’s sister Gillian stepped out of the bedroom. “Since we’re all awake,” she chirped brightly, “I’ll turn on the telly and see if we’ve had a minor quake.”
Claudia winced at Gillian’s use of British idiom. Since marrying an Englishman, she’d been suppressing her Boston accent, as well.
Downstairs, her sister put on a pot of tea while Clau-C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 265
dia tuned into WHDH, the NBC affiliate in Boston. Her timing was perfect. After a few seconds of one of those ubiquitous M*A*S*H reruns, the show was interrupted by a “breaking news” interstitial, then a somber-looking announcer appeared on screen.
“We’ve just received word here at the studio about a massive explosion in the center of Boston. It appears the blast has collapsed a portion of Interstate 93 between Cambridge Street and Boston Harbor.”
“The Big Dig,” Roddy grumbled, plopping down at the kitchen table. “A monument of excess and corporate corruption—”
“I thought the Dig was a government project,” Claudia corrected.
“In America, government and business are one and the same thing. Instruments of arrogant avarice.” He im-periously waved his hand. “The superciliousness of your American officials never ceases to astound me.”
“You know what, Roddy? You can always go back to England—”
“Here we are!” Gillian forcefully chirped, setting the teapot down between them. “It’s chamomile. It won’t keep us awake—”
Another blast, much louder than the previous one, shook the windows. Roddy jumped to his feet, sending a china cup tumbling to the floor.
“Roddy, do be careful! You’ve broken a piece of our good—”
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shards of glass. Other windows in the neighborhood had broken, too. They could hear cries of shock and surprise.
“I’m going to investigate,” Roddy declared.
“No, wait,” Claudia urged. “Stay here until we know more. This could be a terrorist event.”
“Now you’re being absurd,” Roddy replied. “Obviously your husband’s right-wing fantasies have clouded your mind.”
Outside, a red glow continued to spread over the predawn sky. Sirens wailed. On television, the news anchor’s running commentary about the troubled history of the Big Dig was suddenly interrupted when someone off camera slipped him a sheet of paper.
“We’ve just received word of a second explosion. This one at Harvard Medical School—”
“My god!” Gillian cried.
Roddy stormed off before Claudia could stop him. Both women were relieved when they heard him climb the stairs, instead of going to the front door.
“We have raw video feed coming in of the initial blast at the Big Dig,” the anchor said.
On screen, a massive hole in the center of town was spewing fire like a live volcano. Buildings around the site had collapsed, some of them burning. Though horrified, the sisters could not turn away from the screen.
Outside, a police car raced down narrow Acorn Street, lights flashing. They heard popping sounds, like fireworks going off. Then the sound of a car crash.
Roderick appeared in the kitchen again. He was dressed in khaki pants and a golf shirt. “Here,” he said, handing C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 267
a phone to Claudia. “I found your phone on the dresser.
Your cell’s been ringing nonstop.”
Claudia took the phone. It wasn’t ringing now, but she had three missed messages in just the past five minutes.
She was about to call up the latest one when her cell went off in her hand.
“Where are you going, Roddy?” Gillian cried, nearly hysterical.
“Out. To see what all this ruckus is about.”
“No, you can’t—”
“Hello,” Claudia said into her cell.
“Claudia, thank God you’re safe,” said her husband.
“Of course I’m safe. A little rattled, maybe—”
“Listen, a terror alert has just been issued for the Boston area.”
“I knew it,” Claudia said.
Outside, the fireworks got louder, and closer.
“We got the word in earlier this evening, from an un-trustworthy source, frankly,” Nathan Wheelock continued.
“But it appears the agent in question was correct.”
Roddy stormed out of the kitchen. Gillian wrung her hands.
On television, the announcer warned: “The Mayor has just issued a command that all citizens of the Boston area are to remain inside their homes. Let me repeat that . . .”
“Roddy!” Gillian cried, rushing to the front door.
“Truck bombs, Claudia,” Nathan Wheelock said. “At least two of them, possibly as many as four—”
“We heard a number of explosions,” Claudia replied.
“Now it sounds like fireworks outside—”
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“Those aren’t fireworks,” Nathan cried. “They’re gunshots.”
On the television, the anchor took another piece of paper and visibly paled. “We’ve just received another bulletin. Armed gangs are roving the streets around Boston Commons and the Beacon Hill area. All citizens in those neighborhoods are advised to lock their doors and take shelter in basements or attics—”
Claudia heard a fusillade that seemed to fire off right outside their door. She heard Gillian scream. Claudia closed the phone and bolted to the entranceway. Gillian was standing in the door, clutching her head.
Outside, someone was facedown on the pavement, blood pooling around a shattered skull. It took Claudia a moment to realize it was Roderick. Another form was crumpled on the sidewalk, a youth with long hair and a brown beard, wearing tie-dyed pajamas.
Claudia dragged her sister’s arm, yanked her backward, then shut and locked the door. Another round of shots rang out, one of them puncturing the stout oak and shattering a mirror in the hallway.
On the other side of the door, they heard shouts and screams—and more shooting. Claudia dragged her sister deeper inside the house just as someone slammed a shoulder against the front door.
Frantically searching for a place to hide, Claudia opened the closet and pushed her sister inside.
“Keep quiet, no matter what you hear,” Claudia commanded.
She’d just closed the door on her sister when Claudia C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 269
heard a crash, then heavy boots tramping on the polished hardwood floor. She slipped her hand into the robe’s pocket, touched the butt of the small handgun—but she was afraid to pull it free. She wasn’t all that sure of her aim, but mostly she didn’t want to provoke the man.
A burly African American appeared in the hall. He wore dirty overalls and a skullcap. In his beefy hands, he clutched a double-barreled shotgun, which was pointed at the ceiling. His eyes appeared wild, like he was drugged.
“What do you want?” Claudia asked as gently and calmly as she could. The lawyer in her took over. If I can just remain rational, negotiate with him, get him to talk to me, then it will be all right . . .
“I want to help you,” Claudia assured him. “What can I do to help you?”
The man blinked, his eyes beginning to focus. He looked down at Claudia’s long, tanned legs. His gaze moved upward, over her trim figure, attractive face, and golden, sleep-tousled hair. Finally, he met her sky-blue eyes.
“Please, just put the gun down . . .” Claudia urged.
Claudia held her breath, feeling a moment of triumph as he did what she asked. He’s putting the gun down! He’s actually leaning it against the wall!
“Good,” Claudia murmured on a released breath.
“That’s good.”
The man stood there, unarmed now. But he still hadn’t said a word.
“You don’t want to hurt me, do you?” Claudia cooed.
A slow grin spread over the big man’s face, the wide smile showing a single gold tooth. Then he began to move 270
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toward her, his steps deliberate, his sexual interest at last apparent to Claudia.
The lawyer’s mind seized up; her jaw went slack. She couldn’t think, couldn’t speak. Finally registering what was about to happen to her, she simply stood frozen in place, barely able to breathe.
Her courtroom tactics were useless now; but Claudia Wheelock wasn’t defenseless. Something deep inside her was taking over. Like a puppeteer, it directed her hand to take hold of the heavy item in her pocket—the gun her husband had given her. As if in a dream, Claudia felt her fingers curling around the butt.
The man reached out, still grinning, the gold tooth winking. She could read the laughter in his eyes now: Easy prey. Arrogant. Defenseless. Stupid.
His beefy hands tore open her robe, and Claudia’s finger squeezed the trigger. The weapon bucked in her hand, the first bullet ripping through the terry cloth. She pumped four more shots into the stunned intruder before he finally went down.
3:46:14 A.M. EDT
Howard Street
Newark, New Jersey
Tony Almeida peered through the windshield of the stolen Explorer. Judith Foy sat beside him in the passenger seat. The idling Ford was tucked between two chop shop wrecks, nearly invisible to anyone cruising along Howard Street—or so Tony hoped.
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“There’s the Hummer,” he announced, sitting up.
Agent Foy followed his gaze. “That’s the one,” she agreed.
Tony threw the SUV into gear. “I was getting worried.
The plane must have been delayed.” He glanced at his partner. “Get clear now.”
Foy popped the door and slipped out.
Inside the Explorer, Tony waited for the black Hummer to roll toward him along Howard Street. When the vehicle was almost upon him, he gunned the engine. Tires squealed and the Explorer lurched forward.
