“Charlie quit,” insisted the wife. “Like you coulda stopped him!”
“Why?” said Yolkin, the gun never wavering. “Why did he leave tonight?”
Roker paused, wrong-footed by the question. “I … I dunno. He got a call. Talking to some guy. Next thing I know he tells me to go screw myself…” The man licked his lips. “Look, buddy, you got a beef with him, that’s nothing to do with me. Right now, I don’t give a shit about what happens to that son of a bitch.”
“Where is Jack Bauer?” Yolkin didn’t think that Roker knew the target, but he threw the name out there anyway, just to fish for a reaction. Both husband and wife didn’t show any sign of recognition, but he would have to be sure.
“Never heard of him.”
He nodded, reached into a different pocket and produced a digital recorder, placing it on the kitchen table, switching it on. “I want you to tell me everything you know about Charles … Charlie Williams. Begin now.” Yolkin gestured with the gun again. “Or I will kill you both.”
As it was, the threat was hardly necessary. Roker was almost falling over himself to spill out every last detail he could dredge up about the man. Along with the study of the apartment where Williams lived and its contents, now with Roker’s effusive descriptions Yolkin was building a picture of Jack Bauer’s apparent accomplice. Ex-military or former law enforcement, he suspected. A comrade-in-arms. That fit the kind of profile the SVR had on Bauer. He was a man who valued loyalty. In dire straits, he would be more likely to reach out to those he respected rather than those whose silence he could buy.
Around twenty minutes had elapsed by the time Roker ran out of things to tell him. Yolkin got up and nodded. “That is all?”
“That’s all,” Roker replied. His body language had altered, and now he seemed to be almost conversational with his captor, as if they were on an equal footing. “Listen, buddy, if you see my car while you’re looking for this dick, let me know. There’d be a finder’s fee.”
“You are certain that is all you know about Williams?”
Roker’s smile faded. “What the hell did I just say? Yeah! That’s all I know.”
“You understand I have to be certain. I have to motivate you, in case you are withholding something.” Yolkin turned and shot Roker’s wife in the thigh.
She shrieked and collapsed to the tiled floor, blood gushing from a ragged wound. Roker dove after her, his face white with shock.
“Keep pressure on the wound,” Yolkin instructed calmly. “She will bleed out in a few minutes if you do not do so.”
“Motherfu—!”
Yolkin silenced him with a look. “Is what you have told me really all that you know? Think carefully.”
“Oh god. Barbara, oh no.” Roker began to cry. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”
“If Williams needed to get away, where would he go? Who would he talk to? If he had to disappear, what would he do?”
“I … I don’t…” Roker hesitated, and Yolkin saw the fractional glimmer of a thought forming in the man’s wide, fearful eyes.
“Tell me,” he prompted. “She will die if you do not.”
“Matlow!” bleated Roker. “Hex Matlow, that pencil neck hacker … Charlie knows him. He’s a smartass … He could, I dunno, help…” He looked down at his hands. “There’s so much blood.…”
There was an expensive smartphone sitting on the kitchen table and Yolkin snatched it up. “This is yours? Matlow’s contact information is on here?”
“Y-yes,” Roker managed. “Please! I don’t know anything else about Charlie Williams!” His words became an anguished shout.
The Russian considered the reply for a moment. “I had to make sure. Yes. I have it all.” He raised the pistol again.
The next bullet went through Barbara Roker’s forehead, killing her instantly. The two shots after that struck Big Mike in the throat and the chest respectively. He would take a little longer to die.
Yolkin switched off the digital recorder and recovered it and the American’s smartphone, before he paused to carefully gather up the spent bullet casings from his weapon.
As he walked back to his car, he dialed an encrypted number. “I have something,” he said.
* * *
“How d’you wanna play this?” said Chase, as they crossed the parking lot toward the Apache Motel’s front office. Then he frowned and shook his head. “Wait. Why am I asking? Your usual approach?”
“What’s that?” Laurel was trailing behind them, eyeing every shadow, trying not to show she was afraid.
