by John Whitman
Marks turned left onto Little Santa Monica Boulevard and sped west. Jack followed him to the 405 freeway and up the on ramp. The freeway was no different from the surface streets—a few cars stalled here and there. Jack passed one car that seemed to be operational—the driver’s headlights were on and he’d stopped to see if someone else needed assistance—but Jack had no time to explain anything to them as he hurtled past at a hundred miles per hour. Marks had somewhere to get to fast.
If Marks knew he was following, the man gave no sign. The militia leader’s car sped north on the 405 with no twists or turns and no change of speed. Marks practically flew over the interchange to the eastbound 101, and Jack cruised after him.
Jack’s shoulder had begun to throb. It hung lower than his right, and he couldn’t lift the arm, which had begun to swell. He also felt a stinging pain in his side. He moved his left hand, painfully, to touch his side where he thought a bullet had passed through his shirt. He felt blood—apparently, the bullet had passed through his flesh as well.
2:20 A.M. PST Century City
Kelly Sharpton, Nina Myers, Tony Almeida, and a strike team arrived at the Century City Plaza in a Nissan Sentra and a 1972 Chevy station wagon. Every SUV at CTU had been knocked out of commission, but Kelly had managed to commandeer these cars on the street.
They rushed into the darkened lobby, their flashlights probing the ground and finally falling across the face of Darryl the security guard.
“I tried to call,” Darryl said. “Was that your guy that was here before? The blond guy?”
“Probably,” Kelly said. “Where’d he go?”
Darryl raised his hands. “Where’d anybody go? I heard gunshots up on the roof. I heard gunshots down in the parking structure. But I’m blind as a bat here.”
Kelly turned to Nina. “Take half the team and go to the roof. Tony, take the other half and check the parking levels.”
“Will do,” Nina said. “But it sounds like we missed the action.”
“I know,” Kelly said. “Whatever he’s doing, Jack’s on his own.”
2:25 A.M. PST Air Force One
Avery Taylor replaced the handset of the secure telephone and rubbed a hand across his close-shaved head. According to his advance team, the Los Angeles blackout extended in a circle of about thirty miles in diameter, from the Ventura County border south to San Pedro and Long Beach. East, it had reached past the San Fernando Valley and west the blackout had blanked some of the oil platforms off the coast. There was, essentially, a big black patch where a city was supposed to be. But there was no indication of additional danger.
“Tell the pilot to give us altitude,” he decided, “but to maintain his current course.”
2:30 A.M. PST Griffith Park Observatory
Still driving dark, Jack had followed Marks’s headlights across the San Fernando Valley on the 101, then down the 110 Freeway to Griffith Park. Near the park Jack had to move in closer, risking exposure because of the twisting and turning streets. But he thought he knew where Marks was headed.
Griffith Observatory was closed for repairs. The entire facility was going through a massive renovation, and although the surrounding park, with its hiking trails and horseback riding, was open to the public, the observatory at the top of the hill was shut down.
Jack found Marks’s car abandoned at the bottom of the drive, where the entrance had been blocked by construction vehicles. Jack parked and got out, then began the long, slow climb up the drive. Here, with the starlight, his vision was much better than it had been in the guts of the Century City tower. But he was afraid of an ambush, so he moved slowly, cautiously, searching for Marks as he ascended. It took him nearly fifteen minutes to reach the top of the hill.
Jack trotted up the last stretch of road to the observatory itself—a grand half-globe perched atop a hill that overlooked the entire city. A lawn-dotted walkway led up to the observatory, although most of the walkway was torn up for renovation at the moment.
In the starlight, Jack saw a shadow move across the broken landscape: Marks. The militia leader reached a mound of something and dragged a tarp away. He hefted something—it looked like a thick, unwieldy bazooka—and trotted toward the domed building.
Jack hurried after him. Nina had said the second weapon taken from Cal Tech was some kind of EMP rifle. He wondered what kind of range it had. He was betting that Marks already knew.
He moved as fast as he could—his shoulder was throbbing now, and every step was agony—among piles of debris along the promenade. He reached the building and rounded it to the far balcony, which gave the best exterior view of the city. He saw Marks’ silhouette, but he couldn’t help pausing for a half second to notice what he had not noticed atop the Century City tower.