The crash came sooner than Tony expected. The noise was deafening. The hood crumpled, flew open. Then the windshield exploded. After that, Tony was blind because the front impact air bags deployed.
The tremendous force of the crash jerked both vehicles to the side. In the middle of the cacophony, Tony heard his front tire pop. Then all was quiet, save for the hiss of steam leaking from the radiator.
Tony used a knife to deflate his air bag. With some difficulty, he forced his door open. Judith was already next to him, gun drawn. They reached the other car at the same time, both leveling their weapons.
The driver of the Hummer, a man wearing a black leather blazer, with Eastern European features, a crew cut, and an unshaven chin, was obviously dead. Tony ripped open the back door, peered inside, then cursed.
Judith pushed Tony aside and looked in the backseat.
Neither the driver nor his passenger had been wearing a seatbelt. Judith Foy touched the woman’s throat.
“She’s dead,” Foy declared.
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“So is our plan,” grunted Tony.
“What? You can’t be serious?” Foy cried. “The device they were delivering is right there, next to the corpse.”
Tony barely glanced at the large metal box, just slightly dented from the crash. “The plan was for me to pass myself off as this passenger,” he said. “We didn’t know she was a woman.”
“Lucky you have me, then,” Foy replied. “We’ll just reverse roles. I’ll infiltrate the Thirteen Gang’s headquarters, and you’ll watch my back from outside.”
Tony shook his head. “I don’t like it.”
Judith’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t have to like it. You just have to do it.”
Tony didn’t reply. Judith grabbed his arm. “Listen, I’m a field agent, too. And I outrank you. I’m going in!”
She snatched the dead woman’s purse, then fumbled through the driver’s pockets until she found his ID and cell phone. Tony stood by and watched, feeling momentarily confused by Judith Foy’s pulling rank on him. Up to now, he was used to her following his lead.
“Wake up, Almeida!” Judith barked like one of his old drill sergeants. “Grab that box, and let’s get out of here before the police show up and arrest us.”
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3:57:33 A.M. EDT
Security Station One
CTU Headquarters, NYC
Morris O’Brian felt a presence at his shoulder and turned away from the monitor screens.
“Jack! Good to have you back again,” he said, then winced when he noticed the butterfly sutures on the man’s temple, the blackened eye, the cuts on his face.
“Bloody hell,” Morris said. “Look at you. If you won that fight, I’d hate to see the losers.”
“The losers aren’t breathing,” Jack replied.
“You heard about the attacks in Boston?”
Jack nodded. “While they were patching me up in the infirmary. But I need details.”
“There were three trucks. Two were bombs and detonated. A tunnel under construction collapsed, and so did the neighborhood around it. Casualty figures are not in yet. The second truck leveled Harvard Medical Center.
Estimates count over a hundred dead.”
“What about the third truck?”
“Apparently it disgorged a veritable army onto Boston Commons. The firefight still rages all over that part of the city.”
“They should have listened to me and issued a terror warning for the Boston metro area,” Jack said. “I knew my intelligence was good.”
Expression grim, Jack glanced at the monitors. “What am I seeing now?”
“That wreck on the right monitor is what’s left of the 274
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truck that tried to take out CIA headquarters in Virginia.
Cheeky, eh?” Morris shook his head. “Two CTU strike teams stopped the vehicle on Herndon Parkway. The terrorists were wiped out. No casualties on our side.”
Jack nodded.
“The monitor on the left is showing us a truck that was stopped on the Mall in Washington, D.C., right in front of the Smithsonian. The terrorists fought to the last man.
Again, no casualties on our side. Bomb squads are deactivating the explosives now.”
“So there’s only one truck still out there.”
The phone chirped. Morris answered. “Yes, sir,” he replied a moment later. Then he hung up and faced Jack.
“Christopher Henderson would like a word with you. He’s in the late Brice Holman’s office.”
“Find that truck,” Jack called over his shoulder.
Morris sighed. “How many times have I heard that phrase today?”
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10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17
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THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE
BETWEEN THE HOURS OF
4:00 A.M. AND 5:00 A.M.
EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME
4:01:22 A.M. EDT
District Director’s Office
CTU Headquarters, NYC
“Come in, Jack. Have a seat.”
Christopher Henderson sat behind Brice Holman’s desk.
At the computer station, Jack saw Layla Abernathy, an un-smiling figure in a black battle suit, Glock strapped to her hip. Her hair was pulled back and she wore no makeup, her sallow face expressionless.
When Jack entered the room, Layla turned her back on him.
“I want you to listen to something Hershel Berkovic, 276
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CTU’s economic warfare guru, sent me,” Henderson purred.
Jack sat down. Layla breezed past him and out the door, avoiding his gaze. Henderson activated a digital recorder on the desk. Jack heard a voice speaking Arabic, then the translator talking over him.
“America’s alliance with our enemy has torn the Middle East apart,” the translator said in a robotic voice. “The people of America spit in our faces every day. They must be punished for their transgressions and they soon will be. And we, the Arab peoples, can profit from America’s pain.”
A pause, then the Arabic voice spoke again.
“The Muslim world is ready to rise up and smite America,” said the translator. “When the terrorism comes . . .
America’s economy will suffer enormous losses. Europe is much more stable, and so is its currency. It would be wise to switch our currency standard from dollars to euros before catastrophe strikes . . .”
The speech continued, but Henderson turned the recorder off.
“The man you heard was Abbad al Kabbibi, the finance minister for the Saudi government,” he told Jack. “Minister Kabbibi made those remarks last month, in a secret meeting with key representatives of the Arab League.”
“Kabbibi,” Jack said. “As in Said Kabbibi?”
“Turns out our fugitive terrorist Biohazard Bob is the first cousin of the Saudi Arabian Finance Minister. What a coincidence.”
Jack frowned. “And Soren Ungar?”
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“Kabbibi has formed an alliance with Ungar,” Henderson replied. “And Ungar, in turn, has aligned himself with French financial institutions and banks in Greece, Austria, Italy, Belgium, Germany, and Japan. As far as we can tell, Soren Ungar now controls two-thirds of the U.S. dollars on the currency market. Perhaps more.”
“So he is engineering a currency crash,” Jack said.
“That’s what Berkovic thinks now, too,” Henderson said with a nod. “But this goes further than that. Finance Minister Kabbibi is talking about switching the Saudi currency standard from the dollar to the euro. The harm that would do to our economy would be irreparable.”
Henderson rose, placed the palms of his hands on the desk.
“Think back to what happened to Great Britain’s economy when the world switched from the pound to the dollar.
Their standard of living dropped and continues to fall, un-employment rose, investments fled for greener pastures.
The Brits have never recovered from the blow.”
“What about the currency reserve held by the Chinese?”
Jack asked.
“The Chi-Coms would have no choice but to dump dollars, too, once a run starts. That, or they collapse along with us.”
Jack’s face flushed. His fingers tightened on the chair’s armrest. “These attacks were nothing but a ploy,” he said, unable to hide his outrage. “Just an excuse for Soren Ungar and the Arabs to dump our currency. The Hawk, the zeal-ots from Kurmastan, maybe even Ibrahim Noor himself, they’re nothing but pawns in the world’s biggest currency 278
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scam. Collateral damage, just like their victims.” Jack locked eyes with Henderson. “Will Ungar pull the trigger when the markets open in the morning?”
Henderson shook his head. “He’s going to wait until the full impact of the U.S. attacks set in. He’s got the perfect forum, too. In two hours and fifty minutes—two-thirty in the afternoon, Geneva time—Soren Ungar is scheduled to make his annual speech before the International Board of Currency Traders in Switzerland. That’s when the little bastard is going to drop the bomb.”
Jack leaned forward, his voice quiet but tight. “He has to be stopped.”
“How? Assassination of a foreign national is illegal, under penalty of U.S. law. Besides . . . we don’t have the assets to move that quickly.”
“Yes we do.” For the first time since he entered the office, Jack smiled. “I know a man stationed in Geneva right now. If anyone can pull off an assassination like this, it’s Robert Ellis.”
“Ellis, huh?” Henderson nodded. “Yeah, he is good . . .
but it’s doubtful anyone at CTU will green light the operation. Not even Richard Walsh would sign off on that—
too much heat. And you can forget Nathan Wheelock.
