by John Whitman
“Why this deal? We could get the equipment we need from other sources, without trading with the Indonesians.”
Zapata nodded. “Two reasons. The first is obvious. These people we trade with will cause their own stir, and that will attract some attention. It’s a distraction. But my reason is more . . . aesthetic. I am simply trying to drop the biggest rock I can into the pond.”
“I will call Alliance to confirm.”
4:09 A.M. PST InterContinental Hotel
Jack leaned back against the sofa cushions, his feet up on the coffee table and his eyes closed. He wanted to sleep, but would not allow himself the luxury.
Vanowen’s phone rang. He popped out of the other room, saying, “You okay now, Mark? Head on straight?”
Mark “The Mountain” Kendall looked far from okay, but he grunted an affirmative, barely looked at Jack and Ramirez, and left. Vanowen talked into his phone a little, mostly listened, and then said, “I’ll be there.” He snapped the phone shut.
“Okay. Hey, wake up!” Vanowen kicked the feet of Ramirez, who was snoring. Ramirez jumped as if he’d been bitten.
“I have a job this morning,” Vanowen said. “Some of the kind of work you were getting involved in, before you went and killed someone, you moron. You want to come?”
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Ramirez rubbed his eyes. “Yeah, okay.”
“Me, too,” Jack said.
Vanowen grinned at him, a big, toothy grin out of his round face. “You I did some checking on while I was in the other room. You fucked somebody up, huh? You’re really on the run now.”
“Like you wouldn’t believe,” Jack said.
Vanowen chewed his lip. He seemed to be weighing his innate suspicion against some need. Finally, he said, “Yeah, come. I can use the extra muscle. Besides, ain’t nothing you’re gonna see Ramirez couldn’t have burned me for by now anyway.”
4:14 A.M. PST Inglewood
Tony Almeida had changed out of his old clothes— which looked like clothes that had been worn for days—into a clean shirt and jeans, as though he’d gotten up early instead of staying up all night. Two members of the CTU strike force had changed into civvies as well to pose as his muscle.
They knew Encep Sungkar was coming. When he was still twenty miles away they knew which streets he took, his average speed, and they could have determined his mileage per gallon if they’d wanted to. Tony’s team spent the intervening minutes rifling through Menifee’s records and the stack of crates under canvas in his warehouse. It wasn’t the most impressive stockpile Tony had seen, but it would do some damage. There were four launchers and twelve rocket-propelled grenades, a .50-caliber machine gun that could put rounds right through a brick building, a baker’s dozen of M–60s and MP–5s, and other assorted goodies.
Tony’s earpiece buzzed as Sungkar’s vehicle, followed by a truck, pulled up to his warehouse. He opened the regular-sized door, which was cut into the wall near the huge sliding cargo entrance, as his target approached. He recognized Sungkar from the table in Little Java. Sungkar was small and bespectacled, with a mild manner and a slight smile. But his eyes were intense, and though he walked softly, Tony had the distinct impression of a mongoose ready to spring.
“You Perkasa?” Tony hailed in his best imitation of Menifee’s voice, using the alias they’d discovered Sungkar to be using.
“Of course,” the Indonesian said, moving past Tony and into the warehouse. His glasses flashed as he looked around. “There is not much here.”
“I know how to pack,” Tony grunted, following him inside. He borrowed the observation from one of the strike team members, who had noted how efficient Menifee had been at stacking his ordnance. He held out his hand. “Menifee. I like to shake hands with the people I do business with.”
Sungkar looked down at Tony’s offered hand as though it might contain some disease. Finally he touched it weakly and removed his hand at once. “I have another meeting. Let’s proceed.”
The buy itself was straightforward: two hundred
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and fifty thousand dollars for everything explosive, plus all the assault rifles. Keeping in character, Tony tried to sell them the fifty cal, but Sungkar wasn’t buying.
“I’ll open the cargo door and your guys can drive in.” Tony went over to the huge door, almost the size of the wall, and pressed a button. Hydraulics groaned, and the door rattled up into the ceiling.
There were two men with Sungkar, one of whom had driven the truck. He climbed back in and tried to start it up, but the engine wouldn’t turn over. He looked up at Sungkar through the windshield apologetically and tried again. He had no luck, even after fifteen minutes of effort.
