24 Declassified: Death Angel 2d-11

by David S. Jacobs

  Jack nodded, turning his back to her and going deeper into the room. Earlier he’d turned the TV set on its counter-top stand so it faced the front of the room. It was switched off, and its dead glass eye served as a mirror so he could see what was happening behind him.

  The maid’s right hand reached into the loose cuff of her left sleeve and pulled out a long stiletto-like weapon. She lunged forward, thrusting it at Jack’s broad, unprotected back.

  Only he wasn’t there when she made what should have been a killing stroke. He’d sidestepped, and the weapon stabbed empty air. Jack kept moving, pivoting, and facing her sideways to present the smallest target.

  She was in a half crouch, legs bent at the knees, striking arm extended to its full length, her fist closed around the shaft of something long, slim, sharp, and glittering. Her weapon was a knitting needle about ten inches long. The spike was lethal enough by itself but it had something extra. The point was covered by a gray plastic protective cap not unlike the sort found on the tip of an ordinary ink pen.

  She wielded the long needle like a veteran knife fighter, holding it with the dime-sized disk at its end braced against the heel of her palm, the rest of the spike emerging from the top of her closed hand.

  She’d committed to her first stroke and missed. Jack was beside her, his open hand slapping down on and grabbing the wrist of the hand holding the needle. It was like taking hold of a snake, strong, sinewy, and wriggling. She twisted trying to get loose but couldn’t break his grip.

  Her free hand shot across her, stabbing at him with fingers spread to spear and claw at his eyes. He bobbed his head out of her reach, still clutching her wrist.

  She kneed him but he was ready for that, too. He’d turned his body so that the knee slammed into his thigh instead of ramming home into his crotch as she’d intended. The side of his leg went numb from the force of the blow but he maintained his balance.

  She switched tactics, stomping her heel into the top of his foot.

  The pain took his breath away and he could feel his grip weakening. She felt it, too, and redoubled her efforts to break free, but before she could do so he got his other hand on her forearm.

  In one swift move that was a blur of motion he violently bent her arm backward and thrust the needle deep into her neck. At the moment of impact the plastic protective cap split open, coming apart, leaving the dark-stained needle point nakedly exposed for an instant before it rammed home. There was a crunching sound as the steel tip penetrated flesh, cartilage, and bone.

  A fatal blow but not necessarily such as to bring on sudden death. In the natural order of things she might have lived a moment or two before expiring. But for the dark substance staining the needle point, whatever toxin the plastic protective cap had been covering.

  In the span of a few heartbeats the would-be killer went into spasms, shaking from head to toe in one massive total body shudder. She went rigid, catatonic. Her eyes bulged like they were trying to pop free from the sockets. They were staring, not seeing. Her mouth fell open — to gasp for breath, to cry out? The light went out of her eyes and the life left her body as the poisoned needle sent her rocketing into eternity.

  He let go of her and she fell to the floor with a thump. She lay on her back faceup, the needle sticking out of her neck like a handle. A line of blood so dark it looked black clung from a corner of her mouth to her chin.

  * * *

  Jack stood staring down at her for a timeless interval. After a while he shook his head as if to clear it and said, “Huh!”

  His voice sounded funny in his ears. He was breathing hard. “Damn,” he muttered.

  He’d wanted to take her alive but things had moved too fast. There hadn’t been time to draw his gun before she was on him. If he’d tried she would have had him. As it was, it had been close, too close.

  He was drenched with sweat, and he could feel it cooling on him. The laboring air conditioner continued its uninterrupted juddering and wheezing.

  She’d been smart, stomping his foot while trying to wrestle free. The bones at the top of the foot were thin and breakable. He wriggled his toes inside the boot. They all wriggled. Nothing felt broken. He could walk on it, and that’s all that counted.

  His hiking boots had steel toes and reinforced tops of the kind worn by construction workers to protect against heavy weights falling on their feet and crushing them. Luck had nothing to do with it. He had selected the boots deliberately because they were good for street fighting, and on this case trouble was liable to come at him from any and every unexpected direction, and everything he had working on his side to give him an edge upped his chances for survival.

