Collateral Damage Part 24

"You gotta be a cop, right?"

"How many cops would blow your head off for this car?" said the dude. "Now get out or I will will kill you. And leave the keys." kill you. And leave the keys."

Keeping his eyes to the dirty pavement, Leroy stepped out of the car, gingerly avoiding the body on the ground.

"Listen, man," Leroy said, "you don't know who you're messin' with..."

The gun b.u.t.t struck him on the chin. Leroy flew backward, bounced off the Explorer's door, and sank to the ground beside the other crack dealer.

Tony Almeida stepped over them and climbed behind the wheel. He honked the car's horn twice, paused, and honked again.

Hearing the signal, Judith Foy appeared a moment later.

"Two at a time. And you make it look easy," she said, stepping over the unconscious punks.

Tony glanced away. "Yeah."

The woman climbed into the pa.s.senger seat, buckled her shoulder strap. Tires squealing, the Explorer pulled away from the curb and raced down Crampton Street.

2:06:13 A.M. EDT.

Eighth Floor, BeresfieId Apartments Central Park West New York, New York Slipping a .38 from its holster, Montel Tanner pushed through the broken door. His bodyguards followed, clutching .45s that looked tiny in their huge fists. They immediately heard the sound of something sc.r.a.ping across the floor.

Tanner reached the living room first - and stopped in his tracks.

He saw the wrecked chamber, the broken gla.s.s, Erno Tobias tied to a heavy leather chair. The Albino was obviously dead, but the chair was moving, moving, sliding across the blood-slick floor and through the shattered sliding door. sliding across the blood-slick floor and through the shattered sliding door.

Tanner blinked in shock. "What the f..."

The chair sc.r.a.ped across the balcony's flagstones, then jammed to a stop against the balcony railing, the pale corpse falling limply over the chair arm. That's when Tanner saw the nylon rope tied to the chair, the other end dangling over the edge of the balcony.

"He's climbing down the side of the building!" Tanner shouted. "Get him."

Tanner's bodyguards blundered forward, jumping through the shattered frame of the sliding door, while Tanner himself stayed in the living room and hit speed dial on his cell phone.

As the first bodyguard peered over the balcony's iron railing, Tanner heard a pop and saw the top of the man's head explode. The big bodyguard fell backward, pitching to the flagstone floor. Tanner clutched the cell to his ear.

"Pick it up, d.a.m.n it."

"Yo," his driver answered at last.

"There's a guy climbing down the side of the building. I want him - alive." alive."

Tanner moved to the railing, carefully looked down. Tobias's murderer was already past the Caddies parked in the street. He'd crossed all four lanes of Central Park West and was now hopping over a stone fence. A split-second later, he melted into the shadows, escaping into the wooded expanse of Manhattan's largest park.

Too late, Tanner's men tumbled out of the Caddies below.

"He's gone into the park!" Tanner shouted into the phone. "Go after him!"

The men drew their weapons and followed Tanner's orders.

2:14:26 A.M. EDT.

Central Park, near Columbus Circle Jack Bauer was outnumbered and outgunned, but that didn't bother him. During his training as a lieutenant in the Combat Applications Group - a.k.a. Delta Force - he'd learned night combat tactics from instructors of the Seventy-fifth Army Ranger Battalion, an outfit whose credo was "We own the night."

Now, Jack moved from shadow to shadow, hearing Sergeant Ryder's voice in his head. Evade. Encircle. Move in. Take 'em down. Evade. Encircle. Move in. Take 'em down.

Behind him, a deserted road ran through this section of Central Park. Jack could hear Montel Tanner's men blundering along it.

Untrained and undisciplined, they made every mistake in the book. They called out to one another instead of using hand gestures. They cl.u.s.tered under lampposts instead of sticking to the shadows. Two men carried flashlights - making them easy targets in the darkness.

Crouching between the hollow of two gnarly frees, Jack counted seven pursuers, all armed. One man had long dreadlocks streaming down his back. Another had a jewel-studded eye patch over his left eye and carried an Uzi. For a long time, Jack just watched them while they checked behind the wall he'd hopped, and the frees that cl.u.s.tered there.

Finally, the men fanned out, moving in a loose formation deeper into the park. Within a few minutes, they moved right past Jack's hiding place without spotting him.

Jack smiled.

As the men continued on, a straggler hung back, gripping his .45 nervously in sweating hands. When he finally pa.s.sed Jack's position, Bauer rose up behind him.

One hand covering his victim's mouth, Jack slid the bayonet between his ribs and deep into the man's heart. The man bucked in Jack's arms, groaned under his hand. Then his eyes rolled up in his head and he went limp. Silently, Jack lowered the corpse to the gra.s.s, then bolted for the shadows under the next line of frees.

"Hey, over there!" someone called.

For a split second, Jack thought he'd been spotted. Then he heard the boom of a .45. In the muzzle flash Jack saw a bearded man, his toothless mouth gaping in surprise.

