24 Declassified: Collateral Damage 2d-8 Page 11

Two doctors, three nurses, and an orderly were laughing and talking and eating cake. Best of all, they were not paying attention to him.

  Tony moved quickly down the hall, toward room 424.

  Now that he was a hunted man, Tony knew he had to proceed with caution. When he didn’t see Rachel Delgado outside the room, he increased his pace.

  Tony knew the enemy who had dispatched the Colombian might have sent another assassin to finish off Judith Foy. If Rachel got in the way, they’d kill her, too. Tony’s heart pounded.

  What if I’m too late?

  He reached the room and quietly slipped through the door — then Tony heard a muffled cry. He turned and saw Judith Foy on the bed, legs kicking, hands clutching at the tubing embedded deep into the flesh of her throat. Rachel Delgado stood behind the woman, the plastic garrote wrapped around her hand.

  She heard Tony’s surprised gasp and looked up, just as Tony lunged across the bed.

  With no time to finish the woman off, Rachel slammed her elbow against Judith Foy’s temple, stunning her. Then she released the plastic strangling cord and deftly avoided Tony’s grip.

  Stumbling backward, Rachel ripped the top of the IV

  pole away from its base. Using the heavy stainless steel rod like a club, she swung at Tony’s unprotected head.

  Tony ducked low, the pole slicing the air above his scalp.

  Tony could easily shoot Rachel — but the sound of the shot would bring the whole floor running for this room.

  Trying to explain his actions to the police would be a waste of time — and might prove fatal. There was obviously no one he could trust, not even the local authorities.

  Tony knew it was possible he’d end up dead for “resisting arrest.”

  He had only one recourse. He had to finish Rachel off quietly, then get Deputy Director Foy out of the hospital to a safe location.

  Clutching the pole in her right hand, Rachel feinted a few times, then swung again. This time Tony was ready.

  Dropping his left arm and holding it straight against his body, he stepped into the blow, leading with his left shoulder. Tony was suddenly so close to the woman that Rachel couldn’t strike him with the pole. Her forearm struck Tony’s shoulder instead.

  Tony popped his right hand, slamming the woman under her chin.

  As he struck, he lifted his left arm, curled it around Rachel’s right. He added some pressure and she released the club. The steel pole clanged to the floor. Tony squeezed harder, until he heard the snap of bone. Rachel gasped and her arm went limp.

  Tony spun the dazed woman around and encircled her neck with one arm, clapped his other hand over her mouth to muffle any cries. Her platform shoes kicking wildly, Rachel was dragged into the tiny bathroom.

  Once inside, Tony calmly applied pressure until he snapped Rachel Delgado’s neck. Panting, he let her limp body slide to the tile floor. Then he stepped over the corpse and hurried back to the bed.

  Judith Foy’s gown was disheveled, and Tony threw a sheet over her. Then he helped a dazed Agent Foy untangle the plastic cord from around her neck. The tender flesh was bruised and red and she was gasping, her face flushed.

  “Why did she try to kill you?” Tony whispered.

  For a moment, Judith Foy ignored the question. Tony thought it was because she didn’t have an answer. Finally, she looked up from the bed, and her eyes met his.

  “CTU’s been compromised,” she rasped. “I warned you.

  And I’ll bet she’s not the only traitor.”

  “We’ve got to get out of here.”

  “I don’t have any clothes,” Foy protested.

  Tony checked Rachel’s corpse, realized the dead woman was two sizes smaller than the Deputy Director. Then he found a blue hospital robe hanging behind the bathroom door. He ripped it off its hangar and tore away the sanitary plastic wrapping.

  As he left the bathroom, Tony stopped dead in his tracks. During the struggle, the buttons on Rachel Delgado’s three-quarter-length sleeves had popped. On the forearm he’d broken, Tony spied a familiar tattoo — a stylized number 13.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  “What?” Foy croaked, swinging her naked legs over the side of the bed.

