“The changeover has been made,” a man said. “I’m catching a noon flight to Milan, out of JFK.”
Jack strained to hear the other speaker’s reply, but the second voice was so soft and raspy, he couldn’t make out the words.
“Don’t worry,” the first man said. “I’ll stay in Europe indefinitely. My assets here will lose their value after this, so I don’t anticipate returning—”
A harsh cry rose from the dining room. “Hey, what the hell are you doing up there?”
Jack looked down and saw the bald man with gold teeth, the one in the cab who’d tried to murder him this morning.
The urge to shoot him was strong, but Jack had to play it smart. He was here for information, not revenge. So he tamped down his rage.
But the cold play was blown anyway. Gold Teeth recognized Jack, too.
“Dominick! Petey! We’ve got trouble,” he cried, reaching for the police special tucked in his belt.
Jack quickly turned and slammed his shoulder against the locked door. It broke inward, and he stumbled across the threshold into a tiny office with a cherrywood desk and Tiffany lamps.
Jack scanned the room for an escape route. There were no windows, only another door on an adjacent wall. Standing by that door was the pale man with the white-blond hair and the dark suit — the man Jack had spotted entering the restaurant a few minutes ago. His sunglasses were gone now; his strangely pinkish eyes blinked in surprise.
Behind an open laptop, an extremely portly man struggled to his feet, face flushed with outrage. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded.
Jack shifted his gaze to Fredo Mangella behind the desk. “My name is Jack Bauer. I’m an agent in the Counter Terrorist Unit. I need to speak with you—”
Jack heard clanging footsteps, as several men surged up the spiral staircase. He leveled his Glock at Mangella.
“Call your men off,” he demanded. “I’m not here to arrest you. I just want to ask you some questions.”
Fredo Mangella remained silent, considering Jack’s words. There was slight movement, a drawer opening.
Then a weapon appeared in the fat man’s hand.
Jack shot Fredo Mangella twice in the chest. As the restaurateur dropped back into his chair, the standing white-haired man pulled a.45 and aimed it at Jack.
Before he could fire, the door next to him opened, striking the Albino’s arm. His.45’s barrel dropped as the woman who’d greeted Jack appeared. She stepped forward, preventing Jack from getting a clean shot, then screamed when she saw the guns, screamed louder when she saw Mangella’s corpse flopped in the chair.
Jack heard the shouting voices of Mangella’s men. He slammed the broken door shut with a spinning kick, then pressed his back against the wall next to it.
“Don’t move,” he cried, trying again to draw a bead on the Albino.
But Jack couldn’t shoot. The pale man had curled his long arm around the woman’s throat and was using her as a shield.
“Pull the trigger and she dies,” he rasped, his.45 back up. “Throw your weapon onto the desk and step away from the door or you’ll die, and then she dies.”
Looking into the Albino’s ghostly eyes, Jack knew the man wasn’t bluffing. He tossed his Glock on the desk beside the laptop and raised his hands.
4. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 10:00 A.M. AND 11:00 A.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME
“Hang back, Leight, I don’t want them making us.”
For ninety minutes now, FBI Agent Jason Emmerick had been driving across the Jersey countryside, his twenty-six-year-old partner, Douglas Leight, at the wheel of their white Saturn.
“We’ve been following this Hummer since it left the airport,” complained Leight after they hit another bone-jarring bump. “If they didn’t make us, they’re blind.”
They were off the highway now, surrounded by trees and plowed fields, wooden fences and cows. The rural road was narrow and dusty and in disrepair.
“It may not matter, either way,” Emmerick said. An African American in his late forties with a lean, strong build, Emmerick was clad in pressed khakis and an Izod shirt, a navy-blue blazer over it. He reached into the blazer, his hand brushing the butt of his weapon as he pulled out a pack of Juicy Fruit. “Now that their precious package has arrived from Montreal, I don’t think these guys will be changing plans.”
“Well, they must know we’re tailing them,” said Leight, his sandy eyebrows knitting beneath his light brown crew cut. “And I think they’re leading us on a wild-goose chase.”
“They may know we’re tailing them, but they’ve got a destination. This is the way to Kurmastan,” Emmerick replied, shaking out a stick of gum and unwrapping it. “And if this Hummer isn’t going there, it may take us to someplace new, which means it’s someplace we should know about.”
“Yeah,” Leight grunted. “Like the Slurpee counter at the 7-Eleven.”
“Okay, so they stopped at a convenience store,” Emmerick snapped the stale stick of gum and popped it into his mouth. “Get over it. Everybody’s got to take a piss sooner or later. Even terrorists.”
Leight gripped the steering wheel. “I just wish I’d had the chance to grab a hot dog. I haven’t eaten since last night.
