Studying his surroundings, he realized he was inside the brick ice house behind the brothel. He wondered why he’d been grabbed. Had he been double-crossed by his “old pal” Ray Dobyns, or was the con man a victim, too? Was Tony just a gringo kidnapping and extortion victim of a Mexican gang? Or was his capture related to CTU’s pursuit of Richard Lesser?
Most of all, Tony wondered if Fay Hubley was safe back at the hotel.
11:32:11 A.M.PDT South Bradbury Boulevard and Clark Street Los Angeles
There had been an accident on the freeway. A jackknifed truck was now sprawled across three lanes. All traffic going the same direction as the LAPD prisoner transport vehicle and its escorts was at a standstill.
Fortunately Jack Bauer, in the lead vehicle, received a timely warning from the pilot of the police helicopter providing aerial surveillance. He steered the con
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voy off the highway at the next ramp, before they got tangled up in the bottleneck. They were only a few miles from CTU Headquarters, so rather than risk the choked main streets, Jack directed the three-vehicle caravan through a lightly traveled industrial area where the traffic consisted mostly of trucks and commercial vehicles.
The streets were congested around the freeway ramp, but as soon as the convoy reached Clark Street they made up for lost time.
Glancing at his watch, Jack cursed the delay. Back at Central Facilities, Detective Castalano insisted Jack ride in the lead vehicle along with a uniformed driver and a fully outfitted member of the LAPD Special Weapons and Tactics team. His logic made sense. Jack would have to get the parade through CTU gate security, and that would be easier if he were at the head of the convoy. But Jack felt he was losing valuable time. If he’d ridden in the same vehicle as the prisoner, he might have gotten an early start on his interrogation.
But at least the LAPD had supplied enough men to get them to CTU safely, even though resources were stretched because of the Silver Screen Awards ceremony scheduled for that evening. Beyond the armored van Jack rode in, there was a second armored vehicle containing two SWAT team members bringing up the rear—both members of the D Platoon of the Metro Division. Sandwiched between the two vans was an LAPD prisoner transport truck containing Detective Castalano, his partner Jerry Alder, two uniformed officers and the prisoner, Ibn al Farad. Above, a police chopper monitored their movement and directed them around obstacles.
But Jack was still not sufficiently satisfied with the security arrangement. Before they left the Central Facilities, he insisted on tagging the prisoner as an added precaution. While Castalano and Alder located an ankle bracelet and attached it to the young man, Jack removed one of the stems on his wristwatch. Unseen, he rested his hand on the suspect, pinning the tiny transmitter to the collar of Ibn al Farad’s white jumpsuit, effectively double-tagging him.
At the time Jack though he might be overcautious— even paranoid—when he double-tagged the Saudi national. But since the sudden traffic jam on the highway, his suspicions had returned. So far they appeared to be unfounded.
As they rolled past the intersection of South Brad-bury Boulevard and Clark Street, the convoy moved out of an area of chain link fences and truck parks, entering a two-lane canyon flanked by block-long rows of flat, two- and three-story industrial buildings. Noting their location, Jack opened his cell phone, intending to contact Nina for an update on tracking down a reference for the “old man on the mountain.” Instead Jack was thrown against his shoulder harness when the driver slammed on the brakes. A long trailer truck had backed out of a garage, directly in the path of the convoy. Tires squealed, but there was no collision.
“Stupid son of a bitch could have killed us!” cried the policeman at the wheel. While Jack retrieved his fallen cell, the driver rolled down his window to yell at the trucker.
“Once a traffic cop, always a traffic cop,” grunted the tactical officer in the backseat.
Still stooped over and fumbling for his phone, Jack heard the voice of the chopper pilot on his headset. “Code Red. Code Red, there are men on the roof. Repeat—”
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But Jack wasn’t listening. He’d spied the driver’s open window and cried out. “No! That glass is bulletproof. Don’t expose—”
Almost simultaneously Jack heard the sonic boom and the thwack of the bullet as it struck the driver in the throat. Hot blood sprayed the window, coating it. Two more shots ricocheted through the vehicle. A grunt, and the tactical officer slumped forward in his seat, left eye dripping from its socket. More bullets riddled the vehicle, chipping—but not penetrating— the bulletproof glass. Jack stayed close to the floor, realizing that reaching for his fallen cell phone was the only thing that had saved him.