  “Never mind.” Tony tossed her the robe, then he snatched Rachel Delgado’s purse from the chair and tossed it to the woman, too. While she dressed, he went to the door and peered through the window. The way seemed clear. He faced the woman, saw the fear that haunted her eyes.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll get you to a safe place,” Tony vowed.

  3:48:52 P.M. EDT

  Community Center

  Kurmastan, New Jersey

  Brice Holman awoke with a start, screams battering his ears. He felt hands gripping him, and he opened his eyes.

  He was sitting upright in a metal folding chair, ropes loosely circling his arms and torso to hold him in place.

  He was in a large room with unfinished walls and a low ceiling.

  He moaned and shifted in the chair. Someone struck him in the face with a balled fist. Brice saw stars — then, when his vision cleared, scores of wild, mocking eyes stared at him from behind black burkas.

  Fists punched and prodded him. A woman gouged the flesh of his cheek with long fingernails. Holman ignored the pain as he tried to stare through the crowd, looking for Reverend Ahern and the rest of the passengers from the bus.

  Then an old man stepped onto the platform, a pitchfork in his wizened hands. He shook the implement in the air, and Holman nearly gagged when he saw Emily Reed’s ruined head impaled on its prongs.

  Holman strained at the ropes. They were meant to con-strain him, but the ropes had been applied carelessly, and he easily freed his left hand. He slipped it into his pants pocket, felt around, then smiled grimly.

  The crazy fools didn’t take my cell phone!

  While the women danced around him, and the old men brought in another trophy — the grisly remains of Mr. Simonson’s head — Brice opened the phone inside his pocket and pressed the speed dial button, sending out a call to CTU Headquarters in Manhattan.

  Holman heard a scream. The crowd parted long enough for him to see Mrs. Hocklinger, bound and helpless. An old man had cut the woman’s throat with a shard of broken glass. The woman twitched in her chair, her blood spilling onto the bare concrete floor. The flow soon ceased, and her eyes rolled back. When Mrs. Hocklinger was dead, a twelve-year-old boy attacked her throat with a hacksaw.

  An amplified voice boomed, filling the room. Holman looked up to see a large man stride onto the platform, dressed in robes and a prayer shawl. Holman noticed prison tattoos on the man’s arms and neck.

  The mob began to chant. “Noor… Noor… Noor…”

  “The day is now at hand,” the man cried, silencing them with a gesture. “Your husbands, sons, uncles, and brothers have departed this compound and will never return. Now I will tell you what bold and daring things they are going do to bring about Khilafah!”

  Awestruck cries greeted his words. The women tore at their clothing, their hair. The old men and young boys howled like hungry animals. The room stank of sweat and blood.

  Amid the chaos, another figure mounted the platform.

  A striking contrast to the muscular African American, the newcomer was tall, lanky, and very pale. The Albino’s colorless eyes watched the mob impassively while the man named Noor continued his speech.

  “On this day, the prophecy has been fulfilled. Twelve trucks — twelve chariots of death — have left this compound, to sow death and destruction against the infidel!”

  Brice clenched his teeth, his mind roiling.

  I hope to God someone at headquarters is monitoring this call. I don’t want to die for nothing…

  3:59:05 P.M. EDT

  Communications Station One

  CTU Headquarters, NYC

  “This is Allah’s punishment on the unbeliever. We are the sword of God, the vessel of his wrath,” the male voice declared, before the rest of his message wa
s drowned out by a cheering mob.

  “What do you make of it?” Peter Randall asked.

  Morris O’Brian shook his head. “You are recording.”

  Randall nodded. “Every word, every sound, since the call came in.”

  “Good,” said Morris. “We’re going to have to put it through filters and screen out the background noise in order to decipher the main speaker’s words. Didn’t he say something about chariots of death and seeds of destruction?”

  “I think so,” Randall replied.

  “In my experience, that sort of talk is never good.”

