“I’m still trying to get clearance,” she explained. “I’m on hold with the Deputy Mayor’s office.”
Jack reached up, his hand covering her fingers. He closed the phone in her hand. “We’ve waited twenty minutes. That’s already too long—”
“I can’t convince the authorities, Agent Bauer!” Layla shouted to be heard over the noise. “If they thought it was a real emergency, we’d get immediate clearance. But—”
“We’re going,” Jack said. “Now.”
He took the bag from her shoulder, tossed it into the cabin. Then he guided Layla through the hatch. The interior of the S–76 Spirit was almost spacious — large enough to seat an assault team of eight, along with their special equipment.
Jack thrust Layla into a seat. “Strap in,” he commanded.
Then he moved to the cockpit.
The pilot and copilot wore dark blue CTU flight suits, and helmets with visors and interior headsets. The man in the pilot’s seat had a CTU Rapid-Strike Team patch on his chest, and a Glock on his belt. His name tag read
“Fogarty.”
“Take off,” Jack said.
“We can’t, sir,” Captain Fogarty replied. “We’ve been denied clearance—”
Bauer’s eyes flashed angrily. “Take off now. On my authority.”
“Sir, I can’t. I could lose my job—”
“Listen,” Jack rasped. “Director Holman is in danger.
There’s already been an attempt on Deputy Director Foy’s life. She’s in a hospital now and I don’t know her condition. Unless you want to be responsible for the death of your boss, I suggest you take off immediately.”
Fogarty frowned, then shifted his unhappy gaze to the copilot. “Prepare for takeoff,” he said.
The whine of the turboshaft increased in volume. With an abrupt lurch, the helicopter lifted off the pier and swooped over the river. The landing gear retracted before the aircraft banked and shifted direction, heading due west at a hundred and fifty miles per hour.
Lucky break, Tony Almeida mused, seeing the birthday party at the nurses’ station. First one I’ve had all day.
Two doctors, three nurses, and an orderly were laughing and talking and eating cake. Best of all, they were not paying attention to him.
Tony moved quickly down the hall, toward room 424.
Now that he was a hunted man, Tony knew he had to proceed with caution. When he didn’t see Rachel Delgado outside the room, he increased his pace.
Tony knew the enemy who had dispatched the Colombian might have sent another assassin to finish off Judith Foy. If Rachel got in the way, they’d kill her, too. Tony’s heart pounded.
What if I’m too late?
He reached the room and quietly slipped through the door — then Tony heard a muffled cry. He turned and saw Judith Foy on the bed, legs kicking, hands clutching at the tubing embedded deep into the flesh of her throat. Rachel Delgado stood behind the woman, the plastic garrote wrapped around her hand.
She heard Tony’s surprised gasp and looked up, just as Tony lunged across the bed.
With no time to finish the woman off, Rachel slammed her elbow against Judith Foy’s temple, stunning her. Then she released the plastic strangling cord and deftly avoided Tony’s grip.
Stumbling backward, Rachel ripped the top of the IV
pole away from its base. Using the heavy stainless steel rod like a club, she swung at Tony’s unprotected head.
Tony ducked low, the pole slicing the air above his scalp.
Tony could easily shoot Rachel — but the sound of the shot would bring the whole floor running for this room.
Trying to explain his actions to the police would be a waste of time — and might prove fatal. There was obviously no one he could trust, not even the local authorities.
Tony knew it was possible he’d end up dead for “resisting arrest.”
He had only one recourse. He had to finish Rachel off quietly, then get Deputy Director Foy out of the hospital to a safe location.
Clutching the pole in her right hand, Rachel feinted a few times, then swung again. This time Tony was ready.
Dropping his left arm and holding it straight against his body, he stepped into the blow, leading with his left shoulder. Tony was suddenly so close to the woman that Rachel couldn’t strike him with the pole. Her forearm struck Tony’s shoulder instead.
Tony popped his right hand, slamming the woman under her chin.
As he struck, he lifted his left arm, curled it around Rachel’s right. He added some pressure and she released the club. The steel pole clanged to the floor. Tony squeezed harder, until he heard the snap of bone. Rachel gasped and her arm went limp.
Tony spun the dazed woman around and encircled her neck with one arm, clapped his other hand over her mouth to muffle any cries. Her platform shoes kicking wildly, Rachel was dragged into the tiny bathroom.
Once inside, Tony calmly applied pressure until he snapped Rachel Delgado’s neck. Panting, he let her limp body slide to the tile floor. Then he stepped over the corpse and hurried back to the bed.
Judith Foy’s gown was disheveled, and Tony threw a sheet over her. Then he helped a dazed Agent Foy untangle the plastic cord from around her neck. The tender flesh was bruised and red and she was gasping, her face flushed.
“Why did she try to kill you?” Tony whispered.
For a moment, Judith Foy ignored the question. Tony thought it was because she didn’t have an answer. Finally, she looked up from the bed, and her eyes met his.
“CTU’s been compromised,” she rasped. “I warned you.
And I’ll bet she’s not the only traitor.”
“We’ve got to get out of here.”
“I don’t have any clothes,” Foy protested.
Tony checked Rachel’s corpse, realized the dead woman was two sizes smaller than the Deputy Director. Then he found a blue hospital robe hanging behind the bathroom door. He ripped it off its hangar and tore away the sanitary plastic wrapping.
As he left the bathroom, Tony stopped dead in his tracks. During the struggle, the buttons on Rachel Delgado’s three-quarter-length sleeves had popped. On the forearm he’d broken, Tony spied a familiar tattoo — a stylized number 13.
“Son of a bitch.”
“What?” Foy croaked, swinging her naked legs over the side of the bed.
“Never mind.” Tony tossed her the robe, then he snatched Rachel Delgado’s purse from the chair and tossed it to the woman, too. While she dressed, he went to the door and peered through the window. The way seemed clear. He faced the woman, saw the fear that haunted her eyes.
“Don’t worry. I’ll get you to a safe place,” Tony vowed.
Brice Holman awoke with a start, screams battering his ears. He felt hands gripping him, and he opened his eyes.
He was sitting upright in a metal folding chair, ropes loosely circling his arms and torso to hold him in place.
He was in a large room with unfinished walls and a low ceiling.
He moaned and shifted in the chair. Someone struck him in the face with a balled fist. Brice saw stars — then, when his vision cleared, scores of wild, mocking eyes stared at him from behind black burkas.
Fists punched and prodded him. A woman gouged the flesh of his cheek with long fingernails. Holman ignored the pain as he tried to stare through the crowd, looking for Reverend Ahern and the rest of the passengers from the bus.
Then an old man stepped onto the platform, a pitchfork in his wizened hands. He shook the implement in the air, and Holman nearly gagged when he saw Emily Reed’s ruined head impaled on its prongs.