He nodded again. “I’m with you on that. We’ll be pushing right into the edge of that storm in about twenty minutes. How does this connect with St. Louis?”
“Turns out our colleagues in Missouri are up on the phones of an outlaw biker gang running contraband across that whole area. The case is mired in red tape and going nowhere, but they’re still monitoring. No permission for voice recording, just meta-data, for all the good that does … You know how it is these days. If a crook isn’t in bed with Al Qaeda, it’s a long way down the priority list…”
Hadley’s patience was slipping. “Get to the point, Sal.”
“Their wiretaps just went crazy. Every phone they’re tracking lit up. Someone’s stirring up these bikers.”
He made an exasperated noise. “And why should I give a damn about what could just be some turf war out in the sticks?”
“The taps caught a photo message. One of these idiots sent it in the clear. Now, by law that means it is inadmissible as evidence but…” A smug tone entered the other agent’s voice. “Go ahead. Ask me whose face is in the picture.”
“Bauer?”
“The boys and girls in St. Louis seem to think so.”
Hadley felt a rush of adrenaline flood through him. “Where?”
“St. Louis is patching their traffic data through to the plane. You should get it soon.” Jacobs was quiet for a moment. “I think this will square my debt.”
“Not quite,” said Hadley. “One more thing. I want all we’ve got on these bikers. I want to know who’s the top kick.”
“Checking…” He heard Jacobs tapping at a keyboard. “Benjamin Rydell. Multiple counts of assault, attempted murder, in the frame for a bunch more. A real charmer.”
A risky plan began to form in Hadley’s mind, but with O’Leary’s warning echoing in his thoughts, Hadley knew he would have to go off-book in order to bring this operation to a close. “Give me the number of the cell phone that St. Louis pulled the picture from.”
“Why?”
“Just do it, Sal.”
* * *
Chase took one of the MP5/10 submachine guns from the gym bag and went back up to the roof, using the weapon’s peep sight as a makeshift spotting scope. It wasn’t a replacement for a real set of starlight optics, but it was all he had to work with and right now that seemed to be the plan of the moment. Adapt, improvise, move forward. He was no stranger to making it up as he went along, but even so Chase yearned for a proper plan of attack.
A couple of hours ago he was thinking about how he was going to kill time until the cargo train from Chicago rolled through, and now they were in the middle of a crusade against a violent gang of criminal bikers.
He looked around. Where the hell am I? he asked himself. I don’t want to die out here in the middle of nowhere.
The thought cut off as a spasm went through his right hand and suddenly his nerves were alight.
He swore. This was a bad one, the worst seizure he’d had in a while, and he dropped the SMG, sinking to his haunches. Chase’s breath came in quick gasps and he felt sweat beading his forehead, despite the chill wind up on the roof of the abandoned store. With a snarl, he forced the hand into a fist and punched it against an air vent, trying to beat back the burn from his agonized nerves with a different sort of pain. It didn’t help, and so he had to sit there for what seemed like long minutes, riding out the hurt until finally, mercifully, it began to subside.
As sensation came back to his numbed fingers, he clumsily worked off the top of the pill bottle and tapped a tablet into his mouth, crunching it between his teeth. Chase heard movement behind him and fumbled the bottle away as a shadow came up from the access ladder leading down to the lower floor. “Jack…”
The other man nodded and showed him a scrap of paper in his hand. “Tried to get an online geo map of the area on my cell, but there’s no signal this side of town. So Cherry drew us one instead, from memory.”
Chase managed a brief grin, picking up the SMG from where it had fallen. “Low tech is better than no tech.”
Jack showed it to him. “The old army base is here,” he said, pointing at the sketch. “We can avoid the road, go cross-country.” He paused. “If you think you’re ready for it.”
Chase hesitated. “If you didn’t want me to back you up, you would never have called me tonight. Right?” The words came out more defensively than he had hoped.
“How long have you been taking the pills?” said Jack, after a moment.
