Jack spied his quarry racing across the old movie set. He raised his G36 to fire, then lowered the muzzle and slung the weapon over his shoulder. Deciding on a capture, Jack took off in a sprint. He would try to head off the youth at the edge of the set.
Blackburn glanced up from securing the dead man’s weapons. He watched Bauer catch up with the running man, seize the nape of his neck, a handful of long dark hair. Together the two men slammed into the suit of armor, which was actually a sculpture of welded steel. Jack grunted, the wind knocked out of him as the other man’s body cushioned the impact.
Chet Blackburn winced. Even from ten meters away he’d heard the sickening crunch when the fugitive’s nose flattened, his front teeth shattered against the iron breastplate.
After stumbling to his feet, Jack leaned against the medieval prop. He used plastic zip cuffs to secure the bleeding man’s arms behind his back. But before he could haul his prisoner to his feet, the studio was rocked by another explosion. Dust billowed from a far corner of the massive sound stage as a chunk of the wall blew away in a tumble of shattered plaster. Angel One, along with three other members of the DEA assault squad, emerged from the smoke.
Jack turned to face them. A trickle of blood ran down from his nose. More blood stained his battle suit. But Jack Bauer stood tall, still gripping the battered prisoner under the shadow of the medieval armor.
“Well, well,” said Chet Blackburn, teeth flashing white against his dark skin. “Here comes the cavalry, right on time.”
5:59:56 A.M.PDT Santa Monica
The sound of the phone on the nightstand shook Teri Bauer out of her sleep. She rolled over, reached across the bed. The sheets were cool, unruffled. She lifted the receiver. “Jack?”
“Teri?” The voice was male, a higher octave than Jack’s, with a British accent.
Teri sat up, eyes wide. “Dennis? Is that you?”
The man laughed. “I can’t believe you recognize my voice after all this time.”
“It was the accent that gave you away. And it’s only been a year or so.”
“Nearly two, and I’ve been counting the hours.”
Teri ran her hand through her short, raven hair, not sure what to say next. The last thing she expected was a call from her former employer, Dennis Winthrop.
“Look, I know it’s a crazy time to call, but I just got off the red-eye from London—”
“London, wow. Long trip.”
“—and I remembered how you used to wake up at four a.m. and get a couple of hours of design work done before you had to get your daughter ready for school. You always showed up at the production office around noon with really fantastic stuff.”
Teri smiled. “Oh, come on.”
“No. no, don’t sell your work short.” The man paused. “You were awake, right? I’d hate to think I got you out of bed.”
“Oh, yeah,” Teri lied. “Been up for hours now. So what’s going on?”
“Well, I’m back in town because of the awards show tonight. You know, the Silver Screen Awards...”
“Right, right. The Silver Screen Awards,” said Teri, recalling she’d seen something about the awards show on the cover of an entertainment magazine she’d flipped through on line at the supermarket.
“Did you know that Demon Hunter is up for three awards, including one for production design?”
“My god, I didn’t know. That’s great, Dennis. Really great. Congratulations.”
“Look, I know it’s short notice, but I opened my
L.A. office this morning and found sixteen tickets for tonight’s show sitting on my desk. My staff is going, the cast is going...and I wanted you to come.”
“I’m speechless. That’s really generous and thoughtful—”
“Not at all. You’re as much a part of the design as anyone else. You were involved and I want you to be there to share the glory. I’m calling Chandra and Carla, too. And Nancy is coming.”
“Nancy! Oh, I’d love to see Nancy again.”
“She’s had a baby you know. A son.”
“I didn’t know.”
“And Carla is engaged.”
“My god...”
“Everyone is getting married or engaged or having babies, it seems.” A short silence followed. “You’re still with Jack?”
“Oh, yes. You know.”
“Well that’s great. You can tell me about Jack and Kim tonight. You’re coming, right?”
“Well I ...I...”
“Say yes.”
“Okay, I’m coming,” Teri said, relenting at last. “But this thing is on television, right? What do I wear?”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something. You’ll look lovely no matter what you choose.”
