Death Angel

by David Jacobs

  “I don’t mind telling you I had some bad moments there worrying that the time factor would be noticed in time to unmask me. But I had confidence in the inefficiency of OCI. They didn’t let me down.

  “You getting that tip on Adam Zane was a mixed blessing. Naturally it would have been better for all concerned if it had never surfaced. I decided to stick to you. Closely. That way I could run interference if you arrived in time to intercept Zane. Luckily you didn’t. Those hirelings at the field were low-level gunmen of no importance. They didn’t know I was working for the same side as them.”

  “What side is that?” Jack Bauer asked.

  “The winning side.”

  “T. J. Henshaw?”

  Lewis laughed. “Hardly. Henshaw has nothing to do with it. He’s just another billionaire gone bust—so many of them around these days, don’t you know. But the Wind Farm is in foreclosure. Not even guarded. It made a convenient secret landing field for Zane. We refueled the gas tank with aviation fuel so he could refill and take off from the spot.

  “You ruined that. I let you do it so as not to blow my cover. Good thing I did. It paid off by putting me in the position to free Carlson. Ah, well…There’s more than one way out of the country.”

  Jack knew with a sudden flash of insight why Lewis didn’t just kill him and be done with it. Lewis was enjoying this. He was a sadist. He reveled in the cat and mouse toying with the victim. Jack Bauer laughed.

  “What’s so funny? I’m glad you’ve kept your sense of humor, Jack. You can die laughing.”

  “I’m laughing because you outsmarted yourself. You freed Carlson and you let him get away with the codes. That leaves you holding the bag. An empty bag. A prize chump. What does he need you for? He can cut you out of the payday. You’ve done your part. You’re expendable, too.”

  “Nice try, Jack, but it won’t work. It’s not set up that way. Carlson still has plenty to worry about. The Blancos, for example.”

  “Where do they fit in?”

  Lewis frowned. “Damned if I know. There’s some third party involved. Someone else after the codes. He—they—hired the gang. For a while they were more of a help than a hindrance. They killed Morrow, Rhee, and Kling. They kidnapped Carrie Carlson and tried to snatch Nordquist’s wife and daughter.

  “Why? For leverage. The Blancos—rather, the unknown principal behind them—was in the dark about who was stealing the PALO codes. He knew something but not enough. Snatching Carrie Carlson and the Nordquist ladies showed he was hedging his bets, was unsure whether Carlson or Nordquist was the one they wanted.”

  “Then the Blancos have Carrie Carlson?” Jack asked.

  Lewis shrugged. “I suppose so.”

  “Where does that leave Carlson?”

  “Where does that leave Mrs. Carlson, you should ask. In a most unenviable position, I’d say.”

  “He won’t deal?”

  “He can always get another wife, but there’s only one set of PALO codes.”

  “If he’ll burn his wife, he won’t hesitate to do the same to you.”

  “He can’t, Jack. I’m part of the package. Carlson can’t just sell the codes to Zane and waltz away. Zane needs Carlson and the codes both. Adam Zane’s not one to buy a pig in a poke. He wants a surety that he’s buying the real thing. A little demonstration. Nothing major. Just an atomic incident in the States far enough away from here not to do any damage but too big to ignore. I’ll be around for that demo and afterward, too. I’ve helped arrange it.”

  “Why are you telling me all this?”

  “I can’t resist the urge to show off a little. I’m only human.”

  “That’s a matter for debate.”

  “We all like to be appreciated for our cleverness. Who better to brag to than you? You won’t live to tell about it—”

  Jack Bauer laughed again. Not that he saw anything funny in the situation. But because he wanted to attract Lewis’s attention to himself. Because of something he’d seen. Merritt wasn’t dead. He’d moved. Not just reflex-action twitching, but with purpose and stealth.

  “Goodbye, Jack—”

  Merritt had fallen with gun in hand. He lay on his side, legs curled. He couldn’t raise himself up but he had enough left to raise his gun hand off the pavement and shoot at Lewis.

  Lewis jumped like he’d been goosed. Slugs tore the air around him, missing him.

  Jack took advantage of the distraction to throw himself to the side, taking cover behind Lewis’s car and drawing his gun at the same time.