His first impulse was to lie about it. That was what he had been doing every time that question came up, lying to Roker or the doctors at the free clinic, or to himself. He eyed Jack. “You know about that, huh? Guess I shouldn’t be surprised. I mean, you know about everything, right? Can’t get the drop on Jack Bauer.”
“I’ve been on the same road, Chase.” The other man looked away. “And you know it. I kicked my addiction, but once you’ve been there, you know the signs.”
Chase showed him the pills. “Painkillers. For the nerve damage.”
“Are they still working for you?” The question wasn’t judgmental, just flat and direct.
“Not as well as I’d like.”
He sighed. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry?” Chase fought down a surge of bitterness. “Hell, you only cut off my hand! I’m the one who couldn’t put myself back together.”
“If you tell me you’ve got it under control,” said Jack, “I won’t doubt you. But I need to hear you say the words.”
It seemed to take Chase forever to find the words. “I can handle it.”
“Good.” Jack walked to the edge of the roof and looked out. “I’ve got a couple of bulletproof vests in the bag. We’ll take those. Radios too. Laurel and the others can stay here, keep out of sight.”
“So we go in, find the rest of the folks the Night Rangers shanghaied, get that bus and get them out.”
“Yeah.”
Despite himself, Chase smiled a little at the other man’s understatement. “Rydell and his guys aren’t going to be happy to see us. And we don’t know what else we’re going to find out there.”
“I have an inkling,” said Jack. “I’m not leaving Deadline until I’m sure.” He turned suddenly to face his former partner. “I know what you’re thinking. That we don’t have to fight every battle that comes our way. Maybe that’s true. But if we don’t do this, right here, tonight … who the hell will?”
Chase gave a rueful nod and looked at his watch. “Clock’s running.”
* * *
He was lighting a smoke when he heard the chattering tune, and at length he realized that the sound was coming from Lance’s phone, still there in the outer pocket of his jacket where he had dumped it.
The display said CALLER ID BLOCKED and for a second, he considered tossing the device away. The night was shaping up to be problematic enough without one more thing coming down the pipe to damage his calm.
He sucked in a lungful and jabbed at the button. “Who the hell is this?”
“I want to talk to Benjamin Rydell,” said a voice he didn’t recognize. There was a strange buzzing on the line that made his teeth itch.
“Last folks to call me Benjamin were the nuns at the orphanage, pal, and you ain’t one of them.”
“This is Special Agent Thomas Hadley of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. It’s my understanding that you have an interest in someone I’m looking for. The man in the picture you were sent?”
Rydell hesitated, his mind racing. Was this joker on the level? How had the feds gotten this number? Was he being set up? “I don’t know about any pictures,” he said. “I just found this here phone on the sidewalk. I’m hanging up now.”
“That would be a mistake,” said the voice. “Then you would miss the opportunity to make a deal that could considerably benefit the Night Rangers MC.”
He wanted to cut the call, but part of him was interested, enticed. He couldn’t help but voice the question. “What
kind of deal?”
“The man in the picture and his accomplice. I want them. Think about what you might like to get in return.”
Rydell cracked a crooked smile. All of a sudden, his evening was starting to improve.
16
The long grasses surrounding the site of Fort Blake had been left to thicken until they were waist-high. It was more than enough for Jack and Chase to use to conceal their approach, moving low and quick toward the collapsed fences that were all that remained of the old base perimeter.
With hand signals, Jack directed them toward the tumbledown remains of a pillbox set in the ground. A hexagon of brown, crumbling concrete, the old guard post stank of animal urine, but it gave them a shadowed lookout from which they could survey their target.
“I see movement,” said Chase. “They got a fire going outside that two-story building to the right.”
Jack nodded. He heard the husky rumble as a pair of riders cruised up and down outside the decaying officers’ quarters, each trying to drown out the other with the growling revs of the engines on their customized Harleys. Other members of the MC were standing around an oil-drum fire, drinking and joking, staying warm as the cold began to settle in. The chill in the air was turning damp. “Storm’s coming,” he said quietly. “Could work for us, if we’re lucky.”
