Death Angel

by David Jacobs

  “Get his gun, Coates. No tricks, Bauer. I’m itching to put a slug in you; don’t give me an excuse.”

  Coates moved in from the side, so as not to block Sabito’s line of fire. He pulled Jack’s pistol from the shoulder holster. “Chet Hickman was my partner—and my friend,” Coates said. “You dirty son of a bitch!”

  Coates slammed the flat of Jack’s pistol against the side of his jaw. Jack saw it coming and rolled with it, turning his head away from the blow, falling backward. It hit with stunning force anyway, numbing him, making him see stars.

  Coates had to come in close to deliver the blow. That was the break Jack had been waiting for. He grabbed the wrist of Coates’s gun hand and twisted it away from himself and toward Coates.

  Coates was between Sabito and Jack. Sabito couldn’t get a clear shot at Jack. Jack used Coates’s forward motion against him, falling back and to the side and pulling Coates along with him. Coates lurched forward, off-balance.

  Sabito lunged forward, gun in hand, angling for a clear shot. Jack used a circular aikido move on Coates’s wrist and arm, turning it in a direction nature hadn’t intended it to go. Coates’s yelp was cut off in a gasp as blinding pain shot through his wrist and shoulder joint, numbing his hand. Blood drained from his florid face.

  Jack plucked the gun from the other’s nerveless fingers even as he was spinning Coates around. He rushed forward, sweeping Coates off his feet and slamming him into Sabito. Sabito couldn’t shoot without hitting Coates. He and Coates were tangled up in a mass of flailing limbs.

  Jack reached around Coates, slamming his pistol down, knocking the gun from Sabito’s hand. The gun hit hard pavement and went off, loosing a wild shot that hit nobody.

  Jack stepped back as Sabito and Coates fell down in a tangle of limbs. He kicked Sabito’s gun out of reach. The encounter had played itself out in a few breathless seconds.

  Ferney stood there frozen, his only reaction a blink. Coates rolled over on his back, making grunting noises. He clawed for the gun holstered under his arm, hampered by the fact that his hand and wrist weren’t working too well after the manhandling Jack had applied to the pressure points of the nerves.

  Jack placed a short, tight, front snap kick to the point of Coates’s chin. Coates fell back, unconscious.

  Ferney remembered he had a gun, glanced at it. Jack pointed his gun at Ferney and shook his head. “Uh-uh,” he said. Ferney remained motionless. Cursing and groaning, Sabito wriggled out from under Coates.

  The side of Jack’s face was red and swollen where Coates had clipped it with the gun. It felt numb, except for a throbbing that was like a second heart pounding away there.

  Coates was still out. Jack leaned over and pulled Coates’s gun from its holster. To remove temptation so Sabito wouldn’t do something stupid. “Stay down or I’ll put you down, Vince,” he said.

  Sabito was furious, so mad he looked like he could spit nails. Jack put Coates’s gun into one of his vest pockets. He crossed to Ferney and relieved him of his gun. “Sit down,” he said. Ferney sat down hard on the pavement.

  Jack put Ferney’s gun in another vest pocket. He was getting top-heavy with hardware. He circled around to where Sabito’s gun lay. Jack was running out of pockets. He picked up the gun and took a few steps back.

  “You can sit up, Vince. But don’t get up,” he said. He holstered his gun. “My draw can beat your heroics, Vince, so stay put.”

  Sabito had a revolver. Jack broke it, spilling the rounds from the cylinder to the pavement. He threw the gun far away into a roadside field. He released the clip from Coates’s pistol, jacked a round out of the chamber, and heaved the weapon way out in the weeds. He defanged Ferney’s weapon and tossed it, too.

  He went to Ferney. Jack had dropped his own cell in the road earlier when Lewis had made his play. It had been run over by Carlson’s car or Pardee’s Suburban or both; it was squashed flat. “Give me your cell phone,” he said.

  Ferney obeyed, handing it over. Jack switched it off so it couldn’t be used to track him, then pocketed it. He went to Sabito, standing too close. “I wish I had a picture of this. It would make a great CTU Christmas card,” he said.

  Sabito muttered a string of obscenities under his breath.