“Okay,” said Teri nervously. “What time?”
“I’ll send a limousine to pick you up at five o’clock.
It’s early but the show is broadcast live on the East Coast.”
“I don’t need a limo, Dennis,” Teri said.
“Don’t worry about it. The studio is paying for everything. It will be fun. And, Teri . . .” His voice lowered an octave. “It will be great to see you again.”
Teri felt her cheeks flushing warm. “It will be really good to see you too, Dennis.”
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24
THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 6 A.M. AND 7 A.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME
6:01:31 A.M.PDT Utopia Studios
One ambulance departed with Jack Bauer’s prisoner strapped to a stretcher, while two paramedics worked on Jack. He let them strip away his shoulder armor, Kevlar vest, knee and elbow pads. He sat in cooperative silence while they patched up his arm and stanched his bleeding nose. But trouble started when one paramedic tried to put Jack on a stretcher, too. He refused, became argumentative. Finally a female emergency worker stepped forward and tried to reason with him.
“I don’tcarehow hard that helmet is,orhow tough you think you are, Officer Bauer. You most likely have a concussion and you ought to get it checked out.”
“Listen . . .” Jack checked the woman’s ID tag. “Ms. Besario...Inez. I’m fine. Really. I’m not feeling drowsy. I’m not going into shock. My vision’s fine and I don’t even have a headache.”
Her eyes were large and round and very dark. From her set expression Jack could see Inez Besario was as stubborn as he was. “You have a lump on your head and your nose has barely stopped bleeding.”
Jack smiled, touched her shoulder. “I’ll have the docs check me out after I get back to headquarters. Thank you for your concern.”
She stared up at Jack through long lashes. Then she flashed him a sly smile. “You cops are all alike. You think you’re supermen.”
Jack noticed the wedding band on her finger. “Sounds like you speak from experience.”
“Special Agent Bauer. Over here.”
Jack turned at the call. Agent Brian McConnell didn’t wait for Bauer to follow. He turned on his heels and walked back to the white van parked near the blown-out door to studio nine.
“Excuse me,” Jack told the paramedic.
She nodded. “Better go, Special Agent Bauer.”
Inez Besario joined the other emergency workers administering first aid to Chet Blackburn’s leg. Jack hurried across the parking lot. He spied Agent Avilla, tightening the flex-ties on one of the cholos who’d worked him over the other day. Finally Jack caught up with Angel One at the door to the battered van. McConnell slapped the dirty side panel twice with the palm of his hand.
“Come,” a muffled voice called from inside.
McConnell jerked the handle and slid the door open. Inside the command center, Jason Peltz sat in a chair bolted to the van’s floor. The man was surrounded by computers, flickering monitors and banks of communications equipment. There was even a small chemical lab inside. A technician with gloved hands was working with vials, testing a sample of the narcotic found inside Utopia Studios. Peltz powered down his station
, yanked off his headset, and stepped out of the cluttered van.
“Good job, Bauer. And you can pass on my thanks to Agent Blackburn and his people. Through intraagency cooperation, we shut down the largest methamphetamine laboratory on the West Coast and captured those responsible—”
“Wait a minute,” Jack interrupted. “Did you say methamphetamine lab? This lab was supposed to be producing Karma.”
“It appears our intelligence was faulty,” Peltz said. “My forensics people can’t find evidence this lab was used for anything more than the production of high quality crystal meth.”
Peltz frowned. Like his smile, the mask of expression never reached the man’s eyes. “I’m really sorry, Jack.”
Bauer was angry, but he couldn’t show it. He looked at Brian McConnell, but the man would not meet his gaze. Jack didn’t know if Angel One was suffering from disappointment or guilt—which meant that Jack didn’t know if this was just another DEA snafu, or if he and CTU were being played.
Reflexively, Jack massaged his throbbing temple. “That’s a bad break,” he said evenly. “Where does that leave us, Peltz?”
Peltz sighed, slapped his thigh. “Right now, we say goodbye.”
“What?”
