“Make a lot of noise, empty this place out.”
“How?”
Brandy rose, touched Milo’s arm. This time her smile was genuine. “I’m gonna burn this fucking shit hole to the ground, that’s what I’m gonna do.”
2:42:52 P.M. PDT CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles
Nina Myers felt it was time to bring Ryan Chappelle up to speed on a number of developments, but she wasn’t about to face the sure-to-be-irate Regional Director alone. At her command, Jamey Farrell abandoned her work station to participate in a meeting in the conference room. Even Doris Soo Min—a young programming genius who had previously been tapped by CTU Los Angeles because of her impressive skills— interrupted her work on the Lesser Trojan horse to attend.
From the start, the atmosphere in the conference room was tense. “Where’s Jack?” Ryan asked, his voice simmering the moment he strode in and saw the Special Agent in Charge was missing.
“I just spoke with him. He’s on his way,” said Nina.
“From where?” Ryan sat down, adjusted his tightly knotted tie.
Nina took a breath, lowered her eyes. “Beverly Hills.”
“I presume he wasn’t there to visit the homes of the stars?”
“Jack Bauer followed up a promising lead in the Hasan investigation earlier today, a tip from a former colleague in the Los Angeles Police Department. Jack went to interrogate someone who may have had actual physical contact with the terrorist leader.”
Ryan frowned. “Why am I learning about this now, and not three hours ago?”
“Jack felt the lead was questionable, that he was on a wild goose chase. He didn’t want to bother you. Then, when things worked out, events happened too fast to keep you apprised. Jack made a major breakthrough once he contacted Omar al Farad—”
“The Saudi Deputy Minister of Finance?”
“The Deputy Minister’s son, Ibn al Farad, had met with Hasan, became a disciple, perhaps even a member of his terrorist cell. Jack hoped Ibn might be able to describe the man. Ibn al Farad did give Jack one promising lead before he was murdered—”
“Murdered. The Deputy Minister’s son was killed?”
“Along with the Deputy Minister and his sister, Nareesa al-Bustani.”
Ryan placed his hands on the table. They were shaking. “Please tell me Jack had nothing to do with these deaths. That he was somewhere else.”
“Jack was at the al-Bustani home when it was attacked by a team of professional assassins,” Nina coolly replied. “CTU’s Tactical Unit arrived too late
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to save them. The assassins were unfortunately killed in the assault, so we have no immediate knowledge of who they were, why they wanted the Saudis dead.”
“On whose authority was the Tactical Unit mobilized?”
“Jack’s,” said Nina. “He felt he would need back up in case of trouble. He was right. CTU was monitoring the woman’s home through the mansion’s own security cameras. When Chet Blackburn’s unit observed the van enter the property, detected the sound of gunfire, they moved immediately. They were inside the house within three minutes, but they were still too late to save the minister and his sister.”
Ryan closed his eyes for a moment, fighting down his anger. When calm finally returned, he shifted his attention to Jamey Farrell. “I see you called in Doris Soo Min to help. Doris still has her Level Three security clearance from the Hell Gate incident?”
Jamey flinched when he’d first addressed her. She nodded timidly and Chappelle shifted his gaze to the younger woman. “Welcome back, Doris...”
“Er...Thank you, Mr. Chappelle.”
“I hope you’ve made some progress isolating Lesser’s virus.”
Jamey and Doris exchanged nervous glances. “Well—” said Jamey.
“Actually—” said Doris.
“Just give me the facts so I can deal with them,” Ryan said, his control slipping again.
“Well, actually this Trojan horse is a tough little bug,” said Doris. “It’s nearly impossible to separate it from the program it’s embedded in—you know, the movie download. Anyway, Frankie—”
“Who’s Frankie?”
“Frankenstein. A reverse-engineering program I created,” Doris explained. “Frankie’s on the job, and he’ll sort it all out eventually, but it will take hours, maybe days—”
“We don’t have days,” Nina said. “Time is running out.”
“What now?” Ryan asked.