While they’d been talking, CTU agents had disabled the vehicle. It wasn’t going anywhere.
“I got a truck I can sell you,” Tony offered with a friendly grin. Sungkar wasn’t amused. While the Indonesians popped the hood and tinkered around, muttering in Malay, Tony said, “Seriously, you need transport to someplace, I can drive you there. No charge. I just want this shit outta my warehouse.”
Sungkar considered Tony had seen him check his watch several times, and knew that he had a schedule to keep.
“Just you. Not your men,” Sungkar said. “My business associates would not like that.”
“No prob,” Tony said, although he would have liked to have had a couple of good guns guarding his back. “Let’s load her onto my truck.”
4:32 A.M. PST Downtown Los Angeles
Dan Pascal was thinking that Officer Lafayette was a prophet. He really would have preferred to do a manhunt in the bayous.
He was standing with a half dozen other marshals and investigators on the curb of a street in downtown Los Angeles, next to a Nissan Maxima. The same Maxima, in fact, that Jack Bauer had stolen. He was happy to have found the car, but as far as he knew, Bauer had just jacked another one. Or maybe he’d just left the car and gone into one of these fine buildings. Far as Pascal knew, he could be looking down on them right now.
This city was immense. They’d simply vanished into the wilderness of civilization.
Pascal was just thinking how he liked that: “wilderness of civilization.” He ought to write that down. But his phone rang and he checked the number flashing. “Pascal. Go ahead, Emerson.”
His assistant deputy said, “Marshal, we got a break, looks like.”
“Don’t hold it in, it ain’t healthy.”
“A surveillance team downtown picked up some images that might be our man.” “What team? Ours?” “LAPD. They were on some other case. Some kind of fence named Vanowen.”
“I got a link in the car. Send me over the image.”
Pascal ambled over to his Crown Vic and punched
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up the mini-computer. The image downloaded quickly: a typically grainy black-and-white of a blond-haired man. Pascal always wondered why, in an age when a cop could drive around with a computer in his car and have pictures sent through the ether, security cameras still shot video that looked like the Zapruder footage. But even so, it did look like photos of Bauer. He was with a smaller guy, maybe Latino, and a round guy built like a fireplug.
“That’s our guy. Know where he’s going?”
“As a matter of fact, we do.”
4:38 A.M. PST Playa del Rey, California
Leave it to Los Angeles to take swampland next to an airport and build million-dollar McMansions over it. Playa del Rey, which had once been little more than the soaking ground for branches of the Los Angeles river during the rainy season, now consisted of long fields of beige and ecru archways and columns, cream-colored walls, and acre upon acre of Spanish tile in burnt umber and sienna.
Of course, all those people in all those mini-mansions gathered all sorts of possessions, and those possessions inevitably outgrew their houses, which meant they had to rent storage. The U-Pack Storage Rental facility did a better-than-break-even business renting storage space to the upper middle class. But the owner
made his real money as a depot for the lesssavory members of the community who often helped relieve the suburbanites of their excess property.
The U-Pack people also let some of their illegal storage clients use his facility as a meeting ground. It was safe: you needed a pass code to get in, and the upstanding customers almost never visited.
Twenty minutes earlier Jack Bauer had driven with Vanowen and Ramirez to an overnight parking lot near the hotel, dropped off Vanowen’s Audi, and climbed into a mid-sized truck with circular logo and the words “Alliance Moving” in blue letters. Two men were waiting, and hopped in the back of the truck.
“You have a lot of businesses,” Jack observed. “Important to diversify.” Vanowen nodded, and started the truck’s engine.
Downtown to Playa del Rey was an easy drive at that hour, although one could already see early morning commuters easing sleepily onto the 110 Freeway. A police cruiser pulled up alongside for a moment, and Jack, at the passenger window, stared down at it. He wondered what Tony Almeida and Nina Myers were saying about him at CTU. He hoped Henderson had bought his story. If not, Jack wouldn’t be safe in Los Angeles much longer. So far he’d managed to stay ahead of the law by remaining unpredictable, but not untraceable. His pursuers would have found the truck, and then the Maxima. His face had undoubtedly been picked up by security cameras at the hotel, but CTU would have to access the data banks in that particular hotel to find him.