“Officers down,” he shouted into his headset. “We are under fire. Officers down. Repeat, officers down.”
A voice crackled in his ear—the chopper pilot, but Jack could not make out his words. Outside, he heard the chatter of automatic weapons and guessed the helicopter was under attack.
Still on the floor of the cab, Jack reached out and closed the passenger side window. More shots bounced off the reinforced windshield. Jack pocketed the cell phone and took a deep breath. Then he leaped into the backseat. More shots struck the window, cracking the windshield down the middle.
Jack landed next to the SWAT team officer. Like the driver, the man was gone, his Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun still in his hands. Jack pried the weapon loose, collected a pair of XM84 stun grenades from the dead man’s vest, looted clips of gore-soaked ammo from his belt. The voices on the police net had reached panic level, screaming into Jack’s ear. Lifting his head above the seat, he scanned the vehicles behind him.
The armored van bringing up the rear sat with its doors hanging open. Though protected in their bullet-resistant van, the tactical officers had attempted to respond to the attack. Now they both lay in the street, rivers of blood pooling around them on the hot pavement. So far, the prisoner transport vehicle did not seem to have been breached, though the driver was hunched, unmoving, over the steering wheel.
Jack flipped onto his back. Sprawled across the backseat, he scanned the rooftops. He could see armed, masked, black-clad figures on the edge of the buildings. They were on both sides of the street, four on each building, eight in all—then a ninth rose into view. The man held a dull gray tube on his shoulder, aimed the weapon at armored transport.
“Frank!” Jack screamed into his headset. “If you can hear me, get out of there now—”
Trailing fire and hot smoke, the shoulder-fired antitank missile slammed into the prisoner transport vehicle. Jack watched helplessly as the blunt tip of the shape-charged projectile punched a hole into the side of the truck, filling the vehicle with a fiery jet of molten plasma. The interior of the cab lit up like a strobe light as the windows and doors blew out. The dead driver was flipped like a rag doll over the steering wheel and into the street.
The echo of the blast had not yet faded when a half-dozen men burst out of the doors of the trailer truck that had veered into their path. Jack heard footsteps pounding as the men ran past his van, heading toward the shattered transport. Jack knew they were after the prisoner—to rescue Ibn al Farad or silence him forever. Either way, Jack had to stop them.
He set the weapon to its sustained fire setting, took
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a deep breath and toggled the door. As soon as it opened, Jack tumbled to the street, rolling under the van. He aimed the MP5 at three men clustered around the door to the transport, squeezed the trigger. The weapon would spew bullets as long as the trigger was depressed.
Two figures danced as hot steel shells ripped them apart. Jack saw their weapons clatter to the pavement—an M-16 A2 assault rifle and a Remington M870 shotgun.
Slithering across the hot, oily pavement, Jack moved to the other side of the van. He rolled out from under the vehicle, tossing a non-lethal stun grenade into a second knot of men. The explosion sent the men reeling. One figure turned, aim
ed a shotgun. The MP5 bucked in Jack’s hands and he stitched a bloody path up the man’s torso.
Three men emerged from the smoking interior of the shattered transport truck—two attackers dragging a stunned Ibn al Farad between them.
Jack took aim, but before he could squeeze the trigger, a steel-toed boot crashed against his head, knocking him aside. Jack bounced off the van with a hollow thud; the weapon flew from his grip.
Dazed, Jack opened his eyes to see the muzzle of a Remington shotgun just inches from his face. He stared past the gun, into the eyes of the man behind the mask, and he saw his own death.
Then Jerry Alder stumbled out of the wreckage, his service revolver blazing. The man standing over Jack jerked once, twice, then sprawled across him, the shotgun clattering on the pavement. Jack struggled under the dead man’s weight, watching helplessly as the assassins tossed Ibn al Farad into another vehicle.