Jack glanced over his shoulder at her. “You should stay in the room.”
“No way,” she insisted.
He considered making his suggestion into something more forceful. Having a civilian in the mix could get in the way of what Jack had planned, but then there was something in Laurel’s eyes that told him she was no stranger to blood and violence. She didn’t seem like the squeamish type … and her insight could prove valuable. For now, Jack decided to let her stay close at hand.
He glanced back at Chase. “We need more intel before we make a move.”
The other man nodded. “Copy that.”
Jack had conducted many interrogations in his time, and been the subject of them more often than he wanted to recall. They were a game, in their own way, a contest of willpower—and the sordid truth was that in the end, everyone broke. No one could hold out indefinitely, not even someone with Jack’s steely self-control. Eventually, you would falter … The only variable in play was how long you could delay that terrible moment of surrender. You could never really win; you could only endure.
Having too often been on the wrong side, Jack had gained a unique insight into the power play required to draw out intel from an unwilling subject. He was good at it.
If this had been a CTU assignment, Jack would have planned it down to the very last detail. The target would be isolated, maybe taken in transit, or more typically, secured from a surveilled location by a snatch-and-grab team. A specialized mobile unit would be on station to act as an interview site if needed, that or the target would be rendered unconscious and taken to a secure “blind room” at the nearest CTU substation. There, a hostile interrogation would commence, with a full medical and technical support staff on standby. Every answer would be scrutinized and sifted for detail, searching out falsehoods and weaknesses with voice-stress analyzers, thermal imagers and pulse monitors.
But right here, right now, Jack had none of those resources to call upon. There was only the hard-won experience that he and Chase shared.
Years ago, as field agents for CTU Los Angeles, the two men had developed a working shorthand that bordered on the uncanny; their rate for mission success had been among the best that Division had ever seen. Jack had never really considered himself to be a team player, and for the longest time he had resisted taking on anyone that could be considered a “partner.” But Chase Edmunds had quietly impressed him with his skills and his tenacity, and for a while the younger man had become a trusted brother-in-arms. They saved each other’s lives several times over, and Jack knew the value of having someone to cover his back when the bullets started flying. The people he truly trusted to do that could be counted on the fingers of one hand.
But that had been a long time ago. A lot had changed, not just between the two men, but also in their personal circumstances. Even from a cursory look, Jack could see that Chase had lost something along the way, that some vital spark in him had been put out … or was it just that it had been hidden away? At once, he knew that this Chase Edmunds both was and was not the man he had known years before. Still, he couldn’t deny that it felt right to be working with him again. This was what they were best at, and it didn’t matter if they were under the aegis of the Counter Terrorist Unit or just stepping up to take a stand against something. He didn’t need to ask Chase if he felt the same way. He knew it.
“Follow my lead,” said Jack, as he pushed open the glass door and entered t
he narrow reception. Like everything else in the motel, it was decorated in fake-wood veneer, with the added bonus of a few drab Western-style paintings hanging on the walls. A radio was playing a bass-heavy track distorted by cheap speakers and poor reception.
Behind the front desk, the manager bolted upright with a start, dropping the glossy magazine he had been poring over. “Yeah?” He blinked.
Jack leaned across the desk and found a line of switches that controlled the flickering neon lights outside. He flipped the switch that turned on the NO VACANCIES sign and gave the man a level look. “We need a little local information.”
“Dino” blinked and glared at Jack, then at Chase, as he entered the office behind him. “What do I look like, a tour guide?” He grimaced and stood up, squaring off. “You girls wanna have your fun together up there, go ahead. I don’t judge. But keep outta my way…” He drifted off as Laurel came in, and a leer automatically snapped into place on his face.
The girl indicated Jack and Chase. “I don’t think they got that kinda relationship, pal.”
Dino’s smile melted away. “Triple occupancy, that’ll cost you extra.”
“Who are you working for?” said Jack, and he pushed through the waist-high door that marked the line between the inner and outer areas of the front office.
