24 Declassified: 10 - Head Shot

by David S. Jacobs

  when he’s found later. Otherwise, have your fun. I know you’re going to anyway.”

  “Aw, Uncle Bryce, you know I wouldn’t do nothing without your say-so.”

  “Lieutenant Hardin, boy.”

  “Yes, sir. Lieutenant Hardin. Sir.”

  Taggart went to the front desk and handed Jack’s gun to the dispatcher. “Add that to your collection, Sharon.”

  She opened a drawer on the side of her desk and placed the gun inside. Hardin frowned, said, “That’s another thing, Cole. That weapon’s evidence that Bauer’s been here. You can’t keep it.”

  Taggart said, “Good point. I’ll get rid of it when we get back.”

  “Good.” Hardin fastened cold eyes on the bikers in the holding cell. “We got some more house cleaning to do when we get back. Take out all the trash.”

  Sharon Stallings said, “When’ll you be back?”

  “An hour or so, no more.” He and Taggart crossed toward the garage door. Hardin went out.

  Taggart paused in the doorway, turning to look back. He said, “Adios, Jack. No hard feelings—at least, not on my side. I wouldn’t blame you if you had some, considering. That’s your prerogative.”

  Hardin called to him from the garage. Taggart said, “Coming.” He went into the garage, closing the door behind him. After a pause came the sound of an engine starting up and then the car driving away.

  Fisk licked his lips. They were already wet and glistening. His eyes were focused and intent above a loose, sloppy smile. He made a big show of cracking his knuckles. He said to Jack, “You don’t look like so much now.”

  Jack was silent. Fisk went on, “Where’s all your smart remarks?”

  Sharon Stallings rolled her eyes. “For Pete’s sake, Fisk, quit jawing and get on with it.”

  “I’m taking my own sweet time. I’m gonna enjoy this.” Fisk squared off, looming above Jack in the chair. “Uncle Bryce said not to leave you half killed. He didn’t say nothing about no three-quarters, though.”

  He punched Jack in the face. The impact snapped Jack’s head back and sent the roller-mounted chair with Jack in it wheeling backward until it crashed into a wall.

  Jack’s face was numb where he’d been struck but he could feel something leaking from his nostrils, and the taste of blood was copper-tangy in his mouth. Rowdy and Griff crowded the front of their cell, clutching the bars and staring. Sharon Stallings watched, chewing gum. That was the detail that stuck with Jack: her chewing gum.

  Fisk ruefully eyed his big fist. “Dang, I like to’ve skinned a knuckle on that one!”

  The smaller biker, Griff, said, “You dirty dog! You’ve got to have a guy tied down before you beat on him . . .”

  Fisk grinned wetly, waving the other’s complaint away. “Shut up, runt. You had your hands free when I gave you your whomping.”

  “You hit me with your gun first!” Rowdy said, “Let me out of here and try me on, farm boy!” Fisk said, “You already had your turn. I’m just getting warmed up on this one.”

  He clouted Jack with a vicious backhand to the left side of the face. Jack saw it coming and tried to roll with it. It was a swivel chair so he was able to rotate the seat away from the blow, but even so it rocked him from head to heels. The chair toppled over, falling on its right side to the floor with a crash. Fisk giggled. “Whoops!”

  Sharon Stallings stood up. She showed some animation now, spots of color burning in her cheeks. “Fisk, you better not break that chair—”

  Fisk grabbed a chair arm in each hand and by main strength yanked it and the man chained to it upright. He drove a hard right into Jack’s belly, burying it deep. Jack doubled up as the chair zoomed backward, crashing against the front of the cell.

  Fisk crossed to Jack, grabbing the chair and spinning it around a half circle so that he stood facing Jack with his back to the cell. A thin line of spittle drooled down the corner of Fisk’s mouth, wetting his chin. His hot, moist breath was on Jack’s face. He launched an uppercut that collided with Jack’s chin. The chair wheeled backward into the side of the squad room desk.

  Sharon Stallings was outraged now. “Fisk! The desk!”

  Fisk stalked Jack, closing on him, his hulking form looming larger. Griff and Rowdy stood pressed against the bars of the cell. Jack made eye contact with Griff and tilted his head in a slight but perceptible nod. Griff blinked, eyes narrowing.

