24 Declassified: 08 - Collateral Damage

by Marc Cerasini

  “Well, they must know we’re tailing them,” said Leight, his sandy eyebrows knitting beneath his light brown crew cut. “And I think they’re leading us on a wild-goose chase.”

  “They may know we’re tailing them, but they’ve got a destination. This is the way to Kurmastan,” Emmerick replied, shaking out a stick of gum and unwrapping it. “And if this Hummer isn’t going there, it may take us to someplace new, which means it’s someplace we should know about.”

  “Yeah,” Leight grunted. “Like the Slurpee counter at the 7-Eleven.”

  “Okay, so they stopped at a convenience store,” Emmerick snapped the stale stick of gum and popped it into his mouth. “Get over it. Everybody’s got to take a piss sooner or later. Even terrorists.”

  Leight gripped the steering wheel. “I just wish I’d had the chance to grab a hot dog. I haven’t eaten since last night.

  Good food, too—Val’s a great cook. You should take me up on my invite, come on over for dinner some night.”

  “You two are getting married next month, aren’t you?”

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  “Right, but it’s the honeymoon I’m looking forward too.” Leight grinned. “You’re invited. Remember?”

  “To the honeymoon?”

  Leight smirked. “You wish. You got the invitation, didn’t you?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll check with Bettina. She’s got her hands full lately. Our au pair went back to Ireland, and now she’s trying to take care of the twins and her keep her freelance business going. And, by the way, for future reference, the

  ‘terrible twos’ aren’t a myth. Want some gum?” Emmerick held out the pack.

  Leight took a stick. “So this guy we’re tailing. You said his name’s Amadani. But you didn’t know it was him we were waiting for, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Yet you recognized him?”

  Emmerick nodded. The second he saw Amadani at bag-gage claim—five-eleven male, late forties, gray hair, scar on his left cheek—he’d ID’d him.

  “You mentioned an alias, too,” said Leight.

  “Yeah,” said Emmerick. “Amadani’s an Afghani who fought the Soviets as a boy. That’s where he got his nick-name—‘the Hawk.’ A few years back, he was convicted for selling a million dollars’ worth of black market ciga-rettes with phony tax stamps out of a warehouse in Wayne, New Jersey. He hooked up with our boys in Kurmastan during his prison term. After he was paroled, he skipped the country. Since then, he’s turned up in Madrid, Hamburg, London. And every time he appears, a terror attack follows inside of a week.”

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  Leight’s eyebrows rose. “And you know all that how?”

  “Because I busted him, just like half the other punks in Kurmastan. You’ve only been my partner for what, eight months? I had a whole life before I took on your sorry rookie ass.”

  Leight cracked the window, spit out his gum. “Forgot,”

  he said. “I don’t like Juicy Fruit.” He glanced at Emmerick. “Those guys in Kurmastan, they really bother you, don’t they?”

  “Sure,” said Emmerick. “You’re talking about a whole town full of felons, guys I spent the past twenty years trying to lock up. Now they’re free again and up to no damned good.” He shook his head. “It’s pushing the same rock up the same hill all over again.”

  Leight snorted. “Don’t get your underwear bunched, Sisyphus. We’ll lock them up again, maybe forever this time.”

  Emmerick peered through the dust-flecked window.

  “Watch. He’s turning again.”

  “Great. This road looks worse than the last one.”

  “Lay back, but don’t lose him.”

  “I’ll try, but it’s too bad the packages separated into two Hummers. It would have been better if Foy could have come with us. We could have traded off. It would have been harder for them to make us.”

  Emmerick didn’t reply. Back at the airport, he hadn’t been able to ID the man who’d been traveling with the Hawk, and that bothered him. Fortunately CTU Agent Judith Foy was there to tail the unknown man, while he and Leight had stayed with the Hawk.

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  Up ahead, the black Hummer made its turn and suddenly sped up, trailing a cloud of dust. Doug Leight hit the gas, swerved the Saturn onto a narrow road.

