by John Whitman
Harry resisted the urge to slap him.
“Oh God,” Collins cried softly as he finished describing his many acts, and those of Father Giggs. “God, forgive me for what I’ve done. I’ve been terrible.”
Harry stood up. His voice was hoarse. He’d spent a twenty-year career digging at the underbelly of the city, rooting out the bad things that grew there. He decided he’d never seen a more horrible or pathetic creature than this. “I don’t know if God forgives people like you,” he rasped. “I sure as hell don’t. And I hope the judge doesn’t, either. Get up.”
Collins seemed to know he was beaten. He stood meekly. Harry grabbed the priest’s good arm firmly and walked him out the door into the chilly morning air.
“Am I being arrested?” Collins said, as naïve as ever. Harry wondered if he was mentally deficient. “I . . . I have a presentation to give for the Pope.”
“You’re going to miss it,” the detective replied. He opened the car door and guided Driscoll into the backseat. Harry couldn’t handcuff the wrist on the priest’s bad arm, so he hooked one ring around Collins’s good right wrist and the other to his left ankle.
He closed the door and hurried around to driver’s side, jumped in, and drove off toward Parker Center.
He was too disturbed by the images in his head to see the car ease away from the curb behind him.
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4:51 A.M. PST Castaic Dam
At least there was a night watchman, Jack thought ironically. Of course, he hadn’t done much except sputter and wheeze as Dean strode up to him, beat him senseless, and then tossed him into a storage shed.
Beyond the buildings they could see the enormous bulk of Castaic Dam, not much more than a giant earthworks thrown across a ravine. Below it, a shallow gorge ran down toward Santa Clarita and, below that, to the main suburbs of Los Angeles.
“That’s a whole lotta water behind there,” said one of the bikers. “That flood the city?”
“Nah,” said another. This was the tubby biker who’d put Jack down in the dirt earlier. “Too far to travel. It’ll get Santa Clarita real wet, prob’ly, and mess up a lot of shit in the San Fernando Valley.”
Dean nodded. “Yeah. I’m not trying to flood the city. I’m just taking away its water.”
Jack understood enough about Los Angeles history to know what that dam meant. Los Angeles was built mostly on desert, and relied on the massive California Aqueduct to bring in most of its drinking water from the north. Castaic was the storage tank for all that water. Wreck Castaic, and millions of acre-feet of water just drained into the dust.
“Let’s go,” Dean said.
It was the tubby biker, whose name was Barny, who seemed to know what he was doing. He directed several of the bikers as they broke out packets of plastic explosives—some of which, Jack guessed, were the plastic explosives Farrigian had sold to them instead of the Islamists—and began telling them how to lay it along strategic points of the dam. The dam itself was nothing like Jack expected. He’d visited large dams before, and they usually looked like giant medieval castles. Castaic, however, was little more than a dirt dike reinforced with rocks and other debris to prevent erosion. It was, however, tall at over four hundred feet, and there was a huge amount of water behind it.
“You gonna help, or what?” Barny challenged. Jack realized that he had hesitated while the others were hiking out along the foot of the dam.
“Yeah,” Jack replied. “I plan on helping a lot.”
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THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 5 A.M. AND 6 A.M. PACIFIC STANDARD TIME
5:00 A.M. PST CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles
“You could go home, you know,” Christopher Henderson said.
“And miss all this action?” Nina Myers said, waving her arm across the empty conference room and the darkened main office beyond. “Actually, I don’t feel right going to bed when there’s someone out there undercover.”
“Jack’ll be all right,” Henderson replied.
“He will?” Nina replied. “You know Chappelle screwed him over.” She looked around, not sure if the Division Director was still lurking around the office. “He’s out there with no backup, and if he goes under, Chappelle is going to chalk it up to the CIA instead of us.”
Henderson had to agree, but he also knew that Jack hadn’t been presented with much of a choice. “We have the same SWAT unit on call as we did before. It worked out when Jack was with Smithies.”