Mr. Clean would never get his hands dirty with authoriz-ing an assassination on foreign soil; besides, the internal buzz is pretty ugly on the Northeast District Director.”
“Is that so?” Jack folded his arms.
“Sure. You and I will probably be asked to testify when all of this is over, but let’s face it: this mess happened in his region, under his watch, as a direct result of his mana-C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 279
gerial policies.” Henderson shook his head. “If Brice Holman had been supported instead of shut down, the terrorists could have been stopped. I’d say Wheelock’s career is hanging by a thread that’s about to snap, which doesn’t leave anyone high enough to authorize the action.”
Jack’s gaze narrowed. “I don’t give a rat’s ass about Wheelock’s career. What I can’t believe is you, trying to find another authority to hide behind.” He rose to his feet.
“We can take action now. You and I. So we face charges, go to prison? So what? It’s a small price to pay to save our country.”
Henderson arched an eyebrow. “Spoken like a true patriot.”
Jack loomed over Henderson. “You’re forgetting that Brice Holman and others have already paid the ultimate price. If we do this, they won’t have died in vain. And we’ll be ensuring America’s security.”
Henderson glanced away.
“Look,” Jack said in a calmer voice, “if you want to pass the buck, then I have a name for you. Tell him everything you know and he’ll back you. He’s got the clout to bury an assassination, too. I know, because he’s done it before. I haven’t met him, you understand? And I can’t tell you how I know, but I know . . .”
As Jack’s voice trailed off, Henderson rose to his full height, finally meeting Jack’s eyes. “Okay,” he said. “Who is this magic man?”
“The Chairman of the Special Defense Appropria-tion Committee,” Jack replied. “Senator David Palmer of Maryland.”
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4:18:16 A.M. EDT
Crampton Street
Newark, New Jersey
“Slip this into your pocket,” Tony said, handing Judith Foy the dead driver’s cell phone.
“What’s it for?”
“Keep the line open and I can hear most of what’s going on around you, though obviously you can’t hear me.” Tony shrugged. “It’s not like wearing a wire, but it will do in a pinch.”
“So if this plan all turns to crap, you’ll rush in like the cavalry in a John Ford movie?” Judith said with a smile.
“Something like that,” he replied. “CTU knows everything we know, and probably more. CTU knows there’s a biological warfare lab in the warehouse, and they know the address of the Thirteen Gang’s headquarters. Once we determine Ibrahim Noor is inside, the tactical teams will be dispatched and CTU will raid the entire block.”
Tony paused, then met her gaze. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”
“Yes I do,” Judith insisted. “Noor needs this metal box, so he or his minions will let me in. Once I’m inside, I can feed you intelligence, let you know if Noor is present.
Maybe we can stop something bad before it happens this time.”
“I’ll be no further than across the street, even if you can’t see me,” Tony vowed. “Use the panic phrase if you get in trouble. I’ll do what I can to get you out.”
Agent Foy nodded, her face pale under the ball cap.
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“Remember: Semper fi,” Tony said.
Judith nodded. “I should have figured you for a jarhead, Almeida,” she said before stepping into the shadowy urban landscape.
4:20:07 A.M. EDT
CTU Headquarters, NYC
Jack Bauer barged into Layla Abernathy’s office.
“Forgot how to knock, Agent Bauer?” she asked.
He closed the door. “I need to talk to you.”
“Make it quick, I’m typing my resignation—”
Jack switched off her computer. Layla threw up her arms. Jack saw needle marks in her wrists, forearms. He pointed.
“Henderson did that?”
Layla dropped her hands to her lap. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Don’t resign,” Jack said. “At least wait twenty-four hours. See this crisis through. Then you can quit if you still want to.”
“Why?” Layla cried. “For a country that betrayed me?
For an organization that had me tortured?”
“For innocent people who don’t deserve what’s happening to them now, or what may happen to them in the next few hours,” Jack countered. “If you quit and something terrible happens, trust me, you won’t be able to live with yourself—”
“CTU doesn’t need me—”
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“We do need you. And I believe you’ve got what it takes to be an exceptional field agent.”
Layla dismissed his praise with a wave. “I don’t believe you.”
“Don’t you think there were times when I was on the outs?” Jack pressed. “I’ve been painted as a dirty agent, more than once. I’ve had my security clearance revoked, and I’ve faced prosecution. No one comes away clean in this business. You have to learn to stick it out, soldier through, keep your focus on what you know is right. That’s the way to be true to yourself and your principles. Not quitting when things get a little rough.”
Layla blinked and slumped back in her chair. She was quiet for a long moment.
Jack sat down beside her. “I know what you went through was terrible. But—off the record—I sometimes think that the bad things that happen to us are a kind of punishment for the things we’re forced to do to others.”
“It sounds like you’re talking about yourself now,” Layla softly replied.
Jack met her gaze. “Let’s just say that I’ve done things I’d never want my family to know about. I don’t want my wife, my daughter, to ever think of me that way . . .”
Jack’s eyes drifted, his expression haunted.
“Twenty-four hours then,” Layla said. “I’ll give you that, Jack Bauer. We’ll see if it changes my mind.”
Her phone rang and she put it on speaker. “Abernathy,”
she answered.
“Morris here. I need you in Station One, to help monitor a situation. I believe we’ve located the last truck.”
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4:22:21 A.M. EDT
Peralta Storage
Crampton Street
Newark, New Jersey
“I hope you can hear me, Tony, because I’m about to go in.”
Judith Foy warily approached the garage door of the old warehouse. She limped a little—hoping it would add to her cover story. She shifted the heavy metal box in her hand, then knocked on the boarded-up garage.
Silence. The place seemed to be as abandoned as it looked.
Foy knocked again, harder this time. She kicked the door for good measure, though her sneakers didn’t make much of a sound.
She was about to knock a third time when a spy hole opened in the middle of the big door.
“Who the hell are you?” a voice demanded.
“Klebb. Sonya Klebb,” Foy replied.
She flashed the dead woman’s passport, too fast for the observer to notice the crude job she’d done replacing the picture of the dead woman with her own driver’s license photo.
“I am a chemical engineer with Rogan Pharmaceuticals,” Foy continued. “Soren Ungar sent me.”
There was a long pause. Foy was about to speak again when a different voice, deep and booming, emerged from the spy hole.
“Where is Dubic?”
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It’s Noor, she realized. He’s here.
“Dead,” Foy replied. “We were attacked on the road. I think a gang was trying to rob us. Our car was struck by another vehicle. I was hurt. Dubic more so. Before he died, he told me where to go, made me promise to deliver the package here, to this address.”
“I see. And do you have the package?”
“I do,” Foy replied, displaying it.
On the other side of the garage door, she heard activity.
Then a rumbling sound as the door partially rose.
“Inside, quick,” a black youth said, gesturing to her.
Beyond the door, the interior was pitch-black, and Judith could see nothing. She stepped inside anyway, heart pounding in her chest.
Another rumble of machinery, and the door closed behind her. Then brilliant spotlights ignited, blinding her. Someone snatched the package out of her hand; other hands frisked her.
They were obviously looking for a weapon. She had none, and when they found her passport and Dubic’s cell phone, they ignored them. She hoped they hadn’t broken the phone circuit, but she couldn’t check now.
“Is that the aerosol dispenser?” Ibrahim Noor demanded.
“Yes, yes it is,” an accented voice replied. “I can install it in less than an hour.”
“Do it,” Noor commanded.
Judith blinked against the light, strained to see through her tears.
“Why did you come here?” Noor asked. “Who sent you?”
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“I told you. Dubic—”
“If Dubic told you to come here, he would have given you the remote control to open the door. All of my men have it. Dubic knows our security. Anyone stupid enough to bang on our door is either a neighborhood addict or a cop.”
“No! Dubic must have forgotten. He was very injured.
He could hardly speak—”
“You are a fraud. An impostor,” roared Noor. “Take her.”
Strong hands seized her arms. Judith struggled, then yelled out the panic phrase: “Semper fi! Semper fi! ”
Someone punched her in the face, and the lab’s bright lights faded.
4:38:43 A.M. EDT
Schenley Park
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
From his position among the branches of a century-old oak, Detective Mike Gorman shifted the sniper rifle in his grip, then aimed his night vision binoculars at the trailer truck three hundred feet away.
