Now, as the minibus rumbled along a narrow rural road, the Reverend James Wendell Ahern closed the issue of So-journers magazine he’d been reading and tapped it against his knee.
“I’m really surprised to see anyone from the press here today, Mr. Holman,” the Reverend said, turning to face him. “Outreach to other faiths and other cultures doesn’t sell newspapers, I’m told. And since the Congresswoman had to cancel at the last minute—”
“Good riddance, I say,” an older man interrupted from the back row. “We all know Congresswoman Williams is in bed with these people. She’s defended that crazy mullah or wallah or whatever they call him—”
Reverend Ahern raised a hand. “The Imam’s name is Ali Rahman al Sallifi, Mr. Simonson.”
The older man sneered. “If you know his name, then you know this Sallifi character is wanted by the law in his native country. He’s a terrorist.”
Reverend Ahern offered the man a patronizing smile.
“You have to understand, countries like Egypt and Pakistan have repressive governments. Imam Ali Rahman al Sallifi tried to practice his personal brand of Islam in peace, but was forced to flee. That’s why he came to America, for the right to practice his faith without persecution.”
Simonson waved a dismissive hand. “Fine. I’ll wait and see what the Grand Poobah has to say for himself.”
Ahern fixed his wide-eyed stare on Brice Holman.
“You see what I’m up against. There’s a tragic mistrust of the stranger, the other, even among the members of my own flock.”
“Yet you strive always to be a unifying force,” Holman said. “That’s why New Jersey Cable One sent me here, to cover this story.”
“You brought no cameras,” Ahern noted.
“I didn’t want to be too… intimidating,” Holman lied.
“I’ll certainly conduct on-camera interviews later, with you and perhaps Ali Rahman al Sallifi, if he’ll speak with us.”
“He agreed to meet with my group today, which is certainly a breakthrough. Imam al Sallifi is a private man, very spiritual.”
Holman raised an eyebrow. “So you’ve met the Imam?”
“I’m told,” Ahern amended. “I’ve met with the Imam’s disciple, Ibrahim Noor, several times. He’s a fascinating figure. A former gang leader and convicted felon who found redemption through faith. His is a story we can all learn from.”
“Indeed,” Holman replied.
“Excuse me, Reverend Ahern,” Mrs. Reed called from behind the steering wheel. “I think that’s our turn up ahead.”
“Yes, that’s the turn, Emily,” the Reverend declared,
“We’re to make a left and follow the road for about a mile, until we see the gate.”
Mrs. Reed nodded and slowed for the turn. Reverend Ahern faced the other passengers in the minibus.
“Again, I want to apologize on behalf of Congresswoman Hailey Williams,” he said. “She was quite eager to make the trip, but legislative duties prevented her from joining us.”
Brice Holman shook his head. If the Reverend had half a brain, he’d know Congress is on spring break — which is why Congresswoman Williams is in her home district, instead of Washington.
Whatever’s going on here stinks, thought Brice. But at least it will get me inside that compound.
Beside Mrs. Hocklinger, a teenager named Danielle Taylor fidgeted nervously. Holman had originally estimated her age at fifteen or sixteen, but upped it when Reverend Ahern mentioned she would be attending Columbia University in the fall.
Dani was here because of an incident that had occurred several months ago.
Her dog had broken from its leash and wandered into the compound. Dani had gone in after it, and found the dog dead — shot — and two men with guns standing over the corpse. When she demanded to know why they had killed her pet, one of the men sneered and declared that
“soon all dogs will die.”
Instead of being intimidated, Dani had filed animal cruelty charges against those two men. A court date was still pending.
The minibus swerved onto a narrow road that was pitted and bumpy. Emily Reed switched to low gear, and they climbed a short rise. At the crest of the hill, the front tire bounced off a particularly deep pothole.
“With all the taxes they charge us, you’d think they could fix these roads,” Mr. Simonson grumbled.
“It’s the trucks from the cardboard factory,” Mr. Cranston explained. “Those semis really tear up the highway.”
