24: Deadline (24 Series)

by James Swallow

  * * *

  The bus thundered down the roadway, bouncing over every patch of rough asphalt, the sound of the laboring diesel engine a heavy droning beneath the fearful muttering and crying of the passengers. Chase put them out of his mind as he concentrated on keeping the big coach astride the center line, hoping that they wouldn’t meet something coming the other way.

  It was hard to steer, and turning the huge wheel to get it around the corners was an effort that made his shoulders ache. His bad hand slipped now and then, and he cursed, fighting to keep the vehicle from getting away from him.

  The big windshield was marked with spiderweb impacts where the bikers at the gates had tried and failed to stop them. Chase blew through the motorcycles acting as a roadblock without pause, and there had been an ugly crunching sound as one shooter—too slow to get out of the way—vanished under the old Greyhound’s front axle. Reflected on the inside of the fractured glass, Chase could see the people behind him packed tightly into the bus’s cabin, far more than the vehicle was supposed to carry. The overloaded bus translated that weight into a rumbling, shaking ride, threatening to give out at any second.

  Then ahead, he saw the black, slab-sided shadow of the deserted mega-mart building. Almost there. If they could make it to safety inside, they could figure something out, find a way to get everyone away from the predations of the outlaw bikers.

  “Hold on!” he called, applying the brakes as the bus bounced across the road and came to a juddering halt in the overgrown parking lot. Chase stood up, raising his hands as dozens of faces turned his way, questions and demands coming at him all at once. “We’re clear of the base,” he told them. “You understand that? You’re free.”

  Confusion and fear reflected back at him. It had been hard enough to convince these people to board the bus, and now they were hearing him without really believing what he was saying. They had no reason to trust him. After the lies that had brought these people to Deadline, Chase couldn’t blame them.

  “Listen,” he began again, opening the doors. “There’s another vehicle inside that building, I could use another driver … We can all get out together—”

  Chase was halfway down the stairway when a figure loomed out of the rainy darkness and grabbed a fistful of his jacket, pitching him forward and out onto the ground. Before he could react, a heavy steel-toed boot crashed into his gut and he curled up, the pain making him choke.

  He heard screaming and shouting, and suddenly there were bright lights all around. Chase shielded his eyes, blinking furiously.

  The same man he had seen leaving the derelict base a short while ago, the one who seemed to be the bikers’ pack leader, emerged from behind a line of parked motorcycles. Framed by headlamps all blazing with sodium-white light, he came over to where Chase was laying, pushing his men aside to get a better look. “Which one are you?” he demanded, then dismissed his own question. “Ah. Doesn’t matter. You ain’t from Chicago. You’re messing with my program, and that don’t get to happen.”

  “You … must be Rydell,” Chase managed.

  That got him a cold smile. “This here is my kingdom, pal. My soldiers, my subjects, you dig? And you don’t come in and start screwing with that.” He looked around. “You actually thought you’d be able to get gone with those bitches from the ’Case? And these chumps?” He pointed at the terrified faces of the people crammed onto the bus. “Stupid. That’s gonna cost you.”

  Rydell nodded at his men, and they all came in around Chase to take a shot at him.

  * * *

  Jack saw the floods of smoke churning from the burning tank garage and realized he had completed a full circuit around the edge of Fort Blake. As he raced on, he dared to look back and fired off a shot from his pistol. Despite everything, there were still riders on him, and he wondered if he would ever be able to shake them.

  But in the next second, it didn’t matter. Jack was barely past the burning remnants of the Night Rangers’ illegal manufactory when the fire inside touched off a detonation that resonated like a bomb blast. He had no way of knowing what it was—perhaps some chemical drum superheated to a temperature beyond criticality—but this massive explosion was enough to blow out the metal doors and vents along all the bunker’s sides, and bring the thick concrete roof caving inward.

  A pressure wave knocked Jack off his bike and sent him and the motorcycle spinning in different directions. He crashed back down to earth and rolled, landing hard against an overgrown sandbank, the air sucked out of his lungs.

