by John Whitman
Jack’s heart had started to pound in his chest, trying to crack his ribs from the inside, the minute the man in black had appeared. He knew this man. It was the assassin he’d run into at Smiley Lopez’s house.
Sergei spoke to the newcomer in Russian, and Jack picked up the name Franko. Franko replied in terse, unhappy sentences. Sergei responded sympathetically, but Malenkiy laughed. Franko thumped him in the chest, and the two began to squabble.
“You’ll have to forgive my friends,” Sergei said to Jack. “This one has had a bad day.”
Jack stuck to the things that would concern Stud-halter. “Now there are three of you and one of me.”
Sergei nodded agreeably. “Your math is excellent. I will not try to trick you when we count kilos.”
They dropped down onto Pacific Coast Highway, headed for the beach.
1:31 P.M. PST CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles
Ryan Chappelle was on the phone with Tony Almeida, discussing the Pacific Rim Forum site down at the Ritz-Carlton in Marina del Rey.
“If we’re going to cover this by tonight,” Tony was saying from the freeway, “we need to scramble several full teams.”
“Who’s on security already?” Chappelle asked. “Somebody’s got to—”
“Wong is liaison,” Tony said, referring to a junior field agent assigned to coordinate information between CTU and the other agencies (including LAPD, the FBI, and security personnel for each country involved in the conference). “But we’re talking about eleven countries.”
Chappelle outlined a strategy: rank the countries by order of importance and impact from Jemaah Islamiyah’s perspective, starting with Indonesia; analyze the schedule of each country and look for anomalies that might create openings; examine the protocol written for installation security at the Ritz-Carlton . . . The list was extensive.
“Hold on,” Chappelle said. “I’m getting buzzed that Peter Jiminez is on the line. Some kind of emergency.” Chappelle put Tony on hold and took Jiminez’s line off hold. “What is it, Peter?”
“He surprised me, sir,” Peter said. “I’m sorry, Almeida and Myers said he was compliant. I let my guard down. I’m sorry—”
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The hair on the back of Chappelle’s thin neck stood on end. “Talk sense, Agent Jiminez. What are you talking about?”
“Felix Studhalter,” Peter explained. “He escaped.”
Chappelle swore. He dialed the number of the cell phone Jack Bauer was carrying, but all he got was an out-of-service signal.
1:38 P.M. PST Topanga Canyon
The weather wasn’t hot enough to attract a huge beach crowd, so Pacific Coast Highway was open. Sergei Petrenko’s Mercedes cruised up the coast, reaching Topanga Canyon in no time, and turned up the winding highway into the Santa Monica Mountains that separated L.A.’s inland valley from the ocean. East of Santa Monica, where the mountains looked down on Beverly Hills, Hollywood, and downtown, the hills were stacked with expensive “Hollywood Hills” homes. Out here, though, on the fringe of Los Angeles county, the mountains looked and felt rural thanks to distance and no-growth laws. Long before it was a highway, Topanga Canyon had been a footpath for Native Americans and the winding, double-ess curves of the road memorialized the ancient trail.
Jack couldn’t have known it, but to reach Topanga he had passed Temescal Canyon, where Zapata was held up, and if he had traveled on Topanga Canyon up into the heart of the San Fernando Valley, he would have arrived at the safe house where Adrian Tintfass was having lunch.
But he couldn’t have known, of course. Besides, his mind was thoroughly preoccupied with Franko sitting right behind him. After several anxious minutes, Jack decided that Franko either wasn’t going to look closely at him, or hadn’t seen him well enough to identify him. He therefore settled into a watchful quiet as the three Ukrainians spoke to one another in Russian.
The Mercedes climbed up the steep road into Topanga Canyon. For several miles there were no buildings at all, just the bare beauty of the chapparal. Jack pulled his cell phone—actually, Studhalter’s cell phone—out of his pocket and checked it: no bars.
“No service up here,” Sergei pointed out.
As the road leveled out at the top of the pass, they drove through the tiny hamlet of Topanga. Several unmarked lanes branched out from the main highway, and Sergei took one that was almost invisible under two huge oak trees.