Joseph Cranston told Holman he was a retiree from New York City, who used to be an engineer for the Bridge and Tunnel Authority.
“I really hope to get a look inside that factory,” Cranston continued. “It’s the oldest paper fabrication facility in the country.”
Abby Cranston pointed. “Look, there’s the front gate.”
“Does that man have a gun?” Emily Reed cried.
Reverend Ahern swallowed hard. “Slow down and I’ll have a word with him.”
But as the bus approached the gate, the old man with the rifle slung over his shoulder smiled and motioned them forward. Another man limped out of the guardhouse, offering them a toothless grin. He carried no rifle, but there was a.22-caliber handgun tucked in the belt around his shalwat kameez. Together, the two men swung the chain-link and barbed-wire gate open to admit them.
Ahern visibly relaxed. “I told you they were expecting us.”
Holman studied the guards as the bus passed through the gate.
In weeks of surveillance, he’d never seen the main gate guarded by anyone but tough-looking former felons in their prime, all of them Americans. But these two guys looked Middle Eastern, and they were probably pushing eighty.
Reverend Ahern pulled a copy of Ibrahim Noor’s e-mail out of the pocket of his black shirt. As he read, he adjusted his clerical collar.
“Just go straight ahead until you reach the Community Center,” he told the driver.
The bus bumped through the center of town. To Holman the place seemed abandoned. Of course, the men were probably working at the factory, but the women should have been out and about.
Finally, a man with a rifle slung across his back stepped in their path, waving his arms.
“I think he wants us to stop,” Ahern said.
The bus halted in a cloud of dust, in front of a large building made of unpainted cinder blocks. The aluminum screen door opened, and a woman in a black burka exited the building. Though her features were obscured, she carried a bundle of flowers in her tattooed hands.
“That’s nice,” Mrs. Cranston said.
Emily cut the engine, and Reverend Ahern opened the sliding door. Before he could step out, a howling mob of people burst from the Community Center and charged the bus. Another mob rushed out of the communal baths next door. They were women, mostly, along with a smattering of young boys and girls and old men. The males had guns.
The women carried knives, clubs, axes.
The mob swarmed the bus, threatening to tip the vehicle over on its side. Reverend Ahern was assaulted and pummeled into unconsciousness. Emily Reed tried to restart the engine and drive away, but an old man fired an ancient pistol at her through the windshield. The bullet struck her right eye, killing the woman instantly.
Brice Holman kicked the first person to reach for him.
The woman howled and fell to the floor. Clawing and screaming like animals, the rest of the pack crushed her in an effort to get at the passengers.
Holman heard Dani scream. Mr. Simonson lunged at the women attacking the teenager, knocked them aside.
Then someone stuck the man in the throat with a machete.
He went down spewing blood.
Holman lashed out again, his fist striking flesh. Then someone struck him on the back of the head and his world went dark…
2:39:06 P.M. EDT
Newark General Hospital
Tony Almeida ducked behind a pillar and observed the white-smocked kid he fingered for the murder of the gu
ard. The Hispanic youth was standing near the ER, talking into a cell phone. No doubt he was reporting his situation, which was dire.
Fifteen minutes ago, Tony discovered that hospital security and the Newark Police had sealed the hospital exits, effectively trapping the murderer inside the facility.
Almeida had located the punk at around the same time, but decided not to move against him in the crowded lobby.
Tony watched while the killer drifted over to an emergency fire exit, preparing to push through. He got a surprise when the door suddenly opened from the outside, and two uniformed cops entered — and walked right past him.
The close call obviously spooked the youth. Still on the phone, he slipped into a nearby stairwell. Tony followed, pausing at the steel door long enough to turn off his own cell — the last thing he needed was the phone to ring.
As soon as he entered the stairwell, Tony heard the man’s muffled voice, his footsteps on the stairs. Cautiously, Tony climbed, Glock in hand. It took five flights before he finally caught up with the kid. The youth had just ended his call and was heading back the way he came.
