As a stream of bullets shattered the restaurant’s door and windows, showering the sidewalk with sparkling shards, Guiterrez leaped between two parked cars. The two women were caught directly in the Uzi’s deadly spray. Grotesquely, they seemed to dance under the impact of the high velocity shells, their colorful skirts billowing as they tumbled to the pavement. A waiter dropped limply through the restaurant’s window, the top of his head a shattered, blood-filled cavity.
Feeling no bullet impact, no jolt of pain — and not quite comprehending his good fortune — Guiterrez stumbled into the middle of the busy street, crossing against the light. But as he attempted to weave between passing cars, Guiterrez’s legs suddenly felt weighted, a pounding throbbed in his ears, and he realized he had been hit. He was losing blood fast.
“The target is down. Repeat. The target is down. I’m moving out.”
CTU Field Agent Tony Almeida reached behind his back, grabbed the handle of the Glock tucked into the belt holster of his black denims. A moment ago, he’d spied Gordon Guiterrez strolling along the sidewalk, but Tony barely had time to report the sighting before the firefight erupted. Two women had been torn apart by the automatic weapon’s fire. Guiterrez had lunged out of the way, but he’d been struck too. Now he was stumbling into the middle of the street, trailing blood.
Tony tried to move quickly through the panicked crowd, pointing his weapon to the ground in case of accidental discharge. The vigil for Guiterrez had been a long one. According to Jack Bauer’s uncharacteristically sketchy briefing, this was to be a simple extraction, complicated by the fact that Guiterrez was being hunted by Colombian assassins.
Bauer maintained that the cartel’s reach probably didn’t extend far enough to cover operations in Nicaragua. The moment the gunman stepped out of the crowd and fired, Tony knew Jack’s assessment had been wrong.
Tony wasn’t completely surprised by the ambush. The CIA’s south of the border security was generally sloppy, and already there’d been numerous security breaches in Central and South American in recent days. What did surprise him were the words of his boss, now coming through the headset.
“Is Guiterrez carrying a backpack or a briefcase?” Jack Bauer demanded.
Almeida spied Guiterrez sloppily dodging moving cars and vans. Jack was right. The man was clutching something. Tony was also aware of the assassin on the sidewalk, still trying to get a clear shot at the injured agent.
Almeida spoke into the pinpoint microphone. “Jack, why do you need to know—?”
“Is Guiterrez carrying something? A bag, a parcel?
Anything?”
“He’s got an attaché case—”
“Retrieve that case at any cost. Even if it means aban
doning Guiterrez. Do you understand me, Tony?”
No, Jack. I don’t understand, Almeida thought, but said—
“Roger, Jack… I got it.”
Jack Bauer cursed as he drew his Glock. “Salga de la manera. ¡Muévase! ¡Muévase!” he shouted at the crowd around him. He raised his weapon high enough for everyone to see, barrel pointed to the sky. “¡Muévase! ¡Muévase!”
He pushed through the mass of people. Pedestrians who heard him — or saw the weapon — instantly obeyed his shouted command and got out of the way. Those who didn’t were dodged or elbowed aside.
Jack heard screams, outraged shouts and startled
cries.
“¡Él tiene un arma!”
“¡Ese hombre va a tirar a su arma!”
People dashed into shops, cowered in doorways. Jack kept going. He regretted causing a panic, but at least the civilians were scattering. That’s one break in this whole rotten mess.
Like Tony, Jack had been waiting for hours, lingering near a food cart on Bolivar Street — on the wrong side of the construction site, as it turned out. Feet pounding the pavement, he wondered where he’d screwed up.
When he and Tony had first arrived in Nicaragua, they’d hooked up with Case Officers Ben Burwell and James Cantrel at Fuqua Construction — their CIA shell company cover. But in Jack’s quick estimation, Burwell and Cantrel had been recycling the same reports for some time. The eyes and ears of United States intelligence in Nicaragua were nothing more than career floaters, coasting toward retirement, and their entire Nicaraguan operation had been lax probably since the Sandinistas were voted out of power in 1990.
After observing the two men conduct business, Jack concluded that the “organization” in Managua was riddled with cartel informants, and he and Tony were better off working on their own.
