“Yes,” Layla rasped.
“Good,” Henderson said, his tone obscenely cheerful.
“Let’s begin . . .”
10:41:54 P.M. EDT
Under the 495 ramp to the Lincoln Tunnel Jack Bauer examined the mangled wreckage in the glare of spotlights. Emergency beacons flashed around him. A number of local fire companies as well as the New Jersey State Police Bomb Squad had converged on the scene.
When Jack showed them his CTU ID, they allowed him 206
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to pass through the police line to view the devastation.
The truck from Kurmastan had plunged almost two hundred feet off the ramp and slammed into a Conrail switching station. The cab had been crushed beyond recognition; the dead driver was still inside. Though its tank had ruptured, and the smell of diesel fuel permeated the area, there was no fire. Still, firemen spread flame-retar-dant foam on the spillage to reduce the chance of accidental conflagration.
When it struck the switching station, the trailer had cracked open like an eggshell, spilling its deadly contents onto the railroad tracks. The aluminum shell was so twisted, Jack could hardly make out the Dreizehn Trucking logo on its hull. Plastic-wrapped bricks of C–4 were scattered like confetti. The cargo bay had been stuffed with enough explosives to bring down the roof of the Lincoln Tunnel, or level much of Times Square, if either attack had been part of the terrorists’ plan.
Among shattered crates of C–4 and an armory of guns and ammunition, Bauer counted two mangled bodies. A third corpse dangled from the top of a nearby telephone pole, where the crew of a Weehawken Fire Department ladder truck was preparing to bring it down.
Across from the tangled wreck on the railroad tracks was Waterfront Terrace Road. Its large marina complex and luxury restaurant were now being evacuated via the Hudson River. Jack could see a fleet of police and fire boats bobbing in the dark water, the lit-up Manhattan skyline rising beyond.
Jack turned away from the glare, gazed at the liquid C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 207
crystal display on the PDA in his hand. The device had once belonged to the Hawk. Jack had found it, along with a cell phone, in the pocket of the man’s black utility vest, which Jack now wore over his blue jumpsuit. Bauer had already forwarded the contents of the device and the Hawk’s cell phone to Morris O’Brian for further analysis.
While he awaited the results, Jack studied a series of road maps stored in the PDA’s memory. He was interrupted when his own cell phone vibrated.
“Bauer.”
“It’s me,” said Morris. “You’re looking at the maps?”
“Yes,” Jack replied. “There are six of them—”
“That’s right, Jack-o,” Morris interrupted. “Two match the routes taken by the truck that hit Carlisle, and the vehicle you just took down—”
“So the other four maps might indicate the routes taken by other trucks that we have yet to locate,” Jack said, thumbing through the PDA’s index.
“Might is the problem,” said Morris. “It’s such a trouble-some little word.”
“Might is what leads are made of,” Jack replied.
“Good point.”
Jack squinted at the tiny screen. “Looks like one map outlines a route to Atlantic City. And another’s going to a location outside of Rutland, Vermont.”
“There are two trucks heading for Boston, too.” Morris paused. “Director Henderson has ordered me to alert the proper state and local authorities. Thanks to you, we have a chance of stopping these trucks. A good chance.”
But Jack remembered what Brice Holman had said 208
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before he’d expired. He’d seen twelve trucks, twelve, loaded with armed men, leaving Kurmastan that morning.
Which still leaves six more out there—somewhere, Jack thought, if I want to trust Holman’s intel, and I have few doubts on that score . . .
Morris seemed to read his mind. “Don’t worry, Jack.
You’ll stop them.”
Jack shook off his anxiety and redirected Morris. “What about the contents of Farshid Amadani’s cell phone?”
“Nine numbers are stored there,” Morris replied. “Eight of them are for cell phones with bogus accounts.”
“And the ninth?”
“An unlisted number for the West Side apartment of one Erno Tobias, a citizen of Switzerland. Mr. Tobias is an executive officer for Rogan Pharmaceuticals.”
