24 Declassified: 08 - Collateral Damage

by Marc Cerasini

  Tony slowly approached him. “Show me your weapon and get up,” he commanded.

  Eyes twitching, the kid shook his head. “I already dumped the gun. In a garbage can,” he said, getting to his feet. The youth had high cheekbones; narrow, catlike eyes; and so many twitches, Tony thought he might be overdosing on cocaine.

  “Colombian?” Tony asked, one hand covering him while the other rifled through the pockets of his white smock.

  Head shaky, the youth nodded. Tony located Foy’s digital camera and cell phone and pocketed both.

  “Okay,” Tony said. “Now we’re going downstairs.”

  Tony gestured with his Glock. As soon as the barrel wavered, the Colombian bolted. As the teenager raced up the final flight of stairs, Tony drew a bead at his broad back—

  but didn’t pull the trigger.

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  Better to take him alive. CTU can’t interrogate a dead man.

  Deep inside, Tony knew the truth. He didn’t want to cap someone so young.

  Taking the stairs two at a time, Tony reached an emergency exit and burst through the door, expecting to come out on the roof. Instead, he emerged on a narrow, dead-end catwalk six stories above the parking lot.

  When the Colombian heard the door open, he whirled to face Tony. The youth was panting, his face shiny with sweat—almost as if he was coming off some kind of drug high. Tony aimed the Glock at the punk’s heart.

  “Come on, kid, give it up,” he called. “This time I will shoot.”

  The youth wavered. Then he yanked the smock off his shoulders and leaped onto the rail. As the white coat flut-tered to the concrete below, the youth threw up his arms.

  “No! Wait!” Tony cried.

  Stumbling forward, Tony spied a tattoo of the number 13 on the Colombian’s forearm. He dropped the Glock and reached out to snatch the youth—too late.

  Without uttering a sound, the Colombian dived headfirst off the catwalk. A moment later, his body slammed into a Cadillac parked in the physicians-only lot. The impact crumpled the roof and triggered the alarm.

  Tony pulled the cell phone out of his pocket to call Agent Delgado, but as soon as he activated it, he discovered an urgent message from Morris O’Brian back at CTU

  Headquarters in New York.

  Frowning, he played it back.

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  2:59:28 P.M. EDT

  Room 424

  Newark General Hospital

  “I understand,” Rachel Delgado said into her cell. “I’ll take care of everything here. You don’t have to worry about it.”

  Rachel had been lingering outside Deputy Director’s Foy’s hospital room for almost an hour. Scrupulously following Tony Almeida’s last command, she hadn’t let anyone in or out of room 424.

  Now she’d received new instructions. Agent Delgado closed the phone and tucked it into her purse beside the 9mm handgun. She scanned the area.

  The doctors had made their rounds; the nurses had administered the afternoon meds. Most of the staff was gathered around the nurses’ station, waiting for the shift change at three-fifteen. With luck, Rachel Delgado would be finished by then. Finished and long gone.

  Rachel peeked through the tiny window in the door of the private room. Judith Foy was asleep, her bandaged head lolling on the pillow. Quietly, she slipped through the door and approached the bed.

  Rachel dropped her purse in the chair and leaned close, to examine the woman. Foy was definitely asleep. Her breathing was even, and she was snoring a little.

  Circling the bed, Rachel looked around for the right tool for the job. She grinned when she fingered the IV tube running from the clear plastic bag into Judith Foy’s arm.

  Rachel gently disconnected the plastic tube at the flow 128

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  meter joint. Then she pulled the long tube free from the IV

  bottle. While the solution trickled onto the faux-hardwood floor, Rachel wrapped the plastic around both hands, to create a garrote.

  Rachel paused for a moment while an orderly drifted past the door, heading for the nurses’ station. When the man was out of sight, Delgado loomed over Judith Foy.

  In one quick motion, Rachel slipped the strangling cord around the sleeping woman’s throat and pulled it tight . . .

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  10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17

  18 19 20 21 22 23 24

  THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE

  BETWEEN THE HOURS OF

  3:00 P.M. AND 4:00 P.M.

  EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME

  3:00:00 P.M. EDT

  CTU Heliport

  Hudson River

  In his right hand, Jack Bauer clutched the cell phone to his head. With his left, he covered his ear to shut out the high-pitched whine of the turboshaft engines.

  He was standing on a concrete pier at the edge of the water. A Sikorsky S–76 “Spirit” helicopter idled behind him, its wide, composite blades cutting the humid air. A barge streamed up the Hudson, leaving a roiling wake as it passed.

  “Any word from Tony?” Jack asked Morris back at CTU

  Headquarters.

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  “We’ve got a problem on that score,” Morris replied.

  “Apparently a man fitting Agent Almeida’s description is wanted in connection with the murder of a security guard at Newark General Hospital.”

  Jack cursed. “That has to be a mistake.”

  “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? Except that the Newark Police received an anonymous tip five minutes ago. And the tipster gave Tony’s name. Our boy’s been framed, Jack-o.”

  Jack’s mind raced. Another leak at CTU. But who’s the mole?

  “You’ve got to warn him,” he ordered Morris.

  “I have, by voice mail,” Morris said. “We haven’t been able to reach Tony or Rachel Delgado, the agent who accompanied him to Newark. Frankly, I fear the worst.”

  “Almeida can take care of himself,” Jack said, dismissing that problem for now. “I want you to keep monitoring Brice Holman’s signal. I’ll keep this line open for any updates. I’ll need to know his exact location once I reach Milton.”

  “Better move, Jack. Or Holman might not be there when you arrive.”

  Jack glanced at the idling helicopter and cursed again.

  “We’re leaving right now,” he told Morris. Then he ended the call.

  He walked up to Layla Abernathy. She stood on the tarmac, blinking against the dust, her hair twisting in the wind. A heavy duffel bag was slung over her shoulder. As Jack approached, she lowered her own cell phone.

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  “I’m still trying to get clearance,” she explained. “I’m on hold with the Deputy Mayor’s office.”

  Jack reached up, his hand covering her fingers. He closed the phone in her hand. “We’ve waited twenty minutes. That’s already too long—”

  “I can’t convince the authorities, Agent Bauer!” Layla shouted to be heard over the noise. “If they thought it was a real emergency, we’d get immediate clearance. But—”

  “We’re going,” Jack said. “Now.”

  He took the bag from her shoulder, tossed it into the cabin. Then he guided Layla through the hatch. The interior of the S–76 Spirit was almost spacious—large enough to seat an assault team of eight, along with their special equipment.

  Jack thrust Layla into a seat. “Strap in,” he commanded.

  Then he moved to the cockpit.

  The pilot and copilot wore dark blue CTU flight suits, and helmets with visors and interior headsets. The man in the pilot’s seat had a CTU Rapid-Strike Team patch on his chest, and a Glock on his belt. His name tag read

  “Fogarty.”

  “Take off,” Jack said.

  “We can’t, sir,” Captain Fogarty replied. “We’ve been denied clearance—”

  Bauer’s eyes flashed an
grily. “Take off now. On my authority.”

  “Sir, I can’t. I could lose my job—”

  “Listen,” Jack rasped. “Director Holman is in danger.

  There’s already been an attempt on Deputy Director Foy’s life. She’s in a hospital now and I don’t know her condi-132

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  tion. Unless you want to be responsible for the death of your boss, I suggest you take off immediately.”

  Fogarty frowned, then shifted his unhappy gaze to the copilot. “Prepare for takeoff,” he said.

  The whine of the turboshaft increased in volume. With an abrupt lurch, the helicopter lifted off the pier and swooped over the river. The landing gear retracted before the aircraft banked and shifted direction, heading due west at a hundred and fifty miles per hour.

  3:02:21 P.M. EDT

  Room 424

  Newark General Hospital

  Lucky break, Tony Almeida mused, seeing the birthday party at the nurses’ station. First one I’ve had all day.

