24 Declassified: 08 - Collateral Damage Read online

Finally, he reached the door to the roof. Jack flattened himself against the wall and slowly turned the knob, pushing the door open a few inches. Warm air and bright sunlight flooded through the crack, filling the stairwell. From below, Jack could hear street sounds. With one hand, he drew his cell phone out of his pocket.

  “Tony,” he whispered.

  “I’m here.”

  “Where is the intruder now?”

  “He’s still at the microwave tower, but he’s not crouching anymore. I think he’s packing up to leave.”

  “Roger,” Jack whispered. “Stand by.”

  He put Tony on hold and used his CTU phone’s GPS

  as a compass, determining that the southwest corner of the roof was through the door and to the right. Then Jack tucked the cell into his pocket and slipped through the door, stepping cautiously onto the roof. The rubber insula-tion felt spongy under his feet, but Jack was grateful the material muffled the sound of his footsteps.

  He moved to the right, until he saw the steel microwave tower, its multiple dishes framed by the gleaming World Trade Center towers in the distance. He crept to a massive air-conditioning system, and ducked behind an aluminum vent.

  From his position, Jack had a good view of the micro-62

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  wave tower, right down to its concrete base. But there was no sign of the intruder.

  “Damn,” Jack grunted.

  He flattened himself against the air conditioner, snatched up his phone again. “Talk to me, Tony—”

  “He’s moving, Jack. He’s headed to an access hatch on the northwest corner.”

  Fixated on his target, Jack closed the phone, raised his head over the edge of the air-conditioning unit. Looking to the northwest, he spotted a slight African-American man with black-framed glasses, wearing a blue uniform, walking toward an outhouse-sized structure projecting from the flat roof. The man carried two metal toolboxes in his hand, a bundle of wire over his narrow shoulders.

  Jack took off at a run, circling power units and a sky-light to reach a point where he could intercept the intruder.

  Then, lifting his Glock, Jack stepped into view.

  “Halt,” he cried. “You are in a restricted area. Drop the boxes and get down on the ground now.”

  The man’s eyes were wide behind his thick glasses. He immediately dropped the boxes—then he took off, sprint-ing to the fire escape twenty yards away.

  “Stop or I will shoot,” Jack warned, stepping forward.

  The man sped up. Jack dropped to one knee and aimed.

  At the last second he lowered his Glock, firing at the man’s moving legs.

  But just as Jack pulled the trigger, the man stumbled.

  Instead of hitting his knee, the 9mm bullet caught him squarely in the back of the head. The man went limp, his shattered lenses tumbled over the edge of the building as C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 63

  his corpse hit the roof with a muffled thump, his head inches from the ledge of the fire escape.

  Bauer cursed.

  Glock pointed at his victim, he cautiously approached.

  Jack didn’t need to check the man’s pulse to know he was dead. The back of his head was blown out, blood and brain matter splattered on the roof. Jack holstered his weapon, bent down, went through the man’s pockets, but found nothing—not even a wallet.

  Still crouched, he turned the dead man onto his back.

  On the man’s forearm, Jack noticed a tattoo of a stylized number 13. He searched the front pockets of the man’s uniform, frowned when he came up empty again.

  Then he remembered the steel boxes. Jack rose and turned, his back to the fire escape. He took one step, and a bright flash exploded in his head. He never saw the blow coming. His legs buckled and he crashed to his knees.

  Despite the sharp stab of agony that rattled his skull, Jack fought to stay conscious, until a vicious kick to the side of his head sent him sprawling.

  A blond man in the Con Edison uniform stepped off the fire escape, rubbing his fist. He glanced at his dead partner, then drew his weapon. The silencer was still attached to the muzzle, and he placed it against Jack’s bloodied temple.

  Moaning, Jack coughed. “If you kill me, you’ll never get off this roof alive.”

  The blond man chuckled, pushed the silencer until it gouged Jack’s flesh.

  “Shut up and die,” he said.

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

  10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17

  18 19 20 21 22 23 24

  THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE

  BETWEEN THE HOURS OF

  11:00 A.M. AND 12:00 P.M.

  EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME

  11:00:16 A.M. EDT

  CTU Headquarters, NYC

  On the ground, the silencer digging into his temple, Jack had no time to make a move before the final gunshot.

  When it came, Jack felt no pain. Instead, the pressure against his skull simply fell away.

  Jack instantly realized he hadn’t been shot. The blond man lurched backward, onto the fire escape, one limp hand brushing at the quickly spreading red stain on his blue shirt.

  As Jack pulled his weapon, a second bullet caught the blond man in the throat. The blond dropped his gun, and C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 65

  his body pitched against the metal railing. Limply, without a sound, he fell headfirst into the street below.

  Glancing around, Jack saw Tony Almeida, Glock still in hand. Tony walked over, helped Jack to his feet.

  “Jack, are you—”

  “I’m fine,” Jack said hoarsely.

  Tony stepped back, holstered his weapon.

  Jack closed his eyes, took a breath. With every move, he was battered by waves of dizziness. Ignoring the pain, he opened his eyes, reholstered his own Glock.

  Tony stepped to the fire escape and peered over the railing. “Sorry, Jack. I know you wanted one of them alive.”

  “Forget it,” Jack rasped. “Let’s find out what they were up to.”

  It took them less than a minute to find the bomb. It was planted at the base of the microwave communications array—a digital clock connected to a two-pound bundle of C–4.

  Jack crouched low, fighting a wave of nausea. “I can defuse this,” he said.

  Tony pulled him away. “You’re in no condition to do this. Let me handle it.”

  Before Jack could protest, the cell phone went off in his pocket. He answered, “Bauer.”

  “It’s me, Jack-o,” Morris said. “Where have you run off to?”

  “I’ve been . . . busy,” Jack said.

  “I have news,” Morris continued. “Both good and bad.”

  “Okay,” Jack said while he watched Tony use a gravity knife to sever the wire that led from the explosive charge 66

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  to the timer. Tony then opened the back of the clock and removed a small battery. Immediately, the numbers stopped flashing and the digital face went dark.

  Jack quietly exhaled.

  “Are you there, Jack?” Morris demanded. “It’s not polite to ignore a man who’s called you.”

  “I’m here,” Jack replied wearily. “What have you got for me? The good news.”

  “I’ve broken through Brice Holman’s security firewall,”

  Morris declared with a hint of pride. “The contents of the Director’s computer are yours to peruse.”

  “Good work, Morris. What’s the downside?”

  The memory’s been wiped clean. Holman’s cache is empty. And get this . . . According to the computer log, the memory was wiped this morning at six twenty-one a.m.”

  “Then there’s a mole in CTU New York. Maybe more than one. We checked the entry logs. We know Brice Holman was never here today. That means somebody else deleted those files.” Jack paused, rubbed his aching temple. “How about the laptop I brought you?”

  “I’m afraid all Fredo Mangella was doing was convert-ing currency. Dollars into euros. Millions of them. It was all on t
he up-and-up.” Morris frowned. “Might be a dead end, Jack.”

  “No,” Jack insisted. “It’s important, but I don’t know why. Not yet. We’re still missing a piece of the puzzle.”

  “I’ll keep looking, but all I see are recipes and payroll records. You won’t believe what an executive chef earns!”

  “Listen, Morris. One more thing. Tony Almeida has a device for you to check out.”

  C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 67

  Morris sighed. “Now what would that be, boss? A computer? Another laptop?”

  “A bomb,” Jack replied.

  11:28:05 A.M. EDT

  CTU Headquarters, NYC

  After swallowing two cups of black coffee and three Advils, Jack felt considerably better. Tony had gone back to finishing his work on the security system, and Morris had taken the explosive device to the blast-proof room for further examination.

  Now Jack was sitting behind Brice Holman’s desk, waking his computer out of hibernation. The firewalls were down and Holman’s computer cache was empty, as Morris had said.