The fact that Rojas assassins were lying in wait for Gordon Guiterrez proved Jack correct on the first count — not that this validation brought him any satisfaction. But at least Jack now understood the reason why he’d been ordered not to tell Tony about the device unless it became necessary.
Christopher Henderson didn’t trust Tony Almeida any more than Jack trusted agents Burwell and Cantrel.
For a few seconds, all Tony could see were people running, all he could hear were fearful shouts and high-pitched screams. As he moved toward Guiterrez, he tried in vain to keep his eyes on the Uzi-wielding assassin, but his path was constantly blocked by panicked civilians.
Screw this.
Without slowing, Tony swerved off the sidewalk and into the street. A horn blared. He spun to see a red Toyota. The driver wasn’t stopping — but Tony wasn’t moving. Instead of dashing out of the car’s path, he threw himself onto the hood. The thin aluminum crumpled under his weight. The vehicle’s momentum slammed Tony’s spine against the windshield, cracking the safety glass.
Glock extended — finger off the trigger — Tony rode the hood as the vehicle continued to veer down Bolivar. When the stunned driver finally slammed on his brakes, momentum threw Tony forward. He landed on his feet, stumbled, then quickly regained his balance.
The assassin was now standing directly in front of Tony. The man still held the Uzi in one hand, but his attention was focused on the retreating Guiterrez.
Unnoticed, Tony took two steps forward, halting behind the assassin’s back. As he raised his Glock, the man whirled. His dark eyes went wide, his mouth opened in surprise. Tony could smell the gunman’s breath as he placed the Glock’s muzzle against his temple.
The assassin lifted his Uzi.
Tony pulled the trigger.
Blood and brains splattered the restaurant wall, the spent shell shattering harmlessly against the bricks. Francesco Rojas jerked once, then dropped to the pavement.
Amid the chaos, Gordon Guiterrez managed to reach the opposite side of the street. Still leaking blood, he’d stumbled through traffic, then dropped to his knees at the curb.
He heard gunfire again, a single discharge from… a Glock?
He dragged across the sidewalk, using his arms, because his lower body had become oddly numb. Chest heaving, daggers of pain traveling up his torso, he braced his spine against the construction site’s rough wooden wall and sat up.
With a rush of triumph, he realized his right hand was still gripping the handle of the attaché case. His misty vision became even hazier, casting a red veil over the world. Still, Guiterrez could see that the sidewalk was nearly empty now… except for one man. A pale Anglo resembling one of Henderson’s CTU men appeared to be running toward him, gun in hand.
Not sure whether Jack Bauer was an illusion, Guiterrez attempted to focus his fading vision when a hard jerk jolted his right arm. Someone was pulling at the attaché case in his grip. He turned his head to find a boy about sixteen in a New York Mets T-shirt, his thick brown forearms mottled by the telltale scars from the coca labs. Behind the boy’s back, an older Colombian chollo, this one wearing a red bandana and holding an Uzi, was obviously watching the boy’s back.
Amid the screams and traffic noise, Guiterrez heard Bauer’s voice. “!Caiga su arma y paso lejos!”
The chollo with the Uzi turned — Jack’s two quick shots tore the top of the chollo’s head off, bandana and all
. At the same moment, the handle broke away so suddenly from the attaché case that the teenage boy toppled to the sidewalk.
Guiterrez stared numbly at the handle still clutched in his fist. This shouldn’t have happened, he thought in a cloud of shock and pain. I would have used handcuffs, if I’d had a pair. One cuff around the handle, another around my wrist. No one would have snatched the case away from me then.
Problem was, inside the Rojas compound where he’d been living, handcuffs were hard to come by. Explosives were easier to find. Much easier. So Guiterrez had rigged something up.
The bomb was inside the case, right next to the device he’d stolen. A brick of C4, more than enough to do the job. The handle was the detonator, the timed delay only five seconds — long enough to catch Jack Bauer’s eye, gesture a warning.
The boy tucked the case under his arm, scrambled to his feet.
“No, wait!” Jack cried, backing away.
The C4 detonated in a bright orange flash.
CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles Three days later
Jack Bauer was surprised by the sheer number of personnel packed into CTU’s soundproofed conference room. Christopher Henderson had cobbled together an impressive operation in under thirty-six hours, one of the largest undercover stings Jack had ever joined.
Along with Agents Tony Almeida and Nina Myers, Curtis Manning, a former member of Chet Blackburn’s strike team, was also at the table. Manning’s quick thinking and initiative during Operation Pinstripe had attracted the attention of Administrative Director Richard Walsh, who immediately moved Curtis over to Field Ops. This would be his first real assignment.
On the communications side, Programmer Jamey Farrell was present, along with the young computer protégé, Doris Soo Min. Jack also noticed the shiny bald head of portly Morris O’Brian, CTU’s cyber-specialist. He’d recently come over from Langley, just ahead of a sexual harassment suit, according to the sealed portion of his personnel file.
What was amazing to Jack was that what had once been a shoestring operation involving only the late Agent Guiterrez and his CIA case officer, Christopher Henderson, had suddenly ballooned into a full-fledged black operation requiring the bulk of CTU’s West Coast resources.
While Jack watched Director Henderson bring those who were just now joining the operation up to speed with past events, Jack realized he was once again working for his old boss — and his feelings about that were mixed.
“Though explosives in the briefcase destroyed the device that Guiterrez had stolen, our team in Nicaragua managed to recover enough of its components to determine the origins of the cloaking device,” Henderson explained. “So if you look at it from a certain perspective, then the Nicaragua mission was a success…”
Tell that to Gordon Guiterrez, Jack thought with self-disgust. From the expression on Tony Almeida’s face, Jack knew he felt the same.
Sleeves rolled, tie tossed over his shoulder, Henderson paced the front of the glass-enclosed conference room. On the opposite side of the window, Jack spotted Ryan Chappelle and George Mason huddled in conversation. Both surreptitiously glanced at the conference in progress. Both wore sour expressions.
Chappelle’s out of the loop, Jack realized, a little surprised Henderson had the clout to stonewall CTU’s Regional Director.
“Through the use of advanced cybernetic forensics techniques, Morris O’Brian gave us our first break.” Henderson focused his expressionless gray eyes on the British-born cyber-technician.
O’Brian’s round face gave a little nod. He adjusted the cuffs of his Joseph Abboud sport coat, then glanced at the open file on the table.
“It’s clear we’re dealing with advanced technology. Classified technology,” he said, the Cockney lilt still evident in his voice. “I was able to trace a partial serial number from the remains of a silicon chip, and the lot number from a tiny data compressor. Both were manufactured by a Japanese firm and imported for use by the United States Air Force. But our big break came when a piece of the motherboard was found at Santa Theresa Hospital in Managua—”
Nina Myers, Jack’s second in command at CTU, cocked her head. “Found where?”
“During an autopsy of one bomb victim, a nine centimeter bundle of silicon and copper wire was found embedded in the corpse…” Morris paused, flipped a page and squinted as he read. “Through a close examination of this component, I surmised that the board was manufactured by Systemantics, a division of the defense contractor Omnicron International.”
Morris closed the file and looked up. “By hacking into Omnicron’s database, I discovered that the motherboard was purchased by and delivered to the Technology Acquisition Department of the Experimental Testing Range at Groom Lake Air Force Base in Nevada, exactly twenty-three months ago.”
Morris raised an eyebrow, his fleshy cheeks lifted in an elfin grin. “To UFO buffs and conspiracy theorists, Groom Lake is known by another name. It’s called Area 51—”
Henderson interrupted him. “Okay, O’Brian, let’s skip the little green men and focus on reality, shall we? Groom Lake is a top secret advanced research facility managed by the United States Air Force. The entire compound, including the runways, testing range and bombing range, is larger than the state of Delaware. The facility, located in the middle of the desert, just fifty miles outside the Las Vegas city limits, is both remote and well guarded…”
Tony Almeida shook his head. “Sounds like this is a problem for Air Force security.”
“If only that were true,” Henderson replied. “Unfortunately, Air Force Intelligence denies it has a problem. Claims this particular motherboard was incinerated six months ago. They have the paperwork to back up that claim, too.”