  Burning debris was raining down all around him, and as Jack spun over, he caught sight of another bike, rider and all, sheathed in flame as the fireball caught them directly in its path. If the other bikers had been in the plume of killing heat, then they had suffered the same fate.

  He staggered back to his feet, his head pounding, and found his mount lying on its side a few feet away, wheels turning. The frame was bent, and some of the fairing was ripped away, but the Harley was a tough machine and still roadworthy.

  Searing, murderous, infernal heat beat at Jack as he pushed the bike forward, walking it until the engine caught and he scrambled back into the saddle. The scene around him resembled a snapshot of some war-torn battleground. He turned his back on it and rode on, leaving the fire to consume everything.

  * * *

  Kilner took the wheel of the beaten-up Ford, and at Hadley’s insistence, he followed the bikers back along the arrow-straight highway toward the town.

  Dell remained behind at the impromptu landing site, but Markinson had come with them, and now she sat in the backseat, checking her weapon and eyeing their outlaw escorts warily. “These guys are going to take us to Bauer and Edmunds?” Her misgivings were evident. She read the biker club’s name off the back of one of their jackets. “Night Rangers MC.… Who the hell are they?”

  “A means to an end,” Hadley said. “I’m handling this.”

  Kilner wanted to say that, no, it doesn’t look like you’re handling it at all. He was becoming more concerned by the moment that Special Agent Hadley had lost all perspective on this assignment. Still, he held his tongue. Kilner was honestly uncertain of how the man would react if he challenged him further.

  He expected to be led straight into the center of the small town, but before they could clear the outskirts of Deadline, the bikers made a turn and veered off toward a cluster of darkened structures. As they came closer, Kilner saw what looked like an abandoned warehouse and a gathering of more Night Rangers outside.

  “Is that … a bus?” Markinson peered out the window. “There’s a Greyhound bus out there. What is this?”

  She was correct. Off to one side, a passenger coach was parked with a couple of bikers standing guard around it, and Kilner saw faces pressed up against the windows. But then they were stopping, and the rider with the tattoos who had greeted them was beckoning them out of the car.

  “Stay here,” Hadley ordered, and climbed out.

  Kilner shot Markinson a look. “You heard him.”

  “He meant both of us,” she replied.

  “I know what he meant. Get up front, be ready to light out of here if anything goes wrong.” Kilner exited the car and went after Hadley, putting his hand on the butt of his holstered gun as he went.

  Hadley glared at him. “I said wait.” Behind him, a hard-faced biker was approaching. “That’s a direct order!”

  “Bureau policy. I’m your backup.”

  Hadley was going to say something else, but then from out in the distance to the west there was a low, rolling roar of detonation. Everyone tensed, and Kilner turned to see a churn of red-orange fire roll up into the air a few miles away.

  “What the hell?” The biker behind Hadley put hateful venom into the words. “Stupid mother.…” He trailed off, then sucked in a breath through gritted teeth and pointed at the lead agent. “You see that, Mr. FBI? That’s my money burning up out there! All because I am surrounded by idiots!” He glared at his men, and some of t
hem backed away.

  “Benjamin Rydell, I presume?” Hadley kept his voice level.

  “Your timing is either real bad or real good, Mr. Special Agent Hadley,” Rydell spat. “I warn you now, if that was you…” He stabbed a finger at the distant tower of fire. “Judges will have to make up new words for the crimes I will do to you and yours.”

  Hadley folded his arms, unimpressed by the warning. “I’ll tell you what’s happening here, Rydell. Jack Bauer. He’s a walking disaster area. And I’m guessing your nasty little enterprises in this town, whatever they happen to be, have gotten in his way.”

  Rydell snorted with harsh laughter. “Is that some kinda threat?”

  “No. It’s a fact. He’s a very dangerous man, like I told you on the phone. Are you only now just getting that?”

  The outlaw biker’s wolfish smirk faded. “You talked about a deal.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’ve given it some thought.” Rydell nodded toward the darkened building ahead of them, the shell of a derelict big-box store. “Come see.” He started walking, his men trailing around him.