This lane was paved for a hundred yards, then turned to uneven dirt. As the Mercedes bounced along, Sergei spat a curse in Russian.
Franko, from the back, answered in English. “You’re an old woman, complaining about your bladder. We have to pave the road or you got to get yourself a fucking truck.”
Sergei scoffed. “I didn’t come to America to be driving a truck.” Several jarring minutes brought them to a shack
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that must have been someone’s mountain cabin or hunting lodge, once upon a time. Although more rustic and a bit more run-down than the house in Santa Monica, it impressed Jack with the same quality: not so run-down as to attract attention, not so well-kept that it prevented the owners from worthier pursuits.
There were already two cars parked in a wide dirt patch in front of the shack: an old seventies Dodge truck that looked like it belonged, and a BMW 560i that didn’t. Sergei parked next to the BMW. All four men got out and walked up the dirt patch to the house.
Now or never, Jack thought. He turned to look around, staring squarely into Franko’s face. Franko stared back, his eyes vaguely threatening. There was no sign of recognition in his eyes.
They walked into the building, which was neither a mountain cabin nor a hunting lodge. It was a crystal meth lab. Crystal meth. Methamphetamine. Tina, a corruption of sixteen, from one-sixteenth of an ounce. Providing a cheap, powerful high, crystal meth was rapidly replacing cocaine and heroin as the suburban drug of choice.
“You will excuse if we don’t go inside,” Sergei said. Jack understood. Meth labs were notoriously dangerous places because the chemicals, including ephedrine, being boiled down were notoriously unstable. Meth labs didn’t just catch on fire; they were immediately engulfed in flames. “This place blows,” Jack observed, “you’re going to burn down the whole mountain.”
Sergei shrugged. “This place blows, either I am safe in my house or I am inside there. Either way, is not my problem. Inside here, we produce half a million hits every two days. That’s a whole lot of tina for five dollars a hit.”
Jack made use of the information Studhalter had given him. “I never said five dollars.” “Relax, we are friends here, relax,” Sergei laughed. “Five dollars for the user. For you, two dollars.”
Jack nodded satisfactorily.
The door opened and two more people came out. One was another hard-looking Slavic man, although this one lacked the bright, intelligent eyes of the two Petrenkos. The other was an anachronism—a beautiful woman with long blond hair, tied into a thick Viking braid down her back. She hopped off the porch and threw her arms around Sergei, who buried his face in her neck and hair, growling pleasurably at her in Russian.
Malenkiy chuckled and whispered something to Franko, who laughed and nudged Jack. “Our combination scientist and cock tease. Sergei pays her double because he’s trying to get up her skirt. He’ll give half the money in that briefcase to get his piston greased.”
“Is that my truck?” Jack asked, pointing at the Dodge.
Sergei heard him and dislodged himself from the blond. “Yeah. Give us a few minutes to load the shit and count your cash, and we’ll be done.” He barked an order to Malenkiy and the slow-moving Slav, who
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both went into the shack and came out with bundles
wrapped in plastic.
“I’ve seen you around.”
Jack’s heart popped up into his throat. Franko was staring sidelong at him. “Or you look like someone I know.”
Problems were best faced squarely, so Jack turned straight to the Russian. “I d
oubt you’ve seen me. I haven’t been in town that long.”
Franko chewed his lip for a minute, then shrugged. Jack turned away, but felt the other man’s eyes linger on him.
“Okay,” Sergei said, apparently resigned to the fact that he wasn’t getting any more action from the blond. “Let’s see the money.”
Jack held up the briefcase, but before Sergei could take it, a phone in his pocket rang.
“Cell service?” Jack said curiously.
Sergei tapped his own temple. “Satellite phone. For the man who has everything.”
He pulled the phone—a bit larger than the average cell phone—out of his jacket and answered in Russian. “Oh, sure,” he said, nodding politely at Jack and excusing himself with a gesture. He stepped away and said, “I don’t think so, no. Well, if you say so. I’ll talk to you later.” He hung up and turned back to Jack. “I’m sorry. It’s rude, but business. You know. Now, the money?”