  Morris rubbed his hand through his short, wiry hair. “And Holman hasn’t spoken during the entire call?”

  “No. Director Holman never said a word. But I know he wants us to find him now.”

  Morris blinked. “How’s that, mate?”

  “He’s reactivated the GPS chip. We can easily pinpoint his location. Brice Holman is in Kurmastan…”

  10. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 4:00 P.M. AND 5:00 P.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME

  4:00:06 P.M. EDT

  Over Kurmastan, New Jersey

  Jack Bauer closed his cell phone and peered through the helicopter’s window. Green hills dotted with farmhouses sped by. Plowed fields, barns, and silos rolled under the aircraft’s belly.

  Layla was studying him from across the aisle. She’d changed out of her business suit, into the tactical equipment she’d taken from the armory — blue overalls, a weapons belt with an assault knife, and a 9mm strapped to her waist. Her dark hair was pulled into a bun, and in oversized assault gear, she appeared small and frail.

  “Who called just now?” she asked.

  “Morris O’Brian,” Jack replied, his voice grim. “They located Brice Holman. He’s in Kurmastan.”

  Layla let out a breath. “That’s not all, is it?”

  “No. Your boss is in trouble.” Jack unfastened his seatbelt and moved to the cockpit.

  Fogarty greeted him with a nod. “We’ve been circling the area for almost thirty minutes, Agent Bauer. We’re nearly down to our reserve fuel. Either I land soon, or we’re diverting to Phillipsburg or Easton to replenish.”

  “I want you to land inside the compound and let us out,”

  Jack said. “Then you can divert to the nearest airfield, refuel, and wait for further orders.”

  The pilot and copilot exchanged looks. “Then you’ve located Director Holman?” Fogarty asked.

  “He’s in Kurmastan, and his life may be in danger,”

  Jack replied.

  Fogarty peered through the windshield. “We can land near the center of town. There’s enough open space for me to—”

  “No,” Jack said. “You have to put us down where we won’t be spotted. Maybe half a mile away from the settlement. Somewhere in the woods.”

  “You’ll have to hike to get to main street, Agent Bauer,”

  Fogarty warned. “The hills around here can be steep.

  You’ll lose valuable time.”

  Jack frowned. “Can’t be helped. I don’t have numbers.

  My only weapon is surprise.”

  Fogarty nodded. “We’ll do what we can to back you up, sir,” he said, then shifted his gaze to the control panel, where real-time images of Kurmastan were displayed on the digital map screen.

  Jack looked, too, and counted himself lucky that CTU

  New York still had satellite capabilities. After the con-certed bomb attacks earlier in the day, no other law enforcement agency on the East Coast had access to orbital surveillance. Right now, a satellite was beaming these pictures of the landscape around the compound to the helicopter’s computer.

  “I think I can put you down here,” Fogarty said, tapping the screen.

  Jack studied the map. “It’s a shallow valley surrounded by trees. What about the rotors? Do you have enough space to bring this thing down safely?”

  “It will be tight, but it’s the best place to land,” the Captain replied. “Chances are they won’t see us behind this hill, and you’ll have a whole line of trees to use for cover as you move toward town.”

  Fogarty paused. “With luck, you probably won’t encounter anyone until you reach this stretch of mobile homes. If you do, you may have a fight on your hands.”

  Jack nodded, memorizing the landscape.

  Fogarty gripped his arm with his free hand.

  “Are you sure you want to do this, Agent Bauer? I mean, you and Agent Abernathy aren’t exactly a strike team.”

  “I’ve already ordered Morris O’Brian to dispatch a tactical team to the scene,” Jack replied, his tone resigned.

  “But we’re not waiting. We’re going in now, even if there’s only two of us.”

  4:21:43 P.M. EDT

  Community Center

  Kurmastan, New Jersey

  Brice Holman shut out the shouts and screams, the sound of Reverend Ahern’s pleading voice as he begged the mob to spare him.

