24 Declassified: 07 - Storm Force

by David S. Jacobs

  "I will speak on this matter on my very next program, Minister Fedallah."

  Fedallah's gaze encompassed all eleven members seated at the table. He said, "Traitors and usurpers are everywhere, always seeking to exploit the thorny issues of the day to their own benefit. Yet in the end, their machinations and infamies shall yield them only... a mouthful of sand."

  4

  THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 8 A.M. AND 9 A.M. CENTRAL DAYLIGHT TIME

  An hour can make a world of difference.

  Earlier, when Jack Bauer had jumped in the SUV and gone cruising in search of Vikki Valence or Colonel Paz, the scene he'd left behind at the Golden Pole had been one of bleak and forlorn stillness.

  Except for the corpses cluttering Fairview Street and the presence of Pete Malo and a scattering of civilian early risers, the area had seemed deserted and abandoned. It had an eerie quality, like the bare stage of a theater after the performance has ended and the audience and players have all gone home.

  Even Bourbon Street was bereft of all but a few lone vehicles rolling up and down the thoroughfare. Not only had the police not yet arrived, but the quietude of the dawn was unbroken by the sound of approaching sirens of patrol cars and emergency vehicles.

  Now, little more than sixty minutes later, the scene had taken on an entirely different aspect. New Orleans had come awake and alive, to discover that the day had begun with a spectacular massacre.

  The Golden Pole shootings had plenty of coverage now. The site was not only a crime scene; it was the center of a national security investigation with international implications.

  The area was a hive of activity, swarming with police, press, and public officials.

  A cordon had been thrown up around it, a blockade consisting of several concentric rings of barriers that grew tighter the closer one approached the center.

  The outermost ring was made up of uniformed police who detoured unauthorized vehicles away from a cluster of several city blocks surrounding the club building.

  The detour had created a traffic jam of impressive proportions, with noise to match.

  A racketing clamor was compounded of honking car and truck horns, angry shouts of frustrated drivers, barked commands of traffic cops, the rumble of idling engines, the hiss of overheated car radiators, and the electronic wheep-beeping of police and emergency vehicles trying to make headway against the thicket of creeping masses of metal.

  The heavy, humid air was now flavored with exhaust clouds from the vehicles stuck in the jam. No breath of wind stirred to disperse them; their blue-gray haze fogged the area, making eyes tear and throats burn.

  Returning to the scene, Jack had wisely decided to avoid the jam, parking the SUV on a quiet side street well outside the area of congestion. It was strategically placed to make a quick getaway in the event he had to move fast to follow up a hot lead. He only hoped he would be so lucky.

  He made his way inward on foot, wearing his CTU photo ID card on a lanyard around his neck, flashing it when needed to pass through the phalanx of cops cordoning off the area.

  The square fronted by the Golden Pole was sealed off by a line of wooden sawhorse barricades stenciled with the letters NOPD: New Orleans Police Department. The barrier held back a crowd of gawkers, sensation seekers, and the morbidly curious.

  The club building was the bull's-eye at the center of concentric rings of security barriers and checkpoints. Within the police lines, there was that combination of bustling energy and hurry-up-and-wait delay characteristic of the official response to a major disaster or other catastrophe.

  Police and emergency vehicles flashed their rooftop light racks, the colorful sparking of blue and red lights adding an oddly festive note to the proceedings.

  Two-way radios filled the air with garbled voice messages and crackling static.

  Groups of plainclothes detectives and crime lab techs milled around with purposeful activity. Supervisors and senior investigators moved among the forensics teams, coordinating their efforts.

  Forensics and criminality teams did their thing. Police photographers took still photos and video records of the carnage on Fairview Street, picturing the battle zone from all angles. Weapons were collected, identified with the investigator's personal mark, labeled, and sealed into evidence bags. Shell casings received similar treatment.

  Diagrams were made of where shell casings had fallen; the brass shells were then collected, identified with the investigator's personal mark, labeled, and sealed into clear plastic envelopes. Chalk outlines were drawn around the bodies.

  The paramedics alone were at loose ends. There were no wounded requiring medical attention.

  The dead were bagged, tagged, and carted away.

