by John Whitman
1:38 A.M. PST Temescal Canyon
With no fear of an ambush, Jack and the others made better time down the hill. They had waited for the mountain rescue helicopter and lost a few precious minutes while Jack explained what had happened to the stricken pilots surveying the carnage, and then double-timed back down the trail.
As Jack, Mercy, and Ted Ozersky climbed back into the car, Jack’s phone rang. It was Jamey Farrell. She briefed Jack on the events Almeida had reported. “Thirty more seconds and I’ll have an address for you. You’re taking one and Tony and Nina are taking the other. They’re the two most probable locations for Sarah Kalmijn.”
“Where’s Henderson? Why isn’t he briefing me?”
“He’s out. The guys you killed may be part of an Iranian sleeper cell. Henderson is leading a raid.”
“Okay,” Jack said. “We keep swinging and missing. We have to hit a home run this time.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” Jamey said. She told Jack about the call on his cell phone from al-Libbi.
“Has he made any demands?” Jack asked.
“Not yet, but Henderson and Chappelle are sure he will.”
“We’ll get him first.”
“Here’s the address.” She read off a location.
1:54 A.M. PST Rancho Park Neighborhood, Los Angeles
Christopher Henderson sat in the back of a CTU van studying a hastily generated blueprint of the house owned by Ah-mad Moussavi Ardebili. The easiest way to botch a raid was failure to plan, and Henderson’s five-minute pep talk with his squad hardly counted as planning. But it couldn’t be helped. They were running out of time.
“It looks like there are two rear entrances,” Henderson said to A. J. Patterson, his squad leader. “Send half your men around the—”
“We won’t need it,” someone said from the front of the van. “Look!”
Henderson pushed forward and looked out the window. They were in a well-lit neighborhood of short but well-kept lawns and fairly large houses, many of them rebuilt “Persian palaces” that were popular in the area. In front of one of
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these, four or five men were hurriedly running out of the houses carrying boxes, which they stowed in the back of a Dodge pickup truck.
“Moving day,” Patterson said, hefting his MP–5. “Let’s see if we can help.”
The CTU van stopped and the agents poured out, shouting at the men to freeze. Three of them did, but two of them ran into the house, with Henderson, Patterson, and two other agents in pursuit.
Henderson was second in the door behind Patterson. There was a loud bang and Patterson fell out of sight. Henderson nearly tripped over him, but managed to keep his feet and squeeze off a burst of automatic fire in the direction of the blast. He barely had time to register that he was in a living room with a fire burning in the fireplace before someone slammed into him, pinning his MP–5 to the wall. But Patterson was suddenly on his feet again. A short burst from his submachine gun made Henderson’s assailant vanish.
The entry team flowed forward, and now Henderson saw a short, squat man with a long salt-and-pepper beard kneeling at the fireplace, squealing at the sight of the CTU team as he lifted a box and dumped documents into the fire. Henderson grabbed the bearded man and hauled him away. Without regard for his own safety, Patterson stuck his hands into the fire and scooped the papers, some of them ablaze, into his arms and hauled them out. He fell on the stack, rolling back and forth with his body to stifle the flames.
“Ahmad Moussavi Ardebili, you are under arrest for conspiracy to commit terrorist acts against the United States,” Henderson said, panting. He glanced at the papers. “Start going through these immediately.”
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THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 2 A.M. AND 3 A.M. PACIFIC STANDARD TIME
2:00 A.M. PST Fairfax District
The club was called Plush, and it was anything but. It was, essentially, a giant warehouse space with a long wooden plank that served as a bar. Only two things recommended it: the bar was fully stocked and the DJ was fantastic. Since most people went to raves to drink and dance, the setup was perfect and the club was an enormous underground success.
The ride over had been silent. Jack was completely focused on finding this last person who could stop the virus. Mercy had not had time to recover from the shock of Jack’s revelation, and sat lost in her own thoughts. Ozersky guessed at the tension between them and decided to stay out of it as much as possible.