Nina threw him a disapproving look. “Smithies was alone. This time it’s a bunch of bikers. The response team isn’t trailing them; they’re a couple miles away. It’s bullshit and you know it.”
“Jack can take care of himself.” Henderson shrugged, and the two sat in silence for a moment. Nina sipped her coffee before changing subjects. “What do you think of that NTSB woman?”
Henderson grinned. “You jealous that you’re not the only queen bee at the moment? Get used to it when this place is really staffed.”
Nina gave him a one-fingered wave. “She bugged me earlier. Her thing about Farrigian. I didn’t like it.”
“What?” Henderson was only half listening. It had been a long time since he’d pulled an all-nighter, and he was barely surviving this one. Thank god for coffee.
“Well, Jack was right. What are the odds of different agencies stumbling over two different groups with two different supplies of plastic explosives.”
“Not all that likely, but we’re brand-new here. Who knows what we’re going to uncover.”
Nina held up her hand to stop him. “That’s right, we’re brand-new. And we sent a brand-new investigator who doesn’t do undercover. With no backup. Do we even have audio? Of course not. But we accepted her version of a story told by an arms dealer.”
“And it’s working out,” Henderson said. “Jack’s on to something.”
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Nina felt like she’d bumped her head against a wall. She paused a moment, then said. “What’s the best kind of lie?”
“I don’t follow.”
“The best kind of lie isn’t one that stops your investigation. It’s the kind that sends it somewhere else. Somewhere that looks like a payoff.”
“You think Farrigian lied,” Henderson concluded. “Even though we got information that’s leading us right to a terrorist plot we’re about to stop?”
“I think I’m tired but I can’t sleep,” Nina said, downing her coffee. “And I don’t like being the one sitting around. I’m going to go see what’s up with this Farrigian.”
5:06 A.M. PST Castaic Dam
Jack followed Barny’s directions, slid down a dirt slope next to the maintenance sheds, and started to walk along the base of the dam with the rest of Dean’s gang. There was nothing high-end or technical about this area: it was a dry gulch. If there was a spillway somewhere, Jack couldn’t see it. Maybe there was no need in thirsty Los Angeles.
Jack also wasn’t sure how much damage the plastic explosives would do against that formidable earthworks dam. But as the group walked along the dam base, Barny was being very precise about where he wanted the charges placed. Jack drifted toward the back of the group, then reached behind his back to pull out the Sig that no one had bothered to take from him.
As his hand closed on the weapon, he felt tempered steel push against his temple.
“How fucking stupid do you think I am?” Dean’s voice growled.
Jack’s answer was a quick grab at the weapon, redirecting it, and a kick to Dean’s groin. The biker grunted but didn’t go down, while Jack felt a half-dozen hands and arms wrap him up and tackle him to the ground. He bit someone hard and managed to headbutt another biker, but there were too many of them, and they had him pinned a moment later.
Dean stood over him, his face mostly hidden by the predawn gloom but his bulk unmistakable. “You little shit,” he said. “You think I wouldn’t recognize a cop trying to get close to me? I though
t you guys gave that shit up years ago.”
Jack would have shrugged if he could have moved any part of his body under the pile of limbs. “Well, you can’t have gotten any smarter.”
Dean laughed. “We’ll see. Stand him up.”
They dragged Jack to his feet. He relaxed, hoping the two or three bikers that continued to hold him would loosen up, but they remained on guard. “We’ll let our friend here plant the explosives for us. No sense in risking all our necks. Rig him up.”
It was fast thinking, what they did to Jack—so fast that Jack couldn’t help but wonder how Dean got the idea for it. Barny, who clearly had some knowledge of explosives, rigged a brick of plastic explosives to Jack’s back where it was hard to reach, and added a detonator. Then he held up a cell phone, punching in a phone number. “I press send and you go boom,” the fat man said. “You get it?”
Jack nodded.
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“We’ll be standing right over here. You make a run for it, and you die. I see you reach back there, you die. I’m going to mark the exact spots where I want you to put them.”
Barny walked away along the base of the wall. Jack could feel Dean grinning at him, and he could feel the weight of the plastic explosives strapped to his back.