Jack held the briefcase flat and popped it open, revealing the top layer of twenties and fifties. When he looked up from the case, he was staring at the black hole of a handgun. He frowned. “Do you want a check instead?”
Sergei spoke in Russian, and Franko drew his own gun. The blond watched curiously. Malenkiy, just coming out of the house with another load, set it down and produced his gun. The fourth Slav stopped, still holding his parcel.
“I get some funny calls on my satellite phone,” Sergei said. “That one was from Felix Studhalter.”
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 2 P.M. AND 3 P.M. PACIFIC STANDARD TIME
2:00 P.M. PST Topanga Canyon
Without hesitation, Jack tossed the briefcase at Sergei and lunged toward Franko. But the Russian had been tough enough when he was outnumbered. Now he was even more difficult. The muzzle of his gun clipped Jack across the temple, spinning him around. Jack allowed the spin to carry him full-circle and he swung his fist against the Russian’s head. But Sergei dropped low, hugging Jack’s legs and shouldering him to the ground. Jack sat up, grabbing Sergei by the hair to peel him off, but Malenkiy had reached them by then and Jack caught his booted foot squarely in the
face. The little Russian put his knee on Jack’s chest and jabbed a gun against his cheek. “Don’t,” Sergei ordered. “Too close to the house. And too close to the road for the sound.”
Jack’s head was spinning from the kick, but he felt their hands paw him, taking his gun. He had no idea what sort of screw-up had given Studhalter the opportunity to call, but if he survived this, someone was going to catch hell.
“I don’t know who you are. I don’t care, either. I’m taking your money and my tina,” Sergei said.
Jack gambled. “I’ll tell you who I am. I work for the government, but I’m not here to sting you. I’m here to buy your crystal meth and use it as a trade for another case. Wait!” At the word government, the little man had cocked back the hammer on his weapon. “Wait! I don’t give a shit about your meth lab or your drug dealing. That’s not my job. I have another case and I need the meth for a trade. That’s all. Take the money, give me the meth, and it’ll be just like you sold to Studhalter.”
“Except you work for the government,” Sergei observed. He barked in Russian. Jack heard Malenkiy’s name, but understood nothing else. Malenkiy kept his knee on Jack’s chest and the gun in his face, and Jack was sure the little man would use it despite Sergei’s orders, if Jack gave him a reason, so he kept still for the moment, staring past the gun and Malenkiy’s eager eyes and up into the blue sky. It wasn’t often Jack looked up at the sky. It was clear today, and peaceful.
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Sergei and Franko seemed to be finishing the transfer of crystal meth from the lab to the truck. A moment later, Jack felt hands haul him roughly to his feet. Sergei, Malenkiy, Franko, and the slow one all had weapons trained on him. Sergei barked at Malenkiy, who nodded, while he and Franko backed away and then hurried over to the truck.
Malenkiy snapped at Jack in Russian and pointed up the hill past the little shack.
“That way,” the other Russian said. His forehead sloped and his lower jaw was slack. He eyed Jack curiously.
Jack saw no opportunity to attack, so he acquiesced, walking up the hill with the two Russian men on either side of him and the girl behind. Uphill from the house was a trail winding its way through the brown grass. He followed it, always with the men flanking him and their guns steady. The trail climbed to the top of a small rise. There it made a sharp turn, running along the edge of a ridge overlooking a steep barranca. The trail continued into the mountains, but the Russians stopped at the edge of the precipice.
Jack had to make his move now. He tensed his muscles, but before he could do anything, Malenkiy gurgled. Jack glanced at him. His body was stiff and trembling, his eyes wide as choking sounds came from his throat. Taser wires protruded from his body, reaching backward. Jack just had time to realize that the blond girl held the taser when she kicked the slow-witted Russian in the chest, sending him backward over the cliff, tumbling down the hill.