  Fisk never saw the nod because he was too busy leaning over the chair and winding up to deliver another haymaker. Jack kicked him between the legs.

  Fisk went, “Whoof!” He doubled up and grabbed his crotch with both hands. He wavered, swaying. Cold sweat filmed his leaden, gasping face.

  Jack got both feet on the floor and spun the swivel seat around so that he was facing the side of the desk with his back to Fisk. He brought his feet up, bending both legs at the knees, and pushed off from the desk as hard as he could.

  The chair with Jack in it went slamming into Fisk, knocking him off balance. Fisk backpedaled to keep from falling. Jack dug his heels into the floor and kept working his legs, driving the chair into Fisk and pushing him backward.

  Fisk collided with the front of the cell. Griff and Rowdy were ready. Rowdy thrust his right arm between the bars and hooked it around Fisk’s neck. Griff was shouting, “Get him, bro! Get him!”

  Rowdy pulled back hard. He was a big man, too, almost as big as Fisk, and with plenty of muscle. The back of Fisk’s head fetched up against the bars with a clang that sent them ringing. Rowdy grabbed his own right wrist with his left hand and got Fisk in a choke hold.

  Jack kept his feet working, scrabbling them on the linoleum floor to keep slamming the top of the back of the chair into Fisk’s middle. Rowdy got a knee up against the bars where the small of Fisk’s back was.

  The big biker leaned back, putting his weight into the choke hold.

  Fisk’s eyes were like soft-boiled eggs floating in a purple face. He had both hands up clawing at Rowdy’s forearm where it circled his throat but he couldn’t break the other’s grip.

  Griff said, “Get him, bro, get him!” He’d stopped yelling and was calling out in a breathy whisper, like a crapshooting gambler urging the dice to come through for him on a long-shot roll.

  Griff grabbed the top of Fisk’s gun in its hip holster. It was a .357, held down not by a flap but by a leather strap. Griff’s fingers tore at the strap, loosing it.

  Sharon Stallings already had her gun out. It was a .357, too. She came out from behind the front desk, angling for a clear shot. Fisk was in her way, causing her to hesitate.

  Griff yanked Fisk’s gun clear of the holster and leveled it at Stallings. Gunfire cannonaded as he cut loose, shooting the middle out of her. She came apart and fell down in a heap.

  Griff shoved the gun’s smoking snout against Fisk’s side but before he could pull the trigger there was a cracking sound like a crisp breadstick being snapped in two. Only instead of a breadstick it was Fisk’s neck that was being broken as Rowdy pivoted his upper body and twisted Fisk’s head to an angle beyond the human design tolerance limit.

  THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 9 P.M. AND 10 P.M. MOUNTAIN DAYLIGHT TIME

  Mountain Lake Substation, Colorado

  Griff said, “Keep holding him up—don’t drop him!”

  Rowdy said, “I ain’t dropping nothing.” He still stood with his arm through the bars holding Fisk in a chokehold. Fisk was all dead weight now with nothing to hold him up but Rowdy. His bulging-eyed, slack- jawed head lolled at an unnatural angle.

  Rowdy said, “I could do this all day.”

  “We ain’t got all day, man.”

  Jack said, “You’re so right.”

  Griff’s eyes lit up. “Hey, you’re still with us! Stay awake, dude. Don’t pass out!”

  “I won’t.”

  Griff first checked Fisk’s handcuff case on his belt because sometimes cops keep their handcuff keys there in a small compartment but the search came up empty. He n
ow stood with his hand between the bars reaching into Fisk’s right front pants pocket. He stood on tiptoes, standing sideways with the side of his face pressed against the bars for a longer reach. His face was hot and the bars were cool. He was reaching in and down. He said, “I think I got his key ring— ”

  Rowdy said, “Don’t drop it, man.”

  The pocket tore at the seams as Griff closed his fingers around a chunk of loose metal and fished it out. He pulled his closed fist back to his side of the bars before opening it. A key ring lay in his palm. He said, “I ain’t dropping nothing.”

  Rowdy sagged in relief, allowing Fisk to slump a bit lower. Griff, alarmed, said, “Whoa! Keep hold of him until I’m sure the handcuff key is on this ring.”

  Rowdy said, “Step on it. This slob weighs a ton.”