Tony leveled his gun on the punk, who stumbled backward, tripping on the steps. The kid fell onto the fifth-floor landing.
“Don’t move or I’ll shoot,” Tony said evenly.
On his back, the kid threw up his arms. He couldn’t have been more than seventeen or eighteen, and he seemed very frightened. Tony had to remind himself that this fresh-faced kid was old enough to murder a security guard in cold blood, then steal evidence of a possible terrorist plot.
Tony slowly approached him. “Show me your weapon and get up,” he commanded.
Eyes twitching, the kid shook his head. “I already dumped the gun. In a garbage can,” he said, getting to his feet. The youth had high cheekbones; narrow, catlike eyes; and so many twitches, Tony thought he might be overdosing on cocaine.
“Colombian?” Tony asked, one hand covering him while the other rifled through the pockets of his white smock.
Head shaky, the youth nodded. Tony located Foy’s digital camera and cell phone and pocketed both.
“Okay,” Tony said. “Now we’re going downstairs.”
Tony gestured with his Glock. As soon as the barrel wavered, the Colombian bolted. As the teenager raced up the final flight of stairs, Tony drew a bead at his broad back—
but didn’t pull the trigger.
Better to take him alive. CTU can’t interrogate a dead man.
Deep inside, Tony knew the truth. He didn’t want to cap someone so young.
Taking the stairs two at a time, Tony reached an emergency exit and burst through the door, expecting to come out on the roof. Instead, he emerged on a narrow, dead-end catwalk six stories above the parking lot.
When the Colombian heard the door open, he whirled to face Tony. The youth was panting, his face shiny with sweat — almost as if he was coming off some kind of drug high. Tony aimed the Glock at the punk’s heart.
“Come on, kid, give it up,” he called. “This time I will shoot.”
The youth wavered. Then he yanked the smock off his shoulders and leaped onto the rail. As the white coat flut-tered to the concrete below, the youth threw up his arms.
“No! Wait!” Tony cried.
Stumbling forward, Tony spied a tattoo of the number 13 on the Colombian’s forearm. He dropped the Glock and reached out to snatch the youth — too late.
Without uttering a sound, the Colombian dived headfirst off the catwalk. A moment later, his body slammed into a Cadillac parked in the physicians-only lot. The impact crumpled the roof and triggered the alarm.
Tony pulled the cell phone out of his pocket to call Agent Delgado, but as soon as he activated it, he discovered an urgent message from Morris O’Brian back at CTU
Headquarters in New York.
Frowning, he played it back.
2:59:28 P.M. EDT
Room 424
Newark General Hospital
“I understand,” Rachel Delgado said into her cell. “I’ll take care of everything here. You don’t have to worry about it.”
Rachel had been lingering outside Deputy Director’s Foy’s hospital room for almost an hour. Scrupulously following Tony Almeida’s last command, she hadn’t let anyone in or out of room 424.
Now she’d received new instructions. Agent Delgado closed the phone and tucked it into her purse beside the 9mm handgun. She scanned the area.
The doctors had made their rounds; the nurses had administered the afternoon meds. Most of the staff was gathered around the nurses’ station, waiting for the shift change at three-fifteen. With luck, Rachel Delgado would be finished by then. Finished and long gone.
Rachel peeked through the tiny window in the door of the private room. Judith Foy was asleep, her bandaged head lolling on the pillow. Quietly, she slipped through the door and approached the bed.
Rachel dropped her purse in the chair and leaned close, to examine the woman. Foy was definitely asleep. Her breathing was even, and she was snoring a little.
Circling the bed, Rachel looked around for the right tool for the job. She grinned when she fingered the IV tube running from the clear plastic bag into Judith Foy’s arm.
Rachel gently disconnected the plastic tube at the flow meter joint. Then she pulled the long tube free from the IV bottle. While the solution trickled onto the faux-hardwood floor, Rachel wrapped the plastic around both hands, to create a garrote.
Rachel paused for a moment while an orderly drifted past the door, heading for the nurses’ station. When the man was out of sight, Delgado loomed over Judith Foy.