  Emmerick held on. The road was so pitted, it rattled the fillings in his mouth. He looked ahead; the Hummer crested a low hill between two rows of trees, and vanished from sight.

  “Hurry. Don’t lose him.”

  The Saturn crested the hill a moment later—and Emmerick saw the Hummer. The huge vehicle had come to a dead stop. It sat in the middle of the road, just over the rise.

  “Holy shit!” Doug Leight cried, slamming on the brakes.

  The Saturn skidded to a halt, not six inches from the Hummer’s rear bumper. The billowing cloud of dust that trailed the Saturn rolled over it. When it settled, Emmerick saw a large, brown van had pulled up behind them. He glanced at the trees bordering the road on both sides—no escape there.

  “We’re boxed in,” he said, reaching for his weapon.

  Before he could pull it free, the Saturn’s windows blew inward.

  A hail of automatic weapons fire ripped through the vehicle’s thin aluminum skin. Gaping holes appeared in the doors, the roof. Headlights shattered in a shower of sparks. The hood flew open, and bullets pinged off the engine block.

  In the front seat, the two FBI agents were struck dozens of times by the flying bullets, their bodies convulsing as C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 53

  they died. The invisible attackers continued to fire, bursting tires and blowing off a hubcap.

  Finally, the volley ceased. In the sudden silence, three men in camouflage fatigues carrying AK–47s emerged from the trees and approached the shattered car.

  An engine gunned, and the Hummer that carried the Hawk sped away. The brown van slammed into the Saturn’s rear bumper and pushed the smoking car down the hill, through a wooden fence, and into a muddy pond.

  Wild ducks scattered. The car hissed when it hit the water, steam billowing up from under the hood. It gurgled and bubbled in the muck, then finally slipped beneath the pond’s brackish green surface.

  10:03:37 A.M. EDT

  Volaré, Little Italy

  The man with the gold teeth and two others burst through the office door. One man wore a waiter’s uniform and clutched an Uzi. The other wore kitchen whites and gripped a meat cleaver. They stopped dead when they saw Fredo Mangella slumped in the leather chair.

  The Albino released the woman. Sobbing, she stumbled to the desk and dropped to her knees beside the corpse.

  “This bastard killed your boss,” the Albino rasped.

  Jack didn’t say a word. Instead, he focused his attention on the Glock, and the laptop beside it.

  “Son of a bitch,” Gold Teeth snarled, cuffing Jack across the face with the butt of the police special. Jack stumbled, 54

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  but didn’t go down. The urge to strike back was strong, but Jack resisted it, biding his time.

  “Petey, go downstairs and lock the front door,” Gold Teeth said, eyeing Bauer. “Me and Dom will take care of this bastard.”

  The man with the meat cleaver left, and Jack eyeballed Gold Teeth. “I saw you in the cab. You tried to kill me today. Why? Who paid you?” Jack demanded.

  “Time for me to go,” said the Albino, scooping up Jack’s Glock. “I have an appointment elsewhere.”

  “Hey, wait a minute, Whitey,” Gold Teeth said. “You’ve got some explaining to do.”

  “My business was with your boss,” the Albino said. “I don’t deal with underlings.”

  The waiter with the Uzi frowned, eyes on the Albino as he headed for the door. Gold Teeth grabbed the man’s arm—

  And Jack lashed out. With his left, Jack backhanded the Uz
i out of the waiter’s grip. Then he stepped in with a right hook, crushing the man’s throat. The waiter bounced off the wall and went down, gagging and gasping for breath.

  Jack snatched the laptop off the desk and bolted for the door.

  “Stop him,” the Albino cried.

  Gold Teeth blocked his path, but Jack didn’t stop.

  Crouched low, he slammed into the man. Together, they went through the door and over the restaurant’s balcony railing.

  Jack was on top when they hit a table, smashing it. Crystal shattered, china broke, silverware flew. Jack flipped C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 55

  over, and lost his grip on the laptop. It slid across the hardwood floor.

  Gold Teeth did a somersault, too, and landed beside him.