  Lewis shot Merritt. He dashed behind the patrol car just before Jack reached up from behind Lewis’s car to throw a few shots at him. They exchanged gunfire.

  Lights appeared in the north, coming southbound down Highway 5. Moving fast. Carlson returning? Police? Or some innocent civilian riding unknowing into the shootout?

  Jack ducked down, peering under the car to see if perhaps he could take a shot at Lewis’s feet and legs. If he could shoot the other’s feet out from under him, he could finish him off when he hit the pavement—

  But Lewis was too smart for that. He was crouching behind the patrol car where a rear tire shielded his lower body.

  “You talk too much, Lewis,” Jack said. “You were so busy enjoying your little game of cat and mouse that you talked yourself into the deathhouse. Give it up. Cut your deal now and you can save yourself from being executed for high treason and murder.”

  The vehicle was closing fast. Its high beams flicked on. It was a big black van.

  It came on strong and quick and had to hit the brakes hard. It skidded, slid, tires squealing, laying down rubber. It bounced to a halt.

  The back door flung open and armed men began pouring out of the back of the vehicle.

  Lewis was caught between two fires. He circled around the rear of the patrol car. Crouching low to put the car between himself and the newcomers. There must have been a half-dozen gunmen, not counting the driver and the passenger in the cab.

  Lewis crouched on the driver’s side of the patrol car. He snapped a few shots at the SUV. One drilled the windshield high on the driver’s side. Not hitting the driver.

  The gunmen fanned out. One ran to Lewis’s right. Lewis shot him and he fell down. Lewis shot him again.

  While the shooters were occupied with Lewis, Jack crawled backward away from the car. He rolled across the east shoulder of Highway 5 and dropped into a ditch.

  Lewis tried to make a break for it in the patrol car. He tore open the driver’s side door. Tripping the interior dome light, which shone on him in the gloomy dawn light.

  Bullets stitched the side of the patrol car. The shooter aimed high—the rounds blew out the side windows. On both sides.

  “Careful, you idiots! You’ll shoot Carlson!”—a familiar voice.

  The shooting stopped.

  “Sorry, Pardee,” one of the shooters said.

  “Shoot out the tires so he can’t get away,” Pardee said.

  More than one gunman responded. Shooting crackled as the tires were targeted. Shredding them. The tires flattened, causing the car to settle lower.

  Lewis jumped out, running toward his car. Gunfire stitched him, shooting his legs out from under him.

  “Got him!”

  “You better hope he ain’t dead, asshole!”—Pardee again.

  A gunman with an assault rifle hustled forward toward Lewis, who lay flat on his back on the pavement moaning and groaning. He shot the rifleman.

  The rifleman dropped to his knees with a grunt, weapon falling from his hands to clatter to the pavement. Lewis pulled the trigger again. The gun clicked, hammer falling on an empty chamber. He was out of bullets. The man he’d shot stood on his knees, hugging himself, shrinking into himself, his middle leaking.

  “He’s empty,” Pardee said. Other gunmen moved in, circling Lewis, guns pointed at him. Huddled low in the ditch, Jack still couldn’t see Pardee’s face. The gunmen checked out the scene.

  “Hey look, two dead cops!”


  “We didn’t kill them.”

  “Who did?”

  “They were dead before we got here.”

  “This joker must’ve offed ’em. Thanks, pal. You saved us the trouble,” Pardee said.

  “No Carlson here, boss. He’s gone.”

  “Probably in that car we passed along the way.” Pardee indicated Lewis. “He’s a hijacker. Must be one of Varrin’s crowd.” He stepped on Lewis’s wounded leg and put his weight on it.

  Lewis shrieked. One of the gunmen giggled.

  Pardee said, “The dispatcher on the police band said they might have grabbed Carlson. I guess this guy had the same idea.”

  “Let me live and I’ll tell you,” Lewis gritted out through clenched teeth.

  “I don’t need you. I know where Carlson went. To the big meeting up on that bluff. The big secret meeting. So-called. No secret to me. I guess you know where that leaves you, huh?”

  “No!—”

  Pardee shot Lewis, opening up his chest.

  “Trash the cars. Light ’em up. It’ll keep the cops guessing,” Pardee said.