Agent Almeida shifted in his chair. “But we have the motherboard, which means somebody’s lying — or covering their asses.”
“Once again, Agent Almeida has cut to the chase,” Henderson said with a humorless grin. “And as it turns out, this isn’t the only time the folks at Groom Lake have misplaced classified technology.”
The Director of Covert Operations dropped a sealed Mylar evidence bag in the middle of the conference table. Inside was a black box the size of a cigarette pack, connected to what appeared to be a gold wedding band by a single, thread-thin insulated wire thirty inches long.
“This handy gadget was seized by the Las Vegas police six weeks ago, on the gambling floor at the Babylon Casino Hotel,” Henderson declared. “The wedding band — made of copper, incidentally, with insulation inside to protect the wearer — is worn on the finger. The wire runs to the black box, which contains a classified Air Force digital scrambling chip.”
“And this does what?” Jamey Farrell asked.
“The wearer tries his hand at the slots,” Henderson said, mimicking the movements he was describing. “Our con man puts a coin into the slot, while placing his left hand on the side of the machine, like this. Electronic impulses are sent through the ring, into the slot machine. These impulses override the digital randomizer inside the slot’s software. Suddenly you’re winning one out of every five pulls instead of one in ten thousand—”
“Enough to cheat your way to a luxurious lifestyle. if you’re playing fifty or hundred dollar slots and didn’t get too greedy,” O’Brian interjected.
Tony’s dark eyes narrowed. “You’re saying the chip inside this device came out of Groom Lake?”
Henderson nodded.
“Obviously the guy who was arrested using this device knows where he got it?” Tony demanded. “Why not pump him for the information?”
“Funny thing about that,” Henderson replied. “The cheat’s name was Dwayne Nardino, a small time racketeer out of Reno. Within hours of his arrest, Nardino was bailed out of jail — which cost someone close to fifty thousand dollars in cash. It was an amount they were willing to lose, because Nardino was discovered behind the wheel of his car the next morning, with two thirty-eight caliber slugs in the back of his head.”
“Obviously someo
ne didn’t want Dwayne talking out of turn,” Nina Myers said softly.
Henderson’s movements became more animated, his gray eyes seemed alive for the first time. “Here’s the interesting part. Two years ago the Drug Enforcement Agency identified Dwayne Nardino as a major distributor of Rojas cocaine. The DEA even has surveillance photos of Nardino meeting with the brothers at their hacienda in Colombia…”
“It’s clear that someone at Groom Lake is peddling classified technology,” said Jack. “Any theories about who or why?”
Henderson placed the palms of his hands on the table, his gaze sweeping everyone seated there. “The why is simple. They did it for money. The theory we’ve come up with is that someone on one of the research teams at Groom Lake, or maybe someone in supply or the classified material disposal unit, has a big-time gambling problem. In order to pay off a large debt, we’re guessing this person passed along classified technology adapted for criminal use. Of course, once a syndicate has their claws into someone who can provide such technology, their debt would never be wiped clean. The mob would naturally squeeze them to supply more and more gadgets, until there’s no juice left.” Henderson’s narrow face flashed a humorless smile. “And that’s how we’ll nail the bastards.”
Pushing away from the table, Henderson strode to the front of the room. “We’re going to use a two pronged investigation to plug this technology leak.” He held up two fingers. “That’s two teams, working at separate locations toward a single goal. One team will operate in conjunction with an undercover agent planted inside of Groom Lake. This agent will be working on one of the research teams conducting experiments at the testing range.”
“Need a volunteer?” Nina asked.
“Agent Almeida will coordinate all surveillance activities with Ms. Farrell and Ms. Soo Min, who will monitor activities from here,” Henderson replied.
“And the second team?” Jack asked.
“We’re placing a three-member team undercover, right in the middle of a crooked casino in Las Vegas,” he declared. “One agent will impersonate a mob lieutenant — that’s you, Jack. Your cover story is that you’re on the payroll of Kansas City mobster Gus Pardo. It’s Pardo who owns the Cha-Cha Lounge.”
24 Declassified: Vanishing Point 2d-5 Page 2