“This is a pretty big bust, and my bosses in Sacramento wanted to make some hay out it.” Peltz paused. “The press is being alerted, Jack, even as we speak. The cameras will be here any minute. I’ve already ordered my men out. You’d best get your team out of here if you don’t want to see the faces of your undercover operatives on the network news.”
Seething, Jack turned and crossed the parking lot. He found Chet Blackburn leaning against an ambulance, studying the bandage around his leg.
“Assemble your team and get them out of here. The press is on its way.”
Blackburn blinked. “That was fast.”
Bauer looked at the white van. “Someone tipped them off. I’ll ride back to headquarters with you.”
“Don’t you want to say hello to your old pal first?”
Jack turned. Chet was grinning. Behind him a man leaned against a blue, late-model Lexus. About the same age as Jack, he wore khaki pants and a polo shirt. His arms and face were deeply tanned under light brown, thinning hair.
“Frank! Frank Castalano.” Jack grabbed the man’s hand.
“Good to see you, Jack.” Castalano slapped his arm and Jack winced. “In the shit again, eh?”
“As I recall, Frank, you were never far from the stink yourself.”
Chet sniffed the air. “I don’t smell any stink on him, Jack. He sure isn’t kicking down doors anymore. All this heat and he hasn’t even broken a sweat.”
Jack grinned. “That’s because he’s Detective Frank Castalano of the Los Angeles Homicide Bureau now. So what are you doing here, partner?”
Frank caught Jack’s eye. “Actually, I wish this were a social call, but it’s not.”
“Chet, you can go ahead back to headquarters and file your report,” said Jack. “I’ll find my own way back.”
Blackburn had caught the exchange. Now he was feeling the chill. “Okay then,” he said “It was nice seeing you, Frank. Keep in touch.”
After Chet and the rest of his tactical assault team piled into a black CTU tactical van and drove away, Detective Castalano opened the passenger side door of his Lexus.
“Let’s go for a ride, Jack.”
“Am I under arrest?”
Frank laughed, moved to slap Bauer’s arm again then checked himself. “Thirty minutes of your time, Jack. That’s all I ask. Then I’ll take you home. You still live in Santa Monica, right?”
6:23:44 A.M.PDT Tijuana, Mexico
They’d made it to the border crossing on Route 5 with seconds to spare. Tony eased the van through the second gate from the right, as per his briefing. The border guard recognized the car and Tony’s disguise and waved the van right through the checkpoint.
The area around the border crossing resembled a war zone, with layers of chain link fences topped by curls of barbed wire, blades glinting in the sun. No plants grew in this no-man’s land. The only movement were the tiny tornadoes of dust that swirled over the scorched stretch of rocky desert.
Along the last few miles, they’d seen more and more bilingual signs. Now everything—the road signs, the advertisements, everything—was in Spanish. Tony steered the van to the bridge. They really weren’t in Tijuana until they crossed the Tijuana River Canal. Because of the drought, the “river” more resembled a muddy creek, and the entire town seemed to be coated with a fine, powdery dust.
Tony rolled down the window to pass a slow moving truck. Fumes filled the cab and Fay’s nose curled. “Somebody ought to Midasize it.”
“That’s leaded gasoline. It’s legal down here. Get used to it,” said Tony.
On the other side of the river, Tony drove a few blocks through a market area, then turned onto Revolucion. Though early, some of the bars and restaurants were open for business. Already the food carts were filling the hot dry morning with the smell of burned charcoal and seared meat.
“Is the whole town like this?” Fay asked.
“This is the tourist area.”
She smiled knowingly. “I get it. This is the sleazy part of town.”
“No. This is the nice part.”
Tony stayed on Revolucion, right through Centro—Tijuana’s downtown—until the avenue ended. He turned left at Amacusac, then made another left on winding Murrieta. On Juan Escutia Tony pulled up in front of a three-story brick building with rickety balconies fronting the structure on the second and third floors. The sign above the single door read la hacienda. Tony cut the engine.
“We’re here,” he said. He released his seatbelt. Fay Hubley reached for the door handle. Tony stopped her.