  Hadley made to follow, but Kilner grabbed his arm. “Wait,” he said in a low voice that wouldn’t carry. “What deal? You’re not authorized for that! What did you promise this scumbag?”

  “Information on the stalled investigation that St. Louis is following on the Night Rangers MC. Details of what phones are being tapped. Names of confidential informants. Basically, enough for Rydell to go dark and slip out before his entire drug ring gets broken up.”

  Kilner couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “All that in return for, what? Bauer’s life? Are you crazy?”

  “Two things.” Hadley leaned close. “One: what I told Rydell I would give him is not what he will get,” growled the agent. “Two: if you come between me and my target, I will shoot you.”

  * * *

  Chase blinked, his right eye gummed shut with sticky blood, and rolled onto his haunches. The bikers had dragged him inside the gutted mega-mart and dumped him near the stolen van from the strip club. As he watched, unable to intervene, the biker called Sticks had taken Laurel, Trish and the other girls and made them stand in a line.

  He saw Laurel looking his way, her face pale and full of dread. “I’m sorry,” he said, at a loss for any other words.

  “It’s not your fault,” she told him. “Should have known we’d never get out of this place alive.”

  “Still time,” Chase insisted.

  “Shut up,” Sticks barked. “Both of you! Gonna answer for what you did to Sammy, punk!”

  Rydell walked in through the broken doorway, and with him were two new arrivals who were decidedly not motorcycle gangers. He knew federal agents when he saw them, just from the cut of their clothes and the way that they behaved. But the fact that they were here, now, only filled him with an even greater dread.

  “So,” the biker was saying. “This ain’t your boy Bauer?”

  The taller of the two agents shook his head, a dark-faced man with a cold cast to his gaze. “Chase Edmunds.” He said the name as a statement of fact, not like he was actually speaking to him. “You should have stayed dead.”

  “He had this on him, boss.” Sticks offered something to Rydell, and belatedly Chase realized that it was his tactical radio, stripped off him along with his vest and his guns when the bikers had beaten him down.

  “Well, now.” Rydell toyed with the handheld. “Let’s cut to the chase, then.” He grinned at his own joke and walked across to the line of women, grabbing Laurel by the wrist, pulling her aside. He put the radio in her hand. “Go ahead, sweet britches. Talk to Mr. Bauer. Find out where he’s at. Hold that radio up now, so we can all hear.”

  Laurel glanced toward Chase, taking a step toward him, then hesitating. “I … I don’t know…”

  Rydell walked over to Chase and crouched next to him. He drew a big Desert Eagle pistol from under his jacket and waved it in the woman’s direction. “You ought to encourage her, pal. ’Cause with the day I’m having, I might just blow her pretty head off if she wastes my time.”

  “She’s not part of this,” said Chase.

  “Oh, but she is,” Rydell insisted. “You and her and your pal, look at all the shit you brought to my door tonight.” He nodded toward the two agents. “The feds now? You killing my brothers, burning up my goods ain’t enough?”

  The other agent, the younger man, started forward, but the senior agent blocked his path and said something Chase didn’t hear.

  “I will kill her,” said Rydell. “For starters.”

  Chase glared at the dark-skinned man. “You’re just gonna let him do this?”

  “If I were you…” The agent made no move to intervene. “I would do as he tells you.”

  When Chase looked away, he found Laurel staring right at him. He gave a reluctant nod.

  Laurel swallowed a sob and held the radio to her mouth, squeezing the “talk” switch. “Jack? C-can you hear me?”

  * * *

  He halted the motorcycle in the lee of a shallow rise by the roadway and recovered the gear bag he had stowed there. Jack was reloading his M1911 pistol when he heard the woman’s voice on the open channel, over the low hiss of rainfall.

  “Laurel?” He glanced around, looking for any visible threats out in the grassland, and saw nothing. “Where are you?”

  “With Chase … I…” Panic overwhelmed her. “They’re here, Jack! They found us!”

  He called out her name again, but the next voice he heard was an unfamiliar one. “Jack Bauer. That’s you, right?”