  A man with a machine gun went around behind Lewis’s car. Jack Bauer flattened himself even further, hugging the bottom of the ditch. The gunner opened up, spraying the rear of the car with lead.

  Tough break for Dennison, who was tied up and locked in the trunk, Jack thought.

  The gas tank was bullet-sieved; gas ran streaming to the pavement. Hot rounds touched off the gas; it caught fire. The gas tank blew.

  Another shooter did the same to the patrol car. Lewis, still alive, barely, was sprayed with burning gasoline and set afire.

  The gang got back in the Suburban and drove north on Highway 5.

  20

  * * *

  THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 6 A.M. AND 7 A.M. MOUNTAIN DAYLIGHT TIME

  * * *

  6:27 A.M. MDT

  Intersection of Highway 5 and

  Ridgefoot Drive, Los Alamos County

  A gray sedan halted near the crossroads.

  Lewis’s car and the patrol car were smoldering, burned-out hulks. They’d sprayed flaming gasoline off-road, but the fiery patches had failed to get a purchase on the barren, hard-packed red dirt and played out.

  Jack Bauer climbed out of the ditch where he’d been hiding while he checked out the newcomers. He recognized the gray sedan as an FBI car. Out of it came Vince Sabito, his assistant Ferney, and George Coates.

  Smoke haze filtered the low sun’s rays, causing the figures to cast long, ghostly shadows across the landscape. Jack went to them. They greeted his appearance with a uniform lack of warmth. Stony faces, unfriendly eyes.

  “Well, well. Wandering Boy has come home again,” Coates said.

  Sabito drew his pistol and pointed it at Jack.

  “What gives?” Jack asked. “We’re supposed to be on the same side, remember?”

  “That’s your story,” Sabito said.

  “Meaning what?”

  “You’re a bright boy, you figure it out,” Coates said.

  “Shut up, Coates. I’ll do the talking,” Sabito said. He kept his eyes on Jack and his gun pointed steadily at him. “Where’s Carlson, Bauer?”

  “Gone. Lewis shot the deputies and set him free.”

  Sabito’s expression was one of outright disbelief. “Where were you when all this was supposed to be happening?”

  “Trying to keep from having my tail shot off,” Jack said.

  Sabito scanned Jack up and down. “Looks like you did a pretty good job of it. Not a mark on you that I can see.”

  “Next time I’ll catch a bullet or two to keep you happy.”

  “There won’t be any next time.”

  “You might get shot sooner than you expect,” Coates chimed in.

  “I told you to shut up.”

  “Sorry, Vince.”

  “Where’s Lewis?” Sabito asked.

  “There.” Jack indicated a charred corpse lying next to the wreck of the patrol car. The body was in that drawn-up crouching position characteristic of incineration. It was blackened, smoking, unrecognizable.

  “That could be the man in the moon for all I know,” Sabito said.

  “Some Blanco guns came along while Lewis and I were shooting it out. They were looking for Carlson, too. A couple of the bodies lying around are theirs. They shot up the cars and blew them up,” Jack said.

  “And you came out of it without so much as a scratch. I’m not buying it. I’ve been doing some thinking, Bauer. Putting all the facts together until they fit. Here’s how it comes out.

  “This whole dirty business went into overdrive from the moment you showed up. All along you’ve been Johnny-on-the-spot. You gave Hickman and Coates the slip so you could meet Peter Rhee unobserved. He was killed while waiting to meet you—with no other living witnesses present. You were the first on the scene of his death.

  “You go to Rhee’s apartment—Kling is there—and somebody tries to kill him. Kling arranges to meet you at the Parkhurst place. When you get there he’s dead and so are they. You go to Nordquist’s house just in time to foil a kidnapping.

  “Against my better judgment I let you go to INL on condition that Hickman goes along. He’s there as much to keep an eye on you as anything else. What happens? McCoy is carved by a laser beam. You sabotage Medusa, the linchpin of the multibillion-dollar Perseus Project. Hickman is shot dead, allowing Carlson to escape.

  “Instead of sticking around, you take off with Lewis. A couple of sheriff’s deputies report that they’re holding a suspect who looks like Carlson. You and Lewis are first on the scene. Now the deputies are dead and Carlson is missing. You say Lewis is dead. You show me a body that could be him or anybody else.”