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The Alliance truck pulled into the driveway of a place called the U-Pack Storage facility. Vanowen hopped out and entered a code into a button panel, and a big iron gate that had blocked the driveway rattled out of the way.
Vanowen hopped back in and put the truck in gear. “Okay, I took from these guys before. I’m just doing pick up for the guy I do work with” —he threw a knowledgeable look at Ramirez— “and he says there shouldn’t be any trouble. Case there is, you’re on your own.” This was said to Jack.
Vanowen steered the truck up to the largest of three buildings on the lot, next to a big hangar door, then checked his watch with an air of satisfaction. “Quarter till. My dad always said, if you’re not ten minutes early, you’re late.”
“Looks like they’re right on time, too,” Jack said.
Another truck had rolled in through the iron gate. Vanowen watched it through the truck’s big rectangular side view mirror. This truck rumbled past the Alliance vehicle and pulled to a stop in the middle of the driveway. Jack followed Vanowen and Ramirez out of the cab, and one of the two men who’d gotten in back of the truck appeared. The other was nowhere in sight.
The occupants of the other truck appeared as well. There were four of them: three were Indonesian, and Jack’s eyes were drawn straight to the smallest—a little man with scholarly glasses and a look of fierce intensity. He was flanked by two more Indonesians, bigger, sporting tough looks, and undoubtedly carrying weapons. Finally, Jack glanced at the fourth man, and found himself looking straight into the eyes of Tony Almeida.
4:46 A.M. PST Playa del Rey
It took every ounce of self-discipline Tony possessed not to react. That was Jack Bauer. Goddamned-sonof-a-bitch Jack Bauer! What was he doing selling arms to Jemaah Islamiyah? Almeida was one of CTU’s best and brightest, and the connection formed in his mind almost immediately. Tintfass had been an arms dealer moving up in the world. Bauer had launched an investigation against him. CTU had decided not to pursue it. Bauer had killed him. What if Bauer was running a little side business of his own? He wouldn’t be the first law enforcement agent to take his knowledge over to the dark side. Maybe he’d wanted to take over Tintfass’s operation, first using Federal powers to try to destroy him, then taking the more direct approach. Rumors were flying around CTU of misappropriated funds . . . was Bauer at the center of it? Had he been financing his own sales operation?
All these thoughts raced through Tony’s mind, but none of them showed on his face. No outside observer would have gotten even a hint that Bauer and Almeida knew each other.
“We have your equipment,” Sungkar said. “You have our package, of course.”
One of the men with Jack, a short bulldog of a
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man with a mustache as thick as a shoe brush, nodded. “Right here.” He held up two CD jewel cases wrapped in rubber bands. He unwrapped the rubber bands and handed one to Sungkar. “This is most of it. We put the equipment on my truck, and I give you the rest.”
Sungkar nodded, having expected this. “Let’s get this done.” He motioned to his men, one of whom stood off to one side, the cover man, while the other unstrapped a dolly from the back of Tony’s truck and began to cart boxes over to the Alliance truck.
Tony didn’t know any of the men with Jack. The bulldog was completely unfamiliar. There was another guy with salt-and-pepper hair, but he looked to be no more than hired muscle. The last one wore a thin black mustache. Tony thought he’d seen a picture of him. Was he the other fugitive from jail?
4:50 A.M. PST Playa del Rey
Jack’s heart was pounding, but no one would have known he was nervous. What the hell was Almeida doing here? But Almeida couldn’t rat him out. He was obviously on a case of some kind and wouldn’t want to blow his cover.
Jack saw Vanowen ease up on Almeida, and his hand went casually to his hip where his Sig was stashed.
“You don’t belong here,” Vanowen said to Tony.
“Huh?” Tony replied, a little startled, but the bulldog’s expression was amused.
“You ain’t Chinese or whatever,” Vanowen said. “You the token white guy?” Almeida grinned as if he were amused. “I’m the token whatever, long as I get paid.” The conversation gave Jack the opening he needed. “Amen to that.” Almeida looked at him with those sad-sack eyes. “This’ll be a good payday, huh?”
Jack knew that Almeida was fishing. He was about to respond, but his words were cut off by a voice blaring over a loudspeaker. “This is the police. Put your hands up!”
