24 Declassified: 10 - Head Shot

by David S. Jacobs

  Hardin said, “Maybe you’d like to sit down.” He indicated a chair in the front desk area. Jack sat down in it, resting his hands on top of his thighs. He flexed them, clenching and unclenching his fists. Electric needles of sensation pierced his hands as feeling began to return. His face was pale, waxen, except for where the bruise had flowered on his left cheek.

  One of the front desk phones rang. Taggart answered it. Squalling sounded from the earpiece where he held it to his head. The words were unintelligible but their tenor was unmistakable. Taggart winced, handing the receiver to Hardin. “You better take this, Lieutenant.”

  Hardin got on the phone. He barely had time to identify himself before receiving an earful. He did a lot of listening and not much talking. His few responses were limited to such phrases as “an honest mistake . . . in the heat of the moment judgments had to be made . . . can’t be too careful, with the conference on . . . mistakes were made, yes . . . dreadfully sorry . . . the department regrets . . . I deeply regret . . . you have my full apologies . . .”

  He held out the phone to Jack. “They want to speak to you.”

  Jack rose, took the phone, holding it to the right side of his face. A voice on the other end of the line said, “Hello, Agent Bauer? Anne Armstrong here.”

  Anne Armstrong was one of Garcia’s top staffers at CTU/DENV, one of the special agents overseeing the handling of the Sky Mount assignment out of the Pike’s Ford command post.

  Their conversation was naturally circumscribed by its being carried on an unsecured phone line and could be conducted in only the most general terms. That didn’t prevent her from asking, “What have those idiots gone and done?”

  Jack looked at Hardin and Taggart. “Let’s call it a

  case of mistaken identity.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’ve been better, but I’ll live.”

  “I’m on the way. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  “I’ll be here. I’m not going anywhere.”

  The call completed, the connection was broken.

  Jack handed the phone to Hardin, who placed the receiver back on the hook. Hardin said, “No charges will be filed, of course.”

  Jack said, “By me or by you?”

  “Ha-ha. These things happen, you know. With the Round Table opening today, and those crazy Zealots dropping out of sight to get up to who knows what, I’m sure you can understand that we’re all a bit on edge, keyed up as it were, so there may have been a tendency to overreact.”

  “If you’d acted a bit sooner to catch the guy I was chasing, you would have nabbed a hot lead.”

  Hardin mustered a sickly smile. “Reckon that makes me the goat. I’ll take full responsibility for it. We were just a few seconds off in closing that roadblock. But how were we to know that you were a Federal agent chasing a fugitive? If you or your people had communicated with us in time . . . As it was, though, we

  didn’t know what we were dealing with.”

  Jack said, “I know the feeling.”

  “Well, you can see how it is then.” Hardin indicated Jack’s belongings laid out on the desktop. “You’ll be wanting your stuff back.”

  Jack started picking up items, putting them in his pockets. Hardin said, “When you’re done, step into my office and make yourself comfortable.”

  Jack followed Hardin to a closed office door whose upper half was a translucent pane of pebbled glass. Hardin’s title and name were stencilled on it in black letters, along with the legend: “Private.”

  Hardin opened the door and ushered Jack in, following him and closing the door behind them. He said, “You’ll be wanting to clean up. You can use my private washroom.”

  Jack said, “That’s big of you, Lieutenant. Mighty big.”

  Hardin chose to ignore the sarcasm. “Just a little interagency cooperation. After all, we’re all on the same team.”

  A connecting door in the long wall with the filing cabinets opened on a small bathroom. Jack eyed his reflection in a mirror mounted over the sink. He hoped it was the overhead fluorescent lighting that made him look like death warmed over. The left side of his face was bruised and swollen but not as badly as he’d expected it to be from the way it felt. He ran some cold water and rubbed it on the parts of his face that weren’t sore. He soaked a washcloth with hot water and held it against the left side of his face. He patted himself dry with a hand towel and stepped out.