The city had disappeared below him. There should have been endless fields of light stretching off into the distance, gems laid out under a dark blanket of sky. But below there was only darkness, while above—above the Los Angeles basin, for the first time in fifty years, stars shone down in their hundreds of thousands. It was as though the horizon had been flipped—darkness below and lights above. It was, even for a hardened man like Jack, a breathtaking sight.
Marks hefted the electronic rifle. Jack saw a screen light up. As Jack crept up, he saw what looked like a radar screen with a single blip coming into range.
Jack put his gun to the back of Marks’s head. “Put the weapon down.”
Brett Marks’s shoulders stiffened and Jack had that pleasure, so rare in dealing with Marks, of seeing the man totally surprised. But Marks didn’t put the HERF gun down.
“You are persistent, Jack. What you lack in brains you make up for in determination.”
“I’m not going to say it again.”
“Or you’ll kill me,” Marks said calmly. “Who would you be killing me for, Jack? On whose behalf?” He nodded toward the small screen on the weapon in his hands. “For the people on that plane? You know, at least one of them was willing to sell the rights of the people he represents just to get more power. He was also willing to scare the hell out of the entire country to convince them to give up those rights.”
“You helped them do it,” Jack pointed out.
“Yeah, I did. But I never claimed to lead the country. I only stand up for my rights. When are the rest of the people in this country going to stand up for theirs?”
“They’re not as insane as you are,” Jack said wearily. The Sig felt heavy in his one good hand.
“They’re not as aware as I am. You know, society always punishes the enlightened. I’m telling you, Jack, we are the victims of crimes and we don’t even know it.”
While he talked, his hand moved slowly to the side of the HERF gun, toward a switch. “The people are too weak to help themselves. They’re getting what they deserve. I just think the people on that plane should get what they deserve, too.”
“So should you,” Jack said.
Marks reached for the switch. Jack pulled the trigger of his SigSauer. The bullet passed through Brett Marks’s skull and shot out into the distance. His body jerked backward as he pulled the trigger on the HERF gun. The weapon emitted a high-pitched whine that died away as it clattered to the ground.
Invisible, a stream of focused high-energy radio waves sped up into the night as Air Force One passed overhead. On the plane, the President of the United States slept soundly.
In the seats to the rear of the plane, Attorney General James Quincy pondered his next move, sure now that the New American Privacy Act would pass into law.
Though neither of them would ever know it, the destructive radio wave streaked past the jet, missing Air Force One by five hundred yards on its way up into the atmosphere, where it sped harmless into space. Air Force One cruised past Los Angeles on its uneventful journey to San Diego.
On the hillside at Griffith Observatory, Jack Bauer fell to his knees. He was losing blood from the wound in his side. His left shoulder hung useless at his side. He looked out from the h
illside onto the city, currently lost in the void. Out there, millions of people lay under a blanket of darkness, some fearful, some angry; some good, some bad; but all of them, every last one, in need of protection against those who thought nothing of slaughtering them by the hundreds.
Jack Bauer knew who he was fighting for. He was fighting for them.
2:59:59...
acknowledgments
I’d like to thank my original editor, Hope Innelli, for the chance to meddle in the world of “24,” and my current editor, Josh Behar, for his patience and understanding!
About the Author
JOHN WHITMAN
JOHN WHITMAN is the author of numerous books and projects, including the “Star Wars: Galaxy of Fear” series, Zorro and the Witch’s Curse, and, most recently, the trading cards for “24 Day 3.” He is a 4th-degree black belt and defensive tactics instructor in Krav Maga, the official hand-to-hand combat system of the Israeli military, has trained in protective services and defensive tactics in both the United States and in Israel, and has served as an instructor of U.S. law enforcement agencies and military anti-terrorist units.
www.fox.com/24
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Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
24 DECLASSIFIED VETO POWER. Copyright © 2005 by Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication Page
Contents
Prologue-48 Hours Ago
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Acknowledgments
About the Author
24 Declassified Books
Copyright Notice
About the Publisher
COVER
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