  Jack was now reminded somehow of the classic mode of hunting tigers. The hunter stakes a goat to a tree as bait and then hides himself in a covert blind. When the tiger goes for the goat, the hunter shoots the tiger. Trouble was, he was goat and hunter both.

  The gray plastic protective cap covering the poisoned needle point had split into several large fragments. A couple of them lay on the carpet near the corpse.

  Jack held his hands and forearms in front of him, turning them around, inspecting them for any gray plastic shards that might be clinging to them. Some of that toxin might have rubbed off on the inside of the cap, and he wanted to make sure he was clear of them.

  They looked clean. He eyed the front of his vest and shirt and pants, and they came up clean, too.

  He circled the body and went to the front of the room, moving with a limp, favoring his left leg, the one she’d been working on. He lifted the curtain and looked outside.

  There was a commotion nearby but it was of the everyday variety. A woman was trying to ride herd on a half-dozen noisy, hyperactive kids while her husband loaded some suitcases into the trunk of their car.

  The oldest kid was a boy of about ten and the others were in various descending age ranges, including a babe in arms held by the mother as she halfheartedly tried to maintain some order among her brood. The whole clan couldn’t have been more obliviously unaware of the mortal struggle that had just taken place in room eight.

  His quick visual scan of the scene detected no sign of hostile or suspicious elements. No sign of Sabito’s G-men, either, though they couldn’t be far away. Jack let the curtain fall, locked the door.

  He glanced back at the body sprawled on the floor. This’ll put me in solid with Vince, he said to himself, grinning wryly.

  He went into the bathroom, switched on the light. He felt like he’d jump out of his skin if anyone so much as said boo to him.

  He examined himself more carefully now for flecks of the poison needle’s shattered plastic protective cap. He looked into the mirror mounted over the sink, turning his head this way and that, scanning his face and neck for any gray plastic flecks that might be clinging to his skin. He found none.

  He ran his fingers through his hair, tousling it to dislodge any specks that might be caught in it so that they’d fall into the sink. There weren’t any.

  He let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

  He shook out his clothes, then crouched down to peer at the tiled floor in search of any gray shards, finding none.

  He washed his hands in the sink with soap and water, scrubbing his forearms up to the elbow before rinsing them. He ran the cold water and held a washcloth under it. He mopped his face and the back of his neck with the cool, wet cloth.

  He caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. He looked like hell, hollow-eyed and sunken-cheeked. Pencil-thick veins stood out on both sides of his forehead. His skin had blanched under its deep tan, giving his skin a sallow cast. Wide black pupils swam in his bright blue eyes.

  He thought of the corpse in the main room. Compared to her, he hadn’t come off too badly. “You should see the other guy,” he said aloud.

  “Gal,” he corrected, after a pause.

  He combed his hair with his fingers, pushing it back into shape. He grinned at himself in the mirror, baring his teeth.r />
  He went into the main room and hunkered down beside the body. He rolled up the killer’s left sleeve, baring the arm below the elbow. Her flesh was disconcertingly warm. Strapped to the inside of her forearm was a red leather sheath that had held the poisoned needle.

  He gave the corpse a quick frisk pat-down that came up empty. Her pockets yielded nothing but a ring with a set of passkeys to open the room doors. No ID, no personal documents.

  He hadn’t expected to find any. She was a pro and she’d come in clean, with nothing to identify her or her employer.

  Jack straightened up, wincing as sharp pains shot through his left leg and foot. Now that the floodtide of adrenaline was ebbing, the pain from her strikes was making itself felt. His thigh ached deep in the muscle where she’d kneed him. Reinforced boots or not, it had hurt when she’d stomped his foot. That was when he’d gone into full survival mode and turned her own weapon against her.

  He eyed his assailant. His post as SAC CTU/L.A. had familiarized him with the faces and dossiers of hundreds of professional killers foreign and domestic. This one had been a stranger to him at first glance, and now that he took a closer look at her that status remained unchanged.