“Milo Pressman made contact with Richard Lesser, who told Milo that an attack on the computer infrastructure of the world will be launched at midnight. Since Jack’s not here, I’ll need your permission to activate the Threat Clock—”
“I need to hear more,” Chappelle said.
“Richard Lesser has agreed to cooperate with CTU in exchange for protection from Hasan, who is masterminding the attack. Lesser is even providing a copy of the virus that will be launched—”
“That’s the first good news I’ve heard. Where’s Lesser now?”
“Milo refused to leave Tijuana without at least trying to rescue Tony Almeida, who’s been captured by the Mexican gang Seises Seises.”
“But Milo’s not a field agent,” Chappelle cried, losing it now. “He’s not even armed!”
“Milo’s getting help from a United States citizen named Cole Keegan,” said Nina, lifting a file from the stack on the table. “I’ve run Keegan’s name through the Pentagon computers. Cole Randall Keegan was a sergeant in the Army Rangers during the First Gulf War. He hasn’t held a job, or paid taxes since he received an honorable discharge from the military in 1992. Keegan’s last known associates are the Lords of Hell motorcycle gang out of Oakland, California.”
“So Milo and some expatriate biker are going to rescue an experienced field agent from the very people
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who outsmarted and captured him?” Ryan paused. “People, I am not hopeful. Get Milo on his cell now. If he wants to play hero, he can do it on his own time. But he’s got to send Lesser and a copy of that virus back with Fay Hubley—”
Nina cleared her throat. “Milo asked for two hours and I gave him the time. Milo feels Tony’s life is in danger. You see, Fay Hubley was murdered by the same men who captured Tony. Milo verified her death.”
Fay’s murder was news to Jamey. Though she remained outwardly calm, her lip trembled, her eyes misted when she heard the news.
“Does the virus embedded in the movie download have any connection to the virus that will be launched at midnight?” asked Chappelle.
“We don’t know,” said Nina. “Either way, we’ll need Richard Lesser’s expertise to prevent the imminent attack.”
“And he’s still down in Mexico—”
“He’ll be here in two hours, Ryan. Milo swore he would pull it off and I trust him,” said Nina.
Ryan nodded. “Okay, start the Threat Clock. Zero hour, twelve a.m.” Next he focused on Doris. “What do you need to isolate that virus. To speed up the process?”
“That’s easy,” Doris replied. “A copy of the virus program independent of the download. Just the execute file. But—”
“I know,” grunted Ryan. “It’s still down in Mexico with Milo Pressman.”
2:54:34 P.M. PDT El Pequeños Pescados Tijuana, Mexico
The room was not much bigger than a walk-in closet. A bed, a nightstand, a chair and a dresser with a flyspecked mirror above. In the corner a chipped, rust stained enameled sink trickled cold running water, the faucet long broken. There was no window in the air-less space, the fan above the door only sucked hot air from the narrow hallway into the cramped room. A single lamp burned in the corner, offering a constant, dim glow day and night.
A tall, tattooed man who said he was a married truck driver from Portland sat on the edge of the bed, scribbling in a small notebook.
“I figure the CTU operatives will try to cross the border in the next two hours,” said Brandy, “just as soon as they rescue their agent.”
>
“You’re absolutely certain they don’t suspect you?”
Brandy nodded. “Positive. Cole Keegan bought my cover story and sold it to the others. With luck they’ll whisk me across the border, and all the way back to CTU headquarters.”
The man rose, tucked the notebook into his frayed denim jacket and sauntered to the door. “I’ll deliver your report. Take care of yourself.”
Brandy smiled. “Always.”
When the man was gone, Brandy crossed the rough wooden floor to the dresser. She popped the cork on a fifth of Soberano, poured some of the liqueur into a lipstick smeared glass, and swallowed it in a single gulp. The brandy was as warm as the day and burned her throat.
She glanced at the watch on her wrist. Almost time.
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The woman crossed the room, grabbed the bottle of warm brandy. Then she tore the sheets off the bed, piled them up on the mattress. On top of the pile she tore up a box of tissues. Then she sprinkled brandy over the whole mess. In the hot room, the fumes became overpowering—all the better to guarantee a fire.