One gunman with a flashlight moved in, played his beam on the corpse.

"d.a.m.n it, Tyrell, you shot some b.u.m!"

The shooter kicked the corpse. "How was I s'posed to know he was some lame-a.s.s homeless dude?"

"The smell, bro." bro."

The men snickered.

Eye Patch silenced them. "Tanner wants this guy. Keep looking," he growled, gesturing with his Uzi.

They crossed West Drive, a curved, four-lane road that was closed to traffic at this late hour. Then the group moved into a shallow valley. Here, beyond a path lined with wrought-iron benches, a baseball field was a gray patch in the moonless night. Jack continued to stalk them.

"Where's Jackson?" Eye Patch demanded when they reached the edge of the ball field.

The others shrugged. "Maybe he got lost in the dark," Dreadlocks said.

"Maybe," the leader replied.

By his tone, Jack could tell the man was wary.

"You two, circle the field and meet me at those rocks over there," the leader commanded.

The pair crossed the field until they were out of sight. The other three, including Dreadlocks, headed for a tumble of rocks overlooking the field.

Moving through the shadows like a death-dealing ghost, Jack followed the trio. When they arrived at the boulders, the men discovered a narrow pa.s.sage with stone steps leading to the top of a low hill. Eye Patch climbed the stairs first, the others watching his back. Then the second man entered the narrow staircase.

Before Dreadlocks could hit the stairs, Jack struck again. Seizing the man's hair, he yanked his head back and slashed the M9 blade across his throat, cutting so deeply the vocal cords were severed along with the carotid artery. With a gurgling choke, the man pitched forward, blood spraying the rocks.

Jack hopped over the corpse and dropped to one knee. He aimed and hurled the bayonet at a second man at the top of the stairs. The blade tumbled end over end and struck his broad back, sinking to the hilt. The man went down, but not quietly.

Eye Patch heard his comrade's death howl and raced back to the stairs. He loomed over Jack, a dark silhouette against the night.

The Beretta jerked in Jack's hand; the sound suppressor coughed. The bullet struck the leader in the forehead. The Uzi tumbled from the dead man's grip, and he rolled down the stone steps.

Jack heard a shot, and a bullet pinged off the rocks beside his head. He grunted as sharp splinters struck his face. Jack crouched low, s.n.a.t.c.hed the Uzi from the ground, and bolted up the stairs.

A second shot rang out, ricocheted off the rocks.

At the top of the steps, Jack found himself at the foot of an ornate, wrought-iron bridge. He heard footsteps gaining on him.

Instead of crossing the bridge - and making himself an easy target - Jack jumped over the railing and dropped twelve feet to the riding path below.

He landed with a grunt, his knee striking a fallen branch. Still clutching the Uzi, Jack rolled onto his back. Above him, his pursuers ran to the middle of the span, their shoes clomping on the wooden surface.

Jack aimed the Uzi and opened fire.

In the hail of 9mm bullets, men jerked and sparks struck off the wrought-iron rail. With a double thump, the last of the hunting posse hit the wooden deck.

Pumped with adrenaline, Jack lay for a moment, catching his breath. Then he heard sirens, far away, but getting closer.

Time to go.

Jack cast the empty Uzi into a clump of trees and stumbled to his feet. Face bleeding, knee throbbing, he limped toward the brightly illuminated mid-rise apartment buildings along Central Park South.

A few minutes later, Jack emerged from the trees at Fifty-seventh Street. Several cabs were lined up near the posh hotels, on the opposite side of the four-lane boulevard. Gratefully, Jack hailed one.

Using the edge of the Hawk's utility vest to wipe the blood and sweat from his face, Jack climbed into the backseat and gave the Sikh driver the Hudson Street address for CTU Headquarters.

The man nodded. "Yes, sir. Right away," he said, not at all surprised to find a bleeding man, wearing a black combat vest, crawling into his cab at two fifty-one in the morning.

21.

THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 3:00 A.M. AND 4:00 A.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME.

3:00:46 A.M. EDT.

Acorn Street Boston, Ma.s.sachusetts Claudia Wheelock was dreaming of her two young children, scampering barefoot in front of her along the sand.

The Martha's Vineyard setting was achingly familiar, a beloved island where her family had spent so many long, lazy summers. Just ahead was her father's oceanfront s.h.i.+ngle-style cottage. She was moved to tears, seeing him there again, relaxing on the wide, wooden porch, just as he had when he was alive. And her mother was nearby, laying out a luncheon of freshly made lobster rolls and sweet lemonade.

In her early forties now, Claudia was still a strikingly beautiful woman, with a fit figure and short blond hair. Her flaxen-haired children reflected that golden beauty as they ran ahead of her, giggling as they darted in and out of the white-capped surf. Claudia laughed, feeling the joy and l.u.s.ter of this moment, expecting all good things to be waiting for her and her children at the end of their little stroll...

