He drove through the crossroads, circling the car wrecks, corpses, and G-men. He pointed the truck north on Highway 5 and drove away. He beeped the horn jauntily in a farewell salute to Sabito and company.
Bluecoat Bluff was a few miles past the crossroads, north on Highway 5 over the top of the hill. So Orne Lewis had said, and in this, at least, he wasn’t lying. The bluff was a low, flat-topped sugarloaf-shaped hill made of reddish-brown stone a mile from the highway.
The bluff commanded a view of the surrounding countryside, an expanse of flatland strewn with jagged landforms. Standing rocks had been eroded into odd angular, twisted shapes that evoked wraiths, flames, battlements, spires, and steeples.
Jack Bauer drove past the unmanned entrance prominently marked with a CLOSED sign and kept on going. The car’s springs, chassis, and undercarriage took a beating. Jack piloted it into the lee of a massive tilted land formation that blocked the view of the bluff from the highway and parked behind some dry, scraggly brush that provided some cover, partly screening the gray sedan from the road and any spotters around the bluff.
He got out and opened the trunk to see what he could find. He was pleasantly surprised to find a couple of Kevlar vests, but no guns. Stripping to the waist, he donned the bulletproof vest, putting it on over his bare flesh. He put his T-shirt back on and pulled on his shoulder holster, adjusting the straps to improve the fit. He put the utility vest on over the gun rig.
An indirect route to the bluff was a must. This was a state park recreational area, and a maze of trails surrounded the bluff. He set off on a hiking trail on the western approach that was layered with shadows from the various rock formations and plant life.
Jack went deeper into the park, pausing behind a screen of brush to survey the scene. The bluff was about fifty feet high; it was wide, squat, and sprawling.
Hiding in the bushes, he scanned the south face of the bluff and its surroundings. A dirt road wound up the side to its summit. At base of the main approach stood a group of gunmen in the shade of the trees, loafing, smoking, and talking with their backs to the main entrance. They were experienced thieves and killers, but Bauer was thankful for the casual nature of their lookout skills. He’d exploited amateur mistakes before, and their setting up without a clear view of the highway certainly qualified.
There was a parking lot at the foot of the bluff and some picnic tables under a grove of trees. Near the parking lot was a rustic-looking cabin with restroom facilities for males and females on either side. The center area was an information center. No tourists or park rangers were in the park today, Varrin’s crew and unrelenting heat had seen to that.
So this was the Varrin gang, Jack thought. They looked virtually identical to the Blanco outfit. From the look of things the real action was taking place on top of the bluff. There was movement there, figures, vehicles. Jack had to get there.
He hugged the base of the mound and worked his way around to the north side, where ledges and rock overhangs shielded him from the casual gaze of observers on top. He saw no lookouts posted on this side of the mound. Another mistake. The landform was worn and weathered, slumping and shot through with cracks, crevices, chimneys, ledges, and goat trails. Jack Bauer surveyed it for a moment, sizing it up, selecting the likeliest angle of ascent. It was an easy climb, honeycombed with a skein of hiking paths and goat trails.
He started up, careful to make no noise. No snapped twigs, uprooted branches, or rustling rock falls that might call attention to his presence.
He reached the top, hauling himself over the edge and onto the flat of the summit. Cracked boulders, tilted slabs, and stone needles provided welcome cover. Jack crept through the maze of rocks toward the center of the summit.
A fair amount of the tabletop flat was occupied by a gravel parking lot. The lot was now occupied by a pickup truck, a Range Rover, a Land Cruiser, a Denali, and Carlson’s car.
The broad, flat expanse of the summit featured a number of fenced-in scenic lookout points scattered around the edge of the table land. Not far from the gravel lot was the cavalry post that once stood there in the days of the Old West, consisting of a standing chimney and roofless remnants of dry stone walls.
The gang’s all here, Jack Bauer said to himself.
About a dozen men stood grouped together, and what a gang it was.
Prominent among them was Adam Zane. Jack Bauer had never met him personally but recognized him from his pictures, film footage and photographs that had passed his desk at CTU/L.A.
Zane would have stood out in any crowd.
Six and a half feet tall, distinguished-looking in a weathered way, he suggested the stereotypical image of the Great White Hunter of colonial yore. He wore a tan safari suit and brown hiking boots. Neat salt-and-pepper hair topped a long, strong-boned, clean-shaven face with jutting cheekbones, hollow cheeks, and a firm chin.
Zane was one of the shadow world’s prime purveyors of stolen secrets. His trade was treachery and business was good.
Shadowing him was Hank Ketch, Zane’s bodyguard. A stocky man with a thatch of sun-bleached palomino-colored hair and pale blond eyebrows so colorless they were almost invisible, he wore a gun holstered under each arm. Zane himself habitually went unarmed, trusting in his cunning, tirelessly scheming brain. Yes, it would have taken a pearl of ultimate price, a supreme prize, to tempt Zane from his home grounds.
Dr. Hugh Carlson had that prize. The PALO codes. Carlson stood milling around, holding the silvery metal attaché case containing the priceless PALO computer disks.
He was in the orbit of another local celebrity, one whom Jack Bauer had never met but whose presence explained much: Max Scourby.
Scourby, the celebrated Santa Fe defense attorney; high-powered, high-profile, high-priced. The legal wizard who had masterminded the destruction of the United States Attorneys’ prosecution of the atomic spy case against INL’s own Dr. Rahman Sayeed.
He cut a flamboyant figure with his leonine head topped by a mop of curly silver hair; wide, square-shaped face, scimitar nose, wide jack-o’-lantern mouth. He was built like a top, broad-shouldered, deep-chested, his massive torso tapering to a slim waist, narrow hips, thin legs, and small, elegantly shod feet. He wore a lightweight, light-colored linen suit with a yellow shirt and multicolored tie.
Scourby’s presence explained much, as did his proprietary, possessive attitude and physical proximity to Carlson.
The others there were gunmen: Varrin, the lanky, desiccated desert rat and gang leader in Scourby’s pay; and an honor guard of some of his best men and finest killers. Among them were Diablo Cruz, Reed Teed, Arnold Matti, Pablo Obregon, and Norvil Nolles.
Scourby, Zane, and Carlson had their heads together in deep conclave. They were talking about something important from the looks of it.
Jack Bauer edged forward, padding through brush and rocks, moving closer to the open area where the gang was assembled so he could eavesdrop on them. He eased into a clearing — and came face-to-face with Lassiter and Slim. Slim’s gun was pointing at him.
“I told you I saw someone sneaking around back here,” Slim said.
“You’ve got eyes like a hawk. I didn’t see nothing,” Lassiter said.
All pro, Lassiter moved forward and held his gun to Jack’s head. “Blink and you’re dead, stranger.” He reached under Jack’s vest, lifting his gun from the shoulder holster and sticking it in the top of his waistband. His free hand roamed up and down Jack’s body, searching for weapons, finding none. He circled around behind Jack, out of reach of any hand or foot techniques that a desperate captive might try to get out from under a gun.