  * * *

  Jack scanned the scene, looking for Pete Malo, spotting him standing on the sidewalk outside the Golden Pole's front entrance. Pete saw him at the same time and gave him the high sign, signaling him to come over. Jack slipped through the crowd, joining him.

  Pete was not the demonstrative type, but there was about him an air of barely contained excitement. He motioned to Jack to step aside, out of the human traffic flow, into an alcove to one side of the club's front entrance.

  He said, "Any sign of Vikki or Paz?"

  Jack shook his head. "Not a trace. Not that I really expected to find anything. It was a long shot, but one I had to take. If I hadn't, I'd be kicking myself in the butt, wondering what would have happened if I had, if maybe I would have let the chance of catching them slip through my fingers."

  "Trying to take back the initiative."

  "You could say that, Pete. I take it that they're both still among the missing."

  Pete nodded. "That's right. But all is not lost. There's been a few interesting developments since you left."

  Jack felt the excitement rising in him. "You've got something?"

  "A lead, a definite lead on one of the shooters."

  "Ah. That's great, Pete. Which one?"

  "The guy riding shotgun in the truck."

  "Who is he?"

  "I'll let you hear it from the horse's mouth. Come on."

  "Where are we going?"

  "Inside the club. There's someone I want you to meet. Two someones, actually."

  "Who are they?"

  "Cops." Seeing Jack's lackluster expression, Pete added quickly, "Not just any cops. These guys are something else. Two of the crookedest cops in New Orleans, if not the planet."

  "Sounds promising."

  "I have to warn you. They're a couple of characters who look like they just fell off the turnip truck, but don't let that fool you. They get results, and what they don't know about the local crime scene isn't worth telling."

  "I'm all ears. Let's go."

  "They're minding a couple of witnesses inside. The club manager and a couple of dancers who worked with Vikki."

  "Lead on."

  * * *

  The CTU agents crossed to the front entrance of the Golden Pole. The door was guarded by a uniformed police officer, who nodded in recognition when he saw Pete. He lifted a hand in greeting. "Hey, Pete."

  "Hey, Randy Joe," Pete replied.

  The cop stepped aside to allow Pete to enter. Pete went in, Jack following. Jack held the ID card worn around his neck, tilting it so the cop could get a look at it. The patrolman barely glanced at it, waving Jack through.

  Inside, the space was dim, cavelike, and coolly air-conditioned. The building was a rectangle whose short end fronted Bourbon Street and whose long sides met it at right angles. The long walls were made of rough, unpainted brick and were lined with tables and chairs. What few windows there were, were painted over with black paint.

  The centerline of the space was dominated by a U-shaped wooden bar whose open end was at the rear of the structure. The open space inside the U was where the bartenders worked. The inner wall was lined with stainless steel sinks and coolers.

  Opposite the twin ends at the top of the U was a stage platform le
vel with the wooden bar top.

  The stage featured a row of three gold-painted, vertical firemen's poles for dancers, the golden poles for which the place was named. The stage was at the same height as the bar top, so the dancers could step across on to the bar top and use it as a runway, allowing them to mingle with the drinking crowd lining the outer wall of the bar. They could work close with the clientele and pry loose better tip money from them with more personalized attentions.

  Hinged half doors at the tops of the U allowed for entry and exit to the bartenders' area. Near the stage, a passageway led off into a couple of back rooms, where patrons could hire themselves some "private dances" (or whatever).

  Bar stools lined the outer side of the U. The club was closed now and the stools were empty, or mostly empty. A handful of them down at the bottom of the U were occupied by two women and a fat man. They were bracketed by a man who looked like a retiree and was dressed in green, and a long, tall fellow with a mournful face.

  A muscleman in a tight white T-shirt and white jeans stood behind the bar, chatting with the others.

  Pete nudged Jack, saying out of the corner of his mouth, "The two characters bookending the group are Dooley and Buttrick, our cop friends. Try not to laugh."

  Jack said, "No worry about that. I'm not in a very humorous mood this morning."

  "This may pick up your spirits."