“Remember your instructions. Use first names only, but remember your cover. I’m Tony Navarro. You’re Fay Kelly. Best not to get into any conversations, and don’t look anyone in the eye. And remember, if we get separated or if something happens to me—”
“Go directly to the United States Consulate and tell them who I am.”
Tony nodded. “All right. Let me activate the security system, and we’ll go.”
He reached under the dash, to a small laser lens hidden under the upholstery near his left foot. Tony flatted his thumb against the glass eye, pressed. His thumbprint verified, Tony heard a beep resembling a seatbelt warning tone. That sound told him a half-dozen devices had been activated, making the van impenetrable and immobile. The engine was impossible to start, even if the ignition was bypassed, and the wheels locked with a built-in system that worked like a traffic cop’s car boot. Even a tow truck would have trouble hauling the van away
While Tony secured the vehicle, Fay stared through the tinted windshield at the neighborhood. The area was mostly composed of ramshackle two- and three-story wooden or brick buildings. Single-story shops were squeezed between more durable buildings, mostly produce markets and food stalls. Laundry waved like banners from dirty ropes strung between the buildings. The few trees Fay could see were brown from the persistent drought.
“God, I can’t believe we’re staying here.”
Tony understood the woman’s jitters. This was the first time Fay Hubley was doing field work, and she wasn’t technically even a field agent. Her training was limited to several briefings in the past twenty-four hours. And on top of that, Fay Hubley probably had never even walked into a dive like La Hacienda, let alone spent the night there.
“Look. I’ve stayed at this inn before. It’s not as bad as it looks,” Tony told her in a tone meant to be reassuring. “I’m recognized here, but not known. No one should mess with us. We’ll be fine.”
Outside, the heat hit them like a hammer. It was already close to one hundred degrees, and the day would only get hotter. Gas fumes and cooking smells filled the air, mingling with the ever-present dust. As soon as they exited the vehicle, the pair was mobbed by nearly a dozen children—beggars. Tony mov
ed through the horde as if he were wading through the surf. Fay grinned at the children, and Tony shot her a warning look.
“Ignore them,” he barked. “And the flower girls over there, too. They’re probably pickpockets.”
“What is this, Oliver Twist?”
“You’re not in Kansas anymore.”
“I’m from Ohio, Tony. I told you I’m from Ohio.”
“Forget it.”
Tony led the way as they pushed through a flyspecked screen door. Fay heard a persistent and angry buzzing, looked up. Her nose wrinkled in disgust when she saw a long strip of orange flypaper covered with writhing black bodies. The pest strip was dangling above her head. Fay hurried through the door.
It was ten degrees cooler inside La Hacienda’s small lobby. The floor consisted of multicolored tiles, some of them chipped and stained. The peeling walls were pale blue, a large ceiling fan turned in lazy circles high above them, and near the door sat several empty chairs, newspapers scattered on the floor around them.
Tony stepped up to a wooden partition covered with scratched green Formica. A door opened, and a young man greeted them in Spanish. Tony replied in kind. Tony booked the room, paid in U.S. dollars, and signed the registry. Then they climbed a flight of shabbily carpeted stairs to the second floor. At the top of the steps, a portrait of Mexican President Vicente Fox grinned at them beneath the flag of Mexico.
“Room six, here we are.”
Tony turned the key, pushed the door open.
The room wasn’t as bad as Fay feared it would be. Two curtained windows, a dresser, a small battered desk, two rickety-looking beds, a lumpy armchair, and a telephone. A tiny bathroom next to a walk in closet. Enough room for a shower but not a bathtub.
The room was hot and stuffy. Fay opened the heavy curtains to find the windows were barred. She reached around the iron barrier and unlocked the window, but she could only slide it open about six inches before a security bolt stopped her.
Tony dropped his backpack on the bed near the window. The springs squeaked like irritated mice. He opened the curtain blocking the other window, found the air conditioner. It rattled so much when he flipped it on, he thought it might fall out the window. But the unit soon settled down and began pumping outcoolair.
24 Declassified: 03 - Trojan Horse Page 3