  Griff’s hands shook with eagerness as he held the ring up to the light and began flipping through the keys until he came to a pair of tiny black keys that looked like something out of a child’s play set. “All right! Handcuff keys if ever I saw ’em—and believe me, I’ve seen plenty!”

  “Stop bragging. Can I let this pig loose?”

  “Yeah, but don’t let him fall too far in case these keys don’t work and we got to check him for others.”

  Rowdy eased Fisk down the bars to the floor, the body folding up as though it were as boneless as a bag of dirty laundry. The corpse sprawled at the foot of the barred cell door, an inert lump.

  Now the bikers could see Jack Bauer, the back of him anyway. Jack’s head tilted forward, chin resting on his chest. He breathed slowly, deeply.

  Griff said, “Shit! He’s passed out!”

  Jack raised his head. “No . . . I was just resting.”

  “Rest later. Fight it, man! You need to stay awake and alert. We need you. You need us. We need each other to get out of this scrape.”

  “You should set that to music.”

  Griff grinned tightly, below the eyes. “You can still joke, huh? That’s good. That’ll keep you going. Turn around so I can see you.”

  Jack used his feet to rotate the chair’s swivel seat in a half circle so that he was facing the cell door. He had to step on one of Fisk’s outflung arms to do so. It bothered him not a bit.

  Jack’s right eye was blackened and his left was swollen half-shut but he could still see out of it. His nose was bloodied and his lips were smashed and split, bleeding on the inside where they’d been cut against his teeth. He felt around with his tongue; his teeth seemed to be all there. He couldn’t tell if any of them were loose or not. His jaws ached at the hinges. His ribs were bruised and his belly ached.

  Griff said, “What’s your name, dude?”

  “Jack.”

  “I’m Griff and this is my buddy Rowdy.”

  “Hi.”

  Rowdy said, “Pleased to meet cha’, Jack.”

  “Likewise.”

  Griff said, “You handle yourself okay, Jack. That was nice work softening up that big pig for us.”

  Jack glanced at Sharon Stallings, a corpse in the center of a still-expanding pool of blood, then eyed Fisk. It was the first time he’d taken a good look at Fisk dead. On him it looked good. Jack said, “You men didn’t do too badly yourselves.”

  “Thanks. Now that we’ve done the mutual admiration bit let’s focus on something really important, like getting out of here.” Griff held a handcuff key between thumb and forefinger so it was separated from the other keys on the ring. “Wheel that chair over here so I can reach you.”

  Jack used his feet to propel himself on the rollers so his left side was against the bars. Fisk’s body blocked his progress until Rowdy collared the corpse by the shirt at the back of its neck and dragged it to one side.

  Griff knelt so he was at eye level with the chair arm. He reached through the bars with both hands, the left holding Jack’s cuffed hand steady while the right fitted the key into the equally tiny slotted keyhole and turned it until something clicked.

  The cuffs unlocked, Jack freeing the metal bracelet from his left wrist. The flesh was marked with angry red grooves where the cuff had bitten into it. He bent his arm at the elbow and raised his hand, flexing it to restore the circulation. Numbness was succeeded by a tingling wave of pins- and-needles sensation that momentarily took his breath away.

  Griff said, “I don’t know if the same key will work on another cop’s cuffs but it should. It’d be a hassle for them to keep track of different sets of keys for each pair of cuffs.”

  Rowdy said, “If it don’t work you can blast the chain loose with the .357.”

  Jack said, “Let’s try the key first.” He jockeyed the chair around so that its right side pressed against the bars. It was easier to get around now that he had one hand free.

  Griff fitted the key into the lock and jiggled around with it. “Wait a minute—wait a minute—there, I got it!” There was a click and the cuff opened, falling away from Jack’s wrist.

  Jack flexed both hands, clenching and unclenching his fists as the feeling returned to them. The sharp edge of it chased away the fog of haziness that shrouded his awareness and sought to pull him down into the sweet, pain-free oblivion of unconsciousness.

  An oblivion that might prove permanent if indulged in, he reminded himself. Mr. Pettibone was coming.

  Griff urged, “Don’t fade on us now, dude. We’re so close to making the breakout.”

  Jack said, “I’m good.”

