At best they would be branded undesirable aliens and deported back to Northern Ireland. Though Liam would probably end up in the Londonderry Home for Boys. Caitlin was too old to be housed by the state and would end up on the streets. With no job, no home, no skills to speak of, Caitlin was about as useful as a leaky teapot. What future could she have in Ireland?
No, I’ll never go to the police, no matter what happens.
Caitlin chewed her thumbnail, sweating under the increasing intensity of the early morning glare. Despite her proximity to New York harbor and the Atlantic Ocean beyond, there was no cool morning breeze off the water to stir the still air. The temperature was rising along with the humidity. In the front seat of the car, the sun beat down on Caitlin until heat became intolerable.
She opened the windows, but was unwilling to leave the car or even step outside. Instead, Caitlin searched the backseat for something to fan herself. That’s when she noticed the black, late-model sedan parked across busy Atlantic Avenue, in front of a four-story brick building that housed an Arab meat market. Though the driver’s eyes were shielded behind dark sunglasses, observing the man through the back window soon convinced Caitlin he was watching her.
Caitlin wondered how long he’d been there, if he’d seen Jack enter the Middle Eastern deli. Less than two minutes later that question seemed to be answered when an identical vehicle rolled slowly past her car with another man in a dark suit and sunglasses behind the wheel, trying hard not to stare at her. Shifting nervously in her seat, Caitlin looked around and immediately spied a third vehicle parked across Atlantic, this one along Clinton Street. Then a fourth vehicle pulled up behind the first one. Two men sat inside, behind tinted glass. One of them was speaking into a microphone strapped to his shoulder.
Caitlin began to panic.
Whoever these people were — friend or foe — they were arriving in greater numbers. More alarming, they seemed to be surrounding Kahlil’s store and her car. Now Jack Bauer’s story about Shamus’s involvement with international terrorists did not sound so ridiculously far-fetched. Suddenly, Caitlin felt like an animal sitting in a trap about to be sprung.
Though Jack had ordered her to stay put and wait at least two hours before leaving the car and turning herself in to the police, Caitlin’s instincts warned her of immediate danger. With shaking hands she stuffed Jack Bauer’s belongings into her bulging shoulder bag, rolled up the windows, and stepped out of the car. Stamping a foot that had fallen asleep, Caitlin draped the heavy bag over her shoulder and used the keys Jack left her to lock the car door.
Adopting what she hoped was a casual manner, Caitlin used the reflection in the car’s windows to adjust her hair, her clothing. Then she turned on her heels and strolled away from Atlantic Avenue. With each step she felt — or imagined she felt — suspicious eyes on her back.
In her initial panic, Caitlin sought only escape. She walked quickly down Clinton Street, passing century-old brownstones fronted by iron gates and high sandstone stairs. But after several blocks, her steps slowed. Caitlin thought of her brother. It wasn’t a given that he’d come and gone already. He might still be making his way to Kahlil’s, or he might already be inside. Either way, Liam would likely face the imminent danger she was fleeing unless she did something to find and stop him.
Ashamed of her sudden cowardice, Caitlin stopped and checked her watch. By now two hours had passed since Jack went inside the market. He was sure to come out any minute, she decided, as she turned around and headed back toward the car. She was still two blocks away from Atlantic Avenue when Caitlin found the way suddenly barred. She watched while half a dozen vehicles blocked off the corner of Atlantic Avenue and Clinton Street. Meanwhile an army of NYPD officers moved down every street in an effort to cordon off the surrounding blocks of all traffic.
Stumbling forward, Caitlin could just make out the front of Kahlil’s market between two black vans. She stared while two men swathed in black body armor and helmets dragged a struggling Afghani out of the store and pinned him to the sidewalk, where they cuffed his hands behind his back.
“Miss?”
Caitlin jumped, startled. A tall, broad-shouldered New York City cop stared down at her. He offered Caitlin a reassuring smile, even as he blocked her path. “Sorry, miss. You’ll have to go another way,” the young policeman said. “There’s a law enforcement action in progress and traffic is blocked from here.”
“But my car—”
The policeman nodded sympathetically. “This whole thing might be over in a few minutes. Then we can get you to your car.”
Caitlin nodded, but did not move. Instead, she stared at the drama unfolding less than two blocks away. The cop’s eyes followed her gaze and they both watched as an Afghani man in traditional dress was dragged away by the two men in assault gear. Meanwhile other armored men moved forward, to aim what appeared to be short-barreled shotguns at the basement window. Caitlin saw white letters emblazoned on their uniforms: FBI.
With a blast and a gust of smoke, one man fired into the building. Even from this distance Caitlin could hear the sound of breaking glass — then the muffled explosion. Before the noise of the first detonation faded, another man fired a grenade through the delicatessen’s plate-glass window.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Caitlin whispered.
As shards from the shattered window rained down on the sidewalk in a silver shower, the armored assault team charged into the market, weapons raised and ready.
Jack threw his left arm across his face, buried his nose and mouth in his shirtsleeves to ward off the choking CS gas quickly filling the hot, grimy basement. Jack knew from experience that a cloud of chemical smoke tended to rise, so he remained on the ground, crawling across the floor to reach the dark form crumpled in the corner.
The older man was sprawled on his back, clothes smoldering from the heat of the explosion he’d absorbed. His frayed suit was in tatters, gore staining the shabby fabric from head to toe, and the man’s head lolled to one side, jaw shattered. When Jack finally reached him, the man’s blackened eyelids opened and their gazes met. He gripped Jack’s hand, crushing it with the last of his strength as he tried to gasp out a final word. The sound rattled in his throat and he lay still, fingers limp. Jack fumbled at the man’s throat for a pulse, found none.
“Dammit!” Jack knew from the flash and the force of the grenade’s concussion that the FBI was using military-type CS gas grenades, in clear violation of federal law enforcement guidelines. They were the same devices the Bureau had used during their ill-fated siege at Waco. According to a still-classified government report Jack had read, those grenades had contributed to the fire that had swept the Branch Davidian compound almost as soon as the assault began.
Eighty people had perished at Waco, including a dozen children that the FBI was supposed to have been rescuing. The fires had been fed by that military-type tear gas — a gas with incendiary properties when used in a confined space like the Branch Davidian compound or the basement of a Brooklyn tenement.