  Jack knew the man was hurting, but Gold Teeth didn’t give up. He lunged as Jack scrambled across the debris-strewn floor, fumbling for the computer.

  The kitchen doors parted and Petey returned, armed with his meat cleaver.

  Jack gripped the laptop with both hands and brought it down on the back of Gold Teeth’s head. The man grunted and went limp. Jack looked up to see Petey charging.

  Then the Albino started shooting and the dining room exploded in a shower of shattering glass as the massive front windows came down in a deadly hail. Jack rolled under a table as razor shards rained down around him.

  Petey was struck, a two-foot icicle of glass piercing the top of his skull.

  The Albino shifted fire, peppering the ceiling. The racing plane lurched on the wires, then one wing dipped.

  Jack knew he was doomed unless he moved.

  Tucking the laptop under his arm, he dived through the broken window. The suspended antique airplane came down a split-second later, smashing the tables and sending broken chairs and shattered china rolling onto the sidewalk.

  Ears ringing from the noise, Jack stumbled to his feet, tightened his grip on the laptop, and took off. He wanted to go back for the Albino, but he was unarmed now, and he suspected the computer and its contents were more important.

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  As sirens wailed in the distance, Jack hailed a cab. On the ride back to CTU, his cell phone went off. Jack checked the number, took the call.

  “Hi, honey,” Teri Bauer chirped.

  “Hi, sweetheart.” Jack closed his eyes. The adrenaline was still pumping; he struggled to control his tone, make everything sound all right. “It’s nice to hear your voice.”

  Teri laughed. “It’s only been a day, but it’s nice to know you’re missing me already.”

  “I am.”

  “Listen, Jack, I know it’s early, but I wanted to call anyway. I didn’t wake you, did I?”

  “I’m up,” Jack replied. “It’s actually not that early here.”

  “Oh, of course, that’s right. The time difference. Well, Kim wanted me to ask a favor. She wants a Coldplay poster from the MTV store. Apparently it’s in Times Square.

  That’s where they do their live TRL shows—at least that’s what Kim told me. You’ll do that, won’t you?”

  “Yeah. Sure.” Jack glanced at the passing traffic, exhaled at the idea of something so normal, so easy. Buying a poster to make his daughter happy. He smiled. “Anything I can get for you?”

  “No, honey. Just bring yourself home in one piece.

  Okay? Stay safe.”

  “I’ll try,” said Jack. “Things here . . . they’re a little . . .

  disorganized. But I won’t forget Kim’s poster.”

  “Great,” said Teri. “I have to get going, but how’s New York otherwise? Did you go to any nice restaurants yet?”

  “Actually,” said Jack, “I just came from one.”

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  10:42:41 A.M. EDT

  Central Security Station

  CTU Headquarters, NYC

  When he finished rerouting the security links, Tony Almeida closed the panel and rebooted the system. While he waited through the startup procedures, Tony popped the top buttons of his black cotton shirt to cool off. Then he began the laborious process of enabling all the new network connections he’d just established, one link at a time.

  Alarms. Motion sensors. Elevator overrides; all had to be restarted. While he worked, Tony unconsciously rubbed the ragged scar across his chest.

  The “program enabled” icon appeared, and soon Tony had real-time images on all twelve security monitors. He observed the parking garage, the lobby, the elevator shaft, the roof, the fire escape through an array of cameras.

  “Mr. Almeida?”

  Rachel Delgado was there, a Styrofoam cup of coffee in each hand. Tony’s shirt still gaped, and the woman’s eyes widened when she saw Tony’s scar.

  “My god,” she cried. “Did that just happen?”

  Tony flushed, closed his shirt. “No,” he muttered, buttoning quickly. “It, uh . . . happened a couple months ago.

  Down in Mexico.”

  Rachel looked away. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. You were working behind the console, and it looked like an electrical burn, so I thought . . .”

  “It is an electrical burn,” Tony replied.

  Rachel suddenly remembered the containers in her 58

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  hand. “I brought you some coffee,” she said. “I didn’t know if you liked it black or with cream, so I brought one of each.”