  Hardin did his best to make himself agreeable. He offered Jack a cup of coffee. Jack passed on it. He offered Jack a drink from a bottle of whiskey he kept in a desk drawer. That offer was more tempting but Jack declined. He didn’t want to meet Anne Arm-strong with liquor on his breath.

  A discreet knocking sounded on the office door; Hardin said, “Come in.” It was Sharon Stallings with a towel-wrapped ice pack. Jack accepted with thanks. She went out. Jack sat in one of the armchairs holding the ice pack against the left side of his face.

  Hardin said, “We put out an all- points bulletin on that car you were chasing. Too bad we don’t have a license plate number to go on. Maybe something’ll come of it. Mind telling me what it’s all about?”

  Jack said, “The driver’s wanted in connection with a shooting.”

  Hardin showed interest. “You don’t tell me! Who

  got shot?”

  “We’ll get back to you on that later.”

  “Top secret stuff, eh? Sure, sure. I understand. Any

  information you can extend to me will be greatly appreciated. We’re both after the same thing, making sure that the Round Table goes off without a hitch.” Hardin’s chair creaked as he leaned forward in it. “This suspect—he one of Prewitt’s crazies?”

  Jack shrugged. “That remains to be seen.”

  “They’re a bad bunch, a bad bunch. Them going missing right as the conference kicks off, well, it can’t be a coincidence. Or a good thing.”

  A knock sounded on the door; it opened and Taggart stuck his head in without waiting for Hardin’s acknowledgment. He said, “Bauer’s people are here,

  Lieutenant.”

  Hardin said, “Okay.”

  Jack got up, placed the towel-wrapped ice pack on top of a filing cabinet, and went out the door. Hardin pushed back his chair and hurried after him. Jack went into the squad room. Fisk and Stallings were talking but fell silent when he entered. Fisk had put on a clean pair of pants since Jack had last seen him. Taggart had regained his seat behind the front desk.

  Jack crossed toward the front desk without looking at anyone. His path took him in front of Fisk and Stallings. He stepped on Fisk’s foot. That was to pin him in place. Jack pivoted on the spot, driving a left-handed spear thrust at Fisk. The fingers of his hand were held together, the tips slightly curled inward.

  He thrust the fingers into the top of Fisk’s belly, just below the bottom of the rib cage. He turned in toward Fisk as he struck, leaning into him, putting some weight behind the blow. His body screened Stallings and Hardin from seeing the strike. His curled fingertips went in deep.

  Fisk jackknifed, going, “Whoof!”

  Jack stepped back, said, “Excuse me.”

  Fisk folded up, almost doubled over. His eyes bulged and his mouth was a round sucking O, gasping for breath. His pink face whitened, going green at the edges. He hugged his middle with both arms. A trembling right hand drifted toward his right hip where his weapon was holstered.

  Jack said, “Reach for that gun and I’ll kick your teeth out.”

  Fisk decided against it and went back to hugging himself with both arms and sucking air, hating eyes glaring out of an anguished face.

  Jack said, “Not so much fun when the other guy

  isn’t handcuffed, is it?”

  Hardin said, “Here now, what’s all this?”

  Taggart, elaborately nonchalant, said, “I didn’t see

  anything, Lieutenant.”

  Hardin got a knowing look on his face. He said to Jack, “Okay, that evens things up.
You happy now?”

  Jack said, “Happier.”

  Hardin said, “Fisk, if you’re going to be sick, you’d by God better not do it out here.”

  The station’s front door opened and two people walked in, CTU’s Anne Armstrong and Ernie Sandoval. Jack nodded to them, said, “I’ll be right with you, there’s just one more detail I need to get straightened out.”

  He crossed to Taggart at the front desk. Taggart eyed him warily. Jack held out a hand and said, “My gun.”

  Taggart opened a drawer in the desk, reached in, and pulled out Jack’s pistol and a magazine clip, setting them both down on the desktop. He said, “It’s not loaded.”

  Jack picked up the pistol, examining it, making sure the chamber was empty. It was. He fitted the clip into the slot on the gun butt, slapping it with the heel of his palm to send it on home.

  He didn’t bother jacking a round into the chamber. He’d already made his point. He fitted the gun into the shoulder holster, letting the flap of his jacket fall to cover it.