  “Who is this?”

  “You been looking for me, Jack? You come into my town from outta nowhere and you start messing with my operation, you think you can get away with that?”

  “Rydell.” He frowned. The Night Rangers had been smarter than he had expected. “I’ve got some bad news for you.” Jack glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the old military base. “Your operation is now a smoking hole in the ground. Most of your men are scattered or else they’re dead.”

  There was a pause. “Lemme ask you somethin’. Did I piss you off somehow? I mean, did I screw your sister or steal your bankroll? Help me out here, Jack. Tell me why you’re running around with a grudge.”

  Jack glanced down at his watch. “It’s what I do.” The freight train was less than an hour away now. He didn’t have time for any complications. “If you’re smart, you’ll leave town right now. By dawn federal agents will be swarming all over this place, and you’ll have no way out.”

  Rydell gave a dry chuckle. “Feds, huh? That’s a worry. I tell you what, though. I got a better plan. It goes like this. I’m going to shoot you dead, and then I dust off and get back to work like you were never here.”

  “So come and get me.”

  “Naw,” Rydell drawled. “I reckon I’ll just start by putting a bullet through little blondie here. Unless you want to stop me.” In the background, he heard Laurel cry out.

  Jack tensed. “You’d kill an unarmed woman? You’re that much of a coward?”

  * * *

  Rydell gave an exaggerated shrug and looked around the interior of the derelict building. “Jack, buddy…” He pitched his voice so it would be heard by the radio, but he was really performing for his audience. “You really think I give a shit about some skank we scooped up outta the gutter? You think I give a shit about anyone not a brother?” He chuckled. “I guess you don’t think I’m a man of my word. So let me correct that.” He turned and brought up the Desert Eagle, thumbing back the hammer.

  Laurel cringed and held up her hands, as if by doing so she could stop the bullet that was going to end her life.

  Chase pulled together all the energy he still had and propelled himself up from the dirt in a sudden, headlong surge. He grabbed at Rydell and the two men came together in an ugly collision of blows, spinning and stumbling.

  Clutching at the biker’s arm with his good hand, Chase forced it
away and there was a flat bark of discharge as the heavy pistol went off. The muzzle forced aside, the wild shot keened from a metal gantry overhead. He was face-to-face with the other man, struggling with him, clawing and punching.

  Sticks and the handful of other Night Rangers had their guns drawn in seconds, but none of them were willing to risk a shot. Chase and Rydell were on each other with barely a hand’s span between them—and in truth, it was likely the charter president would be angry if any brother member robbed him of the chance to kill this man himself.

  Chase felt blows landing in his chest, his gut, and he tried to ignore them. He butted Rydell in the face and dropped a swing that slammed hard into the biker’s throat, making him spit blood. They went around and around in a staggering, violent pirouette, like a brutal parody of two dancers.

  Trapped between them was the massive frame of the Desert Eagle, the wedge-shaped muzzle yawing back and forth as each tried to keep it pointed toward the other man. Rydell shouted and pulled the trigger again, letting another thunderous shot blast a hole in the ceiling. Chase was so close, he flinched as the brass casing flicked out of the ejector port and the sting of exhaust gas raked his face. He clawed at the barrel of the gun, and his palm burned where the metal was hot from the discharge.

  Slowly, inexorably, Rydell began to take control of the duel between them. Little by little, the man was pushing the Desert Eagle’s muzzle toward Chase’s chest.

  “Just … die…” Rydell ground out the words.

  Chase swung his burned hand and hit the biker with a backward blow that made Rydell’s ears ring. In the split-second opening that gave him, he reflexively clutched at the pistol and fought to tear it from the other man’s hands.

  But he couldn’t do it. His bad arm was alight with threads of fire coursing down the length of his nerves. His fingers were dull, twitching pieces of meat. He couldn’t reach around the pistol grip, the trigger, couldn’t grab the weapon. The broken, half-dead hand that had cursed his life and cost him so much now failed once again, in the moment when Chase Edmunds needed it most.