by John Whitman
Jack sprinted toward the second to last bomb, took a deep, steadying breath, and disconnected its blast cap. Without a current and a small charge to set it off, the plastic explosive was now just so much molding clay.
Forty-five seconds left. Jack sprinted toward the last bomb, wondering if he might make it… but even as he reached it, he knew the answer, and he kept on running, reaching the far end of the dam and driving himself up that slope until he reached the height of the dam more than four hundred feet above the gulch, and threw himself to the ground.
Behind and below him, hell erupted. A sound that reminded him oddly of a lion’s roar rent the air, and in an instant dirt was raining down on him, and dust filled the sky. The blast was powerful enough to make the solid earth beneath him tremble. With clods of earth still raining down, Jack leaped to his feet and ran back to the edge of the slope. A huge chunk of the dam was gone, as though scooped away by a giant hand. Water spurted through weak points in the wall in a half-dozen places. None of the newly made springs was very large, but erosion would loosen the dam further. Someone else would have to take care of that.
Jack hurried along the top of the dam, running gingerly over the weakened portion, then leaning into a full sprint as he headed back toward the maintenance sheds. His usual speed was not there because he was still carrying a stack of explosive bricks, but he was fast enough to reach the far side just as Dean’s Angels came stumbling down the slope to his left. Jack dropped to one knee, letting them descend and pass, then he ran among the sheds. One of the bikers must have spotted him because he heard a howl from behind, but he didn’t stop. He ran through the sheds and back to the bikes. He paused for only a second, to hang his backpack off the backseat of Dean’s bike. Then ran to his own bike and, as fast as he could, lashed the stack of plastic explosives onto the seat behind him. Then he hopped on the Harley and started it up.
A bullet whined a few feet over his head. He spun the bike around, sending a spray of dirt and gravel behind him. He couldn’t hear any more reports over the sound of his engine, but he thought he heard the hiss of more rounds falling and passing to the left and right. He felt a faint thud in his lower back and knew that a bullet had found its way into the stack of plastic explosives. The bricks had dispersed the bullet’s force, so it hadn’t penetrated his skin.
Jack raced down the access lane and onto the main road, knowing that they would give chase. He hurtled down the road for almost a mile before he found a good blind turn in the road, traveled past it, then turned and stopped in the middle of the road. He took Barny’s cell phone out of his pocket. He flipped it open and pressed the menu buttons until a list of recent calls appeared. Two numbers appeared, one after the other, over and over again, and Jack knew that they were dry runs for the receivers attached to the detonators.
Just then, Dean and his bikers came roaring around the corner, not a hundred yards away. They saw Jack, and Dean’s eyes lit up brighter than the early morning sun. Jack highlighted one of the two numbers and pressed send.
Nothing happened. Dean was now fifty yards away.
Jack scrolled down to the other number, held up the phone as though it were a talisman, and pressed send again.
It took a microsecond for the signal to flash from the phone to the nearest cell site to the receiver. When that fraction of a second ticked away, Dean and his bikers vanished inside a ball of fire.
6:30 A.M. PST St. Monica’s Cathedral, Downtown Los Angeles
“…after last night’s disturbances, Your Holiness,” said Cardinal Walesa, “I don’t see how we can possibly continue.”
Walesa was speaking in Polish, and John Paul answered him in kind. “All the more reason, Your Eminence, all the more reason.” In truth, John Paul was somewhat rattled by the violence that had rocked the cathedral all evening, but he refused to let it show.
He was sitting in the front room of his bedchamber, surrounded by his closest advisors. Cardinal Mulrooney was also there. It was Mulrooney who spoke next.
“Your Holiness,” he said in delicate English, “I can only guess what His Eminence has said, but I suspect he’s urging you to postpone the Unity Conference. I am afraid I must agree.”
“Postpone, yes!” Walesa said, seizing on the word. “Postpone but not cancel. That is the word for it.”
Cardinal Rausch from Germany, an old and dear friend from John Paul’s days as a cardinal, put his own hand over the Pope’s. “It might be best, Your Holiness. No one would question the reason. The media would be sympathetic.”