Finally, Brandy reached under the pillow where she’d stashed her last john’s disposable plastic lighter. She grinned before she struck the lighter, realizing that the cowboy with the wedding ring he’d tried to hide and the breath that stank like too many beers was indeed her last john—forever.
She struck the lighter and put the flame against the tissue. The mass ignited immediately, the flames leaping up to the ceiling much faster than she’d anticipated. Brandy slipped into her sandals and crossed the room. When she ran into the hallway, she left the door behind her wide open. Amazingly fast, smoke was filling the second floor of the brothel. Brandy heard alarmed voices from another room. Time to start screaming. So she took a deep breath and opened her mouth.
“¡Vaya! ¡Funcione! ¡El edificio se arde!”
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 3 P.M. AND 4 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME
3:01:07 P.M. PDT Ice House Tijuana, Mexico
Cole decided they would climb onto the roof of the old brick building using a vertical fire escape “hidden” in an alley off Albino Street, while Richard Lesser waited in Milo’s car a few blocks away. Initially Milo objected to the plan, distrusting Lesser to stick around long enough for them to rescue Tony. Cole eventually pulled Milo aside and smoothed things over.
“Lesser’s scared,” Keegan said while the computer genius was out of earshot. “I’ve been with him for a year and he’s never been this antsy. He needs protec
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tion from this Hasan guy and he knows I ain’t enough. As long as CTU can defend him from Seises Seises, the Chechens, Hasan, you can trust Lesser to do the right thing.”
Cole eventually convinced Milo to trust Lesser, but the plan itself was another matter. Milo looked around nervously as Cole led him into the alley. He felt curious eyes following them down the narrow byway, making Milo very uncomfortable. As it was, the gringo biker stuck out like a neon beer logo in a convent—dirty blond beard and ponytail, leather vest, tattoos, he was at least a head taller than everyone else around him. Even worse, Cole had donned a dun-colored duster to hide the sawed off shotgun strapped with duct tape across his broad back—a fairly obvious ploy to conceal a weapon, especially in near onehundred-degree weather. Trying to break into the headquarters of a Mexican gang and their Chechen cohorts in broad daylight seemed the height of insanity to Milo.
Yet brazenly, without a backward glance, Keegan walked up to the wrought iron ladder and began to climb. From Albino Street, a crowd of children on their way home from school gathered to point and watch them.
“Jeez, Cole. It’s broad daylight. Everyone can see us.”
Already four rungs up the ladder, Keegan peered over his big shoulder to reply. “I know, dumb ass. That’s why we better look like we belong here, capeesh? Now hurry up and climb.”
Milo took hold of the rusty ladder and placed his foot on the first rung. Groaning under their combined weight, the steel ladder rattled with every step they took.
“I hope this thing holds,” carped Milo.
“Don’t worry, we just have to get to the top. We ain’t coming back this way.”
Cole reached the roof, three stories above the street. He pulled himself over the low wall, turned and offered Milo a lift to the top. The dusty expanse of roof was flat and covered with black tar paper, peeling in places. There was a single chimney and Milo could see the recessed skylight Brandy told him to find. Beyond the edge of the building he spied the rickety, sloped roof of the wood-framed brothel that abutted the brick structure on Albino Street.
Near the chimney a chemical stench was overpowering—a reek like nail polish remover with an ammonia taint.
“God,” gagged Milo, covering his mouth.
“Vapors from the meth lab underneath us,” said Cole. “Somebody’s been cooking pills.”
“For what they’re doing to the environment alone, these guys should go to jail.”
“We’re on a rescue mission, not a campaign to stamp out evil.” Cole removed his duster, tore free the shotgun taped to his back. He drew a pair of Colts from his belt, handed one to Milo.
“Can you shoot?”
“I’ve had training, but I haven’t practiced in a long time.”
“This ain’t no fancy James Bond gun. It kicks like a sonovabitch,” Cole warned.
Milo hefted the steel-gray weapon, tucked it into his belt between the two bottles of water he’d brought. Milo glanced at his watch. “Let’s go.” He took a step toward the barred window; Cole dragged him back by the scruff of his neck.