“You know,” Chase began, “part of me keeps on wondering where the hell I left my badge.” He patted his chest, where a federal shield would have hung over his black bulletproof vest if this had been a lawful operation. “Then I remember we’re not cops. Or CTU.”
“Concerned citizens,” Jack said without turning, calling back to what Chase had told Trish at the strip club.
“I just want to be sure of our rules of engagement. We’re not in the Wild West here.”
Jack nodded at the men whooping and shouting as the two bikes turned dusty circles on the parade ground. “You sure about that?” He paused. “Rules are the same as they always are. There are targets, and potential targets. It’s their choice which way they go out.” To underline his point, Jack paused to check the MP5/10 slung across his chest. He flipped the safety catch to single-shot mode. “Just try to hold off on any gunplay until we’re inside. The moment one of these creeps wises up to us, they’re going to call their playmates to come running.”
“Copy that,” said Chase. He raised his own SMG and scanned the area through the sight. “I see lights on, on the far side of the parade ground there. More buildings. Smoke coming from a chimney.”
Jack didn’t answer right away. He felt a vibration against his side, from the pocket where he was carrying his cell phone. Taking care to cover the screen so the glow from the display wouldn’t be seen, he bent low over the device and studied it. The text message he had been trying to send from the derelict mega-mart had finally connected and been dispatched; clearly the spotty coverage throughout the town of Deadline extended out this far but no farther. He turned off the phone and slid it back into an inner pocket.
“Got someone coming out of the old officers’ quarters,” Chase reported, still looking through his gun sight.
“Recognize anyone from the club?”
Chase shook his head. “Nope. But whoever this guy is, he’s got pull.”
Jack could make out the sounds of someone talking, but not the actual words. Chase seemed to be right. The new arrival’s appearance had made the rest of the boisterous bikers fall silent.
* * *
Rydell strode down the cracked steps to where Lance was waiting for him by the oil-drum fire, and the master-at-arms bobbed his head.
“Boss,” he said. “I did like you asked. Got the roads outta town sealed up tight, got outriders at each roadblock.”
He gave a distracted nod. “Whoever’s left, tell them to split up and start searching the town. Every place out there. They find something, nobody makes a move until they talk to me first, right?”
“Right,” Lance repeated. “You wanna waste these chumps yourself?”
“Wasting them is the last thing on my mind.”
“What?” The other man frowned. “But the ’Case … and Sammy. I mean, they shed blood. They hurt the club. They gotta pay for that.”
“I want them alive,” Rydell insisted. “Roughed up…?” He shrugged. “Sure, whatever. But still breathin’. These pukes just became a commodity.”
Lance followed Rydell to where his bike—a Dyna Super Glide Custom in black and gunmetal—was parked. Two other men, the club president’s “honor guard,” fell into step with him. “You going somewhere?” said Lance.
“You wait up here,” Rydell told him, dismissing the question. “Keep these guys around, watch the works while I’m gone.” He straddled the big hog and kicked the bike’s engine into life. “I gotta set something up. Where’s Fang at?”
“In town,” said Lance, his confusion deepening. He came closer, lowering his voice. “Boss, what kinda … commodity? What’s that mean?”
Rydell showed him a shark’s predatory smile. “It means we’re not the only ones who want this prick’s head on a spike.” He aimed two fingers at his eyes. “Stay frosty.” He twisted the throttle and the Super Glide raced away, angling back toward the highway, two more bikes trailing in its noisy wake.
* * *
The Night Rangers hadn’t posted many lookouts, and Chase guessed that might be because they had become complacent. The bikers didn’t feel threatened in any way here, that was clear as day. They owned the town of Deadline, body and soul, and he imagined that the idea of anyone crossing them never occurred to the outlaw gang. These guys had carved out their own little fiefdom, right in the heartland of the state, ruling the place like a band of medieval marauders.