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It wasn’t until they reached the warehouse just off Fairfax Avenue that Jack spoke. “I’ll go in alone. Mercy, you and Ted go in together. We’re looking for the DJ named Good-night. He’s friends with Sarah Kalmijn.”
Ozersky started forward, but Mercy grabbed Jack’s arm and held him back a few steps. “I was thinking in the car. When you were telling me about your marriage, you said you and your wife had gone to Catalina for the weekend, and that it was a great weekend.”
“Yeah,” Jack said noncommittally.
“That’s where you saw al-Libbi, isn’t it? When you got back?”
“Yes,” he affirmed again.
She shook her head in disbelief. “You’re a piece of work, Jack. You used the vacation with your wife as a setup for staking out the docks. You’re the best operator I’ve ever met, but you’re a real son of a bitch.”
2:08 A.M. PST Melrose Avenue, Los Angeles
Tony and Nina arrived at their assignment. This club was on Melrose a mile east of Plush, designed into the shell of an old forties movie theater. The big bouncer at the door, standing six feet, five inches and built like a comic book superhero, tried to stop them, but Tony held up his badge. “Where do we find Goodnight?”
The bouncer waved them inside. “He’s spinning the records, man.”
Tony and Nina walked inside and were immediately assaulted by pulsing red and blue lights, strobe lights, and music with a bass line that throbbed in their chests and a melody, if that’s what it was, that was repetitive and hypnotic.
“I swear,” Tony said, “you could use this music to brainwash people.”
Nina looked at the crowd of twenty-somethings writhing to the music. “It’s working,” she said.
They pushed their way through the grinding crowd until they reached a dais at the far side. Their badges got them past that bouncer, too, and they climbed up to stand beside the sound equipment being run by a round-bodied, chubby-faced black man wearing small, squarish, black-framed glasses, who sweated profusely under his earphones.
“Hey!” Tony said, holding up his badge.
The DJ nodded at them, then did a double-take when he saw the badge. A look of disgust crossed his face, as he slid the headphones down around his neck.
“Man, what’d we do? I’ve got permits for everything.”
Tony shook his head. “Are you Goodnight?”
“That’s right.”
“We’re looking for Sarah Kalmijn.”
“What?”
Tony put his face close to Goodnight’s ear and said it again.
“She in trouble?” the DJ shouted back.
“Not with us. We want to protect her. She here?”
Goodnight shook his head. “Try the other club, she goes there, too. But if there’s really a problem, I don’t think she’s gonna be there.”
“Where’d she be?” Tony asked over the music.
“Her family’s got a boat down in Marina del Rey. That’s where she goes when things get bad.”
“You know the name of the boat?”
“No, man, I don’t remember. It’s Marina del Rey, though.”
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2:20 A.M. PST Plush
Jack accomplished his mission quickly. The DJ at Plush didn’t know Sarah at all and told them to check the other club, where Goodnight was spinning that night. Frustrated, Jack turned to go, motioning for the others
to follow. They pushed through the noise and the crowds toward the door.
Ted saw them first. He produced his pistol as if by magic, shouting something that Jack could not hear over the music. Ozersky shouted again and pointed. Now Jack saw the door. There were three of them, dark-haired men with guns firing at the bouncers, who fell to the ground. One of the men reached in and grabbed the doors to the warehouse and pulled them shut. Just before they closed, another man tossed something inside—a large can with a rag sticking out of it.
“Down!” Jack yelled. Ozersky grabbed the dancers nearest him and dragged them downward. Jack and Mercy dived for the floor. A moment later the can exploded, spraying flame and liquid everywhere. Burning liquid splashed on the ravers, setting their clothes on fire, and hit the walls, burning wood and posters. The alcohol-sprinkled floor caught fire. People screamed and rushed for the door. Jack barely had time to pull himself and Mercy up before the crowd surged forward.
Someone pulled at the doors, which opened inward. “It’s chained!” Jack heard. “It’s chained from the outside.”