  “What’s that, Vince? I didn’t quite get that last—I get the idea, though,” Jack said. “If I was what you think I am, I could have burned down all three of you with your own guns and framed it so I’d be in the clear. Not a breath of suspicion would attach to me. Think about that while you’re waiting for a ride,” he added.

  Jack Bauer crossed to the driver’s side of the gray sedan. The keys were in the ignition. He slid in under the steering wheel and started the car.

  He drove through the crossroads, circling the car wrecks, corpses, and G-men. He pointed the truck north on Highway 5 and drove away. He beeped the horn jauntily in a farewell salute to Sabito and company.

  6:49 A.M. MDT

  Bluecoat Bluff, Los Alamos County

  Bluecoat Bluff was a few miles past the crossroads, north on Highway 5 over the top of the hill. So Orne Lewis had said, and in this, at least, he wasn’t lying. The bluff was a low, flat-topped sugarloaf-shaped hill made of reddish-brown stone a mile from the highway.

  The bluff commanded a view of the surrounding countryside, an expanse of flatland strewn with jagged landforms. Standing rocks had been eroded into odd angular, twisted shapes that evoked wraiths, flames, battlements, spires, and steeples.

  Jack Bauer drove past the unmanned entrance prominently marked with a CLOSED sign and kept on going. The car’s springs, chassis, and undercarriage took a beating. Jack piloted it into the lee of a massive tilted land formation that blocked the view of the bluff from the highway and parked behind some dry, scraggly brush that provided some cover, partly screening the gray sedan from the road and any spotters around the bluff.

  He got out and opened the trunk to see what he could find. He was pleasantly surprised to find a couple of Kevlar vests, but no guns. Stripping to the waist, he donned the bulletproof vest, putting it on over his bare flesh. He put his T-shirt back on and pulled on his shoulder holster, adjusting the straps to improve the fit. He put the utility vest on over the gun rig.

  An indirect route to the bluff was a must. This was a state park recreational area, and a maze of trails surrounded the bluff. He set off on a hiking trail on the western approach that was layered with shadows from the various rock formations and plant life.

  Jack went deeper into the park, pausing behind a screen of brush to survey the scene. The bluff was about fifty feet high; it was wide, squat, and sprawling.

  Hiding in the bushes, he scanned the south face of the bluff and its surroundings. A dirt road wound up the side to its summit. At base of the main approach stood a group of gunmen in the shade of the trees, loafing, smoking, and talking with their backs to the main entrance. They were experienced thieves and killers, but Bauer was thankful for the casual nature of their lookout skills. He’d exploited amateur mistakes before, and their setting up without a clear view of the highway certainly qualified.

  There was a parking lot at the foot of the bluff and some picnic tables under a grove of trees. Near the parking lot was a rustic-looking cabin with restroom facilities for males and females on either side. The center area was an information center. No tourists or park rangers were in the park today, Varrin’s crew and unrelenting heat had seen to that.

  So this was the Varrin gang, Jack thought. They looked virtually identical to the Blanco outfit. From the look of things the real action was taking place on top of the bluff. There was movement there, figures, vehicles. Jack had to get there.

  He hugged the base of the mound and worked his way around to the north side, where ledges and rock overhangs shielded him from the casual gaze of observers on top. He saw no lookouts posted on this side of the mound. Another mistake. The landform was worn and weathered, slumping and shot through with cracks, crevices, chimneys, ledges, and goat
trails. Jack Bauer surveyed it for a moment, sizing it up, selecting the likeliest angle of ascent. It was an easy climb, honeycombed with a skein of hiking paths and goat trails.

  He started up, careful to make no noise. No snapped twigs, uprooted branches, or rustling rock falls that might call attention to his presence.

  He reached the top, hauling himself over the edge and onto the flat of the summit. Cracked boulders, tilted slabs, and stone needles provided welcome cover. Jack crept through the maze of rocks toward the center of the summit.

  A fair amount of the tabletop flat was occupied by a gravel parking lot. The lot was now occupied by a pickup truck, a Range Rover, a Land Cruiser, a Denali, and Carlson’s car.

  The broad, flat expanse of the summit featured a number of fenced-in scenic lookout points scattered around the edge of the table land. Not far from the gravel lot was the cavalry post that once stood there in the days of the Old West, consisting of a standing chimney and roofless remnants of dry stone walls.