“Hey! You don’t get to come in here, asshole!” Dino grabbed for the handle of a dented aluminum baseball bat concealed down the side of the desk. “I’ll mess you up, you and your pal!”
Jack struck out and punched the man hard in the chest. Wheezing, he staggered toward a door and Jack propelled him back. The door banged open under Dino’s weight and he stumbled through. Beyond was a grimy apartment stinking of stale cigarettes, little larger than the motel rooms, with an open kitchen area and a wall dominated by a wide-screen TV. Jack shoved Dino into a threadbare recliner and pulled Brodur’s butterfly knife from inside his coat. Dino’s eyes widened at the sight of the blade’s wicked edge as Jack flicked it open.
“You better answer him.” Chase filed in with Laurel, closing the door.
“I’ll ask you again,” said Jack. “Who are you working for?”
Dino tried to recover some shred of defiance. “Man, screw you!”
Jack held the knife in his fist and pressed the tip of it into Dino’s knee joint. The big man cried out and twitched. “Who pays you?” Jack demanded.
“The MC!” Dino grated, shaking, trying to shrink away. “The bikers pay everyone to look the other way, everyone still dumb enough or screwed enough to be stuck here!” He shook his head. “You cops? Rydell’s boys will chew you up and spit you out, count on it!”
“Who’s Rydell?” said Chase. “He in charge?”
“Top dog. Night Rangers Original is who he is,” Dino spat back. He snorted with derision. “Nah, you ain’t cops. Lookit, you’re clueless! You got no idea where you are or what shit you just stepped in, pal.” He attempted to straighten up. “You oughta run while you still can.”
“Where’s the bus?” said Laurel, her tone sharp and hard. “C’mon, needle-dick! Where the hell are Trish and all the others?”
“Answer her,” said Jack.
“I don’t have to say nothin’ to you,” he replied. “You can’t touch me. I work for the MC, I’m protected. Get it?”
Jack nodded. “Yeah. I get it.” Then he put a gloved hand over Dino’s mouth and pushed the blade into his knee, deep enough to scrape bone.
The man howled and wept, and Chase smelled the ammonia stink of urine.
“Ah, he pissed himself!” said Laurel, recoiling. “Jeez.”
“That’ll happen,” Chase said with a wan nod.
Dino rocked forward. “Why…” He whimpered. “Why you picking on me, man? I’m … I’m an American, I got rights. You can’t torture me like some … bin Laden asshole…”
“I know what you are.” Jack flipped back Dino’s head. “Anyone with a spine would be long gone from here, but not you. You like it, don’t you?” He leaned closer. “How does it work? The bikers who want some privacy come over here with the girls?” He nodded toward the office. “You keep the radio up loud so you don’t have to listen to them getting smacked around? You clean up for the MC when they get too rough?”
“I don’t make the rules!” Dino shot back, gasping for breath. “They’re just hookers, man! Just trash!”
“No,” Laurel spat. “No, we’re not!” The woman tried to push her way forward, but Chase blocked her. “Get out of my way,” she told him. “Gimme that knife, I’m gonna jam it up his ass!”
“You don’t have any friends in this room,” Jack said coldly. “The only thing that’s going to change the amount of pain you go through is what you tell me right now.”
The man sagged, shrinking away from the bloodstained blade. “What … do you want? Just keep away from me…”
“Where did they take Trish … the girls?” said Laurel through gritted teeth.
“The … Crankcase.” His breathing was labored. “Pretty ones, anyway. Some get sold on sometimes, I dunno. Nothing to do with me. They don’t let me in there no more, not after…” He trailed off. “Rydell said so.”
“It’s not just a strip club for horny truckers, it’s a brothel,” said Chase.
Dino nodded. “S’right…”
“What about the rest?” Jack held the knife in front of the man’s face. “The workers? What happens to them?”
“Fort Blake. The old army base south of town. They bus ’em out there.” He shook his head. “People keep away. Anyone who goes lookin’ never comes back.” Dino licked his lips. “Okay, I talked. Lemme go.”