The liquid fire was homemade napalm, which not only ignited combustible material but also burned into the skin. The fire was already spreading. Smoke began to blur Jack’s vision. He looked up and saw a window at second-story height to the left of the locked doors. “Help me!” he yelled. He shoved his way to the wall, Ted and Mercy following in his wake.
“Stand there,” he ordered Ted, and the other CTU agent braced himself against the wall. Jack planted a foot on his slightly bent leg and boosted himself up, his other foot reaching the height of Ozersky’s head, and soon he was standing on the other man’s shoulders. Jack reached up but the window was too high. Maybe if he jumped...
The room was in chaos. The fire spread with unbelievable quickness. It was almost impossible to think over the heat and the terrified screams.
“Pull me.” Mercy was below him, reaching up.
Jack reached his hand down to Mercy. Without hesitation, she climbed up Ozersky’s back, caught Jack’s hand, and mountain climbed up both CTU agents until she was on Jack’s back. She reached the window. Mercy drew her gun and used its muzzle to smash the glass, then knocked out the jagged teeth of shattered glass to avoid being cut.
Mercy stuck her head out the window to assess the far side. She didn’t hear the gunshot over the noise inside, but she felt it brush through her hair, nearly scalping her. She was so startled she nearly threw herself backward into the crowd.
“Gun!” she yelled, ducking her head down.
“Go!” Jack yelled. “Go!”
“Are you fucking crazy!” she yelled.
“Look!” he said. The fire raged. If Plush had a sprinkler system, it was malfunctioning. The walls were in flames. Panicked ravers pounded against the door as those behind pushed forward, crushing those in front.
This virus isn’t going to kill me, Mercy thought. Knowing Jack Bauer is going to kill me. She gathered herself, adjusted her grip on her pistol, and launched herself upward. She vaulted over the window frame and fell almost a story to the
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ground below. Gunshots sounded almost in her ear. Mercy rolled on the ground and came up, weapon in hand.
It was the most lucid moment in Mercy Bennet’s life. She was aware of moving quickly, but she did not feel hurried. She experienced a groove, the steady calm of a snowboarder hurtling downhill, but completely under control. She acquired the first man and put one bullet into him, then swiveled to the next. Bullets ricocheted off the ground around her. She felt one pass through the cloth of her shirt between her arm and her ribs. She laid her muzzle over the chest of the second man and squeezed. She was about to shoot the third when Jack landed on him heavily. The man crumpled under Jack’s weight. Bauer smashed him in the face three times with the muzzle of his SigSauer. Jack turned toward the doors. A short, thick chain had been looped through the handles, locking the doors in place. Jack pointed his own gun at the lock and fired four times, shielding his eyes from the blast and hoping no ricochets killed him. When he was done, smoke rose up from his gun as the chain fell down.
“Help them!” Jack commanded. Mercy helped Ted shove the doors inward, against the pressing crowd.
Ozersky appeared in the crowd, yelling “Move, move, goddamn it!” The crowd inside managed to make enough space, and the next moment they were streaming out of the building.
Jack ignored it all. He knelt down beside the man he’d struck. Finally, he had one of them alive. “What’s al-Libbi’s plan?”
The man grinned at him with broken teeth. “Who’s al-Libbi?”
Jack lifted the man’s left hand, placed the muzzle of his gun against the palm, and fired. The man screamed.
“Jesus!” Mercy screamed at him. Jack ignored her.
“What’s his plan?” Jack said. He didn’t know if he’d gone mad or if he was thinking with perfect clarity. But he did know that time was running out, he was low on leads, and important people would die if he didn’t find a solution.
“I...I don’t know,” the man said, his voice suddenly pleading and desperate.
“Tell me something,” Jack threatened. “Tell me something worth knowing right now or I’ll get some of that napalm you made and pour it down your throat.”
The man started to speak. What he said brought Jack no closer to finding Sarah Kalmijn, but it was valuable nonetheless.
2:45 A.M. PST Rancho Park Neighborhood, Los Angeles
Henderson and his squad divided the rescued papers into five charred piles and began to sort through them. Many of the pages were in Arabic and would need to be translated later.