  Local talent possibly, recruited for the hit. That would fit the pattern.

  The Annihilax pattern.

  That was how the master assassin had operated in Brussels, assembling a team of cutthroats, most of whom came from Belgium, the Netherlands, and Germany.

  Jack checked his watch. The time was 11:11. Hard to believe that only seven minutes had passed since that first knock on his door.

  He got out his cell phone and called Peter Rhee, the Ironwood counterintelligence officer who’d urgently requested a private noontime meeting with him. Rhee failed to pick up. Jack didn’t like that so well. He left a message on Rhee’s voice mail.

  “Somebody made a try for me. She was disguised as a room maid. She’s dead. I’m running behind schedule. I’ll be about ten, fifteen minutes late. Call me as soon as you can,” Jack said.

  “And watch yourself,” he added.

  His cell phone and Rhee’s were both secure and scrambled but Jack didn’t want to be more specific than that.

  Next he called Vince Sabito. Sabito picked up on the third ring. “Sabito here,” he said. Sabito’s cell was secure and scrambled, too.

  “This is Jack Bauer.”

  “What do you want?” Sabito wasn’t the type to extend himself with a pretense of friendliness or even collegiality.

  “I’ve got something you want,” Jack said.

  “Yeah? What?”

  “An assassin. She’s dead.”

  “She—?! A woman, huh? What happened?”

  “She wound up on the wrong end of her own poison needle.”

  “You’re at the motel.” That was a statement, not a question. Sabito knew where Jack was. His men were staked out watching him.

  “I’ll be right there. You stay put,” Sabito said, breaking the connection.

  11:17 A.M. MDT

  Trail’s End Motel, Los Alamos

  Jack Bauer stood in the shade of the second-floor balcony, leaning with his back against his closed room door. He was waiting for the FBI to arrive.

  His wait was not a long one. Sabito had a couple of watchdogs posted across the street in a diner’s parking lot. The diner was doing a brisk lunchtime business and the lot was pretty well filled with vehicles.

  The FBI car was salted in with all the others and Jack didn’t spot it at first. Then it got into motion, and when it did there was no mistaking it because it was in a big hurry.

  A late model dark sedan suddenly came barreling out of the lot. After hanging up on Jack, Sabito must have phoned the agents and told them to step on it to secure the site and prevent Jack from leaving. The sedan was a little too hasty trying to exit the lot and had to slam on the brakes and stop short to avoid plowing into oncoming traffic.

  A delivery truck driver who’d narrowly missed being tagged by it held down his horn in an angrily protesting note for a long time as he rolled east on the roadway.

  When the street was clear in both directions the sedan swung around in a wide looping U-turn, crossing the eastbound and westbound lanes and darting into the Trail’s End lot. Slowing to avoid pedestrians, it arrowed toward the motel’s west wing, nosing into a parking space near where Jack was standing. Up close he could see that the sedan was blue, so dark a blue it was almost black.

  Two men got out of the car and started toward him. FBI special agents Hickman and Coates — he’d met them before.

  Coates had been driving. He was big and bearish, like an ex-football lineman. He was carrying a lot of weight and he looked like the heat didn’t agree with him. His face and neck were lobsterred and sweat-slick. Perched on top of his round head was a narrow-brimmed straw hat that looked a size or two too small. His navy-blue blazer, open-neck sport shirt, and slacks all looked rumpled.

  He dropped the car keys into his right-hand jacket pocket. Jack took note of that; it would make things easier for him.

  Hickman, the higher-ranking of the two, was neat, trim, and compact. He wore a summer-weight suit, a tie, and shiny black shoes. If the heat bothered him he showed no sign of it. His short, dark hair was parted as precisely on one side as if it had been laid out with a ruler. He looked like an accountant — one who specialized in foreclosures.

  Jack nodded to the two men. Indicating his room, he said, “In there.”

  He went inside, the others following. Coates brought up the rear and quickly closed the door behind him to prevent any civilians outside from seeing the corpse. There was none nearby but he did so anyway.