Chase was about to say how bad an idea that was, but before he could speak Dino made a sudden break for it, lurching forward, up and out of the recliner. He made a ham-fisted grab for Jack, who caught him easily. He cracked him hard across the temple with the metal handle of the butterfly knife. The paunchy man twitched and collapsed back into the chair, robbed of consciousness.
Laurel broke the silence that followed. “You two have done this kind of thing before, haven’t you?”
“We’ve got what we needed,” said Jack. “Help me secure him.”
* * *
They drove slowly down the main street, passing the Crankcase on their left. The strip club had once been a big garage, but that had been a long time ago. In the intervening years, someone had gutted it and walled up the roller doors, put in a few glass bricks in lieu of windows and installed more garish neon. A floodlit sign outside bearing the silhouette of a shapely woman sprawled across an engine block promised all kinds of special, illicit treats, and by the gathering of motorcycles lined up on the sidewalk, it was popular. The strains of a loud Southern rock soundtrack blared out of the entrance doors as they flapped open to release a worse-for-wear truck driver nursing a bloody nose.
“Classy,” said Chase, watching the man stagger into a nearby alley. “And real friendly too, I’ll bet.”
Jack scoped out the design of the building, looking for other egress locations, gauging escape routes and possible choke points. The Crankcase was a two-story construction, the upper level just about visible in the gaps between the neon letters that spelled out the name of the strip club. Gaining entry wouldn’t be the hard part, he reflected. Getting out in one piece would be the challenge.
He turned the Chrysler away and parked it in a side street across the road. “Back entrance will be guarded,” Jack said. “Too risky to try that. We’ll go in the front way.”
“So, we’re doing this, then?” Chase replied, his jaw set. “Do I get a say?”
“I don’t know, do you?” Jack checked his pistol.
“You wanna walk into thug central with no plan, no gear and no backup?”
“I have a plan,” Jack replied, pulling back the Springfield’s slide to make sure a round was already chambered. He nodded at the black bag sitting next to Laurel in the backseat. “I have gear.” Then he looked at Chase. “I have backup.”
“I haven’t been part of that for a long time, Chase. And neither have you.”
The other man paused. “Fair point.”
Jack turned to look at Laurel. “Still got that revolver?”
“Yeah,” she said warily.
“Don’t use it unless you have to.” He handed her the car keys. “If things go wrong, take this and head for the interstate. Keep driving and don’t stop until you reach a city.”
“How am I gonna know if things go wrong?”
“Something will catch fire,” Chase offered. “Or explode.”
“Stay out of sight,” Jack told her, and got out of the car.
Chase fell into step with him as they walked back toward the Crankcase. “So. That plan you got?”
“Remember the Memphis thing?”
“Huh.” Chase straightened his jacket and the gun hidden beneath it. “Memphis was a screwup from start to finish.” It had been the last assignment they had partnered on before the whole undercover operation with the Salazar cartel.
Jack nodded. “Agreed. My thinking is, this time we won’t make the same mistakes.”
“Just new ones.” Chase held out a hand to halt him. “Jack. Stop for a second. Are we really going to do this? We came to Deadline for a reason, and that reason doesn’t get here for hours yet. We start making noise, stirring up the locals, we won’t live long enough to make that train.” He shook his head. “You’re risking a good plan on the fallout from some random act—”
“Get to the point,” Jack grated, his patience waning.
Chase took a breath. “You came to me out of the blue, you asked me to help you get back to Kim. I’ll do that. I owe you that. But this?” He gestured toward the strip club. “It’s not on us. If you want, when we get to LA we can get the word out to someone who can deal with it, but not you and me, not right now.” The other man’s voice dropped to a whisper. “If you need to prove something, this isn’t the way to do it.”
“Is that what you think?” Jack glared at him, keeping his temper in check. “We haven’t seen each other in a long while, Chase, but you know me. Do you think I’ve changed?”
24: Deadline (24 Series) Page 16