  He faced the two CTU agents and said, “Let’s go.”

  Anne Armstrong had a primly disapproving look on her face, like a schoolteacher who stepped out into the hall for a minute and found on her return that the pupils were acting up.

  Ernie Sandoval indicated Fisk, who stood bent double with one arm extended, clutching the wall for support. He said, “What happened to him?”

  Jack said, “Too much coffee.”

  THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 7 A.M. AND 8 A.M. MOUNTAIN DAYLIGHT TIME

  Sky Mount, Colorado

  It was a beautiful morning, and that was part of the problem as far as Jack was concerned. All that bright sunshine pouring out of a cloudless blue sky up here in the heights was dazzling and made his head hurt. He put on a pair of sunglasses. That cut down on the glare, but the pressure of the sunglasses on the bruised left side of his face added to his discomfort.

  He sat in the front passenger seat of a car being driven by Anne Armstrong. She was tall, lean, with short blond hair and a long, narrow, highcheekboned face. She wore a tan blazer, light blue blouse, sand-colored skirt, and brown low-heeled loafers. She also wore a snouty, short-barreled semiautomatic pistol in a clip-on holster attached to her belt over her right hip.

  She drove north on Rimrock Road, leaving behind the Mountain Lake substation. Their destination was Sky Mount. Ernie Sandoval had taken the Toyota pickup truck, driving it to the CTU command post at nearby Pike’s Ford.

  Anne Armstrong said, “Our people found the bodies of Frank Neal and a civilian who fit your description of Lobo at Red Notch, but no dead shooter.”

  Jack said, “Damn, they work fast.”

  “Who?”

  “The other side, whoever that is.”

  “The Zealots?”

  “I wonder.”

  Armstrong thought that over for a minute. “No results on finding the Subaru you were chasing.”

  Jack said, “I’m not surprised. There must be thousands of places to hide a car in these mountains.”

  “No car of that description has been reported stolen. And with no license plate number . . .”

  “Those killers were pros. They wouldn’t use their own car. The license plates were probably lifted from another car to further muddy up their tracks.”

  A mile went by. Anne Armstrong said with a touch of frostiness, “What was the purpose of that macho display at the station?”

  Jack said, “Equilibrium.”

  Her face tightened, a network of fine lines showing around her eyes. “I don’t follow.”

  He said, “Hardin’s boy pistol-whipped me when I was handcuffed. Can’t let him get away with that kind of thing. This is an aggressive business with a lot of high-testosterone characters who’re always testing the limits to see what they can get away with—and that’s just the ones who’re supposed to be on our side. You don’t want the word to get around that a CTU agent can be roughed up without any consequences. Otherwise our guys lose respect with the other agencies we have to work with. It’s bad for morale. By paying that thug cop back in kind, proper balance is restored. The word gets out that our guys can’t be pushed around without some kind of comeback.”

  Her pursed lips parted to speak. “I see. So it was all for the benefit of CTU. There wasn’t any personal animosity involved.” She didn’t bother to mask the disbelief in her tone.

  Jack said, “Personal feelings aside, I did it for the good of the service.”

  Anne Armstrong said a dirty word. “You’ll be going back to Los Angeles in a few days but the rest of us will be staying here. Try to remember that we have to work with the local authorities.”

  “Hardin will get the message. I used to be on the LAPD. I know how cops think because I used to be one myself. By the way, what’s the story on the MRT?”

  “Bryce Hardin is a power in state law enforcement circles. He’s a highly decorated officer with numerous commendations for valor and high- profile busts. He’s got a lot of pull with the governor’s office at the capital. The MRT is his and the governor’s way of injecting themselves in Sky Mount doings and increasing their profile and political prestige.”

  The cliff wall on the west ended, opening into a box canyon whose centerpiece was a lens-shaped lake. The lake was the color of the sky. The picturesque landscape had a gravel parking lot and was dotted with picnic tables scattered among the trees surrounding the lake.