John Paul looked for help from an unlikely source — Father Martino, his press secretary. As a calculating politician, John Paul had made use of Martino many times, but he did not have much affection for the man. Now, however, he thought Martino might come in useful once again. “Father Martino, what are your thoughts?”
Martino, perennially out of favor, was surprised to be consulted. He looked wide-eyed from cardinal to cardinal before stammering, “Well, Your — Your Holiness, on the one hand, His Eminence Cardinal Rausch is correct. The media would write a sympathetic story—”
“There!” Rausch said, patting John Paul’s wrist. “You see?”
“—but, on the other hand,” Martino continued, “on the other hand, the Holy Father has made a great effort, in many public statements, to define the importance of this first Unity Conference. If… if he were to stay, despite recent events, the media would talk about it for days. It would be a media coup.”
The small congregation of cardinals murmured disapprovingly, and a few scoffed openly. Rausch turned pink. “These aren’t ‘recent events.’ We’re talking about murder! Right here!”
“But the conference will not be here,” John Paul said firmly. “And murders take place every day, all around the world, in the name of religion. We must not be deterred.”
He dismissed them with a nod. Only when they were gone did Giancarlo materialize out of the shadows. “Your thoughts, Giancarlo?”
The capable protector deliberated a moment. “My thoughts are always for your safety, Holy Father. My advice is obvious.”
“And yet we cannot always do God’s work and be safe.” Giancarlo shrugged. “The cardinals agree with me.” John Paul waved his words away. “Rausch is too
good a friend. His fear is for the flesh, when his mind should be on the church’s mission. Mulrooney never supported the conference. Wait for me a moment, Giancarlo.”
The Pope was too old to kneel comfortably, so in private he would pray in a comfortable chair. He did so now. His eyes closed gently, but the lids and lashes flickered ever so slightly like the tiny flashes of electricity pulsing in a radio. The security man was sure that the Holy Father was receiving some signal from heaven. Giancarlo had watched this many times. In these moments, the old Pope seemed both intimately vulnerable and utterly intangible, a holy relic that could not be harmed. Giancarlo, however, knew that was not true.
The old man sat there for more than a moment. Several minutes passed, but Giancarlo did not move. Though he felt like a traitor, he prayed that the Pope would open his eyes and decide to postpone the Unity Conference. Neither he nor the police could find any connection between the violence at St. Monica’s and the Pope himself, but the murder was far too close to home for his own comfort. The prudent thing was to return immediately to the Vatican, where all the power of the church was assembled to protect the Holy Father.
Five minutes passed, then ten. Giancarlo stood, motionless. In his early years, in moments like these, he had said Ave Marias. Lately, though, he had taken to repeating to himself the poem “On His Blindness” by John Milton (even if Milton was a Protestant). It ended with the line, “They also serve who only stand and wait.”
Finally, the Pope’s eyes opened slowly and peacefully. He looked at Giancarlo with his keen eyes. “I will go forward, Giancarlo. If some violence should occur, will you be there for me?”
Giancarlo’s expression, like his faith, never wavered.
&nbs
p; 14. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 7 A.M. AND 8 A.M. PACIFIC STANDARD TIME
7:00 A.M. PST Los Angeles Department of Coroner Forensic Sciences Lab
Harry had been down Mission Road, where the coroner’s office was located, many times during his career. But there was something creepy about this trip, because he didn’t usually follow right behind the bodies. He felt like a scavenger circling a carcass.
But he couldn’t help it. As if being shot at wasn’t enough motivation, Harry was obsessed with the driver’s last words: Get the body!
What kind of assassins shot you up and then wanted to keep the remains? What was it about the body? Something telltale about the rounds? No, there were plenty of rounds in and around Harry’s car, which now looked like Swiss cheese. To make sure he was dead? Probably not. Get the body already assumed Collins was dead.
It had to be evidence. The killers assumed that Collins was in possession of something incriminating and they wanted it. If that was true, then this case was turning into something much larger than a widespread child abuse ring. Whoever was involved was willing to kill to keep their secrets.
