by John Whitman
12:45 P.M. PST Federal Plaza, West Los Angeles
Jack watched from the crowd, a safe distance away. He was wearing a borrowed blue Dodgers cap that hid his blond hair, and he kept his chin tucked, hiding half his face in the collar of his shirt. If anyone was keeping an eye on Kim, he was sure they wouldn’t recognize him in that throng of people.
The police officers had surrounded Kim and were leading
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her toward the entrance to the Federal Building. Jack trailed them. He was vaguely aware that the shouting and arguments continued behind him.
12:50 P.M. PST West Los Angeles
There is a single-mindedness that settles over a person about to die. For Mercy Bennet, that single-mindedness refined itself into the single, repetitive motion of her bound wrists along the edge of an exposed nail. Elbows bent, elbows straightened, elbows bent, elbows straightened. It was not monotonous. It was not tedious. It was, in fact, the single most thrilling and interesting event of her entire life, because her entire life depended on it.
They had argued twice more about killing her. “They” comprised at least five distinct individuals, though by the sound of footsteps there might be others coming in and out. She had no faces to match the voices, but she had begun to learn more about them. They used names with one another that had to be codes: Jack Mormon, Rudolf the Red...and at last, when one of them spoke to the man she thought of as the leader, she heard the name Smith. She guessed who it was: Seldom Seen Smith, the leader of the Monkey Wrench Gang. At one point during her captivity, Smith apparently left the room, and two others spoke of him in voices mixed with reverence and contempt.
“What’s gotten in to him?” one male voice asked.
“Easy, Rudolf,” a female voice said. “Smith’s the man.”
“He’s turning in to some kind of Hayduke, though,” said Rudolf.
Mercy was surprised to find that she understood the term, and she thanked her research on the Edward Abbey book from which the terrorists took their name. Hayduke was one of the most revered characters in the environmentalist book—he was famous in part for the fact that he studiously avoided causing harm to other people.
“That’s not such a bad thing, is it?” the female voice asked.
Rudolf spoke stubbornly. “It is if it gets in the way of the goal. Hell, if we’re going to talk and not do anything, we might as well join the Sierra Club.”
“Quiet.” This came from a new female voice. Mercy thought she recognized it as Frankie Michaelmas.“I was with him in Brazil. I saw what he did to those surveyors that time. Trust me, when the time comes, he’ll kill her.”
Conversations like that were very motivating. Mercy had managed to roll so that her body lay almost over her arms, which she moved ever so slightly to fray the ropes. Under her hood, she had no idea if anyone was watching her, so she had to make her movements imperceptible. Twice she heard footsteps approach, and felt heavy steps on the floorboards beneath her, and she froze. Only when the footsteps turned and walked away did she resume her cutting.
After what seemed like hours, she felt the ropes part. She stifled a gasp. Her hands were free, but her feet were still bound. If she sat up and someone discovered her now, she’d be nearly helpless. She listened carefully, reaching out with all her senses to gather information about the room. There was neither sound nor movement. She had to risk it.
In one fluid motion, Mercy sat up and pulled the hood from her head. She was sitting in a bare room with scratched wood floors and faded yellow walls. The single window had been covered in heavy drapes. The door was half closed. There was no furniture.
Quickly Mercy pulled at the ropes tying her ankles. They
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were tied tightly, and at first her fingers fumbled over the knots. Although her heart was pounding, Mercy forced herself to stop. Focus, she told herself. Slow and steady wins the race.
She found the bit of rope that would loosen more easily, and tugged.
12:53 P.M. PST Federal Building Command Center, West Los Angeles
Kim Bauer’s heart was pounding as she passed through the metal detectors and into the Federal Building itself. The doors closed behind her, and the sound and energy of the protest outside was sealed away as neatly as if it were a scene on television. She could still see the protestors fifty yards away from the glass walls of the lobby, but they seemed a world away from the quiet, air-conditioned interior.