  A metal signpost identified the area: mountain lake state park. A chain barred the entrance. A printed cardboard sign fixed to it said, temporarily closed.

  Jack said, “So that’s Mountain Lake. I was wondering where they were hiding it.”

  Armstrong said, “It’s closed for the duration of the Round Table. The authorities don’t want a lot of unauthorized civilians up here during the conference. It’s one less variable for them to have to deal with.”

  They drove past the space and the cliff walls returned. Jack said, “Something else has been bothering me, something that might be a possible lead. It’s a long shot but it could be worth following up. The compound at Red Notch should be checked for traces of chemical weapons.”

  Armstrong’s cool demeanor gave way to outright surprise. “Chemical weapons? Where do you get that?”

  “Something Lobo said about the compound being covered by a green cloud. It could have been some kind of CW, a toxic gas attack. Or maybe only a smoke bomb.”

  “Or the demented ravings of a half-mad homeless drunk.”

  “Somebody was worried about Lobo enough to have him killed by a team of assassins. Cultists and CW isn’t so much of a stretch, either. Look at the Aum Shunrikyo doomsday cult that set off sarin nerve gas bombs in the Tokyo subways some years ago.”

  Anne Armstrong looked worried. “The Zealots and chemical weapons—the idea alone could set off a panic.”

  Jack said, “There could be traces of residue remaining in the compound. For that matter, it might be worthwhile to have Lobo checked for the same in a postmortem. He might have been exposed to some of the stuff, and it’s possible that whatever it is could be retained in organic matter.”

  Armstrong used her in-car comm system to contact Central. She relayed the message that Red Notch and Lobo should both be examined for possible exposure to airborne chemical weapons. She also noted that this was the suggestion of her colleague, Agent Bauer.

  A nice touch, thought Jack. That way she got it on the record that the idea had originated with him. If it failed to pan out, it was his bad idea, not hers. He held no resentment against her for the gambit. That was how the game was played.

  Several miles of mountain scenery unrolled in silence. The throbbing in Jack’s head worsened as the car continued to climb. He said, “You wouldn’t happen to have any aspirin on you, would you?”

  She said, “Headache?”

  “A little bit.”

  “You should get checked out by a medic, make sure you’re not suffering from a concussio
n.”

  “I’m fine. Just a touch of altitude.” Jack didn’t want to provide any pretext, medical or otherwise, that might result in him getting pulled off this duty. The violent deaths of Frank Neal and that strange hermit Lobo had given him a personal stake in the mission. It wasn’t about keeping Chappelle happy, it was about cracking the case, finding the killers, and solving the mystery of the Zealots’ disappearance. He now felt that there was a direct and legitimate threat to the Round Table and its array of high- powered, high-finance invitees.

  Armstrong said, “Yes, the height can get to you flatlanders, can’t it? That’s what happens when you’re out of your element.”

  That could have been a veiled crack about his being an outsider who’d been forced on CTU/DENV through power politics. Jack couldn’t blame her for feeling that way, but it didn’t stop him from saying, “I haven’t done too badly so far.”

  She said, “You’re still alive.”

  A long pause followed, then she said, “I think there’s some aspirin in my pocketbook.” Her pocketbook was on the transmission hump between their seats. She steered with one hand and opened the pocketbook with the other. She reached inside it, rummaging around.

  The road was no longer straight but twisty, winding around a succession of blind curves. Armstrong drove at a quick pace with no reduction in speed, glancing alternately at the road ahead and the interior of her pocketbook. It made Jack a shade anxious, since the road on his side had only a few feet of shoulder and a knee- high metal guardrail standing between him and a thousand- foot drop.

  She said, “I know it’s in here somewhere . . .”

  Jack was on the verge of telling her to forget it, that he could get along fine without the aspirin. The car rounded a curve, coming face to face with a two-and-a-half- ton truck coming in the opposite direction. The truck was a foot or two over the centerline and Armstrong had to swerve to avoid it, the two right-side wheels crunching the loose dirt and stones of the shoulder.

  She said, “Jerk!” She passed the truck and swung back into the lane so all four wheels once more gripped solid pavement.