The hairy giant threw a hand up to shield his eyes from the blinding light as he reached under his shirt. His arm swung up, holding a huge revolver.
Jack never heard the shots, but he saw Dog’s body shudder three times as three red flowers blossomed across his back. One of the sniper rounds hit the ground near Jack’s leg with a soft puffing sound, like someone punching a pillow, and grains of dirt sprayed into Jack’s face. Dog’s body hit the ground before the SWAT team could reach him.
The next moment or two were controlled chaos as the SWAT team swarmed Jack to protect him and secured the area. Some of the spotlights were dimmed and cars were rolled up. The police helicopter continued to circle overhead for a few minutes, its powerful beam sliding around the scene. Finally someone spoke into a microphone, and the chopper dropped away loudly.
“You good?” Harry Driscoll said as Jack was freed and hauled to his feet.
“Yeah. I wish you hadn’t shot him.”
Driscoll nodded. “Me, too, but he was waving a gun at our badges.”
Jack looked at Dog, still lying where he’d fallen. “I get it, I just wish I could ask another question or two. But I think I got what we needed. You know anything about a guy named Farrigian?”
Driscoll had driven Jack’s car, and they walked to it now as the detective called in any information on that last name. By the time Jack was behind the wheel, he knew that Farrigian was an importer with a history of minor scrapes with customs. He’d also been brought up on charges of possession of illegal weapons, but the charge had been thrown out on a technicality. He was on a number of Federal, state, and local watch lists, but he was considered small-time.
Jack stuck his hand out the window. “Thanks, Harry. I owe you.”
Driscoll shook his hand. “Bet your ass. And I’m collecting now. Keep me up on this. I want to stay in the loop.”
“What, you don’t have enough work?”
Driscoll checked his watch. “If you’re right about your shit, then something’s going down in less than a day. I don’t want terrorist crap in my town. You keep me involved.” He smacked the side of the car.
Jack pulled off the dirt field and onto the highway. Driscoll was a good man. If CTU could get him, or people like him, they’d be okay.
As he drove, Jack picked up his phone and called Christopher Henderson. “You’re still there, right?” he asked when Henderson answered.
Henderson didn’t sound happy. “What do you think? I’ve been on the phone with the State Department for the last forty minutes. Jesus, you think we’ve got bureaucracy!”
“I’ve got something,” Jack said bluntly. “Not much, but I’m on the trail.” He told Henderson about the meeting with Gelson and the encounter with Dog Smithies.
“I’m following this plastic explosives back to its source. I’m going to figure out who has the rest of it.”
“Hold on, I’m going to conference in Chappelle.” Jack waited on hold, then heard several beeps, then Henderson’s voice again. “Jack, you there? Chappelle?”
“Present,” Chappelle said unhappily. “You know what time it is, right?”
“Justice never sleeps,” Henderson quipped. “Jack has an update.”
For the second time, Bauer explained what he’d been up to for the last two hours. Chappelle was quiet, except for the occasional resentful grunt. When Jack was done, all his questions were cynical.
“You’re assuming it’s the same set of plastic explosives?”
“For now. I’ll know for sure once I get to Farrigian.”
“Your theory is that this Farrigian sold some of the plastic explosives to this biker and some to the terrorists. You think if we find the seller we’ll be able to track it back to the terrorists?”
“Yes.”
“But what if Abu Mousa, the guy we have in custody, was the buyer?”
Jack shook his head at the phone. “I don’t see Mousa as the brains. They were storage and fall guys.”
“Probably right,” Chappelle agreed reluctantly. “But I still don’t see the urgency. Even if Ramin was right about some plan for tomorrow, we’ve stopped it. We have the plastic explosives. If you’re worried about some missing bricks, then you just answered your own question with this biker. He got the rest.”
Jack shrugged. “You may be right,” he conceded. “I just want to make sure.”
There was silence, except for the faint white noise of the cellular transmissions. Jack knew that Chappelle was trying to decide whether to give his authorization for this. Of course, neither one of them was sure what the District Director could do to stop him. Chappelle could help him by endorsing him, but could not hurt him directly. If Jack, acting as a CIA operative, was going to get in trouble for operating domestically, he’d get called to the carpet by the CIA’s Director of Operations, not by Chappelle.
In the end, Chappelle made the decision worthy of a government employee at any level. “I don’t want to know about this,” he said. “As far as I’m concerned, this is a CTU case and CTU personnel are working on it.” He hung up.
Christopher Henderson said, “That’s as close to approval as you’re going to get.”
“I wasn’t looking for approval,” Jack replied as he turned south on the 405 Freeway.
“Come into the office. We’ll plan a move on Farrigian from here. It’ll make Chappelle feel better.”
“On my way.”
There were oil wells in Los Angeles. You could see them when driving down La Cienega Boulevard toward the airport. Where the street passed between the shoulders of two hills, on the west side you could see the pumps, like metallic dinosaurs bobbing their heads up and down. Nearby was the growing suburb of Baldwin Hills, but the oil wells were surrounded by undeveloped land and the expanse of Baldwin Park. Plus the pumps themselves emitted a continuous dull groan.
So there was no one to hear Don Biehn scream.
His captor had rolled the tire of his car over Biehn’s handcuffed hands, crushing them and pinning him face-up on the ground. Biehn’s legs were strapped together with something he couldn’t see, and tied off to the metal base of one of the great pumps, which nodded its giant hood over him as he stared up at the dark sky.
Biehn didn’t know who had kidnapped him, or why. The man hadn’t even asked him questions yet. Biehn had woken from his drug-induced stupor (chloroform?) to find his fingers already crushed under the car. He’d played possum for a few minutes while his captor stood a few feet away, whispering into a cell phone. Biehn heard very little of the conversation, but what he heard was startling. If he could survive this, he might be able to use that conversation to avoid prison or the gas chamber.
The captor, not quite visible in the gloom, had hung up his phone. He knelt down beside Biehn and slapped him to wake him. Then he cut Biehn’s shirt away and carved a bloody line down his chest, causing Biehn to scream despite himself.
Now his captor came close. There was a dim light somewhere nearby on one of the pumps. In the very faint light, Biehn saw a gleaming bald head and a handsome, clean-shaven face staring down at him.
“That is to let you know I am serious,” said his captor, holding up his knife. “Don’t make me show you how truly, truly serious I am.”
Biehn said nothing. What the hell was going on? Was this guy with the church?
The man held up Biehn’s badge. “Were you there to arrest Father Collins?”
“Yes,” Don lied.
The captor cut away a sickle-shaped piece of skin below Biehn’s left nipple.
“No,” he said calmly as Biehn sobbed. “Police officers do not sneak around the backs of houses to break and enter. They do not come alone, either. Don’t lie to me again.”