The three policemen still surrounded her, and one was still holding her arm. “I really didn’t do anything,” she said to them, her voice rising a little in panic. “It was those guys next to us. They started the fight.”
“Maybe so,” said the cop with the bad wrist.
At their direction, Kim walked into an elevator and rode it down to a basement level. She was led along a beige corridor with fluorescent lighting past several rooms occupied by men and women in business attire, but wearing guns in shoulder harnesses like the one her dad wore sometimes.
The officers stopped at one door, which opened just as they arrived. Out walked two men: the cute college guy and the gray-haired hippie. Kim’s eyes went wide. “That’s them!” she said. “Those are the two guys who caused the trouble.”
The gray-haired man smiled at her and looked back over his shoulder. “I guess you gotta be good at something,” he said. He moved out of the way, and Kim saw the person to whom he’d addressed his comment.
“Dad!” she yelled.
Her father pulled her into his arms and held her as though his hug could squeeze the infection from her body. “Are you all right?”
“I’m okay, but these guys are arresting me and I didn’t do anything—”
“I know, it’s okay,” he said. “You’re not being arrested.” He had already decided not to tell her about al-Libbi’s threats, or the virus. The news would terrify her, and he could offer no comfort. For all he knew, the terrorist was lying about the virus. So he lied, too. “I had to get you out of there because, because we got information that a riot was about to start. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
Kim looked back out the door. “But what about Janet and Brad and everyone?”
“They’re okay. They’re being sent home.” More lies. “I just needed to make sure you were okay. By the way, are you okay? Your face is red.”
Kim felt her blond hair clinging to her forehead and pushed it back. “It’s so hot out there. I think I’ve got a fever.”
Jack saw his opening. He’d been wondering how he was going to get a sample of Kim’s blood without telling her why. This was his chance.
“Okay, there’s a doctor on call down here. I’m going to have her look at you. She’s a pretty thorough lady. She may want to give you a complete checkup, is that okay?”
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12:58 P.M. PST West Los Angeles
Mercy dug her fingernail under a stubborn loop. She felt her fingernail tear away, but the loop came loose and she pulled hard. The ropes around her ankles fell away. She jumped to her feet but immediately stumbled as a thousand hot pins and needles stabbed at her legs.
A young man wearing a Lynyrd Skynyrd T-shirt walked into the room. His jaw dropped. “What the—?”
Mercy lunged toward him as fast as her numb legs would carry her. He had just enough sense to raise his hands as she punched him, and her knuckles smashed into the back of his hand, which in turn smashed into his forehead. Ignoring the pain in her legs, she kicked him in the groin.
He had no skill, but he was stubborn. As he doubled over, he lunged forward and wrapped his arms around her still-burning legs. She nearly lost her balance, but bent her knees forward, resting her shins on his shoulders and using her hands to push his face down into the floor. He grunted and loosened his grip. Mercy jerked her legs free and stomped on the back of his leg, then launched herself over him and out the door.
She was in a living room as bare as the room she’d left, except for a stack of five or
six wooden crates filled with glass vials. Three people walked into the room from a hallway and gave Mercy the same surprised look that the first man had—except this time one of them moved more aggressively. He was another young man in his twenties, wiry and bald, with a hard look in his eyes as he threw himself at Mercy. She had no time to move. He wasn’t much taller than she was, but he was stronger, and he grabbed her in a bear hug so hard, she thought her back would break.
Mercy had been in fights before. Coming up from the uniform ranks, working as a female cop in Los Angeles, of course she had. She dug her thumbs into his eyes and pushed up and back. He screamed and lifted his chin, flinching away from the pain. Mercy headbutted him on the nose and felt it crush beneath her. Lifting her own head away, she let go of his face with her right hand and punched him in the throat. He made a wet gurgling sound and threw her away from him. Mercy smashed into the stack of glass vials. Glass cut her skin and warm wetness spread across her back.