The vehicle sat in the middle of Schenley Plaza, once the grand entrance to the 456-acre conservancy, now used as a parking area for county rangers and concession employees. The truck had arrived sometime between mid-night and four a.m., when a sharp-eyed Allegheny County 286
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Parks Department ranger recognized the vehicle from a Federal government alert sent out to local authorities.
Two men slept in the cab. The driver’s window was open, his arm hanging out. The guy in the passenger seat slouched so low, only the top of his New York Mets ball cap showed above the dashboard.
He’s the tougher shot, and I got him, Gorman mused.
For thirty minutes, Gorman and his partner, Chuck Romeo, had observed the sleeping targets, fearing they would awaken and drive away at any moment. So far they’d been lucky, but luck never lasted long—just one lesson Gorman had taken away from the McKee’s Rocks mess.
I should have fired, Gorman thought, flashing back to the hostage standoff. A young mother had been held at gunpoint by an escaped convict. I should never have waited for authorization. If I’d have pulled the trigger, that poor woman would be alive today and her murderer dead, instead of the other way around.
“What are we waiting for?” Gorman said into his headset.
“A biohazard team with a tent,” his boss, Captain Kelly, advised. “Once it’s in place, we can move.”
Gorman glanced across a grassy clearing at his partner, perched in a tall maple tree. He was sure Chuck was staring back at him. Then Romeo’s voice crackled in his headset.
“A biohazard team? Is there something you’re not telling us, Captain?”
“Relax, boys,” Kelly said. “Just do your job and the Feds will do the rest.”
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More baffled than alarmed, Gorman lowered his binoculars and shifted the fourteen-pound M24 sniper rifle into position. The composite stock against his armored shoulder, he peered through the infrared scope.
Placing the ball cap in the center of his crosshairs, Gorman once again adjusted the instrument for wind speed, temperature, humidity, and distance. Gorman knew he had only one shot. It had to be on the money. He wasn’t going to mess up again.
Minutes passed. Then Gorman heard the sound of an engine. He watched in disbelief as two white panel trucks rolled into the plaza and halted just inside the gate.
“I thought the road had been cordoned off to traffic,”
Gorman hissed.
“It’s the biohazard team. They’ll be ready to go in two minutes.”
Gorman glanced through his scope again. His target was still snoozing, but the driver had shifted position.
Had he heard the vans, too?
“I think my mark’s awake,” Chuck Romeo warned.
“Do not fire,” Captain Kelly commanded. “I repeat. Do not fire until I give the command.”
“Son of a—” Gorman stifled his curse, remembering that everything he and the others said was being taped—
just like McKee’s Rocks.
Unbidden, the memory returned. Two a.m., outside a strip joint on the main drag of that scummy little suburb.
The drunk convict, using the dancer for a shield, gun to her head. Gorman had a clear shot, begged Captain Kelly for authorization to pull the trigger, but it never came. The 288
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only shot fired that night went into the dancer’s skull. The single mother from Wheeling, West Virginia, died because he’d hesitated.
Through his scope, Gorman saw the driver wake up the man beside him. Both stared at the vans with open suspicion.
“If he starts that engine, the men who are supposed to be hiding inside that trailer will know something’s up,”
Gorman warned.
“Do not fire,” Captain Kelly repeated.
“You ready to shoot, Chuck?” Gorman asked.
“Ready,” Romeo said after a short pause.
“Fire on three,” Gorman said, aiming.
“Stand down and wait for my command,” Kelly warned.
“Do not fire.”
“One,” said Gorman.
“Stand down, I said!” Kelly cried.
“Two.”
Kelly was screaming in their headsets now. “If either of you shoots I’ll have your heads—”
In the truck, the driver reached for the ignition. His partner pulled a cell phone from his jacket.
“Three.”
Two holes appeared in the windshield simultaneously.
Inside the cab, two heads exploded. The men flopped forward, dead. The driver slumped over the steering wheel; the man in the passenger seat dropped to the floor.
“Got them,” Gorman whispered. “They’re down. I repeat. The targets are dead.”
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“So are your careers,” Kelly growled, his voice icy with rage.
Obviously the Feds had been monitoring the conversation. As soon as Gorman announced the kills, the doors on both vans burst open. Five men in plastic biohazard suits rushed to the truck, dragging what looked like a huge cel-lophane blanket.
Gorman was impressed by the speed and efficiency with which the men tossed the massive tarp over the vehicle, then sealed the edges of the covering to the pavement with some sort of instant adhesive pumped out of a glue gun.
Inside of a minute they were finished, and a third white van raced into the plaza. This one contained a huge vacuum pump that was immediately attached to the tarp.
Before Gorman and Romeo climbed down from their respective trees, the pump was sucking the air out of the bag, hermetically sealing the vehicle and all its contents.
When they were on the ground, a man in a black jumpsuit approached them. Gorman thought it was a Pittsburgh policeman, but revised his opinion when the man got close enough for Gorman to see the CTU crest on the uniform.
“You’re the Feds?” Gorman asked, fully expecting to be arrested.
“Special Agent Clark Goodson, CTU Biological Terrorism Specialist, Midwest Division.”
Still juiced with a killer’s high, Gorman’s adrenaline was pumping and his hands trembled. He fumbled for a reply.
Suddenly the man slapped him on the back. “Excep-290
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tional work,” Goodson said. “If you’d waited, it would have been too late.”
“Tell that to our boss,” Romeo replied.
“Oh, I will.” Goodson nodded. “And if that a-hole Kelly does take your heads, I’ll find you both jobs on a CTU tac team. In fact, I hear L.A. is looking for a few good men.”
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10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17
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THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE
BETWEEN THE HOURS OF
5:00 A.M. AND 6:00 A.M.
EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME
5:07:07 A.M. EDT
Security Station One
CTU Headquarters, NYC
The euphoria of taking out the final truck was quickly dampened, once the agent at the scene delivered his report.
“That’s all we found here in Pittsburgh, Special Agent Bauer,” Goodson said into the computer camera.
Behind the battle-suited speaker, a boxy, six-wheeled military vehicle was visible in the predawn light. Six men in hazard suits, helmets off, clustered around it.
“The truck was packed with conventional explosives,”
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Goodson continued. “C–4 manufactured in Eastern Europe. There were also maps that indicate their target was the University of Pittsburgh’s Cathedral of Learning.
They were planning to destroy the skyscraper during the morning rush hour. No biological or chemical agents of any kind are present.”
Jack Bauer frowned at the screen. “The bio-weapon could be small, contained in a vial, an aerosol can or even a Breathalyzer.”
Goodson shook his head. “We have a rolling CTU
Bio-Containment Lab on scene,” he said. “Along with a Fox Nuclear Biological Chemical Reconnaissance vehicle which we borrowed from the Army. Both units have scanned the entire scene with monitors so sensitive they could locate a cold germ.”
The CTU operative paused. “I’m sorry, Special Agent Bauer. We found nothing.”
Jack was about to protest, when Christopher Henderson stepped in front of him. “Thanks for your help, Goodson.
Nice work, all the way around.”
“Thank you, Director Henderson,” Goodson replied, and the screen went black.
Jack sank into a chair. “So where’s the bio-weapon?”
Henderson sat and swiveled toward Bauer. “The Economic Warfare Division has suggested that Kabbibi might have been brought into this operation for his political connections, not his skills. The fact that he and the Saudi Finance Minister are cousins—”
Jack’s withering stare silenced his boss. “They’re wrong, Christopher. Berkovic and his accountants are ignoring C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 293
Agent Foy’s surveillance photos of the lab in Newark.”
Henderson shrugged. “It’s possible that’s a simple drug lab.”
“With liquid oxygen cooling tanks?” Jack interrupted.
“You don’t need that kind of technology to distill meth out of cough syrup.”
Henderson sighed. “We’ll know soon enough. Langley has finally authorized the raid on Noor’s Newark headquarters. We’re there in thirty minutes, whether Noor’s home or not.”
Jack nodded. “I’ll command the raid. Agent Abernathy will be my backup.”
Layla appeared surprised. So did Henderson, but neither challenged Jack’s decree.
Bauer’s mind was racing so fast, he was already past that decision. He was eager to focus on his enemy. “Have we learned anything more about Ibrahim Noor?”