It was a situation Chase and Jack could use to their advantage. From the tumbledown guard post, they shifted the line of their approach and crossed behind a collapsed wall toward the ill-lit buildings he had spotted earlier. Closing in, Chase could see that the aging wooden shacks were what had once been the barracks for Fort Blake’s enlisted men. A couple of them had fallen in, roofs folded up and walls split from storm damage and neglect, but the others all showed signs of occupation.
Each barracks hut was raised off the ground on thick brick supports, and Jack slipped close to the nearest one, pressing himself flat to the outer wall. They were in heavy shadow here, the clear sky that had been above them at sunset now turned cloudy. It was to their advantage—cloud meant no moonlight, less chance of being spotted.
“Hear anything?” Chase whispered.
“Voices,” Jack replied, straining to listen through the clapboard wall. “Can’t make anything out.” He let his MP5/10 drop on its sling and eased himself up to look through a grimy, cracked window. “Cover me.”
Turning his head side-on to present the smallest possible profile, Jack peered inside. After a moment, he dropped back down and leaned close to Chase.
“More bikers?”
“No.” Jack shook his head. “Prisoners. Dozens in there, crammed into every corner. This has to be the bunkhouse for whatever sweatshop the Night Rangers are running.”
“I doubt they’re making knockoff sneakers.”
“We need to get eyes on,” said Jack. He beckoned Chase to follow him and they pushed forward, careful and stealthy.
Slipping around the edge of another barracks shack, Chase spotted an open-sided hangar with a wide, angled tin roof. Beneath it were a couple of nondescript hard-side trucks parked on either side of an old Greyhound bus that was covered in road dust. “Motor pool?” he asked.
Jack nodded and pointed. A group of bikers were standing close by, a couple of them crouching over the fairing of a motorcycle that was missing a fuel tank, the wide-bodied hog surrounded by a halo of parts on a greasy white bedsheet. Each of the Night Rangers was offering conflicting advice about how to best maintain the bike, and the conversation was in danger of turning violent.
They backed off; there was no way past on this side of the barrack
s without being seen by someone. They would have to find a different approach.
“How are we gonna get the bus?” whispered Chase, as they paused in the undergrowth between two of the shacks.
“One objective at a time,” Jack replied. He pointed toward the far side of the parade ground, toward what had once been bunker-like garages for tanks and armored vehicles. The smoke Chase had seen earlier was issuing out in steady streams from chimneys across the concrete roofs. He thought he could smell the faint tang of ammonia, but it was hard to be sure in the damp air. “We’re going in there,” said Jack. “Look.”
Doors on the front of one of the bunkers had opened, and as Chase watched, a ragged group emerged. Men and women, their faces pale and dirty, came out in a disordered line and set off toward the barracks. Three bikers walked with them, each armed with either a shotgun or a cattle prod. They forced their charges onward with the bored brutality of indifferent prison guards, shouting at anyone who moved too slowly.
Every one of the workers looked like they were fit to drop, and Chase had to wonder how long they had been here. At his side, he felt Jack tense as one of the bikers used the butt of his gun to discipline an older guy who was dragging his feet.
“Shift change,” Jack noted. “Here’s our chance.”
“We can’t take out three men at once,” Chase noted.
“We’re not going to. We play this smart. These idiots aren’t paying attention. We’re gonna use that.” Jack dropped back around the side of the empty shack as the guards reached the door.
Chase threw a look over his shoulder as he moved away. The bikers hustled the workers into one of the barracks buildings before moving on to roust the next “shift.” They banged on the walls of the shack with the cattle prods and made threats. No one dared to complain, he noted, and that spoke volumes. These people seemed broken and without hope, resigned to their fate.
Out of sight around the side of the building, Chase watched the new group as they spilled out of the hut, cowering against the threat of violence. He felt Jack tap him on the shoulder and he turned. The other man pressed something into his hands: a heavy, mud-smeared army blanket he had pulled from where it had been left hanging over a broken windowpane. Jack had a similar mantle over his shoulders, turning it into a makeshift poncho.
24: Deadline (24 Series) Page 21