  The gang’s all here, Jack Bauer said to himself.

  About a dozen men stood grouped together, and what a gang it was.

  Prominent among them was Adam Zane. Jack Bauer had never met him personally but recognized him from his pictures, film footage and photographs that had passed his desk at CTU/L.A.

  Zane would have stood out in any crowd.

  Six and a half feet tall, distinguished-looking in a weathered way, he suggested the stereotypical image of the Great White Hunter of colonial yore. He wore a tan safari suit and brown hiking boots. Neat salt-and-pepper hair topped a long, strong-boned, clean-shaven face with jutting cheekbones, hollow cheeks, and a firm chin.

  Zane was one of the shadow world’s prime purveyors of stolen secrets. His trade was treachery and business was good.

  Shadowing him was Hank Ketch, Zane’s bodyguard. A stocky man with a thatch of sun-bleached palomino-colored hair and pale blond eyebrows so colorless they were almost invisible, he wore a gun holstered under each arm. Zane himself habitually went unarmed, trusting in his cunning, tirelessly scheming brain. Yes, it would have taken a pearl of ultimate price, a supreme prize, to tempt Zane from his home grounds.

  Dr. Hugh Carlson had that prize. The PALO codes. Carlson stood milling around, holding the silvery metal attaché case containing the priceless PALO computer disks.

  He was in the orbit of another local celebrity, one whom Jack Bauer had never met but whose presence explained much: Max Scourby.

  Scourby, the celebrated Santa Fe defense attorney; high-powered, high-profile, high-priced. The legal wizard who had masterminded the destruction of the United States Attorneys’ prosecution of the atomic spy case against INL’s own Dr. Rahman Sayeed.

  He cut a flamboyant figure with his leonine head topped by a mop of curly silver hair; wide, square-shaped face, scimitar nose, wide jack-o’-lantern mouth. He was built like a top, broad-shouldered, deep-chested, his massive torso tapering to a slim waist, narrow hips, thin legs, and small, elegantly shod feet. He wore a lightweight, light-colored linen suit with a yellow shirt and multicolored tie.

  Scourby’s presence explained much, as did his proprietary, possessive attitude and physical proximity to Carlson.

  The others there were gunmen: Varrin, the lanky, desiccated desert rat and gang leader in Scourby’s pay; and an honor guard of some of his best men and finest killers. Among them were Diablo Cruz, Reed Teed, Arnold Matti, Pablo Obregon, and Norvil Nolles.

  Scourby, Zane, and Carlson had their heads together in deep conclave. They were talking about something important from the looks of it.

  Jack Bauer edged forward, padding through brush and rocks, moving closer to the open area where the gang was assembled so he could eavesdrop on them. He eased into a clearing—and came face-to-face with Lassiter and Slim. Slim’s gun was pointing at him.

  “I told you I saw someone sneaking around back here,” Slim said.

  “You’ve got eyes like a hawk. I didn’t see nothing,” Lassiter said.

  All pro, Lassiter moved forward and held his gun to Jack’s head. “Blink and you’re dead, stranger.” He reached under Jack’s vest, lifting his gun from the shoulder holster and sticking it in the top of his waistband. His free hand roamed up and down Jack’s body, searching for weapons, finding none. He circled around behind Jack, out of reach of any hand or foot techniques that a desperate captive might try to get out from under a gun.

  “March,” Lassiter said.

  The others on the bluff were surprised to see Lassiter emerge from the brush leading a stranger out at gunpoint. Slim followed a few paces behind in Lassiter’s wake.

  Jack Bauer’s expression was grim, glum, resigned. He marched with his hands held up.

  “Look what Slim found,” Lassiter said.

  “Bauer!” Carlson gasped, shaken.

  “He belongs to you?” Lassiter asked.

  “He’s CTU! He almost got me at the lab! And at the police checkpoint! What are you doing here, Bauer? Where’s Lewis?”

  “Lewis sends his regrets. He’s unavoidably detained by a slight case of death,” Jack Bauer said.

  “One of the deputies he shot lived long enough to shoot him but not before Lewis mentioned the meeting on the bluff,” Jack lied. Why tip his captors to the fact that the Blancos were hot on their trail? He might be able to exploit that information for some kind of advantage, no matter how minor.