Harry’s driver — a uniform who’d offered to give him a lift, thinking he was heading toward Parker Center — pulled into 1104 North Mission and stared white-faced at the building that housed the city’s dead.
“You think they order lunch in?” the uniform said. “Who’d deliver?” “They get plenty of deliveries,” Harry said as he got out.
He showed his badge to the clerk at the front desk and waited until a coroner’s assistant came out. In a city the size of Los Angeles, the coroner’s office was open twenty-four hours a day, but even they had their off-peak hours. The man who appeared was young, with big curly hair that had been fashionable when Harry was this kid’s age. The coroner looked sleepy, and was obviously just finishing the night shift.
“You’re the detective?” he asked lazily. “Driscoll,” Harry said, flashing his badge. “I’m on the case with a body being delivered right now.” “Jason Keane,” said the other. “Can we help with something? I mean, besides the obvious.” “I just want to have that body examined as soon as possible. Like, immediately,” Harry underscored, a little dubious of the mop-headed kid’s attention span. “Can you start now?”
Keane shook his head. “I’m not the guy. Just the assistant. The coroner left early because it was slow.”
“And the morning guy—”
“Called in late,” Keane said. “’S why I’m stuck here at almost quarter after.”
Driscoll frowned. “Sounds like government work to me. Who’s his supervisor?”
7:13 A.M. PST Culver City
Marwan al-Hassan had finished the morning salaat and was sipping tea in his brother’s breakfast nook. His left arm hurt, but he didn’t care. The day he had committed himself to was now at hand, by the will of Allah. Not only would the pain in his arm vanish, but he would be gathered into paradise. And he would strike a blow against the infidels. Such a blow! Perhaps not the greatest blow, but a decisive one, like the stab of a dagger that leaves no great hole, but penetrates deep.
Yasin had explained to him the importance of the blow, especially to deal it here, on American soil. The fear it would cause, the chasms it would create between their enemies, would be significant. Marwan would be a hero, and his name would be praised.
Marwan decided to make another cup of tea.
7:16 A.M. PST CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles
Jack hadn’t felt this tired in a long time. There was a part of him that wanted to be pissed off at Christopher Henderson, or Ryan Chappelle, or both, for not providing him the backup he needed up at Castaic. Where had the surveillance been? Where was the cavalry?
These were legitimate questions, but Jack knew the answers would not satisfy him. CTU was an infant, disorganized, with unclear lines of communication. When Jack had gone after Dog Smithies, it had been with the help of Harry Driscoll and the LAPD. The Dean thing had been done strictly through CTU, and CTU definitely did not have its act together yet.
But Jack was too tired to chew anyone out, so when he staggered in the door and saw Christopher Henderson, he just shook his head reproachfully and took a seat in the conference room. He didn’t know if there was going to be a debrief and he didn’t care. He hadn’t slept in a while, and since yesterday evening he had nearly been blown up twice and shot at twice. The phrase “third time’s a charm” drifted through his mind in a very unsettling way.
There was some activity around Jack while he sat. Someone put a bagel and some coffee in front of him. Jamey Farrell had taken charge of the stack of C–4 and was examining it. Christopher Henderson was on the phone with the Santa Clarita police and the
L.A. Sheriff, talking through the firefight and explosion that had left more than a half-dozen people dead near Castaic Dam.
Jack had lost his cell phone, so he dialed home from one of CTU’s landlines. Teri answered on the first ring.
“Jack?” she asked worriedly.
“Hi, it’s me,” he said.
“Were you home at all last night?” Teri said. “Or did you leave early?”
“Not home. I’m sorry,” he said. Hearing Teri’s voice was like a tonic that relaxed his muscles. But the effect was not beneficent. As he relaxed, his guard dropped, and the fatigue seemed to sink into the marrow of his bones. “You wouldn’t believe the night I’ve had. It was like being in Delta again.”
“I thought that kind of night ended with Delta,” she replied. The reproach in her voice made Jack wince. “Is it over now?”