5:18 A.M. PST Mid-Wilshire Area, Los Angeles
Traffic had started early, and like an early snow it had caught everyone by surprise. Almost a half hour after leaving Shoemacher Avenue, Harry Driscoll was still stuck on Wilshire Boulevard, where the irresistible force of L.A. traffic had met up with the immovable object of a CalTrans repair project. Checking the traffic news, Harry learned that Cal-Trans in its infinite wisdom had decided to effect repairs on Wilshire, Olympic, and Pico all on the same morning, clogging the three major surface arteries running east to west in the city.
“Your tax dollars at work,” he muttered.
Collins had been quiet since they’d driven away from his home, but whether it was from fear or relief that his monstrous nature had finally been exposed, Harry couldn’t tell.
“I’m getting off this street,” Harry said, not really talking to Collins. He jerked the wheel left and honked, inching his way through three rows of traffic heading in the other
direction, waving politely at the drivers who blared their horns and flipped him off. Right of way in Los Angeles was never given, only taken; that was Harry’s motto.
He found himself on Rossmoor, a residential street in the Hancock Park neighborhood. A few other cars had peeled off the main drag as well, but after a block Driscoll was alone. He pulled up to a stop sign at the next intersection and reached toward his glove compartment to get his maps when he felt something jolt his car hard, banging his head into the dashboard.
Rear-ended. “Son of a bitch!” he grunted, pushing his hand on his head to squeeze away the pain. ‘Worst goddamned day of my life. You stay here,” he snapped at Collins.
Harry got out of the car with a scowl on his face and turned to look at the black Chrysler 300C that had bumped into the back of his car. His scowl turned to surprise and then fear as he saw the Chrysler’s door open and a small barrel jut out, aimed right at him. Harry was ducking and spinning before he heard the first sharp, angry cracks of gunfire.
5:27 A.M. PST Farrigian’s Warehouse, West Los Angeles
Nina reached the gate of Farrigian’s Warehouse and tested it; finding it unlocked, she slipped inside. She had no plan, and no cover story, but she wasn’t expecting much trouble from tepid criminals like the Farrigian brothers. As she had told Henderson, she
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hated just sitting around, but she wasn’t expecting to glean much information from this field trip. Which was why she was stunned by what she saw in the parking lot.
It was Diana Christie’s car. She was sure of it. Christie had parked in one of CTU’s brand-new authorized-visitors-only spots for several hours. What the hell was she doing back here?
5:28 A.M. PST Mid-Wilshire Area, Los Angeles
Michael kept up a steady barrage of gunfire, his silenced .40 caliber semi-automatic puncturing the Acura the detective had been driving. The detective had managed to scramble around to the far side of the car for cover, and he wasn’t sure if he had been hit or not. Michael had started to advance, but the man squeezed off a few rounds that kept Michael down.
Still, he couldn’t wait much longer. Seconds were ticking by, and when enough of those seconds had passed the police would come, and he couldn’t allow that for many, many reasons. “Go,” he ordered the man in the passenger seat. It was Pembrook, the best of his small security detail. Pembrook bolted toward the Acura, even as the detective fired again. Pembrook flinched and dropped to one knee, but kept firing. Silenced rounds shattered the glass.
No! Michael thought. We need Collins.
Pembrook stood and fired. Michael saw the rounds shatter the window, saw Collins shudder and go limp. “Stop!” he yelled.
Pembrook halted at his shout, confused. “Get the body!” Michael yelled. “Get the body!” Pembrook started forward again, but now sirens wailed in the distance. The detective’s gunfire had awakened the residents. “Forget it!” Michael yelled, causing Pembrook to stutter once again. Seeing Michael dive back into the car, Pembrook scrambled back to the Chrysler.
5:31 A.M. PST Farrigian’s Warehouse, West Los Angeles
Nina tested the doors of the warehouse but found them locked. She started to walk the wall, looking for a window or other entry, but as she neared the corner, she heard the door open behind her. She pressed herself against the wall and listened.