“A little,” Morris replied, calling up the man’s profile.
“He was born Travis Bell, as you know. By the age of thirteen, he was running drugs. By eighteen, he’d created the Thirteen Gang, which took over the narcotics trade in that section of Newark.”
Morris tapped keys. “Well, well. Here’s a nugget. Con-gressman Larry Bell of Louisiana, the former NCAA player turned politician, is Travis Bell’s uncle. But apparently there’s been no contact between them for decades.”
“The same can’t be said for other government officials,”
Henderson interjected. “From Tobias’s computer, we’ve got evidence that Congresswoman Hailey Williams and Chief Justice Mary Chestnut of the Ninth District Court 294
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in San Francisco have both taken bribes from Noor or his people. Their arrests are imminent.”
“What about Dreizehn Trucking?” Jack asked.
“It doesn’t exist on any corporate records, state, local, or Federal,” Morris replied. “It’s no more than a name painted on twelve trucks.”
“But it fits Noor’s profile,” Layla said. “Dreizehn is the German word for the number thirteen. Noor seems patho-logically obsessed with that number.”
“Thirteen! Oh my god . . .” Jack rose to his feet. “That’s where the biological weapon is hidden.”
“Huh?” Henderson grunted.
“There’s a thirteenth truck, Christopher. And Noor is on it!” Jack gripped Morris’s shoulder. “Has Tony checked in?”
“Not since he lost contact with Agent Foy. She’s inside the Thirteen Gang’s headquarters, but their cell phone connection has been severed. I’m afraid Tony’s a bit fran-tic over Agent Foy’s situation.”
“Call Almeida,” Jack commanded. “Tell Tony to stay put. Tell him we’re coming—with a strike team.”
5:29:53 A.M. EDT
1313 Crampton Street
Newark, New Jersey
“Your name is Judith Foy, Deputy Director of the New York Counter Terrorist Unit,” Ibrahim Noor declared, looming over her.
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Shaking the icy water from her body, Judith Foy defi-antly met the gang leader’s gaze. Only half conscious after her violent capture, Judith Foy had been dragged through a stinking sewer, tossed into a hole blasted in the wall, and dumped on a cold concrete floor. She lay there for an inde-terminate amount of time, until someone poured a bucket of ice water over her.
Gasping against the freezing torrent, she found herself in a circle of street thugs, some white, most black or Hispanic. Harsh fluorescent lights buzzed over her head. Soon she realized she wasn’t in the garage anymore. There was no lab here, and the room stank of sweat and spilled blood.
Judith saw two headless corpses piled in the corner.
“I ordered your death many hours ago, but my command was not obeyed,” Noor continued.
Head throbbing, she studied the speaker. Noor had a body like a black bear, tattoo-etched arms thicker than her waist. His voice was deep, like Darth Vader’s without the asthma. Everything she knew about this man suggested he suffered from a delusional messiah complex. But when Agent Foy locked eyes with Noor, she saw no madness there—only a fierce and terrible cunning.
“And you’re Ibrahim Noor, alias Travis Bell,” she replied evenly. “Counterfeit holy man, full-time felon, and total wack job.”
A youth lashed out, plunged the toe of his boot into her abdomen. Judith grunted, felt the world recede again. She fought to stay conscious, and by some miracle prevailed.
“Don’t be so tough on Rachel Delgado,” Judith gasped, tasting bile. “Someone killed her first.”
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The punk moved to kick her again. Noor stopped him with a gesture. Foy spit on the kicker’s leg.
Judith should have been afraid, but she wasn’t. Instead, she was filled with an all-consuming fury, a savage hatred.
She would have given her soul to kill Noor right now, tear out his throat with her teeth.
“We all thought you were a religious fanatic, but you’re not, are you, Travis?” Foy challenged. “You’re just a street punk with delusions of grandeur, using people like pawns because they’re too stupid to know better.”
Noor didn’t prevent the youth from kicking her this time. Judith howled in agony when she felt a bruised rib snap. “Tough . . . tough guys,” she gasped. “Beat up on a . . . helpless woman.”
“Did CTU send you?” Noor demanded.
“Actually . . . It was the neighborhood cleanup committee,” Foy replied, fighting the urge to throw up. “This place . . . is such a pigsty . . . You really should clean it up.”
The youth kicked out again. This time she managed to protect her vitals with her elbows. Her left arm felt para-lyzed now, but at least her bruised ribs were still intact.
“If CTU sent you, they made a tragic blunder,” Noor continued. “You have delivered the one tool I need to bring America to its knees.”
“A boombox blasting hip-hop?”
She waited for a fourth kick, but it never came. Instead a newcomer approached Noor. “Kabbibi is finished,” he whispered.
A smile tugged at Noor’s lips, then he faced the others.
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“It is time for me to go, my friends. When next we meet, it will be in Paradise.”
The men lined up to receive Noor’s final blessings, completely ignoring the woman on the ground. Foy used the time to gather her strength, examine her environment.
She saw a red steel door at one end of the windowless room and realized she was inside 1313 Crampton Street, Noor’s gang headquarters.
The sewer must connect this place with the old Peralta Storage facility at the end of the block.
Meanwhile Noor waved his men back. “Give me thirty minutes to get clear of this place. After that, you may release yourselves from this world of corruption.”
“Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar! ” the men chanted.
Flanked by two bodyguards, Noor walked to the hole in the concrete wall and climbed through it.
As soon as their leader was gone, the room exploded with activity. Someone produced jerricans filled with gasoline. Muttering prayers—and still ignoring Judith Foy—
the men began dousing the walls, the floor, the dead men in the corner, with the flammable liquid.
5:42:13 A.M. EDT
Over Newark, New Jersey
“This is Raptor One. ETA, two minutes,” Captain Fogarty said into Jack Bauer’s headset.
Jack, now clad in a black CTU battle suit with Kevlar chest, shoulder, and spine plates, faced the five assault 298
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troopers inside the helicopter’s bay. He spoke into the headset in his helmet.
“As soon as we fast-rope down to the street, I want you to hit the warehouse. Blow the garage door and we’ll move in,” he said.
“The team in Raptor Two will hit 1313 Crampton on the opposite end of the block,” Jack continued. “Agent Abernathy’s team in Raptor Three will remain airborne, ready to provide backup if needed. Any questions?”
Grim-faced, the men shook their heads.
“Move fast and hit hard,” Jack advised. “We may be dealing with a biological or chemical weapon, so capture and containment is key.”
“One minute,” Fogarty warned.
Jack lowered his visor and shouldered a UMP
.45-caliber submachine gun. “Hit the ropes!” he shouted.
The men rose and moved to the chopper’s open doors.
5:44:08 A.M. EDT
1313 Crampton Street
The stench of gasoline was suffocating. Judith Foy battled the urge to empty her stomach. Though her head was spinning, she kept her focus on a stocky Hispanic teenager with shoulder-length black hair and a Browning Hi-Power handgun tucked casually in his belt.
The youth had come down from an upper floor, empty jerrican in hand. He tossed the container into the pile of empties and crossed the room to the stack of full cans.
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He was four feet from Judith when she stumbled to her feet and lurched into his path.
“I need a bathroom,” she rasped. “I’m going to be sick.”
The punk snarled something in Spanish and thrust her aside, eyes on the gas. Foy pretended to waver, but as he stepped around her, she yanked the gun out of his belt, threw the safety, and shot him in the base of the spine.
The youth howled and hit the floor. Five heads turned, mouths gaping in shock. Judith was a marksman and she hit her marks—first one man, then another.
Before she dropped the third man, he drew his own weapon and squeezed off a shot. The bullet struck sparks off the steel door. Judith lurched sideways and fired again, hitting the shooter in the forehead.
Two men remained standing. One clutched a can of gasoline like a shield; the other was reaching for his weapon.
Firing too quickly for accuracy, even at point-blank range, Judith hit the wrong man. The bullet penetrated the jerrican, and it exploded in an orange ball of fire.
Immediately, the pair was engulfed in flames that quickly spread. Fire scorched Judith, too, setting her hair and jumpsuit ablaze. Bolting across the basement, she dived through the hole and into the tunnel.