“Do we know what we’re looking for?” Patterson asked in a low voice. He had gone down earlier when a bullet had punched him through the vest he wore. The Kevlar had stopped the round, but the force had bruised his sternum.
“No,” Henderson conceded. “But anything with American names on it. Santiago, Romond, Kalmijn...”
“Kalmij-n?” one of the operators said, holding up a burned scrap and mispronouncing the name.
“Kal-mane,” Henderson corrected. “Give me that, please.”
It was a sheet of notepaper written in English, the words hastily scribbled. Under Sarah Kalmijn’s name Henderson saw the addresses of two clubs or bars, and also the phrase “Marina del Rey At Last.” He guessed it was another bar.
“Call Jack Bauer,” Henderson said.
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2:53 A.M. PST CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles
Bauer’s recovered cell phone rang again, and this time Ryan Chappelle answered.
“To whom am I speaking now?” Ayman al-Libbi asked. Chappelle signaled for the trace to begin.
“This is Regional Division Director Ryan Chappelle.”
“That sounds important,” al-Libbi said patronizingly. “That’s good, because my message is also important. Tell the President of the United States that he is holding five men prisoner in a secret holding facility just outside Los Angeles. You know who they are. These five men are to be allowed to go free. If this is not done within one hour, I will destroy the antiviral medicine. If it is done, I will give you the antidote. I will call again in forty-five minutes.”
He hung up. Chappelle looked at Jamey Farrell, who shook her head and slapped the table in frustration. “He had some kind of router. We can beat it, but he needs to be on the phone longer.”
Chappelle ran a hand over his balding head. He knew of the men al-Libbi wanted. They were Iranians the CIA and CTU were sure belonged to Iran’s terrorist network; all three had history with Hezbollah. They’d been plucked out of various European countries using methods some would call illegal. They’d been bounced around from secret bases in Europe to Guantanamo Bay, but as those facilities came under scrutiny they’d been moved, so they ended up in a secret holding facility CTU maintained out in the high desert region above Los Angeles along the Pear Blossom Highway.
“I have to take this to the Presi
dent,” he said.
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THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 3 A.M. AND 4 A.M. PACIFIC STANDARD TIME
3:00 A.M. PST West Los Angeles
Jack hurtled down the 405 Freeway chasing the last lead they had. Tony had called him with the news about a boat in Marina del Rey. He had no more information, so Jack had jumped in the car, barely giving Mercy and Ted time to climb in, before he peeled off.
“Call Jamey and have her search the harbormaster’s records. Sarah’s name is bound to be there somewhere.” He hung up and drove.
There was silence in the car again, but this time Mercy broke it. “You shot that man through the hand,” she said at last.
Jack nodded. “That man knows how to keep you from dying sometime in the next few hours.”
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“I don’t have any sympathy for him,” Mercy said. “But . . . but do you ever wonder if what you’re doing is okay? What if sometimes they’re right and you’re wrong?”
Jack looked at her, his eyes steady and his face like stone. “Sometimes I’m wrong,” he said. “But they are never right.”
His phone rang again. “Bauer.”
“Jamey,” said the analyst. “Jack, Tony relayed your request. There’s nothing in the harbormaster’s database for any Sarah Kalmijn, or anyone else with that surname. If she really does have a boat, the slip and the boat are registered to someone else.”
“Keep digging,” he said, speaking shorthand. “There’s got to be something.” He hung up, but the phone rang yet again.
“Jack, it’s me,” said Christopher Henderson. “I’ve got something random here. It’s one of those things that sticks out, but I don’t know where to put it.”
“Go.”
“We raided the cleric’s house and pulled some notes. By the way, if nothing else goes right, unearthing this sleeper cell itself was a huge security coup. Anyway, there are notes here on one of your targets, Sarah Kalmijn. I know you’ve already been to the clubs, but another note says ‘Marina del Rey At Last.’ That mean anything to you?”