With superhuman effort, the vicious little Russian tore the taser barbs out of his body. He tried to raise his gun, but Jack pushed it aside and punched Malenkiy in the face. The little man followed his comrade down the hill.
Jack turned to the blond girl, who had rearmed her taser. Her face was cool and calm as an iceberg. “Ivan?” he asked.
She spoke in perfect English. “Who the hell are you?” “Jack Bauer, Counter Terrorist Unit,” he explained. “And thanks.”
“Thanks? Jesus!” she said, anger melting her icy facade. “Do you have any idea how badly you screwed this?”
“Tell me later!” Jack said. He ran down the hill. He had to get that crystal meth.
The undercover FBI agent, “Ivan,” followed him. By the time he reached the shack again, he saw that the truck and the Mercedes were gone. He jumped into the BMW.
Ivan threw open the passenger door. “You don’t have the keys!”
“I’ve had a lot of practice.” He tore the panel out from under the dash and hot-wired the car in a few seconds. By this time Ivan was in the car with him. She scolded him as he kicked up dust on his way down the lane.
“Four months! Four months of that gorilla’s paws on my ass! And you come along and blow the whole operation!”
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He reached the paved part of the lane and sped up, reaching the main highway in seconds. Dust drifting on the highway suggested that Sergei had turned right, inland, so he followed.
“What gives you the right to—aggh!” He burned rubber onto Topanga Canyon, throwing her almost into the driver’s seat.
“Seatbelt,” he cautioned. “I can’t explain even if I had time. I need that supply of crystal meth. I’m happy to bring down Sergei, but it’s not that important to me. My case is bigger.”
“Bigger! Bigger than four months of my—”
“Yeah,” he said, and focused on the road. The speedometer was up in the eighties already. The BMW’s tires squeaked warningly as they tried to grip the asphalt on the sharp turns. One curve came up faster than Jack realized, and the BMW rubbed against the metal guard rail. The blond shut up for a minute, her face losing all its color.
“Shit, you’re going to kill us.”
On a rare straight piece of road, Jack saw the Mercedes and the truck down below. He accelerated.
“Okay,” the woman said, her voice changing tone. “Okay, okay, we, um, got off on the wrong foot. I’m Sue. Agent Sue Mishler, FBI. Jesus!” At the next turn, the BMW lifted off its two left wheels for a second.
“Call for backup,” she said. “Why not call for backup!”
“No signal,” Jack grunted. But that wasn’t the reason. He couldn’t call for police backup. They would confiscate the meth, or at least tie it up with paperwork until he could extricate it, and he had no time.
Reckless driving closed the distance be
tween them, and on the next straightaway Jack pulled up close behind the Mercedes. He used the driver’s console to lower the passenger side window, letting in the roar of the wind.
The silhouette looked more like Sergei. Jack saw him look into the rearview mirror and then look down without changing his demeanor. He must have glanced backward, seen a man and a woman in the BMW, and assumed all was going according to plan.
“Do you have a gun?” he asked over the noise.
Sue put her hand into her pocket, then hesitated. She engaged on a brief internal struggle, then produced a Glock .40.
“Get ready to shoot him.”
Jack gunned the engine and swerved into the opposite lane, pulling up next to the Mercedes. Sergei glanced over at them and the grin collapsed on his face. “Shoot him,” Jack advised.
“I can’t! He hasn’t done anythi—” The first two shots shattered the passenger window behind them.
Sue flinched, then swiveled her upper body like a turret and brought the Glock to bear. Jack kept his eyes on the road, but at the corner of his vision he saw her calmly squeeze off three rounds. The Mercedes veered away, clipping the back of the Dodge pickup and then disappearing from sight.
“Nice,” Jack said. “Now don’t shoot.” He needed the truck intact. The Dodge fishtailed a little, then
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straightened itself out. Jack pulled up even enough to see Franko appear startled, then recover and glance over at them. “Trade places!” Jack commanded. He slid over until he was practically on top of the FBI agent. She had no choice but to take his place at the wheel. She planned to pull over the moment she was at the wheel, but somehow during the switch Jack had plucked the gun from her hand.