Good food, too — Val’s a great cook. You should take me up on my invite, come on over for dinner some night.”
“You two are getting married next month, aren’t you?”
“Right, but it’s the honeymoon I’m looking forward too.” Leight grinned. “You’re invited. Remember?”
“To the honeymoon?”
Leight smirked. “You wish. You got the invitation, didn’t you?”
“I don’t know. I’ll check with Bettina. She’s got her hands full lately. Our au pair went back to Ireland, and now she’s trying to take care of the twins and her keep her freelance business going. And, by the way, for future reference, the
‘terrible twos’ aren’t a myth. Want some gum?” Emmerick held out the pack.
Leight took a stick. “So this guy we’re tailing. You said his name’s Amadani. But you didn’t know it was him we were waiting for, right?”
“Right.”
“Yet you recognized him?”
Emmerick nodded. The second he saw Amadani at bag-gage claim — five-eleven male, late forties, gray hair, scar on his left cheek — he’d ID’d him.
“You mentioned an alias, too,” said Leight.
“Yeah,” said Emmerick. “Amadani’s an Afghani who fought the Soviets as a boy. That’s where he got his nick-name—‘the Hawk.’ A few years back, he was convicted for selling a million dollars’ worth of black market ciga-rettes with phony tax stamps out of a warehouse in Wayne, New Jersey. He hooked up with our boys in Kurmastan during his prison term. After he was paroled, he skipped the country. Since then, he’s turned up in Madrid, Hamburg, London. And every time he appears, a terror attack follows inside of a week.”
Leight’s eyebrows rose. “And you know all that how?”
“Because I busted him, just like half the other punks in Kurmastan. You’ve only been my partner for what, eight months? I had a whole life before I took on your sorry rookie ass.”
Leight cracked the window, spit out his gum. “Forgot,”
he said. “I don’t like Juicy Fruit.” He glanced at Emmerick. “Those guys in Kurmastan, they really bother you, don’t they?”
“Sure,” said Emmerick. “You’re talking about a whole town full of felons, guys I spent the past twenty years trying to lock up. Now they’re free again and up to no damned good.” He shook his head. “It’s pushing the same rock up the same hill all over again.”
Leight snorted. “Don’t get your underwear bunched, Sisyphus. We’ll lock them up again, maybe forever this time.”
Emmerick peered through the dust-flecked window.
“Watch. He’s turning again.”
“Great. This road looks worse than the last one.”
“Lay back, but don’t lose him.”
“I’ll try, but it’s too bad the packages separated into two Hummers. It would have been better if Foy could have come with us. We could have traded off. It would have been harder for them to make us.”
Emmerick didn’t reply. Back at the airport, he hadn’t been able to ID the man who’d been traveling with the Hawk, and that bothered him. Fortunately CTU Agent Judith Foy was there to tail the unknown man, while he and Leight had stayed with the Hawk.
Up ahead, the black Hummer made its turn and suddenly sped up, trailing a cloud of dust. Doug Leight hit the gas, swerved the Saturn onto a narrow road.
Emmerick held on. The road was so pitted, it rattled the fillings in his mouth. He looked ahead; the Hummer crested a low hill between two rows of trees, and vanished from sight.
“Hurry. Don’t lose him.”
The Saturn crested the hill a moment later — and Emmerick saw the Hummer. The huge vehicle had come to a dead stop. It sat in the middle of the road, just over the rise.
“Holy shit!” Doug Leight cried, slamming on the brakes.
The Saturn skidded to a halt, not six inches from the Hummer’s rear bumper. The billowing cloud of dust that trailed the Saturn rolled over it. When it settled, Emmerick saw a large, brown van had pulled up behind them. He glanced at the trees bordering the road on both sides — no escape there.
“We’re boxed in,” he said, reaching for his weapon.
Before he could pull it free, the Saturn’s windows blew inward.
A hail of automatic weapons fire ripped through the vehicle’s thin aluminum skin. Gaping holes appeared in the doors, the roof. Headlights shattered in a shower of sparks. The hood flew open, and bullets pinged off the engine block.
In the front seat, the two FBI agents were struck dozens of times by the flying bullets, their bodies convulsing as they died. The invisible attackers continued to fire, bursting tires and blowing off a hubcap.
Finally, the volley ceased. In the sudden silence, three men in camouflage fatigues carrying AK–47s emerged from the trees and approached the shattered car.
An engine gunned, and the Hummer that carried the Hawk sped away. The brown van slammed into the Saturn’s rear bumper and pushed the smoking car down the hill, through a wooden fence, and into a muddy pond.
Wild ducks scattered. The car hissed when it hit the water, steam billowing up from under the hood. It gurgled and bubbled in the muck, then finally slipped beneath the pond’s brackish green surface.