Judith landed in a shallow pool of fetid sewer water, dousing her burning clothes and singed hair. Choking, eyes burning, Judith crawled to her feet and raced through the dripping tunnel in a desperate bid to outpace the roaring conflagration at her back.
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5:45:34 A.M. EDT
Crampton Street
As soon as Jack’s combat boots struck pavement, he moved away from the fast-rope so the man behind him had a clear space to land.
Jack felt a hand grip his armored shoulder, turned, weapon ready. Tony Almeida was there, blinking against the prop wash.
“We’ve got to get inside,” Tony shouted over the hovering chopper’s engine. “Agent Foy’s in the sh—”
“Fire! Fire!” someone bellowed in Jack’s headset.
He glanced at the warehouse, then the gang headquarters at the other end of the block.
Smoke poured out of the roof above 1313 Crampton Street. Flickering flames reflected off Raptor Two’s aluminum belly.
5:46:00 A.M. EDT
Peralta Storage
Judith burst out of the tunnel, into a cavernous basement.
The space was lit by banks of halogen lights. The garage door dominated one wall, the makeshift biological weapons lab the other. There were no vehicles present—Noor was already gone.
Others were there, however. Two men in white lab coats were burning papers in a steel barrel in the center of the room. Smoke wafted up to the high ceiling. A third man C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 301
sat at a small table, where he tapped the keys of a laptop computer.
A man at the barrel cried out. Judith shot him in the face, and he pitched forward, into the flames. She fired at the other man and missed.
The third man snatched the laptop off the table and ran toward the barrel, ready to toss the device into the flames.
Judith shot him in the legs, and he hit the floor. The computer slid across the concrete, stopping at her feet.
The man she missed rushed her. Judith pulled the trigger. The Hi-Power clicked on an empty chamber.
The man slammed into her, and they both went down.
As they struggled, the garage door blew apart with a deafening report, and men streamed through the shattered entrance.
Despite her ringing ears, Foy heard a shot. The man on top of her jerked, then fell limp. Almost immediately, someone flipped the corpse aside.
Judith blinked up at Tony Almeida, who lifted her off the floor with one hand.
“The cavalry has arrived,” he said, grinning. “Not that you needed us.”
“Believe me, I needed you. Grab that computer and let’s get out of here! This whole place is ready to blow!” she yelled, loud enough for everyone to hear.
Just then, a rolling ball of fire roared out of the tunnel.
“Out! Everybody out!” Bauer shouted, gesturing wildly.
Tony grabbed the computer. And Jack rushed up to Foy.
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“Where’s Noor?” he cried as they ran.
“Gone. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes ago.”
Jack cursed. “And the truck?”
Judith blinked. “What truck?”
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
6:00 A.M. AND 7:00 A.M.
EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME
2:00:02 P.M. CEST
Ungar Financial Building
Geneva, Switzerland
Robert Ellis avoided the crowd at the front of the auditorium, got in line at an entrance marked “Press” in six languages. A pair of security guards checked off every name on the list as the reporters arrived.
“Ellis, Robert, Theological News Service, New York,”
he said, handing over his identification. The guard checked his name against the roster and returned his ID.
“Through the metal detector and straight ahead, Mr. Ellis,” the guard told him.
After he passed through the X-ray machine, a slight, ef-304
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feminate man swathed in Armani stepped out of the shadows to greet him. His English was slightly fractured, but Ellis had to admit the man’s pronunciation was excellent.
“Mr. Ellis! How good of you to come, sir. Archbishop Holzer had many good things to say about you. When His Excellency called with this last-minute request for an invitation, I could not refuse him.”
Ellis smiled. “I appreciate your hospitality, Mr.—”
“Jorg Schactenberg,” he said, extending his hand. “I am Soren Ungar’s amanuensis.”
The man’s handshake had all the warmth and life of a dead fish.
“I understand you attended this event last year,”
Schactenberg purred.
“Two years ago,” Ellis corrected. “Last year I was away from Geneva on urgent business.”
“Ah, yes,” the other man replied. “Always with the business. His Excellency, the Archbishop, told me you have kept him up late many times, with talking about the philosophy and the religion—and your many amazing adventures. You have a seminary background?”
“A bachelor’s degree in theology, from Fordham University in New York,” Ellis replied. “And I might add that Archbishop Holzer possesses an amazing mind. I have often been a guest in his home, and it was always most stimulating.”
Everything Ellis told Schactenberg was true, though if today’s bit of wet work ever came to light, Ellis doubted he would ever be welcome in the Archbishop’s residence again.
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“I’m sure Herr Ungar’s speech will be quite enlighten-ing,” Ellis added graciously.
Schactenberg offered Ellis a thin smile. “As an American, I’m sure you will hear something that interests you.”
The man led Ellis behind the massive stage, to a room packed with members of the international press.
“I have reserved a place for you in the reception line, Mr. Ellis. I do believe Herr Ungar will greet all the members of the media before he delivers his address.”
Ellis smiled. “I’m counting on it.”
6:09:32 A.M. EDT
Aboard Raptor Three
In the light of a blazing dawn, Jack Bauer, Layla Abernathy, and Tony Almeida watched the Peralta Storage facility collapse in on itself from the air. Burning cinders rose into the smoky sky. Howard and Crampton Streets were packed with emergency vehicles, lights flashing.
“There’s nothing more to see here,” Jack declared, directing the pilot to return to Manhattan.
Before they lifted off, Jack used a mobile Wi-Fi broad-band communications system to forward the contents of the enemy’s computer to experts at Langley.
Agent Foy was aboard Raptor One, on her way to CTU’s infirmary, where her injuries would be treated. Jack kept the laptop at his side once he realized it belonged to Said Kabbibi or one of his technicians.
“Morris, can you hear me?” Jack said into his headset.
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“Loud and clear, Jack.”
“Any sign of the missing truck?”
There was a long sigh. “Jack, you’re asking for the impossible now. We’ve established the garage under the warehouse was too small to hold a large trailer truck like the other twelve vehicles, so we really don’t know what type of truck we’re looking for.”
“There must be something—”
“Peek out your window,” Morris interrupted. “There are quite literally thousands of trucks on the road right now. It would be easier to find a needle in a haystack while blindfolded.”
Jack bit back a curse. “Anything from Langley yet?”
“The bio-weapons experts are still reviewing the contents of the computer. Director Henderson urges patience.”
“Patience is no virtue when you’re running out of time,”
Jack shot back.
“Pithy, and well said,” Morris replied. “I’m going to remember that one.”
Layla Abernathy rested her hand on Jack’s arm. “Langley will come through,” she said. “They understand how urgent the situation is.”
Jack nodded, took a swig of water from a plastic bottle.
Across the bay from the pair, Tony slouched in a seat. Like Jack, he wore new scars from this day, and it wasn’t over yet.
Morris’s voice suddenly came on in Jack’s headset. “I have the Director of CTU’s Biological and Chemical Warfare Unit on line now,” he said. “I’ll put him through.”
As the connection was made, Tony sat up, adjusting his own headset. Layla tapped her foot nervously.
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“Dr. Vogel here,” the Director began.
“What are we dealing with?” Jack asked without pre-amble. “Is it a biological or a chemical agent?”
“Both,” Vogel replied with equal bluntness. “The agent is called Zahhak, after a demonic snake of Persian my-thology, sometimes depicted with two heads. The name is apt because this substance brings death in two ways.”
“Explain,” Jack ordered.
“At first we thought we were dealing with a simple sarin compound,” Vogel replied. “Sarin, or O-Isopropyl meth-ylphosphonofluoridate, is a clear, colorless, and odorless nerve agent classified by the United Nations as a weapon of mass destruction. Sarin is nothing new, of course. It was developed in the late 1930s by German researchers looking for a better pesticide. What they created instead is one of the deadliest compounds on earth. Sarin has been used—”
“Zahhak is not sarin, then?” Jack interrupted.
“Not precisely,” Vogel said. “Like sarin, Zahhak is very unstable. It can break down in days, which is why Kabbibi needed a lab here in America to produce the weapon.
Various substances have been tried to make the agent more stable and increase its shelf life. A stabilizer chemical called tributylamine has been used in the past, with mixed results. Dr. Said Kabbibi tried something different, something revolutionary, and it worked.”
Jack’s impatience with the technician threatened to boil over. He opened his mouth to speak; Layla restrained him with a gesture.