  Two doctors, three nurses, and an orderly were laughing and talking and eating cake. Best of all, they were not paying attention to him.

  Tony moved quickly down the hall, toward room 424.

  Now that he was a hunted man, Tony knew he had to proceed with caution. When he didn’t see Rachel Delgado outside the room, he increased his pace.

  Tony knew the enemy who had dispatched the Colombian might have sent another assassin to finish off Judith Foy. If Rachel got in the way, they’d kill her, too. Tony’s heart pounded.

  What if I’m too late?

  He reached the room and quietly slipped through the C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 133

  door—then Tony heard a muffled cry. He turned and saw Judith Foy on the bed, legs kicking, hands clutching at the tubing embedded deep into the flesh of her throat. Rachel Delgado stood behind the woman, the plastic garrote wrapped around her hand.

  She heard Tony’s surprised gasp and looked up, just as Tony lunged across the bed.

  With no time to finish the woman off, Rachel slammed her elbow against Judith Foy’s temple, stunning her. Then she released the plastic strangling cord and deftly avoided Tony’s grip.

  Stumbling backward, Rachel ripped the top of the IV

  pole away from its base. Using the heavy stainless steel rod like a club, she swung at Tony’s unprotected head.

  Tony ducked low, the pole slicing the air above his scalp.

  Tony could easily shoot Rachel—but the sound of the shot would bring the whole floor running for this room.

  Trying to explain his actions to the police would be a waste of time—and might prove fatal. There was obviously no one he could trust, not even the local authorities.

  Tony knew it was possible he’d end up dead for “resisting arrest.”

  He had only one recourse. He had to finish Rachel off quietly, then get Deputy Director Foy out of the hospital to a safe location.

  Clutching the pole in her right hand, Rachel feinted a few times, then swung again. This time Tony was ready.

  Dropping his left arm and holding it straight against his body, he stepped into the blow, leading with his left shoulder. Tony was suddenly so close to the woman that Rachel 134

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  couldn’t strike him with the pole. Her forearm struck Tony’s shoulder instead.

  Tony popped his right hand, slamming the woman under her chin.

  As he struck, he lifted his left arm, curled it around Rachel’s right. He added some pressure and she released the club. The steel pole clanged to the floor. Tony squeezed harder, until he heard the snap of bone. Rachel gasped and her arm went limp.

  Tony spun the dazed woman around and encircled her neck with one arm, clapped his other hand over her mouth to muffle any cries. Her platform shoes kicking wildly, Rachel was dragged into the tiny bathroom.

  Once inside, Tony calmly applied pressure until he snapped Rachel Delgado’s neck. Panting, he let her limp body slide to the tile floor. Then he stepped over the corpse and hurried back to the bed.

  Judith Foy’s gown was disheveled, and Tony threw a sheet over her. Then he helped a dazed Agent Foy untangle the plastic cord from around her neck. The tender flesh was bruised and red and she was gasping, her face flushed.

  “Why did she try to kill you?” Tony whispered.

  For a moment, Judith Foy ignored the question. Tony thought it was because she didn’t have an answer. Finally, she looked up from the bed, and her eyes met his.

  “CTU’s been compromised,” she rasped. “I warned you.

  And I’ll bet she’s not the only traitor.”

  “We’ve got to get out of here.”

  “I don’t have any clothes,” Foy protested.

  Tony checked Rachel’s corpse, realized the dead woman C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 135

  was two sizes smaller than the Deputy Director. Then he found a blue hospital robe hanging behind the bathroom door. He ripped it off its hangar and tore away the sanitary plastic wrapping.

  As he left the bathroom, Tony stopped dead in his tracks. During the struggle, the buttons on Rachel Delgado’s three-quarter-length sleeves had popped. On the forearm he’d broken, Tony spied a familiar tattoo—a stylized number 13.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  “What?” Foy croaked, swinging her naked legs over the side of the bed.