Jack flashed back to the stockpile of steroids and amphetamines at Kurmastan. They’d all come from Rogan Pharmaceuticals.
“I’ve just pulled up the passport photo for Mr. Tobias from the State Department database, and I’m forwarding it to you,” Morris continued. “You might recognize him.”
The PDA beeped in Jack’s hand, and he retrieved the digital image. Surprise struck him at the sight of the pale white face.
“It’s the Albino,” Jack said. “The man who killed Fredo Mangella in Little Italy.”
“I have an address,” Morris announced. “Nice digs, too.
It appears Mr. Tobias occupies an apartment on Central Park West.”
The address flashed on the PDA screen.
“Got it,” said Jack. “I’m going there now.”
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10:56:25 P.M. EDT
Security Booth
General Aviation Electronics Rutland, Vermont
On this wood-lined stretch of Route 4, just a few miles from Pine Hill Park, rush hour occurred three times a day, coinciding with the shift changes at the massive General Aviation Electronics manufacturing plant.
At seven a.m., three p.m., and again at eleven p.m., a steady stream of cars, pickups, and minivans flowed off Columbian Avenue, onto a short driveway that led into the access-restricted parking lot.
Because of the classified nature of the devices manufactured here, which included vital components for the U.S. military’s fleet of high-performance jet aircraft, there was only one way in or out of the plant. That road was straddled by a gated security booth and manned by two armed guards.
While there was always a delay at rush hour, tonight’s was worse than usual because of a security alert issued by the Federal government less than thirty minutes earlier.
Most days, gaining admittance to the employee parking lot was a simple process. The electronic pass glued to the workers’ windshields allowed them to be waved through.
But tonight the two guards inside the glass booth had been instructed to stop each vehicle and check the IDs of all occupants. The security officers were also advised to be on the lookout for suspicious vehicles, especially large trucks.
It was Officer Darla Famini and her partner, Archie 210
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Lamb, who were taking the heat for the delay, mostly from workers rolling in at the last minute for the night shift.
“Come on, Darla, what’s the problem?” complained a corpulent man behind the wheel of a late-model GM pickup.
“You ought to know me. I’m your damned cousin.”
“Sorry, Billy,” Darla said, handing him back his employee ID. “Tonight we have to check everybody. We have a situation.”
“Situation? ” Billy rolled his eyes. “We haven’t had a situation since Ronald Reagan was President.”
Darla frowned. “We’ve got one tonight.”
Billy adjusted his ball cap. “Lucky me. I’m at the end of the line.”
“You have plenty of time to clock in,” Officer Famini replied, waving him through.
As the gate went up, Billy glanced into his rearview mirror. “Here comes someone else you can harass,” he said. Then he pulled away in a cloud of exhaust smoke.
Darla watched two headlights bounce up the driveway.
Her partner appeared at her shoulder.
“That’s a truck,” said Archie Lamb.
The night sky was clear and cloudless above Rutland, the stars and plan
ets sharply bright. Darla could make out the vehicle, too.
“Aren’t we supposed to be on the lookout for big trucks?”
Archie asked.
“Put the flashers on,” Darla said.
Archie hit the button, and red warning lights lit up around the booth.
“He’s still coming,” said Darla.
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Archie pointed. “Looks like he’s speeding up.”
“Contact the night supervisor!”
While Archie dialed the number, Darla punched another button on her console. Long, metal spikes popped out of the pavement. If the truck tried to pass through the gates now, its tires would be shredded.
She expected the driver to see the spikes and slow his vehicle, but he didn’t. The truck kept right on coming, its headlights filling the booth. At the last possible instant, the vehicle swerved away from the tire-shredding spikes sticking out of the roadway and crashed right through the security booth.
The flimsy structure exploded into shards of glass and shattered lights; Darla and Archie were killed instantly; and the Dreizehn Trucking vehicle continued on, through the parking lot. Because of the shift change, the lot was jammed with cars and employees. The truck barreled through them, running down those who reacted too slowly.