“Layla Abernathy here,” she interrupted. “You said this was both a chemical and a biological weapon?”
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“I was getting to that,” Vogel said testily. “Kabbibi initially tried to bond various bacteria with the sarin substance, hoping to make the chemical more stable. He tried many organics without success, until he stumbled upon bacteria called Clostridium perfringens. The result was a two-pronged weapon of mass destruction more deadly than anything previously encountered.”
“Two-prong?” Jack cut in.
“Let me explain,” Vogel said with a sigh. “A terrorist attack in the Middle East often involves two sets of explosive devices. After the initial blast and resulting casualties, emergency workers stream to the scene of the attack.
That’s when the terrorists unleash a second string of blasts, to kill those rushing to aid the victims.”
Jack frowned, recalling accounts he’d read of such dia-bolical attacks.
“When Zahhak is unleashed, the sarin compound immediately attacks the nervous system of its victims,” Vogel continued. “Symptoms present in minutes include runny nose, tightness in the chest, constriction of the pupils, nausea, drooling. Difficulty in breathing increases as the victims lose control of their bodily functions. They urinate.
Defecate. Vomit. Bleed from the nose and mouth. Death soon follows—but Zahhak’s threat doesn’t end there.”
“Explain,” Jack said tightly.
“The biological agent— Clostridium perfringens—is introduced into the victim’s body along with the gas, causing an outbreak of necrotizing fasciitis.”
“Of what?” Abernathy asked.
“A condition commonly known as ‘flesh-eating bac-C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 309
teria’ occurs. The bacteria work too slowly to affect the initial victims of the gas, but their bodies and their bodily fluids are immediately contaminated with the bacteria.
Clostridium perfringens is highly contagious. Exposure from a single touch, or even breathing the weaponized bacteria, can cause infection and a slow and agonizing death. There is no cure.”
“This is monstrous,” Layla whispered. “Emergency workers and hospital personnel would end up becoming the ones infected—emergency response would be taken out first.”
“It gets worse,” Vogel informed them. “Within minutes of dispersal through an aerosol dispenser, Zahhak forms a solid. In that state, the effects of the sarin are neutralized, but the malignant bacteria live on. In fact, it is virtually indestructible at this point. And the solid particles are mi-croscopic in size, so they become airborne, spreading the contagion across hundreds of miles.”
“Dr. Vogel, is there a vaccine or countermeasure to combat Zahhak?” Jack asked.
“Countermeasure?” Vogel replied, his tone bitter. “My colleagues and I are not precisely sure how this substance works. A countermeasure or vaccine may be years away—
or a pipe dream. Once Zahhak is unleashed, it is like a genie that can never be returned to its bottle.”
“What can we do?” rasped Jack.
“Stop it before it’s released,” Vogel replied. “In its liquid or gaseous state, Zahhak is very sensitive to moisture and heat, which is why Kabbibi needed liquid oxygen to keep the substance cool. Zahhak can be destroyed by heating 310
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it to a temperature above 160 degrees centigrade. It is also completely soluble in water—steam would be ideal to render the agent inert, but only in its liquid or gaseous state. Once it becomes a solid, there is nothing that can be done to contain its deadly effects.”
Vogel ended the call at that point, informing Jack he was scheduled to brief the President. Christopher Henderson came on line.
“Any thoughts, Jack?”
Bauer’s mind raced. “When I was talking to Dubic, and he believed he was talking to the Albino, Dubic said something about a rendezvous at the bull this morning. Is that a section of New York? A building, plaza, or park?”
Layla blinked. “You’re kidding, right? Wait. I forgot you’re from Los Angeles.”
“Cut to the chase,” Tony growled.
“There is a bull,” Layla told them. “The Wall Street Bull, a two-and-a-half-ton bronze sculpture of a charging bull. It sits in Bowling Green Park. The statue was erected after the 1987 stock market crash, and it’s become the symbol of the Financial District.”
“That’s it, then!” Jack said. “Noor’s heading for Wall Street, and we’re going to be there to meet him.”
6:49:13 A.M. EDT
Broadway
Lower Manhattan
Ibrahim Noor steered the truck onto Broadway, joined the flow of traffic heading downtown. Though it was early, C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 311
rush hour was already in full swing in the Financial District. The morning sun was bright, heralding a warm day.
In the passenger seat, Said Kabbibi twitched nervously.
He was about to speak when the traffic light turned red, forcing Noor to brake. Cross traffic from Cedar Street quickly crammed the intersection.
Kabbibi groaned, tugged on the collar of his utility worker’s uniform. “I fear we will not make it to the park in time. Unfortunately I cannot stop the timer now. The aerosol device will release the toxin at precisely seven-thirty.”
“Relax,” Noor said. “We’re only a few blocks away.”
“Good,” Kabbibi replied, moping his brow with a hand-kerchief. “I do not want to be anywhere near this place when the Zahhak is released.”
The light turned green, but so many cars blocked the intersection that they couldn’t make it through. Kabbibi became even more agitated.
“I told you to relax,” Noor rumbled. “By nine o’clock, we’ll be on a private jet to Geneva, and America will be on its knees.”
6:50:11 A.M. EDT
The Bartleby
Broadway
Lower Manhattan
The roof of the mid-rise Bartleby Tower, right across the street from the Cunard Building, provided a perfect perch to observe traffic rolling down Broadway.
Jack Bauer was there, along with Tony Almeida, Layla 312
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Abernathy, and Director Christopher Henderson. Three telescopes had been set up, each focused on downtown traffic.
“I’m checking the truck that just turned onto Broadway from Exchange Street,” Jack said, peering through the lens. “The logo says Carvel Ice Cream.”
He zoomed in, spied a bored Asian man behind the steering wheel. “Looks like a negative,” Jack said.
His headset crackled. “This is Bio-Monitor One. That truck is clean.”
Jack exhaled.
“Are you sure the explosive charge is powerful enough?”
Bauer asked for the third time.
“The demolition boys know how to do their jobs, Jack,”
Henderson replied, his expression unreadable behind mirrored sunglasses.
Jack spoke into his headset. “Morris? How about the traffic lights? We need to isolate the vehicle as soon as it’s spotted.”
“I’m in control of the lights along Broadway, Jack,”
Morris said from Security Station One. “Give me the word and I’ll put in the fix. Frankly, I wish I had this kind of control in Los Angeles.”
Jack tensed. “Check the Consolidated Edison truck at the Pine Street intersection. Noor’s used that trick before.”
All three telescopes focused on the blue and white Con Edison van, and the two men inside the cab.
“That’s Noor, behind the wheel,” Jack hissed, clutching the telescope reflexively.
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“And Kabbibi is beside him,” Layla cried.
“I see some kind of nozzle sticking out of the top of the truck,” Tony warned.
“This is Bio-Monitor One. Our meters are off the chart.
That truck is dirty.”
“I’ve got the vehicle on my monitor,” Morris declared.
“Facial recognition software has confirmed Noor’s and Kabbibi’s identities on this end.”
“Okay,” Jack declared. “This is it.”
On Broadway at Bowling Green Park, the uptown lights suddenly turned red. Cars braked abruptly. It was obvious to the drivers that something was wrong with the signals, but before anyone could jump the light, an FDNY ladder truck rolled into the middle of the intersection, blocking all traffic.
“Uptown traffic flow has been cut off,” Morris declared.
“Downtown traffic is next. I’ll have that vehicle isolated in less than a minute.”
Henderson touched the detonator in his hand. “This is your plan and your show, Bauer. Give the word and I’ll set off the fireworks.”
6:51:29 A.M. EDT
Intersection of Exchange Street and Broadway At the head of the pack, Ibrahim Noor was the first driver through the intersection when the light turned green. He was also the only vehicle to make the light, which immediately turned red again, stopping all traffic behind him.
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With two blocks of Broadway wide open, Noor picked up speed. But halfway down the block he slowed again, glanced into his rearview mirror.
“A fire truck has blocked traffic behind us,” he announced.
“There’s one ahead of us, too,” Kabbibi cried, pointing to the red vehicle two blocks away.
“Something’s wrong,” whispered Noor.
The big man checked his right. The uptown lane was empty, too. Noor frowned when he realized the Con Edison truck was the only vehicle on the block. Bowling Green Park was directly ahead of them, and Kabbibi urged Noor to speed up.