  Jack moved to the nonsecured files Holman kept, and ran a search using keywords FBI, DEA, and ATF. At first dozens of interagency alerts came up—practically all of them were Most Wanted List updates, Amber Alerts, or government releases. Jack filtered them out.

  Then he found the draft of an e-mail to Judith Foy.

  Holman had never finished or sent the message, but the e-mail mentioned “our friends at the FBI” and “Jello and Rollo,” obviously code names.

  Jack punched the intercom and summoned Layla Abernathy.

  “I want you to contact Andrew McConnell,” he told her the moment she walked in.

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  “The Director of the local FBI office?”

  “That’s right. I want you to ask him if any of his agents are involved in an investigation of the Warriors of God, Imam Ali Rahman al Sallifi, or the compound at Kurmastan.”

  Layla nodded. “Anything else?”

  “Don’t be upset if you don’t get any answers. Just report back to me. I want to know what McConnell says, word for word. His tone, his attitude, his inflection.”

  “If you want all that, why can’t you talk to him yourself?” she asked.

  “You’ll see,” was Jack’s only reply.

  11:33:16 A.M. EDT

  CTU Headquarters, NYC

  Layla left Holman’s office with a stiff stride. She could understand Jack Bauer’s being unhappy with the present situation, but she didn’t like being kept in the dark. Brice had kept her that way for weeks, and she’d had enough of it.

  She didn’t care for Bauer’s manner, either. He was obviously a gung-ho, Type A, goal-oriented alpha male. The kind of guy who’d roll over anything or anyone who got in his way.

  Layla had made some discreet inquiries about the man and wasn’t surprised to discover that Bauer had a reputation for being a loose cannon. Strangely, however, not one of Layla’s contacts had characterized him as political. Ap-C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 69

  parently, for Jack Bauer, career advancement wasn’t a high priority.

  That impressed Layla, along with the man’s reputation for being one hell of a field agent. He was also tight with Richard Walsh at Langley, which Layla knew would pretty much absolve him of most Agency sins.

  On her way down the hall, Layla accidentally bumped into one of Jack’s cronies. She froze when she saw the explosive in his hand.

  “Oh my god,” she whispered.

  “No worry, luv,” Morris O’Brian said with a smile. “It’s inactive. I could crack it against the wall and absolutely nothing will happen.”

  Layla shook her head. “Well, do me a favor. And don’t, okay?”

  Morris grinned and punched the bricks of C–4 with his fist. “See? Perfectly harmless.”

  Giving Morris a wide berth, Layla headed back to her desk. “My god,” she murmured. “These L.A. guys are all loose cannons . . .”

  11:34:55 A.M. EDT

  CTU Headquarters, NYC

  Morris opened the door to Brice Holman’s office without knocking, bounced the bomb onto the desk in front of Jack.

  “What have you learned?” Jack asked.

  “At first, nothing,” Morris said with a shrug. “Only that 70

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  the C–4 was manufactured in Hungary, and that it didn’t take a rocket scientist to build this thing. The bomb is right out of the anarchist playbook. Except for one little thing.”

  “Okay.” Jack swung around in his seat. “Explain.”

  Morris sat down across from Jack. “Simple timer, two bricks of military-grade C–4, right?”

  Jack nodded.

  “Wrong,” Morris declared. “Watch this.”

  Morris took one of the pasty, gray-white bricks of plastic explosives in his hand and broke it in half. He opened the two sections like a pomegranate, and displayed the insides to Jack.

  “Is that a rock?” Jack asked.

  “A pebble, actually,” Morris replied. “From a New Jersey beach no doubt. The other brick has one tucked inside of it, too.”

  Jack rubbed his chin. “That doesn’t make any sense.

  Stones make lousy shrapnel. Nails are better. And with half the C–4 gone from each brick—”

  “More than half,” Morris replied. “The explosive potential of this device is fairly weak. In fact, this thing couldn’t do much more than bring down the microwave tower where you found it. That would put CTU New York out of action for a day or two, no longer.”

  “That makes no sense,” Jack replied. “Why take all that trouble to sabotage the communications array? With a bigger bomb, the same two men could have destroyed this entire complex.”