  “Never mind.” Tony tossed her the robe, then he snatched Rachel Delgado’s purse from the chair and tossed it to the woman, too. While she dressed, he went to the door and peered through the window. The way seemed clear. He faced the woman, saw the fear that haunted her eyes.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll get you to a safe place,” Tony vowed.

  3:48:52 P.M. EDT

  Community Center

  Kurmastan, New Jersey

  Brice Holman awoke with a start, screams battering his ears. He felt hands gripping him, and he opened his eyes.

  He was sitting upright in a metal folding chair, ropes loosely circling his arms and torso to hold him in place.

  He was in a large room with unfinished walls and a low ceiling.

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  He moaned and shifted in the chair. Someone struck him in the face with a balled fist. Brice saw stars—then, when his vision cleared, scores of wild, mocking eyes stared at him from behind black burkas.

  Fists punched and prodded him. A woman gouged the flesh of his cheek with long fingernails. Holman ignored the pain as he tried to stare through the crowd, looking for Reverend Ahern and the rest of the passengers from the bus.

  Then an old man stepped onto the platform, a pitchfork in his wizened hands. He shook the implement in the air, and Holman nearly gagged when he saw Emily Reed’s ruined head impaled on its prongs.

  Holman strained at the ropes. They were meant to con-strain him, but the ropes had been applied carelessly, and he easily freed his left hand. He slipped it into his pants pocket, felt around, then smiled grimly.

  The crazy fools didn’t take my cell phone!

  While the women danced around him, and the old men brought in another trophy—the grisly remains of Mr. Simonson’s head—Brice opened the phone inside his pocket and pressed the speed dial button, sending out a call to CTU Headquarters in Manhattan.

  Holman heard a scream. The crowd parted long enough for him to see Mrs. Hocklinger, bound and helpless. An old man had cut the woman’s throat with a shard of broken glass. The woman twitched in her chair, her blood spilling onto the bare concrete floor. The flow soon ceased, and her eyes rolled back. When Mrs. Hocklinger was dead, a twelve-year-old boy attacked her throat with a hacksaw.

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  An amplified voice boomed, filling the room. Holman looked up to see a large man stride onto the platform, dressed in robes and a prayer shawl. Holman noticed prison tattoos on the man’s arms and neck.

  The mob began to chant. “Noor . . . Noor . .
. Noor . . .”

  “The day is now at hand,” the man cried, silencing them with a gesture. “Your husbands, sons, uncles, and brothers have departed this compound and will never return. Now I will tell you what bold and daring things they are going do to bring about Khilafah!”

  Awestruck cries greeted his words. The women tore at their clothing, their hair. The old men and young boys howled like hungry animals. The room stank of sweat and blood.

  Amid the chaos, another figure mounted the platform.

  A striking contrast to the muscular African American, the newcomer was tall, lanky, and very pale. The Albino’s colorless eyes watched the mob impassively while the man named Noor continued his speech.

  “On this day, the prophecy has been fulfilled. Twelve trucks—twelve chariots of death—have left this compound, to sow death and destruction against the infidel!”

  Brice clenched his teeth, his mind roiling.

  I hope to God someone at headquarters is monitoring this call. I don’t want to die for nothing . . .

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  3:59:05 P.M. EDT

  Communications Station One

  CTU Headquarters, NYC

  “This is Allah’s punishment on the unbeliever. We are the sword of God, the vessel of his wrath,” the male voice declared, before the rest of his message was drowned out by a cheering mob.

  “What do you make of it?” Peter Randall asked.

  Morris O’Brian shook his head. “You are recording.”

  Randall nodded. “Every word, every sound, since the call came in.”

  “Good,” said Morris. “We’re going to have to put it through filters and screen out the background noise in order to decipher the main speaker’s words. Didn’t he say something about chariots of death and seeds of destruction?”

  “I think so,” Randall replied.

  “In my experience, that sort of talk is never good.”

  Morris rubbed his hand through his short, wiry hair. “And Holman hasn’t spoken during the entire call?”

  “No. Director Holman never said a word. But I know he wants us to find him now.”

  Morris blinked. “How’s that, mate?”