The big rig rolled right up to the massive steel doors to the plant—and smashed right through them. Then a white flash lit up the night. With a single deafening blast, the General Aviation Electronics plant was leveled. Eight hundred men and women, fully two-thirds of the plant’s workforce, were murdered.
The blast was so powerful, it blew the leaves off trees and turned over cars on Route 4. Miles away, windows in homes and businesses near Rutland’s famed historic district were shattered.
Flames quickly spread to a nearby battery factory, where 212
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a half-dozen chemical tanks ruptured, spewing millions of metric tons of poisonous fumes into the air.
As the cloud of toxic death spread, birds fell from the trees, their feathered carcasses dropping onto lawns and streets. Hundreds of people, tucked into their cozy homes for the night, succumbed immediately. Minivans and SUVs ran up into yards and through fences as their drivers instantly perished.
In the next few minutes, many more would die as a hellish orange glow spread out over Rutland, smothering the night sky, extinguishing every last point of light in the clear, cloudless heavens.
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
11:00 P.M. AND 12:00 A.M.
EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME
11:03:26 P.M. EDT
Ivy Avenue at Beacon Street
Newark, New Jersey
“God go with you,” the old man said in Spanish.
“Gracias, Padre,” Tony replied. Then he turned from the scarred metal door, glanced up and down the deserted block, and ducked into a shadowy alley.
This broken-down neighborhood had been a thriving area once, housing union workers for the nearby industrial section of the city. But the industries were long gone now, along with the well-paid jobs. The buildings around him appeared abandoned, too; but Tony knew, from the amount 214
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of discarded hypodermic needles and heroin wrappers scattered around, there had to be a shooting gallery somewhere on this block.
Ahead, in the darkness, he sensed movement—a figure stepped out of a doorway, walked toward him.
“Well, Almeida?” whispered a woman’s voice. “Get anything?”
Judith Foy was still wearing her tracksuit and ball cap.
She’d been hiding in the alley, staying out of sight while Tony conducted a quiet discussion with an old, white-haired priest.
Tony rubbed his soul patch. “Yeah,” he said. “I got something. An address.”
He’d been looking for intel on the Thirteen Gang. CTU
had nothing in their database, but apparently they were still active here in Newark. And since Tony couldn’t simply go to the Newark Police, flash his CTU ID, and ask for a file, he set out to do his own legwork.
He’d noticed fishes painted on the sides of buildings, like graffiti, with Spanish words scrawled inside, and he knew these were markers, leading illegal aliens to a Cath-olic rescue mission, where they could get help if they were in trouble with authorities, the law, or anyone else.
It was late, but Tony figured an underground rescue mission would have someone guarding the door 24/7. Sure enough, after only two sharp knocks, the heavy, battered door had cracked open.
He’d spoken to the priest in street Spanish, telling him he was trying to help his girlfriend, whose son had gotten involved with a gang. “Please, I have to find him. He may C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 215
be in danger of overdosing on drugs. Can you tell me where the Thirteen Gang hangs out in this area?”
The priest was quiet for a long minute, just staring at Tony. Finally, he said, “I don’t believe your story.”
The priest said he’d heard enough confessions to hear in man’s voice when he was lying. But he said that he felt in Tony’s spirit and saw in his eyes that he was not an evil man.
Tony assured the priest that what he was doing was for the good of many—and he wouldn’t reveal where he’d learned the information. The priest gave him the address, and they’d bid each other good night.
“Sounds like you’re pretty familiar with life on the streets,” Foy observed.
“Yeah, well . . . talking the talk helps.”
Tony had steered clear of gangs and drugs while grow-ing up on Chicago’s South Side, mostly because his eyes were always fixed on a career in the Marine Corps. But he’d still lived on the streets—and if you wanted to keep on living, you knew whom to trust, whom to avoid, and whom to go to for information without fear of reprisals.
“So what did the man tell you?” Judith asked.