In one quick motion, Rachel slipped the strangling cord around the sleeping woman’s throat and pulled it tight…
9. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 3:00 P.M. AND 4:00 P.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME
3:00:00 P.M. EDT
CTU Heliport
Hudson River
In his right hand, Jack Bauer clutched the cell phone to his head. With his left, he covered his ear to shut out the high-pitched whine of the turboshaft engines.
He was standing on a concrete pier at the edge of the water. A Sikorsky S–76 “Spirit” helicopter idled behind him, its wide, composite blades cutting the humid air. A barge streamed up the Hudson, leaving a roiling wake as it passed.
“Any word from Tony?” Jack asked Morris back at CTU Headquarters.
“We’ve got a problem on that score,” Morris replied.
“Apparently a man fitting Agent Almeida’s description is wanted in connection with the murder of a security guard at Newark General Hospital.”
Jack cursed. “That has to be a mistake.”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? Except that the Newark Police received an anonymous tip five minutes ago. And the tipster gave Tony’s name. Our boy’s been framed, Jack-o.”
Jack’s mind raced. Another leak at CTU. But who’s the mole?
“You’ve got to warn him,” he ordered Morris.
“I have, by voice mail,” Morris said. “We haven’t been able to reach Tony or Rachel Delgado, the agent who accompanied him to Newark. Frankly, I fear the worst.”
“Almeida can take care of himself,” Jack said, dismissing that problem for now. “I want you to keep monitoring Brice Holman’s signal. I’ll keep this line open for any updates. I’ll need to know his exact location once I reach Milton.”
“Better move, Jack. Or Holman might not be there when you arrive.”
Jack glanced at the idling helicopter and cursed again.
“We’re leaving right now,” he told Morris. Then he ended the call.
He walked up to Layla Abernathy. She stood on the tarmac, blinking against the dust, her hair twisting in the wind. A heavy duffel bag was slung over her shoulder. As Jack approached, she lowered her own cell phone.
“I’m still trying to get clearance,” she explained. “I’m on hold with the Deputy Mayor’s office.”
Jack reached up, his hand covering
her fingers. He closed the phone in her hand. “We’ve waited twenty minutes. That’s already too long—”
“I can’t convince the authorities, Agent Bauer!” Layla shouted to be heard over the noise. “If they thought it was a real emergency, we’d get immediate clearance. But—”
“We’re going,” Jack said. “Now.”
He took the bag from her shoulder, tossed it into the cabin. Then he guided Layla through the hatch. The interior of the S–76 Spirit was almost spacious — large enough to seat an assault team of eight, along with their special equipment.
Jack thrust Layla into a seat. “Strap in,” he commanded.
Then he moved to the cockpit.
The pilot and copilot wore dark blue CTU flight suits, and helmets with visors and interior headsets. The man in the pilot’s seat had a CTU Rapid-Strike Team patch on his chest, and a Glock on his belt. His name tag read
“Fogarty.”
“Take off,” Jack said.
“We can’t, sir,” Captain Fogarty replied. “We’ve been denied clearance—”
Bauer’s eyes flashed angrily. “Take off now. On my authority.”
“Sir, I can’t. I could lose my job—”
“Listen,” Jack rasped. “Director Holman is in danger.
There’s already been an attempt on Deputy Director Foy’s life. She’s in a hospital now and I don’t know her condition. Unless you want to be responsible for the death of your boss, I suggest you take off immediately.”
Fogarty frowned, then shifted his unhappy gaze to the copilot. “Prepare for takeoff,” he said.
The whine of the turboshaft increased in volume. With an abrupt lurch, the helicopter lifted off the pier and swooped over the river. The landing gear retracted before the aircraft banked and shifted direction, heading due west at a hundred and fifty miles per hour.
3:02:21 P.M. EDT
Room 424
Newark General Hospital
Lucky break, Tony Almeida mused, seeing the birthday party at the nurses’ station. First one I’ve had all day.
24 Declassified: Collateral Damage 2d-8 Page 10