Then came the crack of thunder.

The noise was sudden, almost deafening, and it completely shattered Claudia's safe, idyllic vision. Another boom came, this one strong enough to shake the walls of her sister's Federal-style row house on Beacon Hill.

Now Claudia was fully awake. For a moment, she lay staring at the ornamental tin ceiling, wondering if she'd dreamed the noises. But she could still hear the tail end of the last report. The rumbling echoed for several seconds through the narrow cobblestone streets before dissipating completely.

Claudia rose quickly, parted the guest room's lacy curtains, and peered outside. The night sky was clear, though suffused with a strange red glow. Then Claudia heard movement in the hallway. The night had been humid and warm, and she was wearing only a flimsy tank top and underwear. She quickly threw on a short, white terry-cloth robe.

Before she opened the door, something possessed Claudia to fish in her suitcase for the item her husband had pressed upon her last year, when an unbalanced fan of her novels had begun aggressively hara.s.sing her with e-mails and phone calls. The small handgun was there, still in its case. She checked to see if it was loaded, then slipped it into the pocket of her short robe.

When Claudia opened the door, her brother-in-law was already standing in the hallway, and her sleepy-eyed sister was peeking out of their master bedroom door.

"I think I heard a bomb going off," Claudia said.

"A bomb?" Roderick practically sneered. "Don't be ridiculous, Claudia. A gas main probably ruptured or an old steam pipe cracked, nothing more than that. This is real life after all, not one of your thrillers."

Claudia was about to remind Roddy that she wrote legal legal thrillers, and the only explosions that occurred in her novels were in the courtroom. But instead she kept her mouth shut, knowing she'd be wasting her breath. As a.s.sociate Dean of Humanities at Harvard University, Roderick Cannon held all works of popular fiction beneath contempt. thrillers, and the only explosions that occurred in her novels were in the courtroom. But instead she kept her mouth shut, knowing she'd be wasting her breath. As a.s.sociate Dean of Humanities at Harvard University, Roderick Cannon held all works of popular fiction beneath contempt.

Besides, thought Claudia, things were already strained between them. They'd spent much of the previous night's dinner arguing about her husband's new job as Northeast District Director for the CIA's Counter Terrorist Unit.

Roderick insisted on focusing on CTU's old directives. He kept bringing up the Unit's supposed trampling of const.i.tutional rights, illegal wiretaps, and alleged use of torture.

Her brother-in-law refused to acknowledge that Claudia's husband was an agent of change, change, that Nathan Wheelock was working toward expurgating any CTU personnel who favored such practices. In the past year, since he'd taken the position, Nathan had abolished all racial and religious profiling within his command, made certain that his people placed wiretaps only on domestic calls to known terrorists overseas, and forbade any agent under his authority to engage in torture. that Nathan Wheelock was working toward expurgating any CTU personnel who favored such practices. In the past year, since he'd taken the position, Nathan had abolished all racial and religious profiling within his command, made certain that his people placed wiretaps only on domestic calls to known terrorists overseas, and forbade any agent under his authority to engage in torture.

Claudia was very proud of her husband's progressive policies. She herself had been a high-profile civil rights attorney before quitting to raise her children and write best-selling legal thrillers, and she was in the perfect position to help keep her husband's career objectives on track, ensuring the civil rights of any suspect or prisoner were treated as a CTU priority.

The law was on Nathan's side, too, of course, and it helped that the current Administration was in Nathan's corner. It was only a matter of time before Claudia's husband would be elevated to a much higher position within the Agency. Then Nathan's regional policies could be implemented nationally, through every district and division of the CTU organization.

But Claudia's arguments fell on deaf ears. Roddy's mind was already made up. CTU was a useless, fascist organization that should never have been created, period.

Obviously sensing another argument in the works, Claudia's sister Gillian stepped out of the bedroom. "Since we're all awake," she chirped brightly, "I'll turn on the telly and see if we've had a minor quake."

Claudia winced at Gillian's use of British idiom. Since marrying an Englishman, she'd been suppressing her Boston accent, as well.

Downstairs, her sister put on a pot of tea while Claudia tuned into WHDH, the NBC affiliate in Boston. Her timing was perfect. After a few seconds of one of those ubiquitous M*A*S*H M*A*S*H reruns, the show was interrupted by a "breaking news" interst.i.tial, then a somber-looking announcer appeared on screen. reruns, the show was interrupted by a "breaking news" interst.i.tial, then a somber-looking announcer appeared on screen.

"We've just received word here at the studio about a ma.s.sive explosion in the center of Boston. It appears the blast has collapsed a portion of Interstate 93 between Cambridge Street and Boston Harbor."

"The Big Dig," Roddy grumbled, plopping down at the kitchen table. "A monument of excess and corporate corruption..."