Noor slowed the van instead, eyes scanning Broadway like a hunted animal.
6:52:37 A.M. EDT
The Bartleby
“The truck’s slowing down,” Layla warned.
Jack Bauer stared through the telescope. “Don’t worry.
He’s almost reached the mark.”
Through the scope, Jack watched the vehicle approach a freshly painted yellow cross on the pavement, right in the middle of the downtown lane.
When the van reached the symbol. Jack faced Henderson.
“Now,” he rasped.
Henderson pressed the detonator . . .
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6:53:01 A.M. EDT
Broadway
Kabbibi cried out when a powerful jolt rocked the van.
Before either man could react, the pavement opened up under their wheels.
The Con Ed van plunged six feet, landing atop a massive steam pipe—part of the Financial District’s underground infrastructure.
Noor cursed.
“Let me out!” Kabbibi howled, fumbling with the handle.
“Too late,” Noor whispered.
At that moment, a second blast shattered the pipe beneath them.
Instantly, the vehicle was engulfed in sizzling steam. In under a second, the temperature inside the truck soared to a thousand degrees.
As he howled, Noor’s scalded flesh blistered, then began to slough off his bones like chicken in a soup pot. Kabbibi’s eyes popped from the searing heat, and he clutched his face with fleshless fingers.
Behind them, in the cargo bay, the aluminum tank containing the Zahhak burst with a muffled thump.
A fountain of white steam erupted from the pit, filling the near-empty street. Millions of gallons of boiling water gushed out. Then the flow turned dark brown, as rocks and soil spewed out of the seething pit. Hot mud splattered buildings. Windows broke as high as the eighth floor.
Like a raging volcano, the lavalike mixture continued to stream up from around the ruptured pipe.
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2:56:24 P.M. CEST
Ungar Financial Building
Geneva, Switzerland
Robert Ellis was the fifth man in the reception line. He waited patiently, watching Soren Ungar greet each member of the press with a handshake, smile plastered across his rigid face.
Jorg Schactenberg stood at Ungar’s shoulder, making introductions as his boss moved down the line.
“This is Robert Ellis of the Theological News Service in New York,” Schactenberg said.
Under thick glasses, Soren Ungar’s expressionless eyes regarded him. Stiffly, the financial leader extended his hand.
Ellis twisted the faux Fordham University ring on his left hand with his thumb, enfolded Ungar’s pale hand with his right.
“A pleasure, Herr Ellis,” Ungar said formally.
Still clutching Ungar’s hand in his right, Ellis covered it with his left. He felt the tiny needle plunge into Soren Ungar’s pale flesh.
“Greetings from the U. S. of A.,” Ellis hissed. Then he released the man.
Ungar stepped back, obviously surprised, though his face registered no expression. The currency trader turned to speak with the sixth man in line, and suddenly his knees buckled.
“Herr Ungar,” Schactenberg said. “What is wrong?”
“Nothing,” Ungar replied, waving him off. “I . . .”
C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 317
Suddenly white foam flecked the corner of Soren Ungar’s thin lips, then a gush of dark red blood stained his chin. A stain appeared in the front of Ungar’s London tailored pants, too, as his bladder released its contents.
“Mein Gott,” Schactenberg cried in German. “Someone call an ambulance.”
Soren Ungar reeled, then pitched to the floor. Almost immediately, violent convulsions wrenched the man’s body, twisting his limbs unnaturally as he writhed on the thick carpet.
Reporters instinctively rushed forward. Cameras appeared and flashbulbs flashed as Jorg Schactenberg tried to wave them back.
Robert Ellis slipped out of the press room, moved toward the exit. Security guards and paramedics rushed past him, heading in the opposite direction.
Too late, boys, Ellis mused.
The poison was a clone of something the Soviets had concocted back in the Cold War era. There was no cure for the toxin, which killed its victims after about five minutes of excruciating pain.
As Robert Ellis left the auditorium, an out-of-breath businessman called to him. “Am I too late to hear Soren Ungar’s address?”
“Mr. Ungar’s speech has just been canceled,” Robert Ellis said, and kept walking.
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6:59:06 A.M. EDT
The Bartleby
Jack Bauer stood with his team at the edge of the roof, watching the steaming volcano on the street far below.
A voice spoke in his headset. “This is Bio-Monitor One.
We’re detecting water vapor, iron oxides, asbestos, rubber, granite, and particulate matter. No chemical or biological agents, however. The area around the blast is clean.
Repeat, the area is clean.”
Jack exhaled, yanked away the headset, and dropped it on the tarred roof. Christopher Henderson slapped his back.
“Good job, Jack.”
Jack nodded, still numb.
Tony called out to Jack. “Morris is on the line.”
Jack waved him off. “Take a message.”
Tony listened for a moment, one hand on his ear. “It’s the latest casualty report, Jack. Eleven hundred and fifty-eight, so far. Those figures are expected to rise.”
Jack groaned, turned away.
Layla moved, too, far away from the others. In the center of the roof, she oriented herself, then faced Mecca.
She threw up her hands, then folded them across her breast as she began to mutter a prayer.
Henderson tugged off his sunglasses, stared. “What’s she saying?” he whispered.
“The Salat al-Janazah,” Jack replied. “The Muslim prayer for the dead.”
Henderson blinked. “I didn’t know Agent Abernathy was one of the Faithful, did you?”
C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 319
Jack smiled. “Yeah. I did.” He faced his boss. “You’d be wise to appoint Judith Foy the new Director of CTU New York. And I’d recommend Layla for the number two spot.
She’s young, but—”
Henderson silenced Jack with a raised hand. “There isn’t going to be a CTU New York, Jack. Not after this mess.”
“You can’t be serious?”
“The orders have been issued from on high,” Henderson informed him. “Walsh and the President are in agreement on this.”
“But what happened here proves the need for a CTU
presence.”
“Security was compromised from the start,” Henderson replied. “The division was infiltrated before it even opened.
The political meltdown over this hasn’t even begun yet.”
Henderson shook his head. “CTU will continue to guard the rest of the country. But from now on, New York City is on its own.”
The man curled his long arm around Jack’s shoulder.
“Don’t worry, Jack, you have enough on your plate with Los Angeles.”
Jack stepped away, processing everything Henderson had said. With the mention of L.A., he suddenly remembered his wife and daughter, realizing in a rush how much he missed them. He pulled out his personal cell phone, noticed a text message from Teri. A reminder.
Coldplay poster. MTV store.
Don’t disappoint your daughter.
320
2 4 D E C L A S S I F I E D
He smiled.
“How about breakfast?” Henderson called to him. “On me. I’ll bet you haven’t eaten in a day.”
Jack glanced at his watch. “Fine, Christopher, but after that I’m heading uptown.”
Henderson looked at him askance. “Sightseeing?”
Bauer shook his head. “Just keeping a promise.”
About the Author
MARC CERASINI’s writing credits include The Complete Idiot’s Guide to U.S. Special Ops Forces and Heroes: U.S. Marine Corps Medal of Honor Winners and several projects for Tom Clancy, including creating the bible for the Clancy Power Play series, writing the YA action/adventure thriller The Ultimate Escape for Clancy’s NetForce series, and writing a major essay on Clancy’s contribution to the technothriller genre for the national bestseller The Tom Clancy Companion. Among the movie tie-in novelizations Marc has written are Wolverine: Weapon X, based on the popular X-Men series, the USA Today bestseller AVP: Alien Vs.
Predator, based on the motion picture from 20th Century Fox, as well as five original novels based on the Toho Studios classic “Godzilla,” and co-authored (with J.D. Lees) a nonfiction look at the film series, The Official Godzilla Compendium. Marc’s other credits include the book 24: The House Special Subcommittee Investigation of CTU, which he co-authored with his wife, Alice Alfonsi, and the previous 24 Declassified novels Operation Hell Gate, Trojan Horse, and Vanishing Point.
www.fox.com/24
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24 DECLASSIFIED Books
From HarperEntertainment
Collateral Damage
Storm Force
Chaos Theory
Vanishing Point
Cat’s Claw
Trojan Horse
Veto Power
Operation Hell Gate
Coming Soon
Trinity
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
24 DECLASSIFIED: COLLATERAL DAMAGE. Copyright ©
2008 by Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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