More shots, and Alder was knocked backward in a fountain of blood. Engines roared, tires squealed on hot asphalt and the assassins raced away. In seconds the chaotic battlefield fell silent. Jack threw the corpse aside and stumbled to his feet. Reeling unsteadily, he lurched toward the transport.
Detective Castalano was there, beside the smoking vehicle. Blood oozed from his nose, mouth. He held his partner in his arms. Alder was alive, too, and alert. His jacket was open, white shirt ripped. A sucking chest wound bubbled black arterial blood.
“Frank! Are you okay?”
The man didn’t respond, so Jack touched his arm. Frank whirled on him, revolver aimed at his face.
“I called for backup,” Jack told him. “Help is on its way.”
Frank lowered his weapon. He shook his head. “I can’t hear you, Jack...”
Jack realized his friend had been deafened by the blast that had torn the vehicle open. Jack realized something else, too. The ankle bracelet with the tracker embedded inside was lying in the truck. It had been cut away by the men who took their prisoner.
In the distance, Jack heard sirens. He swung around. Eyes scanning, he noted the van that had brought up the rear was still in working order. The driver and passenger were dead on the pavement, but the engine was still idling. Jack grabbed Frank’s arm, squeezed it until the man looked up again.
“I’m going after them,” Jack said slowly, hoping Frank could read his lips. “I’m going to get the men who did this. Do you understand me, Frank?”
Castalano nodded. Beside him, his partner’s eyes were etched with pain, his breath came in choking coughs.
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“I’ll get them, Frank. I promise.”
Jerry Alder jerked convulsively, and Frank took his partner’s hand. “It’ll be okay, Jerry, hang on.” His partner settled back, face ghastly white.
When Castalano looked up again, Jack Bauer was gone.
11:46:32 A.M.PDT CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles
Nina Myers’s initial search of United States intelligence service databases yielded little of value. After several false leads and dead ends, she finally located Federal Bureau of Investigation files pertaining to a secret inquiry conducted at the behest of the Governor of New Hampshire.
The FBI was asked to determine if a nationally famous landmark called the Old Man of the Mountain—a stone formation featured on the state seal and the official New Hampshire quarter issued by the U.S. mint—had been destroyed by vandals or terrorists in 2003. The FBI, with the help of geologists, eventually concluded wind and water erosion and the winter/summer freeze and thaw cycle had been the true culprits and the case was quietly closed.
Within fifteen minutes, Nina had completed a search of all current intelligence databases and came up empty. Then she recalled that Jack had requested a search of CTU’s historical archives. It was an odd directive, considering the negligible amount of useful information a search of that particular database usually yielded. And yet, in working with Jack for the past several years, Nina had discovered that Special Agent Bauer’s instincts were often on the mark— another factor that made the man such a dangerous and unpredictable adversary.
On Jack’s cue, Nina called up the link to the historical archives and typed in the phrase “old man in/on mountain.” To her surprise she immediately received a hit. The phrase “Old Man on the Mountain” turned up in a scholarly paper published in 1998 by Dr. A. A. Dhabegeah, Professor of Middle Eastern Studies at Brown University in Providence, Rhode Island. The title of the dissertation jumped out at Nina: Hasan bin Sabah and the Rise of Modern Terror.
Hasan! A name regularly turning up in terrorist chatter over the past several months. A shadowy figure CTU had been tracking without success.
Nina called up the PDF file and paged through it. With each click of the mouse, the loose threads of the past few months slowly began to come together. Jack had been correct. Clues to their present mystery lay in the past.
Minutes later, a three-toned chirp broke Nina’s concentration. She snapped up the receiver. “Myers.”
“Nina!” The voice was breathless, excited.
“Jack, what’s the matter?”
“The convoy was ambushed, shot to pieces. The attackers grabbed Ibn al Farad.”
“Terrorists?”