“You idiot!” yelled one of the other two. Mercy saw a tall man in his forties, slightly balding, with a fierce, hawkish face. The voice told her this was Seldom Seen Smith. “Do you realize what you’ve—”
He didn’t bother to finish; his look of anger turned to horror and he started to back away. “Both strains,” he said fearfully. Beside him, a girl spewed a stream of obscenities. Only then did Mercy realize that it was Frankie Michaelmas. She glared at Mercy but she, too, had begun to step back. Mercy scrambled up and away from the broken glass beneath her. She didn’t know why they looked so suddenly upset, but her command instincts took over and she stepped forward as though she’d just drawn her gun. “Both of you, get down on your knees!”
Smith took one more look at the mess Mercy had made, turned, and ran.
12:59 P.M. PST Federal Building, West Los Angeles
Jack Bauer walked out into the lobby of the Federal Building. He knew Kim was safe now, and there wasn’t much he could do while the doctor examined her. He was afraid that
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if he stayed, he’d give away his concern. So he’d come upstairs for some air. He knew something was wrong immediately, since the cops who manned the metal detectors and X-ray machines were pacing back and forth along the tall windows, and two of them now stood before the shut doors.
He looked beyond the glass and saw why.
Around the Federal Building, the sea of people had turned into a storm. Protestors surged over the grass field and onto the concrete plaza. Police wearing helmets and carrying shields appeared out of nowhere, forming a hasty line before the building doors. A plume of tear gas rose up from somewhere. The protest had turned into a full-scale riot.
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24
THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 1 P.M. AND 2 P.M. PACIFIC STANDARD TIME
1:00 P.M. PST Federal Building, West Los Angeles
The elevator doors opened behind Jack and half a squad of uniformed policemen hustled out, hastily strapping on their riot helmets, their thick plastic riot shields bumping against one another as they hurried toward the doors.
LAPD had managed to form a perimeter ten yards out from the building itself, and the sight of their wall of shields had slowed the crowd. They formed their own line a few yards from the police, shouting epithets and chants, raising their fists and their voices in anger. They were two armies drawn up in battle, waiting for the moment to strike.
But ten thousand people, once roused, needed some outlet for their frustration. Over the heads of the vast crowd,
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Jack saw smoke rising on the street, and he guessed that a car was burning. Jack’s lip curled into a sneer. From his training with the L.A. Sheriff Department years ago to his time in Delta Force to CTU, Jack had seen more than his share of chaos. He understood that a mob generated its own energy, and that this energy had to be transferred somewhere, somehow. But understanding it did not mean he respected it. The soldier in him felt nothing but disdain for misdirected violence. As far as he was concerned, a crowd of people engaged in protest were exercising their rights in a democracy. He risked his life to defend that right, whether he agreed with them or not. But a mob that destroyed property and caused violence was just a bunch of low-level terrorists.
Jack’s cell phone rang and he flipped it open. It was someone at CTU. “Bauer.”
“Jack, it’s Chris. I’ve got the surveillance team at the Federal Building on the line.”
Jack looked down at the floor, as though he could see through several layers of concrete to the command center below. “I’m at the Federal Building.”
“I know, but with Almeida at the hospital, they didn’t know how to reach you. I’m patching them through.”
There was a click, and Jack said again, “Bauer.”
“Agent Bauer, this is Cynthia Rosen, FBI. Are you still on the premises?”
“Upstairs, watching the shit hit the fan.”
“Listen, bear with me if I’m not sure about this, but my team just took over surveillance after whatever happened this morning, so I’m not totally up to speed. But your unit had requested FRS on a couple of people, didn’t it?”
“That’s right.” Jack watched a glass bottle arc up and out of the mass of protestors and bounce off a policeman’s riot shield.
“Well, we got something. Facial recognition on a guy you had videoed this morning.”
Jack straightened. “Muhammad Abbas?”
“No. Based on the video you guys took, it was the subject he was talking to. We don’t have his name, just a match with the previous video we captured.”