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“Look where you’re walking—away from the sun. You’re casting a shadow that’s gonna fall right across that grill.”
Milo bristled. “So?”
“Ever been in a dark room when someone walked past the only source of light?”
Milo’s shoulders sagged. There was so much he didn’t know about this field agent stuff. “Okay. You do it.”
Milo waited near the ladder while Cole Keegan circled the barred window, then got down on his belly and crawled to the edge of the window to peer inside. He backed away a moment later, returned to Milo’s side. “All I see is some guy tied to a box spring and a generator. Hispanic, longish black hair, goatee—”
“It must be Tony. He grew the goatee and hair for field work—”
“He’s alive, but he isn’t in great shape and he ain’t alone down there. I heard voices.”
Milo grabbed the Cole’s arm. “Look!”
From somewhere inside the brothel, wisps of smoke began to rise. A few lazy white puffs, followed by billows of darker smoke. They heard voices—first a woman’s hysterical screams, then many excited voices calling out in anxious fear. Smoke rolled across the tarred expanse, choking Milo, burning his eyes.
Cole didn’t hesitate. He dragged Milo to the window, kicked the iron bars once, twice. The grill didn’t budge. “You gonna help?” Cole asked.
Covering his mouth, Milo stepped forward and slammed his booted foot down on the grill with all his might. To his stunned surprise, the steel grate gave way under his weight and Milo plunged helplessly through the hole, into the dark, smoky interior of the burning building.
3:07:23 P.M. PDT CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles
The impromptu meeting had broken up already, but Jack Bauer found Nina Myers and Ryan Chappelle in the conference room, still debating the best course of action. The Threat Clock had already been activated, and Jamey Farrell had been ordered to reestablish contact with Milo Pressman in Mexico by Ryan himself, who had taken over the operation.
“Sorry for the delay,” said Jack. “I waited for the CTU Autopsy Team to arrive. They’re bringing the bodies here.”
“Sit down, Jack. You look like hell,” said Ryan. He keyed the intercom built into the table. “We need a doctor in the conference room.”
“I’m all right, Ryan,” Jack protested.
“You’re a mess,” Chappelle replied, “and the doctor’s going to have a look at you.”
Jack slumped into a chair and tried to compose his thoughts. He told them what transpired at Nareesa al-Bustani’s Beverly Hills home, about Major Salah’s treachery, the death of Omar al Farad, the Saudi Deputy Minister, and about the murders of producer Hugh Vetri and his family. The only thing Jack left out was the disk with his CTU personnel file burned on it, found in Hugh Vetri’s computer. Jamey was still working on analyzing that disk, and Jack didn’t want to mention the data leak until he knew where it came from.
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Dr. Darryl Brandeis arrived with a young African-American medical technician. The woman grimaced with concern when she saw Jack.
A former member of the Special Forces, Brandeis was forty-five, completely bald, and in constant need of a shave. He took one look at Jack Bauer’s condition and shook his head. Brandeis checked Jack’s pupils while the technician worked on the glass cuts on his arms.
Jack spoke to Nina. “Tell Ryan what you learned about the original Hasan.”
Nina opened the file in front of her. “Hasan bin Sabah was an eleventh-century Muslim holy man. Taking advantage of the schism in the faith at the time, Hasan created a sect called the Nizari. He soon converted the servants of a prince’s castle to his own violent form of Islam, and one morning the prince awoke to find himself dispossessed, his servants faithful to a new master. Hasan renamed the fortress the Eagle’s Nest—”
“Eagle’s Nest,” interrupted Chappelle, “as in Hitler’s mountain retreat?”
Nina nodded. “After that Hasan ruled the region like a despot. In 1075, in an effort to increase his political power, Hasan hit upon a brilliant new tactic to strike terror into his enemies. Using hashish, a form of cannabis, Hasan brainwashed disciples by convincing them they had visited Paradise.”
“And how did he do that?”
“He built a secret garden inside of his castle, stocked it with willing harem girls who fulfilled the subject’s every desire. When the drugs wore off, Hasan told these dupes that if died in his service they would return to Paradise forever.”
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