“. . . you have to get it out. I did what you asked,” said Diana Christie. She sounded near to panic.
“It’s not me, I told you,” said a voice Nina assumed belonged to Farrigian. “I’ve got nothing to do with that.”
A car roared by, drowning out part of Christie’s response. “. . . one I know,” she was saying. “Please.”
“You did what they asked. Go home. I’m sure they’ll be in touch.”
Nina heard the door close and footsteps walk away. A moment later a car door opened and closed, and Diana Christie drove away.
“What the hell is that all about?” Nina said quietly. “And who is she working for?”
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5:45 A.M. PST Castaic Dam
The sun was rising as Jack finished planting the armed C–4 along the base of the dam as Barny had directed. He resented every moment of it as much as he resented the weight of the plastic explosives strapped to his back. After placing the last brick and activating the detonator, he turned back toward the dirty slope where Dean waited.
The hike back took a few minutes, made longer by the smarmy grin on Dean’s face as Jack trudged back up the slope.
“Well, I gotta say that made this more fun than I expected.” The biker laughed. “I had time, I’d try to figure out who you are and how you got on to me, but I figure I’ll find out soon enough. When you disappear, more cops are bound to sniff around.”
“They’re around now,” Jack bluffed. “Wait a few minutes.”
“Nah.” Dean brushed off the attempt. “They’d have come down on us the minute we strapped a bomb on your back. You’re alone. Why, I got no idea. But I’ll take it.”
“Can I blow him up now?” Barny asked. Dean shook his head. “Go down and make sure he did it right. I don’t trust him.”
Barny nodded and trotted down the slope, followed by one of the other bikers. Jack glared at Dean’s grinning face. “It was too easy,” Dean noted.
Barny came back after a few minutes, puffing and sweating. “He tried to fuck us. He disabled the receivers on all the detonators. I fixed it, but I had to use the delayed fuse. The bombs will detonate about five minutes after we send the signal.”
Dean nodded. “Dump him in the reservoir.”
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THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 6 A.M. AND 7 A.M. PACIFIC STANDARD TIME
6:00 A.M. PST St. Monica’s Cathedral, Downtown Los Angeles
Pope John Paul woke suddenly, but gently, as he always did. He liked to think it was the peace of God, though in his heart he could not be sure. It had been his career-long secret weapon, this ability to wake up gently, but immediately, with a mind focused on the affairs of the day. That morning, he woke up with the Unity Conference, and all it represented, clearly in mind. He understood, as so few seemed to, what was at stake. East and West were headed for a reckoning of tragic proportions. Someone needed to blunt the impact of the collision, bring the two sides together with a handshake rather than a clenched fist.
6:01 A.M. PST Castaic Dam
Jack punched the closest biker in the face. The man staggered back, and Jack kicked him hard in the chest, sending him sprawling down the slope.
“Blow him—oh,” Dean said, the grin falling off his face.
Jack had known it from the minute they allowed him to walk back up the slope. They couldn’t detonate the bomb on his back when he was standing right among them. But they would scatter, and they were already trying. He had to get to Barny and his cell phone. Jack lunged at the fat biker, tripping him. But huge, viselike hands grabbed him, dragging him backward. Jack didn’t resist. Instead he spun and traveled with the pull, tucking his chin and ramming his forehead into Dean’s chest. He followed it with a knee that connected with Dean’s groin. The big man doubled over like he was hugging Jack. Jack grabbed his hair at the temple and twisted it, peeling Dean’s head away, and headbutted him again, this time in the face. He felt teeth give way.
But he couldn’t stay with Dean. Barny had the phone that would trigger the bomb on his back. He spun and jumped down the slope. Barny, fat and slow, was just getting to his feet. He was holding a cell phone in his hand, his fingers fumbling at it, when Jack reached him and leaped, landing with both feet hard on Barny’s back like a surfer atop his board. Barny grunted and his arms sprawled out, but he managed to keep his grip on the phone. Jack hopped from Barny’s back and landed hard with one foot on the biker’s right wrist. Barny howled but managed to