  The elderly man sat facing the door. When he saw Jack and Pete enter, he slid off the bar stool and went to them. He approached them at a tangent, motioning for them to meet him off to one side of the club, away from the others seated at the bar.

  Jack and Pete changed direction to meet him. Pete said, low-voiced, "That's Sergeant Dooley. Don't let that old codger act of his fool you. He's killed twenty-eight men in the line of duty. And who knows how many more, off the books."

  Jack appraised Dooley with newfound interest. He was a prematurely elderly middle-aged man with a turtle's face: hairless, wrinkled, beaky. His head seemed too heavy for his neck and hung down between stooped shoulders. It was topped by a soft fabric, light-colored fisherman's hat.

  He wore a yellow-green sport shirt, dark green golf pants, and green boat shoes.

  His pants were high-waisted and came up a potbelly to a point just below his chest. A short-barreled .38 was worn in a holster clipped to the side of his right hip.

  He said, "Hey, Pete."

  "Hey, Floyd," Pete said.

  Dooley said, "That was some mighty fancy shooting you did today."

  Pete Malo smiled, a bland smile that committed him to nothing, neither confirming nor denying, but merely acknowledging that the other had made a remark.

  He said, "Floyd, I'd like you meet an associate of mine, Jack Bauer. Jack, this is Sergeant Floyd Dooley, one of our outstanding peace officers. Not much goes down that he doesn't find out about."

  Jack and Dooley shook hands. Dooley's hand was warm and dry, with a solid grip. Jack said, "Pleased to meet you."

  "Likewise. You're the one helped Pete clean up on that killer crowd." It was not a question. Dooley held up a hand, palm out, as if to forestall any denials by the other.

  "Now, you don't have to answer or crack to nothing. It's none of my business. But that sure was some fine shooting. And I'm a man who appreciates some professional-type gun work."

  Jack didn't know what to say to that. He smiled with his lips, uncertain, a bit tentative.

  Dooley said, "You're another cloak-and-dagger fellow like Pete, eh?"

  Jack glanced at Pete, who nodded yes.

  "You could say that," Jack allowed.

  "I could but I won't, at least not in public. I'm a man who knows how to keep a secret. Pete'll tell you about that. Well, now, Jack, I'm just a simple ol' New Orleans lawman, but I purely would appreciate it if you could give me some idea of what this killing and shooting in the streets is all about. 'Long as it ain't no top secret, official, and confidential material.

  "Looks like Marty Paz's got hisself into a heap of hot water this time," he added.

  Jack's face showed his surprise. Dooley chuckled. "Didn't think that an old backcountry cop like me has the lowdown on the Colonel from Caracas, huh? Let me clue you in on something, Jack. Marty Paz is quite well known here on Bourbon Street and in the Quarter, especially among what you might call the sporting crowd. Fancy gals, gamblers, whoremongers, that sort. Oh, he's a great favorite with that sort.

  "He plays the babes like nobody's business. A real good-time Charlie, he is, livin' the high life. Playin' the babes, throwing money around hand over fist, living it up. Folks in New Orleans like the good life, and if that includes some female companionship, ain't nobody gonna kick about it. Unless it comes up with a streetful of bodies, like it did here. That we take kind of personal.

  "Not that there's any grief about him ventilating Dixie Lee. That piece of trash's long overdue for a spot in the cemetery. It ain't right to speak ill of the dead, they say, so I'll just confine my remarks to saying, Good riddance to bad rubbish."

  Jack, puzzled, said, "Who's Dixie Lee?"

  Pete answered, "He was the passenger in the truck, the one who iced the bodyguards. I didn't know who he was myself, but Floyd identified him right off."

  "Sure 'nuff," Dooley said. "Even with all those slugs in him, all I had to do was take one look at the body to know it was him. Dixie's a bad one; he's been long overdue for a date with the coroner for twenty years now.

  "He's a graduate of Angola Prison; what with one thing and another, he's spent more'n half his life behind bars. Mean as a snake. Back shooter, robber, killer for hire. Gunrunner, mostly, but he dabbles in most anything, long as there's a dirty dollar in it. Looks like he run into the wrong gun this time, though."

  Jack said, "I'm impressed, Sergeant Dooley."