In his mind’s eye, Jack saw Dean engulfed in a fireball. “Should be.”
“Do you want to come home and have breakfast?”
Food, Jack thought. Food sounds good. How long’s it been since I’ve eaten anything? “I’ll be right there.”
7:29 A.M. PST Los Angeles Department of Coroner Forensic Sciences Lab
Driscoll listened to the woman on the phone talking. “…I’m not annoyed at the early hour, Detective Driscoll. I’m annoyed that you won’t listen to the facts.”
“I’ve listened to your facts, ma’am,” Driscoll argued into the receiver. “You won’t listen to mine.”
“You don’t have any,” the woman said gently.
Driscoll had to admit that he was most annoyed at her calm and rationality. She — her name was Patricia Siegman — was clearly accustomed to dealing with anxious investigators eager to receive data on their cases. She was currently handling Harry with an aplomb he would have admired, if only she were using it on someone else.
“You have a witness who was shot. I understand that, but something like sixty percent of the criminal forensics we conduct are shootings. We have a backlog, and I have two coroners out.”
“But this is important—” “—and I’ll get to it today, Detective. I’ll get to it by noon. I can’t do any better than that.”
Driscoll checked his watch. She was doing him a favor, he knew. A five-hour turnaround was ridiculously efficient. But somehow it wasn’t enough for him. Get the body! The phrase haunted him, and maybe it was just his time around Jack Bauer, but he had a gut feeling that the explanation for that phrase was urgent.
7:33 A.M. PST CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles
Jamey Farrell hadn’t performed integral calculus since college, but she found herself dusting off her equations as she measured the bricks of C–4 that Jack Bauer had brought in. As soon as she’d measured the bricks, she took their average and scribbled it on a sheet of scratch paper.
Then she went down to the closet that currently passed as CTU’s evidence locker. The crate they’d confiscated from Sweetzer Avenue was easy to find— it was just about the only item in the closet. Huffing and griping to herself, Jamey loaded it onto a small mover’s cart and pushed it back up to the computer bay she’d commandeered as a work space. The crate still contained the C–4 they’d found. Looking at the real deal, Jamey was struck by how obvious it was that s
ome of the plastic explosive had been missing. In real life the box looked much emptier than it had on video. Just eyeballing the crate told her that one could fit much more C–4 inside.
She frowned but continued working. Her next job would be to measure the volume of the C–4 Bauer had brought in, and then estimate how much (if any) was missing. She had a sinking feeling that no one was going to like the answer she came up with.
7:46 A.M. PST Bauer Residence
Jack pulled into his own driveway and parked his car. He flipped down the vanity mirror and took a good look at himself. He’d splashed water on his face at CTU, but he still looked dirty, sweaty, and bruised. There were circles under his eyes the size of gym bags.
I should have taken more time, he thought. Cleaned up more. Borrowed a shirt. This will be a conversation.
Jack didn’t relish the idea of keeping secrets from Teri. Given free rein, he’d have explained to her every cut and bruise. But much of the information about his job was classified, and though he told her everything he could, the result still left holes, and those holes became gaps in their relationship. Better to come home clean and happy, and avoid the need for stories altogether.
He walked in the door and entered a world entirely disconnected from the last few hours. In this world, bacon sizzled on a frying pan, channel four was broadcasting local news and traffic alerts, and Teri Bauer was trying to get Kim out of the bathroom.
“It’s not that bad, Kimmy. Just come on!” She smiled at Jack as she saw him, then rolled her eyes, pointed to her chin, and mouthed the word pimple.
“It’s huge!” Kim Bauer wailed from behind the bathroom door. “It’s a volcano.”
“It’s stress,” Teri said. “Last night was tough on everyone because of Aaron. Let me put some cover-up on it.”
There was a pause, followed by a soft click as Kim unlocked the bathroom door. Teri threw her arms around Jack, kissed him, and said, “Eggs on the table. Teen crisis in the bathroom.” She paused. “Did you know about Aaron Biehn?”