Instead everyone went for his gun. Vanowen pulled
a .45 from somewhere, as did his bodyguard. Sungkar’s two men dropped their packages and did the same. Tony crouched down. Ramirez hit the deck with a shriek. Jack dropped to his knee, his hand going instinctively for his weapon, but he did not draw. The movement cost him. Gunshots sounded, and something fast and hot bit him on the right arm.
Two squad cars had blocked the iron gate, and another one had rolled in from some back entrance, along with a white unmarked car, probably a Crown Victoria. They were surrounded, but neither Vanowen nor the Indonesians were inclined to surrender. Vanown and his henchmen poured fire into the two police cars at the gate, and the cops there ducked for cover. The Indonesians attacked the other way. Someone from the Crown Vic fired a big weapon—.10mm Desert Eagle, had to be—that boomed like a shotgun, and one of the Indonesians went down immediately.
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But the others put rounds into the cars, and those officers, too, went for cover.
“What the fuck!” Vanowen said, dropping back near his own truck. He glared at Jack, his most likely suspect.
“You kidding?” Jack yelled back, pointing at his arm now running red with blood.
4:57 A.M. PST Playa del Rey
Dan Pascal hadn’t been in a real firefight since ’91. He heard the combined ping-thud of rounds puncturing the door of his car and he smirked. If it hits me, he thought, Lord just let it kill me. I just don’t wanna be maimed.
He raised himself up, just barely over the top of his car, and surveyed the terrain. LAPD was after the arms-selling crew, but Pascal was worried about Jack Bauer. He’d spotted his blond fugitive as they rolled up, but now he’d disappeared. Someone chose his car as a target, and his windshield shattered. He fired a few more rounds from his Desert Eagle, the sound like thunder compared to the little 9-millimeters plinking all around. This wasn’t going to last long. They had the bad guys in a cross-fire. He was just reaching for his mic to give more orders through the
loudspeaker, when one of the officers in the squad car next to him went down without a word. Then the other one fell, too, and Pascal had a flashback of a little town in southern Iraq, watching three grunts in his platoon drop before someone yelled . . .
“Sniper!” he roared. They were standing next to a friggin’ three-story building, which meant that to someone looking down on them they’d be like fish in a barrel. He discharged a few rounds up-angle and slid back into his car as a round chipped at the asphalt he’d just vacated.
4:58 A.M. PST Playa del Rey
Jack saw Vanowen spin around as a high-caliber round hit him, and something small and shiny flew out of his hand. He needed Vanowen and couldn’t let him die. Jack sprinted the short distance between them and caught the other man before he fell, pinning him against the side of the truck.
“We’re leaving,” he said. He opened the cab and shoved Vanowen inside, following behind. He knew Vanowen’s other man, the one who’d disappeared, was on the roof, but he had no problem leaving the sniper behind for the cops to pick up. Jack gunned the engine. Ramirez appeared at the passenger door, threw it open, and scrambled inside.
Jack didn’t bother turning around. He jammed the truck’s long stick shift into reverse and hit the accelerator. The truck roared and lurched backward, heading straight for the two black-and-whites at the gate. He got a quick image of Tony Almeida glaring at him as he fled.
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He knew the cops at the gate were firing at the back of the truck, and he hoped none of them hit the ordinance that had already been stowed. The cop cars came up fast in the side view mirror. Jack gritted his teeth, and a second later he felt his head nearly rattle off his shoulders and the truck plowed into the cars, nearly stopped, then shoved its way between them.
Then he was through. There was no more fir-ing—the cops at the cars were either injured or had taken cover. Jack spared a second to survey the fire-fight. The Indonesians were firing at the other police cars, and Jack saw flashes of fire from the roof of the storage building. Someone was firing down on the cops. Vanowen’s second man. He glanced over at his two companions, both cowering in pain and fear. He switched his SigSauer to his left hand and leaned out the driver’s window. It was a ridiculous shot to try—way over fifty meters, with a handgun, firing left-handed. But he saw no reason for cops to get killed. He steadied his left arm and aimed, relaxing. There was a psychological tendency for shooters, aiming at distant targets, to muscle their way into the shot, as though their bodies needed to help the bullet travel. But the opposite was true, of course. The bullet would travel a certain distance, period, and no push from the shooter would help—it would only spoil the aim. Jack relaxed, made his best guess as to windage and the force of gravity, and squeezed.