by John Whitman
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 thought 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.
“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 30 °C 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 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 th
ey’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?”
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.”
13. 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 press his thick thumb on the send button just before Jack crouched down and tore the mobile phone out of his clutched hand.
6:04 A.M. PST Los Angeles
Harry Driscoll had been sitting on the curb on Ross-moor Avenue for nearly twenty minutes. He was in a daze. Twenty-plus years on the force, and this was only the second time he’d been in a firefight. The first time, Jack Bauer had saved his ass. This time, Harry had the funny feeling that Bauer was somehow the cause of it.
Though he was built like a fireplug and tough as iron, Harry hadn’t joined the force out of machismo. He was no cowboy and had never wanted to be. He believed in justice, and wanted to keep his streets safe. He had been very satisfied with the role of a beat cop, and then been elated to move up into the ranks of detective, where he could pursue the criminals he knew were out there. His promotion to Robbery-Homicide, the elite unit in LAPD, had been one of the most gratifying moments of his life. He preferred rooting out the bad guys through solid detective work, and though he wasn’t afraid to face danger, he’d never lusted for the thrill of bullets whizzing around him.
During the last twenty minutes there had been squad cars, ambulances, and other detectives. He had answered their questions the way dazed witnesses and victims often answered his: distantly, hollowly, as though the incident had happened to someone else.
But one thing kept going through Driscoll’s mind, even while he finished answering their questions, even while the forensics guys worked on the cars and examined Father Collins’s corpse. Why had one of the gunmen shouted, Get the body! Get the body!
6:05 A.M. PST Castaic Dam
Jack stomped on Barny’s head. He looked back up the slope, but none of the other bikers was in sight. His fingers tore at the backpack that had been strapped so tightly to his chest. They’d lashed the two shoulder straps together across his chest — a simple bind that wasn’t meant to stop him indefinitely, just make it hard enough to undo without them seeing his struggles. He bent down and fished through the pockets of the now-motionless biker until he found a small folding knife. Flipping it open, he cut through the bindings and slipped the backpack off, hurling it from him and dropping flat, using Barny as cover.
But the bomb he’d been wearing didn’t go off. The digital timer hadn’t even started counting down.
Instead of relief, Jack felt a sickening pit open in his stomach. Jumping to his feet, he ran down the slope to the base of the dam and checked the first brick of plastic explosives. The digital timer on its face was counting down, the tenth-of-a-second digit flashing so fast it looked like a flickering 8.
Barny hadn’t triggered the bomb on his back. He’d set off the explosives on the dam. Jack had less than five minutes to stop it.
6:08 A.M. PST Los Angeles
“You can’t call it off,” Yasin told Michael over a mobile connection. “They will not find out in time. There are too many fail-safes and backups in this operation.”
Yasin could afford to be calm. Michael could not, but he forced himself to sound relaxed anyway out of a sense of professional competitiveness. “None of the backups will work if the event itself is canceled. You can only push me so far.”
“I know,” Yasin agreed. “That is the reality of all blackmail. You know the power I have over you. You, not I, will decide whether it’s worth it or not to follow my orders. But remember, I lose nothing by exposing the ones you try so hard to protect. I will do it willingly. And if you quit, you will lose them, and also the chance to kill a common enemy. The choice is yours.”
Yasin dropped off. Michael was walking along Olympic Boulevard toward a bus stop. He had ditched the car and stripped off his black shirt, and wore only a fitted athletic T-shirt and his dark pants. He and Pembrook had separated.
Michael thought, just for a moment, about bolting. He had an escape plan, of course — a false identity, an open ticket to Venezuela, a small house there. Not really a life, but a place to bivouac. This carefully laid plan was fra
ying at the seams.
But his faith was too strong. Professional though he was, Michael was also a devout Catholic. A true Catholic. And though he despised Yasin for other reasons, the man was right in saying that they shared a common enemy. Michael had committed himself to destroying that enemy, and he would do so at any cost.
6:10 A.M. PST Castaic Dam
Jack couldn’t just pull the detonators. The triggers were not elaborate, but Barny had been clever enough to give each one a contact trigger — if the detonators were simply pulled out, a small wire still buried in the plastic explosives would trigger the brick. Pulling out the wire while the detonator was in place would have the same effect.
Disarming the detonator itself proved to be simple enough. Either Barny’s knowledge did not extend to fail-safes and redundancies, or he hadn’t had time to incorporate them. Jack’s explosives training was not extensive, but he’d learned to both arm and disarm basic explosives while in Delta. That knowledge came in handy now as he careful removed the blast cap from each detonator. The process wasn’t complicated, but he had to move slowly to prevent having the two brass connections touch. He finished the first one and saw that the digital counter had run down to 3:57.
And he had six more to go.
6:11 A.M. PST Castaic Dam
Dean stumbled backward among the control rooms west of the dam, still spitting out bits of his own teeth and blood. One of his gang — Doogan, he thought, but his head was reeling, too — was running next to him, but the others were scattered. They’d seen Barny go for the trigger that would blow that Federal motherfucker to little pieces.
Dean was almost to his bike, and his head was clearing, when he realized that he hadn’t heard an explosion of any kind. “Doog,” he said through swollen, bloody lips, “Less get back there.”
6:12 A.M. PST Castaic Dam
Jack wasn’t going to make it. He’d disarmed all but two, and the last timer had read 1:30.