  “Thanks,” Tony said, accepting the black. “Sit down.

  Join me.”

  “Okay,” Rachel said, glancing at the workstation. “Wow, you have everything running again.”

  “Almost everything.”

  “Is that Con Ed guy on the roof helping you?” Rachel asked.

  Tony’s eyes were on the monitor. He’d seen the man in a blue utility worker’s uniform, too, just before the guy had moved out of camera range.

  Tony punched up the digital control panel for the roof camera. Using his mouse to move the lens from side to side, Tony scanned the black tarred roof. Soon he spotted the man again—he was wearing a Con Edison uniform.

  “He looks busy,” Rachel observed.

  The man’s back was turned. He was crouched at the base of one of CTU’s microwave towers, tinkering with something impossible to see.

  Tony frowned. He’d established the network connection to the motion detectors on the roof two minutes ago. Why hadn’t those detectors gone off, sounded an alarm that someone was on the roof? He checked the circuit and got a

  “network connection lost” message.

  Adrenaline pumping, Tony checked the alarm system and received the same warning. Someone had sabotaged the system as fast as he’d gotten it running.

  “What’s the matter?” Rachel asked. “You look upset.”

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  Tony jerked his head at the monitor. “The Con Edison guy on the roof. He’s an intruder.”

  Rachel rose abruptly, spilling her coffee on the concrete floor. “Oh my god. What do we do?”

  Tony reached for the phone.

  10:51:23 A.M. EDT

  CTU Headquarters, NYC

  Jack Bauer had just returned with the laptop under his arm. He went directly to Brice Holman’s office, where Morris was still trying to crack the security on the Director’s computer.

  “Almost there, Jack-o,” he promised.

  Jack’s cell warbled. He dropped the laptop on the desk, reached for the phone in his pocket.

  “Bauer here.”

  “It’s Tony. We’ve got an intruder on the roof.”

  Jack’s gut turned to ice. “You’re sure?”

  “He’s dressed like a utility worker,” Tony replied. “But he didn’t get up there by accident. I think he climbed up the maintenance hatch, deactivating the security systems as he went along. I’m down here establishing new links; he’s up there cutting them.”

  “Do you know his precise location right now?”

  �
�He’s at the base of the microwave tower on the southwest corner of the roof. I can see him because I still have visuals.”

  “The intruder didn’t disable the cameras?”

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  “He couldn’t, Jack,” Tony explained. “They’re digital Wi-Fi and operate independently, with their own power source. The cameras have no wires to cut, no power source to disconnect. He probably doesn’t have a clue he’s being watched.”

  “Listen Tony,” Jack said. “Don’t mention the intruder to anyone, and don’t set off any alarms. I don’t want to spook this guy. I want him alive, for interrogation.”

  “Roger, Jack.”

  “Keep this line open, we’ll talk when I get to the roof.”

  “Okay.”

  Jack closed the phone.

  “What intruder?” Morris asked.

  “Never mind,” said Jack. “Give me your weapon.”

  Morris slipped the Glock out of its holster. “Take it. I hate the damned things. I’m only packing heat because it’s regulation in the field.” Morris looked around the office.

  “If you want to call this the field.”

  “Stay here and keep doing what you’re doing,” Jack said, checking the weapon. “And when you’re done with that computer, get started on the laptop.”

  Jack slipped out of Director Holman’s office, Glock in hand.

  “Oh, that’s fine,” Morris grumbled. “Guns flashing, intruders all over the place, and no one tells me a bloody thing . . .”

  Jack moved quietly and quickly along the balcony of the Operations Center, careful to keep the Glock low. He found the door to the staircase, and used the universal code key Layla Abernathy had given him to enter the restricted area.

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  The stairwell was well lit, and stank of fresh paint and industrial-strength cleaning fluid. Jack took the steps two at a time, his heels echoing hollowly in the cavernous space. He led with the Glock, clutched in both hands.

  Jack paused at each landing, wary of ambush. So far, however, the stairwell remained deserted.