  “Okay. The key to the cell is on a big ring hanging on a hook behind the front desk. You can’t miss it.”

  Jack grabbed the cell bars with both hands and pulled himself out of the chair to his feet. He lurched, almost losing his footing but regaining it before he went over. He stood there clutching the bars. Griff’s mouth was moving but the words seemed to come from the bottom of a deep well—or was it the top? They were hollow and echoing in any case, mixing with the sound of crashing surf rising in his ears that threatened to overwhelm him.

  Jack stood there until the spell of weakness passed and he could make out Griff saying, “Are you okay? You okay, man?”

  Jack said, “Yeah.” He put his hand against the wall to steady himself as he walked step by step from the cell to the front desk. He was stiff-legged and halting at first but grew surer and more certain with each step. The front desk was on a kind of dais that nearly tripped him when he stepped up onto it but he staggered to the desk and rested both fists on the desktop and leaned forward until the pounding in his head went away.

  He went behind the desk and tore open a drawer. Griff called urgently across the room, “Not there, Jack! The keys are on a hook on the wall behind you!”

  Jack said, “Hey man, chill.” That surprised Griff so that he shut up for a minute. Jack reached into the drawer, reaching for his gun. It lay on its side on top of a pile of hardware that included guns, knives, brass knuckles, blackjacks, and other goodies.

  The gun felt good in his hand, he liked the heft and weight and balance of it. He seemed to drew strength from it, like a parched plant soaking up moisture.

  He fitted the gun in his shoulder sling. It felt nice nestled down below his left arm.

  The key ring was where Griff had said it would be, on a ring on a peg sticking out of a plaque mounted on the wall behind the desk. The oversized ring was a steel hoop as wide in diameter as a pie tin, and when Jack saw the key he thought that little had changed over the centuries when it came to keeping prisoners penned in cells because the key looked like it could have unlocked a medieval dungeon. It had an eight-inch-long bolt with a notched and grooved rectangle at the tip and a solid steel loop at the end.

  Jack went with the key to the cell. His progress was better. He never came close to blacking out and he staggered and almost fell only once.

  Griff and Rowdy eyed his approach with silent wariness. Griff had a sharp-featured face with long, narrow, slitted green eyes, a beaky nose and pointed chin. Rowdy’s forehead was as wrinkled as an elephant’s knee, the result of deep thought.
He said, “You ain’t no cop, Jack. What are you—a hit man?”

  Jack realized that coming from Rowdy that was a compliment. He said, “No, I’m a secret agent.” It was more complicated than that but he gave them a short version they could wrap their heads around. They didn’t necessarily believe him but at least they could understand him.

  He stuck the key into the cell lock. The steel loop at the end was big enough for him to fit his fingers around and use for a hand grip. He needed it, too, to turn the lock and unseal its reluctant internal mechanism. Bolts and tumblers fell into place with a thud and then the door opened.

  Jack got out of the way to avoid being trampled by the two bikers in their eagerness to be free of the cell. They whooped it up. Jack figured it was best to let them get it out of their systems before he made his pitch.

  Griff wasted little time on euphoria, hurrying to Sharon Stallings’s corpse to pry the unfired .357 from her hand. He hefted it, saying, “Nice piece! The gun, I mean.”

  Jack said, “There’s an open drawer in the front desk that has some of your stuff in it, I think.”

  Griff and Rowdy went to it, pulling the weapons out and laying them on the desk. Rowdy picked up a snub-nosed .38 special and eyed it with the tender regard of a schoolgirl for a warm puppy. “I never thought I’d see this again!” He explained, “It’s got sentimental value. I took it off some plainclothes cop I beat the shit out of.”

  Griff brandished a commando knife the size of a small sword. It was razor sharp with a grooved blood vein on either side. “My Arkansaw toothpick!”

  Jack thought that if they didn’t know it already, when they found out their bikes were in the garage they’d be like a couple of kids on Christmas morning. Now was the time to start working his pitch. He said, “Why fool around with that when you can raid the substation’s armory? There’s sure to be one here and the keys are probably somewhere in the desk.”

  Griff stopped waving the knife in the air to eye Jack with crafty calculation. “I don’t get you, Jack. You look like a straight citizen but you’re a stone killer. What’s your angle? I mean, where do you fit in with all this anyway?”