  "Floyd, son. Call me Floyd."

  "Call me Jack, Floyd. Did you recognize any of the others with him?"

  Dooley shook his head. "I took a look at each one, but I didn't know none of them from Adam. Neither did Buck. That's Buck Buttrick, my partner. I can tell you this, though: anybody that was siding with the likes of Dixie Lee needed killing, too."

  He went on, "Soon as we heard that you wanted to have a talk with the club crowd, ol' Shelb and his people, we got 'em all together where we could keep an eye on 'em. And we didn't let 'em talk about nothing but the weather and such, so they couldn't put their heads together and cook up a story.

  "What say we go over and jaw with 'em?"

  * * *

  Jack, Pete, and Dooley crossed to the group at the bar. Jack recognized the fat man as the fellow he'd held a gun on earlier, while searching the upper floor of the building looking for Vikki. Shelburne — Drake Shelburne — the club manager. "Ol' Shelb," as Dooley called him.

  The women were undoubtedly dancers; they had the look. And the build. One was a redhead, the other, a brunette.

  The fourth man must be Buck, Dooley's partner. He was a long, tall string bean of a man with a big sidearm holstered on his hip.

  Shelburne sat with his back to the front entrance, leaning forward with his forearms on the bar, resting his weight on them. He now wore a sport shirt, slacks, and sneakers with no socks. He was drinking a cold drink in a clear plastic cup, sucking it up through a straw. Sweat made circles the size of medicine balls under his arms.

  The muscular barkeep stood behind the bar, holding a white dishrag that he used every now and then to wipe a section of countertop. The females perked up, looking interested at the sight of the newcomers.

  Shelburne glanced over his shoulder at them, uninterested; recognizing Jack, he did a double-take. Some of his drink must have gone down the wrong pipe, because he started choking, coughing, and sputtering. Dooley clapped a hand in the middle of Shelburne's back, between the shoulder blades. Shelburne got control of himself.

  Wheezing, with tears running from his eyes, he said, "Sergeant Floyd, that's the man I was telling you about, the one who pulled a gun on me upstairs earlier this mor
ning!"

  "Relax, Shelb, you'll split a gut. And you got a lot of gut to split," Dooley said. He addressed his partner, the string bean with the big gun. "Buck, you know Pete here."

  "Sure," Buttrick said, nodding at Pete Malo. "Hey, Pete."

  "Hey, Buck."

  Dooley went on, "This here's Jack. He's associated with Pete. He's okay."

  Buck Buttrick was long-faced, with long, narrow, pale gray eyes; a turnip nose; and basset hound jowls. A farmer's straw hat with the sides pinned to the crown perched on his head. A faded, colorless, short-sleeved shirt hung in folds on his bony frame.

  He wore a fancy leather belt with an oversized rodeo-themed plate metal buckle and blue jeans over cowboy boots with pointed toes. Hanging down at his right hip was a chrome-plated .357 magnum revolver in a fancy holster rig. He wore it gunfighter-style, low on his bony hip, so that when his arm was held at his side, his fingertips brushed the gun butt.

  Jack and Buttrick shook hands. Buttrick's hand was sharp and bony.

  The redhead looked up from her drink and said, "I thought you was a gentleman, Floyd. Ain't you going to introduce us to your friends?"

  "I surely will," Dooley said.

  The redhead's name was Francine and the brunette's was Dorinda. Dooley introduced the newcomers simply as Jack and Pete.

  Francine's hair color was fire-engine red, straight out of a bottle. She was over thirty, sharp-eyed, with a button nose; wide, thin-lipped mouth; and a lot of (determined-looking) chin and jaw. She wore a thin, tight sleeveless shift with a thigh-high hem, and a pair of open-toed, high-heeled sandals.

  Dorinda was in her early twenties, with a heart-shaped face framed by a mane of curly black hair that spilled over creamy shoulders, reaching down to mid-back. She wore a sleeveless T-shirt with a scooped neck, short-shorts, and flat shoes like ballet slippers. She was no ballerina, not with the abundant endowments given to her by nature and enhanced by cosmetic surgery.

  The muscleman behind the bar was named Troy.