“I don’t think so,” Jack replied. “They were using NATO small arms and equipment. Their tactics were straight out of the Special Forces training manual.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m driving an unmarked LAPD van, in pursuit of the suspect’s vehicle. Before we left Central Facilities, I planted a locator on Farad. I’m tracking his signal right now with the GPS device in my watch. The vehicle
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Farad’s riding in is approximately three blocks ahead of me. I’m giving his kidnappers plenty of space so they think they got away clean.”
Jack gave Nina his location, speed, and direction. “In case of trouble, I want the Tactical Unit on alert and ready to move at a moment’s notice.”
“I’m on it,” Nina replied, instantly alerting Blackburn’s unit via computer.
“Listen, Jack. I found a reference to the Old Man on the Mountain—in the historical archives, just like you said.”
Nina heard tires squeal, Jack curse. “Give me the facts in shorthand. I’ve got my hands full right now.”
“The Old Man on the Mountain was a Muslim holy man in the eleventh century. His name was Hasan bin Sabah—”
“Hasan. That can’t be a coincidence.”
“This Hasan was something of a heretic. He went to war against the whole Muslim world. But he only had a small cadre of followers, so he could never win a battle against the armies of the Persians, the Syrians, the Turks. He needed a force multiplier, so he resorted to terrorism. Hasan was, in fact, the world’s first terrorist.”
Jack grunted. “If the enemy you oppose outnumbers you, strike terror into their hearts and they will retreat.”
“I’m not up on my Sun Tzu,” said Nina. “Or is that Machiavelli?”
“Neither,” said Jack. “I was quoting a man named Victor Drazen.”
“There’s more,” Nina continued. “The historical Hasan brainwashed his followers by drugging them with hashish, then spiriting them to a garden filled with plants, perfumes, wine and beautiful women who fulfilled their every desire. After hours of bliss, they were drugged again and awoke in Hasan’s presence. He told them they had glimpsed Paradise, and if they died for his cause they would spend eternity there. Because hashish was used to brainwash them, these followers came to be known as Ashishin—assassins. Using these suicidal fanatics, Hasan bin Sabah carried out a wave of political murders from Syria to Cairo to Baghdad.”
“That explains the Karma,” said Jack. “Hasan must be using the new drug to brainwash his killers. Ibn al Farad was caught with vials of the stuff. That could mean that Hasan is somewhere in this city right now, winning new converts right under our noses.”
“It sounds . . . well it all sounds so crazy,” Nina said doubtfully.
“No,�
� Jack replied. “It makes perfect sense.”
11:56:43 A.M.PDT La Hacienda Tijuana, Mexico
Milo crossed the deserted lobby, tapped the bell on the green Formica countertop. He waited a moment but no one showed so he clanged the bell again. Still the inn was quiet, the only sound the constant swish of the ceiling fan.
“Guess everyone’s out to lunch or having a siesta,” muttered Milo. He decided booking a room could wait. Better if he hooked up with Tony Almeida and Fay Hubley right away.
Milo headed for the stairs, taking them two at a time. He fully expected to be stopped by the manager at any moment, but Milo reached the second floor
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without seeing another human. Room six was at the end of the shabby hallway. He knocked once, and the door swung open.
Though it was almost noon on the sun-washed streets outside, the room was dark, the curtains drawn. Milo slowly peeked his head into the darkness. “Hello...Tony? Fay? Is anyone here?”
He stepped over the threshold, fumbling for the light switch. He found it, switched it on and off but nothing happened. He cautiously took another step, his eyes slowly becoming accustomed to the dark. Glass crunched under his shoe, and Milo realized he’d stepped on pieces of a smashed light bulb.
“Hello?”
Milo saw the window and yanked the curtains open. A wall a few feet outside the door blocked most of the sunlight, but enough streamed in for Milo to see Fay’s computer network had been set up and was still running, though the monitor had been placed in hibernation mode.
Finally, Milo noticed light streaming from around the door to the bathroom. Over the constant hum of the feeble air conditioner, he listened for running water. He walked up to the door, placed his ear against it. “Tony? Fay?” he called.
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