  “It’s obvious they didn’t want to do that. They wanted CTU operational. It’s the communications and satellite system they wanted disabled—”

  C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 71

  The intercom buzzed, interrupting them.

  Jack answered. “Yes?”

  “It’s Tony. We just received a security alert from Langley. We’re to increase the threat level at headquarters to Code Red immediately. Specifically, we’re to pay particular attention to our communications infrastructure.”

  Jack and Morris exchanged glances.

  “Anything else?” Jack asked.

  “Well, I put in a back-channel call to Jamey Farrell in L.A. She told me there’ve been three attacks on CTU satellite facilities—in Boston, New Haven, and Pittsburgh These attacks were successful. The comm systems ar down at all three units—”

  Morris cursed.

  “That’s not all,” Tony continued. “I just checked the City of New York’s emergency response system and found out that the Fire Department was summoned to FBI Headquarters fifteen minutes ago. Apparently there’s been a

  ‘fire’ on their roof.”

  Morris met Jack’s gaze. “What do you want to bet someone took out the Agency’s satellite capabilities?”

  Why satellites? Jack wondered. What is it the enemy doesn’t want us to see? Are we even looking for the thing they’re so eager to hide?

  A sharp knock sounded at the door.

  “Come in,” Jack called.

  Layla Abernathy entered. “You were right, Special Agent Bauer. I spoke with Mr. McConnell personally and he blew me off.”

  “What did he say, precisely?” Jack demanded.

  She glanced at her notepad. “I’ll quote him: ‘The Fed-72

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  eral Bureau of Investigation cannot comment on an ongoing investigation.’ End quote. Then Director McConnell added a personal aside.”

  “Go on.”

  “The Director said that Frank Hensley was a personal friend of his, and that he would rather burn in hell before he shared information with Special Agent Jack Bauer of CTU.” Layla Abernathy raised an eyebrow.

  “So much for cooperation among
the agencies,” Morris muttered.

  Jack frowned and glanced away from Agent Abernathy’s curious gaze. I knew Operation Hell Gate would come back to bite me on this assignment. “McConnell stated that Kurmastan and its citizens were part of an ‘ongoing investigation.’ Is that correct?”

  Layla nodded.

  “Was that before or after you used my name?” Jack asked.

  Layla frowned. “After, sir.”

  “He’s lying,” Jack declared. “The FBI’s investigation is as dead as CTU’s. McConnell is just trying to throw us off by feeding us misinformation—or he already suspects some of his agents are involved with Brice Holman’s rogue operation and he wants to cover their asses.”

  Morris shook his head. “With the satellite system down on the East Coast and the FBI keeping us at arm’s length, we’re effectively on our own.”

  Jack rubbed the back of his neck. “What else is new?”

  The intercom buzzed again. Jack answered, putting it on speaker.

  C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 73

  “Special Agent Bauer? This is Rachel Delgado, Security. I wanted to let you know that I’ve located Deputy Director Judith Foy. She’s been injured in the line of duty. A traffic accident, according to the police. Right now, she’s a patient in Newark General Hospital.”

  Jack watched Layla. She remained composed, but her expression had fallen. She was obviously upset.

  “Thank you Ms. Delgado,” said Jack, disconnecting. He met Layla’s gaze. “I’m dispatching Special Agent Almeida to Newark,” he told her. “I want Tony to interrogate Deputy Director Foy as soon as possible.”

  Layla nodded. “I want to go with him.”

  “No,” said Jack. Then he softened his voice. “I’m sorry, Agent Abernathy. I need you here. But I’d like you to send another agent. Someone you trust. Someone who knows New Jersey.”

  11:46:29 A.M. EDT

  District Congressional Office Flemington, New Jersey

  “Congresswoman Williams? Are you ready for your eleven forty-five?”

  “Yes, Melinda,” Hailey Williams replied over the intercom. “Send him in.”

  The slender, African-American Congresswoman adjusted the gray blazer of her tailored, pinstriped suit. As her office door swung wide, she rose from behind her desk to greet the man striding into the room.

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