  “You’re thinking too hard, Vince,” Jack Bauer said. “You’ve been in contact with OCI so you know Lewis was dirty. The rest follows from that.”

  Sabito shook his head, looking up at Jack from the bottoms of his eyes. “Lewis is the card that’s showing faceup. You’re the one that’s facedown. I’m turning that card over and here’s what I see:

  “Lewis was CIA. You’re CIA. CIA, CTU, it’s all one and the same to me, and I say to hell with the whole lousy outfit. You were in it with Lewis. Thick as thieves, the two of you. Lewis got wind of Rhodes Morrow’s secret investigation—he passed it along to you. Peter Rhee might have been leery of Lewis but you were a fresh face, an outsider.

  “He made the mistake of thinking he could trust you. He and Kling both had to go. You set Rhee up for a kill, setting up a meeting in the middle of nowhere. Maybe you did the deed yourself and passed the weapon to an accomplice—Lewis, most likely. Maybe you just put the finger on Rhee and let somebody else do the dirty work. And who better than Lewis to pull the trigger?

  “Kling was next in line for the chop. All I have is your word for what happened at Rhee’s apartment. You could have fingered Kling for a kill only he got lucky and shot his way out of it. As for your story about being ambushed by Blanco guns and escaping in the firestorm, all we have to go by is your say-so. No hard proof, no concrete evidence. The whole thing could have been an elaborate setup engineered by you and Lewis to shore up your cover story.

  “You’re the only one who knew Kling would be at the Parkhursts’. Kling trusted you and bought your story like Rhee did and wound up the same way. You passed the word and Blanco shooters came in to clean house. That’s where foiling that kidnapping played into your hands. It was a gambit, a false flag to misdirect the rest of us. Carlson was the traitor, not Nordquist. So why snatch Nordquist’s wife and kid? Any chess player could figure that out. It was a sacrifice move. The three kidnappers were pawns. They were there to be taken to establish your bona fides and make you look good.

  “And it worked, at least for a while. That’s why I let you fly to Ironwood.

  “The Ironwood debacle was the worst. I was suspicious of you. All my instincts had you pegged as a wrongo. But instead of following my gut I
let you persuade me to give you a free hand. I figured with Hickman along he’d smell out anything that wasn’t kosher. The net was closing and you and Lewis had to get Carlson out. Carlson and the PALO codes. He’s invaluable to making them work. He knows them inside and out.

  “The codes by themselves are priceless but with Carlson along they’re even better because he can show scientists of a hostile foreign power how to get them up and working fast, save all the time it would take for them to figure it out themselves. Lewis had to be sacrificed, too. It was the only way to get Carlson out of INL. In the process you got rid of McCoy and sabotaged Medusa, too.

  “You still had one last card to play. Carlson wasn’t home free yet. The dragnet was out for him. He was alone and he made a rookie blunder, driving right into a police roadblock. You knew where he was going, that’s how you happened to be first on the scene. With some Blanco gunmen for backup. You slaughtered the deputies and freed Carlson to run. Maybe you killed Lewis because his cover was blown and he was of no use to you anymore; maybe not. We’ll know better once the forensics crew examines the body you claim is Lewis.

  “Meantime you stayed behind to maintain your cover and mislead the pursuit once again. A walking, talking, two-legged red herring. But it won’t work. This is the end of the line for you, Bauer.”

  “You’re adding up two and two and getting five, Vince.”

  “Go on, deny it. Prove me wrong. But you can’t—because it’s true.”

  Ferney was excited, his eyes shining, face glowing. “You busted this case wide open, Vince,” he said admiringly.

  Jack Bauer spoke directly to Sabito. “Hell, I could do the same to you. You’re the one who’s been here on the scene all along, not me. Going back to the Sayeed case and before. You and your people were denying there was a pattern to the Ironwood kills even as the bodies were piling up. What you’re doing right now is what an enemy agent would do if he wanted to make sure that Carlson gets away.”

  Sabito’s toothy grin failed to reach his hard, dark eyes. “The old reverse play, eh Bauer? Accuse the accuser. Too bad it won’t work. I’ve got the goods on you. I’ve got the drop on you, too.