  “He’s alone—I checked,” Lassiter said.

  Jack Bauer turned to Max Scourby. “I see you’re in the middle of this, Counselor. Looks like you traded in your observer status for a more active role.”

  Scourby couldn’t resist the opportunity to show off. He loved the limelight. “What could I do?” he asked. “The good Dr. Carlson was so impressed with my defense of Rahman Sayeed that he sought me out. He had the secrets and I have the connections.”

  “You’re wasting time palavering,” said the ever-sour, hard-bitten Varrin. He spat on the ground not far from Scourby’s elegant footwear. “Lewis is dead. No more reason for us to be sitting around here waiting for him. Kill this one and be done with it. Let’s move out.”

  “Allow me,” Lassiter offered.

  Jack Bauer spun, breaking clear and dashing up a rise toward the edge of the bluff.

  Lassiter’s 9mm was already drawn and leveled. He fired, shooting Jack in the back. Jack lurched under the impact, stumbling forward a few staggering steps.

  Lassiter fired again. Jack spasmed as another slug tagged him in the center of his back. He pitched forward, falling facedown on the edge of the rise.

  Lassiter strode up to him slowly and deliberately. He stood over him looking down. “And one in the head to finish it,” he said.

  He pointed the pistol downward and fired.

  He put a foot on Jack’s shoulder and push-kicked the body. Jack Bauer tumbled over the edge of the rise, rolling downhill and falling into a ditch out of sight. Lassiter turned, smiling thinly, cradling the smoking pistol in his hands.

  “That’s cold, Lassiter,” Teed said. He meant it as a compliment, and that’s how Lassiter took it.

  “I hate cops,” Lassiter said. “Feds I hate even more.”

  21

  * * *

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

  * * *

  7:36 A.M. MDT

  Bluecoat Bluff, Los Alamos County

  An interruption of shouts from the men watching the approach sounded from below. The bunch on the bluff trooped to the southern edge to investigate the cause of the clamor.

  A van stood at the base of the hill near the bottom of the road where it leveled out on the ground. A man in a black cowboy hat sat behind the wheel holding a white flag out the window. The flag of truce consisted of a white blouse tied to a broomstick.

  Varrin’s gunmen on the ground ringed the van, pointing guns at the newcomer.

  Varrin leaned over the edge, cupped a hand beside his mouth. “Wha
t the hell’s all the noise?”

  One of the men from below shouted back, “It’s Pardee. He wants to talk.”

  The announcement produced no small consternation among those massed on top of the bluff.

  “You’ve got to be shitting me,” Varrin said, speaking to himself.

  Adam Zane turned to Max Scourby. “Who’s Pardee?”

  “Foreman for the Blancos. He’s Torreon’s top hatchet man,” Scourby said.

  Varrin drew his gun. “I’ll talk to him with this.”

  Scourby considered the matter. “Maybe we should see what he wants. What harm could it do?”

  “Plenty,” Varrin said. “He’s a slippery bastard, like his boss.”

  “So much more reason for us to find out what he’s all about.”

  Lassiter stepped forward. “I’ll get my rifle, I can pot him from here.”

  “He’s got a white flag, Lassiter,” Pablo Obregon said.

  Lassiter shrugged. “So what?”

  “You’re a mad dog, Lassiter. You don’t care who you bite,” Diablo Cruz said.

  Lassiter eyed him coolly. “Not particularly, no.”

  Scourby was thinking out loud. “If Pardee wants to talk he must have a pretty good reason. What can we lose by hearing him out? We can always kill him later. My curiosity’s piqued,” Scourby said. He reached a decision. “Send him up.”

  “You’re the boss,” Varrin said, his flat, curt tone implying his disagreement. He called downhill: “Is he armed?”

  “We checked him for weapons and the van is empty!”

  “Tell him to come up.”

  “What?”

  “Tell him to come up, you deaf bastard!”

  “Okay!”

  The van drove up the incline, trailing a thin cloud of dust. It crested the rise and leveled on top of the bluff. Pardee halted the van, switched off the motor.

  He was in his fifties, with broad sloping shoulders, a thick middle, and spindly legs. He wore a high-crowned black cowboy hat and a belt with an ornate oversized engraved fancy buckle.