“That the Thirteen Gang has a crib on Crampton Street, three blocks away. An old brick house with a steel door painted red, all the windows boarded up so it looks abandoned.”
Foy nodded. “I remember that location. We passed it half an hour ago. Come on, I know the way . . .”
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11:49:56 P.M. EDT
The Beresfield Apartments
Central Park West
New York, New York
Jack Bauer stood on the corner of West Sixty-fourth and Central Park West, staring at the eighth floor of the Beresfield Apartments. The landmark building sat across the street from Central Park, and beside the New York Society for Ethical Culture.
The ornate, terra-cotta trimmed structure had been constructed in the 1930s, according to the bronze plaque set above the cornerstone. The plaque also stated that the Beresfield was the home of the wealthy and influential, but Jack Bauer was interested in only one of the building’s occupants: Erno Tobias, an executive for Rogan Pharmaceuticals.
Jack needed to surprise Tobias if the man was home, or thoroughly search the Albino’s apartment if he wasn’t. But getting inside wasn’t going to be easy. It was close to mid-night, but many of the apartments were still brightly lit.
The Beresfield boasted both a doorman and a desk clerk.
Going through the front door was not an option.
Fortunately, the Beresfield was an old building, with an outmoded security system that relied too heavily on the men at the front door, and not enough on modern technology. Jack saw no cameras or motion detectors outside the lobby door, or at the service entrance on Sixty-sixth Street.
Jack had already decided to enter through the service C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 217
entrance. It was tucked behind an eight-foot cast-iron fence, in a shadowy alley between the Beresfield and the building behind it. All he had to do was climb the fenc
e, pick the lock, and he would be inside. But he was forced to wait a few minutes while a chain-smoking, anorexic-thin woman finished walking her poodle. She did at last, flout-ing the pooper-scooper law by leaving the dog’s dump at the base of a fire hydrant. As soon as the woman’s stick legs disappeared around the corner, Jack moved.
With stealthy smoothness, he climbed the fence and dropped into the dimly lit alley. Hidden in the shadows, Jack used his Tac Five, CTU’s version of a Swiss Army knife, to begin probing the lock. Before he even touched it, the steel door opened.
“Madre de Dios! ”
The pudgy woman took a step backward when she saw the stranger looming in the doorway. Jack raised his hands to calm her.
“Estoy apesadumbrado que le asusté, ” Jack said, apologizing for frightening her. “Trabajo aquí, también.”
The woman smiled, and Jack knew she’d accepted his lie, believed he was an employee for one of the wealthy residents, too.
“Buenas noches,” she said, pushing past him.
“Buenas noches a usted, señora,” Jack replied.
MetroCard in hand, the woman hurried through the cast-iron gate, heading toward the subway entrance on Broadway. Jack stepped through the door and closed it behind him.
He walked down a long corridor with peeling green 218
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paint on the walls, fluorescent lights buzzing above. A freight elevator stood at the end. Beside it was a door to the stairs. He took the steps, avoiding the chance of a security camera inside the elevator.
The staircase felt wider than his living room back in Los Angeles, with marble steps and brass railings that shone dully. Jack’s footsteps echoed as he climbed. At the eighth floor, he opened the door a crack and checked the hallway.
Empty.
Jack left the stairwell and searched for apartment 801.
There were only four apartments on this floor, and he found Tobias’s quickly, placed his ear against the darkly polished mahogany. The television was on, a car commercial, then the channel changed—someone was inside.
Jack considered knocking but rejected the idea. Instead, he drew out his Tac tool and went to work on the lock.
Eleven seconds later, the tumblers fell into place and the lock clicked. Jack pushed through and closed the door behind him. He stood in a large, well-appointed foyer. The lighting was muted, the walls paneled with dark wood. An antique table held an abstract sculpture. Jack pressed his spine to the wall, drew the Glock from its holster. Clutching the weapon with both hands, he moved to the next wall and peered down a long hallway lined with framed oil paintings.
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