“Better than nothing,” Bauer said. “You have him now?”
“Affirmative. North side of the building.”
“Roger.” Jack slapped his phone shut and ran.
1:03 P.M. PST West Los Angeles
Mercy had no gun, no badge, and no radio, so she had pursued her two subjects on foot. Frankie and Seldom Seen Smith had bolted out the front door and onto a residential street. The small Spanish-style houses and low-hanging power lines told Mercy she was somewhere in West Los Angeles, but she couldn’t see any street signs.
Frankie and Smith ran together for several blocks, but then got smart and split up at a residential street, Frankie swerving west and Smith continuing north. Mercy stayed on Smith. Her feet started to ache almost immediately; having gone from near-zero circulation to a sudden sprint was too much for them. She’d have given anything for a radio, but she refused to quit. She wanted this bastard, if only to prove to Jack Bauer that she was right.
Fortunately, Smith was no athlete himself. She wasn’t gaining on him, but she wasn’t giving ground, either. And so far Smith hadn’t opted for the one thing Mercy feared most—that he’d swerve up a driveway, over a fence, and turn the chase into an obstacle course. Thank god for middle-aged terrorists.
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She stayed focused on Smith, but she became vaguely aware of the scene ahead of him. They were running toward a tall building, and there seemed to be some kind of loud noise and movement ahead. They crossed another residential street, and the Spanish bungalows gave way to small apartment buildings and duplexes. Mercy saw a cloud of white smoke in the distance and wondered if there was a fire of some kind. Then she picked up the faint acrid smell of chlorobenzylidene and knew that it wasn’t smoke; it was tear gas. She lifted her eyes up from Smith’s back and got her first clear view of the structure ahead of her.
It was the Federal Building.
Looking beyond Smith, she saw that the disturbance was a mass of people, frothing and surging like waves battering a sea rock. Another plume of tear gas rose up, and she heard wailing sirens mix with the roar of ten thousand people chanting.
Mercy realized what Smith was trying to do and she gave him her grudging respect. If Smith plunged into the midst of that chaos, he would be almost impossible to find.
Even as she thought this, he reached the ed
ge of the crowd.
1:12 P.M. PST CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles
Jessi Bandison hated puzzles. She hated puzzles in the same way she hated tangles in her curls—they were things that ought not to be, and she felt obliged to work them until they were out of her hair.
“Marcus Lee” was the current tangle she was trying to smooth away. A quick search had pulled up a file full of information on him, but none of it was of any consequence.
According to his file, Lee was a Chinese American who in 1998 had immigrated to the United States, where he already had several family members in residence. The FBI had a file on him, but it consisted of no more than a cursory background check that came up clean.
Jessi had contacted the CIA, hoping they might have done a workup on a former Chinese national. Through their database she managed to obtain a glimpse of the Chinese government’s own files on Lee. The prospect excited her until she’d mined the data and found Lee to be about as interesting as a stucco wall. The man had just enough background to be real but not enough to be interesting: born in Shenzhen, educated at UCLA, then returned to China to work in computers, but never achieved any strong connections in the Communist Party. Eventually he earned a visa and immigrated to the United States, where he’d turned his IT savvy into a thriving software business. He lived in Brentwood, paid his taxes, committed the occasional parking violation, but that was it.
Jessi didn’t like it. The story the data told her seemed believable, but the tangle was still in her hair, and now it was starting to bother her.
“I’ve got two choices,” she said to herself, staring at her computer screen in CTU’s bullpen full of computer terminals. “I can assume that my connection’s wrong, that this bank account has nothing to do with Marcus Lee, and that Marcus Lee is a solid naturalized citizen.”
But that didn’t smooth the tangle, it just ignored it.
“Or I can assume that the account connection is right, and there’s more to Marcus Lee than he wants me to know about.”
It was the bank account that was the key. How was Lee connected to the bank account? Instead of running down Lee, Jessi turned her attention to the Cayman Islands and be