  Jack took several paces into the room and stopped short, causing the FBI men to stop in their tracks to avoid bumping into him. They milled around impatiently behind him, craning for a better look at the body.

  “Watch your step,” Jack cautioned.

  “Yeah, we know. We’ve been to a few crime scenes before,” Coates said, his tone sarcastic.

  “Not like this one. That’s a poison needle. The point was covered with a gray plastic cap to protect her from accidentally scratching herself and getting a dose of the toxin. The cap shattered when it went into her. You can see some of those gray pieces on the carpet. You don’t want to get any stuck to the bottoms of your shoes.”

  “How do you know the needle was poisoned?” Hickman asked.

  “When the stuff hit her she went out like that,” Jack said, snapping his fingers.

  Hickman nodded, thoughtful. “Duly noted,” he said. He and Coates fanned out around Jack, moving deeper into the room to examine the corpse, stepping carefully around it.

  Jack stumbled against Coates, bumping into him. He put a hand on the big man’s shoulder as if to steady himself. “Why don’t you watch where you’re going?” Coates barked.

  “Sorry,” Jack said.

  Hickman asked, “What exactly happened here, Bauer? How did it go down?”

  “She came in to change the sheets and towels — she said. Then she made her move when she thought I wasn’t looking.”

  “And…?”

  “I was looking,” Jack deadpanned.

  Coates hooked his thumbs in the corners of his front pants pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels. “Maybe she thought you were going to beat it without leaving her a tip.”

  Jack moved to one side, out of the way. He stood leaning against the cabinet with his hands folded behind him. The others had eyes only for the corpse. Jack reached behind himself and carefully deposited an object behind a plastic ice bucket, which hid it from view. Nobody saw what he’d done.

  Hickman studied the cadaver intently, like an auditor searching ledger entries for a decimal point in the wrong place. He glanced at Jack. “Can you ID her?”

  Jack shook his head. “I was hoping you could.”

  “I can’t place her.” Hickman turned to Coates. “What about you, Red?”

  “I’m blank. She looks li
ke somebody’s maiden aunt.

  “Except for the knitting needle stuck in her throat,” he added.

  “What tipped you to her, Bauer?” Hickman asked. “How’d you know she was a phony?”

  Jack spoke directly to Hickman. “I’ve been here long enough to know most of the service personnel and I’ve never seen her before. Not much by itself, but it got me wondering. Then she was wearing a uniform with long sleeves. All the other maids had short-sleeved uniforms. Long sleeves in this heat? It didn’t ring true.”

  Coates was sour-faced, skeptical. “Maybe her other outfits were in the laundry. Or she had ugly arms and didn’t like to show ’em.”

  “I thought of that, too. So I tried her out with another test. I asked her why the regular maid, Norma, wasn’t cleaning my room like usual. She said it was Norma’s day off.”

  “So?”

  “Norma was just a name I made up. The maid who cleans the room is Carmen,” Jack said.

  Hickman nodded with a barely perceptible tilt of the head, as if acknowledging that the other had scored a point.

  “You’re a regular Sherlock Junior.” Coates took off his hat and fanned his face with it. Thinning strands of pale orange hair were slicked back over a shiny freckled scalp.

  Hickman squatted down and began turning out the woman’s pockets. “She’s clean,” Jack said. “I already gave her a onceover.”

  “I bet,” Coates said nastily. “You wouldn’t be holding anything out on us, would you, Bauer?”

  “She was a pro on a hit job. She wouldn’t be carrying anything that might indicate her true identity.”

  Hickman stood up, reflexively straightening out the creases in his pants. “We’ll see what the lab crew can turn up. Her technique might furnish some solid leads, too. Pretty exotic…We don’t get too many poison needle kills in this neck of the woods.”

  “Are you sure?” Jack asked.

  Coates bristled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Dr. Yan started off the chain of Ironwood deaths. A heart attack, they said.”

  “It happens. He was over fifty and he’d just finished playing a couple of sets of tennis in the hot sun.”