  His attention was focused on the old Albanian man with the 9mm Uzi in his wrinkled hand and spare ammunition clips tucked into the belt of his tattered robes. The weapon was tarnished and pitted, and Holman wondered if it was truly functional, or merely for show.

  I can take that bastard down, he mused. All I have to do is get close to him, or trick him into getting close to me. But I’d hate to come up empty, stuck with a gun that doesn’t shoot.

  Ibrahim Noor and the albino man were long gone.

  They’d slipped through the curtained door and had not returned. Soon after they departed, the slaughter began. Now, on the podium, Ahern’s ravings about interfaith harmony and reconciliation morphed into howls of tortured agony.

  Bound tightly to a sturdy wooden chair, shirt ripped, clerical collar hanging limply, James Wendell Ahern struggled vainly while two boys, no more than eleven years old, took turns ripping at his throat with a rusty saw.

  Holman looked away.

  Among the swirling, bloodthirsty throng, he caught brief glimpses of the Cranstons. The woman hung limply from her ropes, and though Mr. Cranston bled from scores of wounds, he was still conscious.

  Dani Taylor had been screaming for several minutes.

  The young women of the compound seemed to derive a special relish in her torment. They punched and kicked the teenager, smeared the makeup they found in her purse on her face, and tore at her clothing.

  A particularly vicious slap from a heavyset black woman tipped her chair over, and the girl vanished in a swarm of flapping robes and kicking feet.

  Holman strained against his own bonds, until loops of rope sagged onto his lap and tumbled to the blood-soaked floor. He was free now, but pretended to be trapped while he scanned the room, searching for a way out.

  An abrupt silence ensued when Ahern stopped screaming.

  A moment later, the crowd gasped when an older boy displayed the Reverend’s head, the eyes still twitching in their sockets. The youth swung the grisly trophy by its hair, then tossed the head on top of the stack piling up in the corner.

  Several women gripped Mrs. Cranston, and Joe protested, cursing a blue streak and vowing to kill them all.

  The old man with the Uzi stepped in front of Mr. Cranston’s chair and fired it in the air, to silence the old man.

  Holman almost smiled. That relic still works! And now I know how to get that bastard clutching the Uzi over here to me.

  Two burly women untied the ropes and hauled Abby Cranston out of her chair. She was alive, but only semicon-scious. Blood trickled from her nose and ears, the signs of head trauma. Mr. Cranston cried out again. This time women wielding rakes and hoes beat him senseless.

  As women in burkas surged past him, carrying Mrs.

  Cranston by her arms, Holman shot out his foot and connected with an ankle. A robed woman cried out, then whirled and struck him.

  With one eye on the old man, Holman began to curse the woman, then he launched into a string of unspeakable blasphemies calculated to enrage his captors
.

  It worked.

  The old man rushed to his side. But he didn’t aim the Uzi at the ceiling. He placed it against Holman’s temple.

  Brice refused to be silenced. His taunts became more vicious, until the old man twisted the gun to pummel him with its butt — then Holman moved.

  He shot out his arms, one grabbing the old man’s bony wrist, the other his wattled throat. Holman squeezed until the man’s throat was crushed. Then he yanked the gun out of the man’s dead fingers.

  The women reared back, but one young boy lunged for him. Still partly ensnared by the tangling ropes, Holman shot the youth in the face.

  A woman howled, dropped to her knees beside the corpse. The rest of the robed wall seemed to withdraw.

  Holman spotted a man clutching a double-barreled shotgun and killed him, too. Another armed man fumbled with the rifle on his shoulder, and Holman blew the top of his head off. Finally, Holman shot the kid who’d brandished the Reverend’s head — just because he felt like it.

  The woman beside the dead boy clawed at Holman’s shoes, and he kicked her aside. Waving his Uzi at the quak-ing horde, he grabbed clips of spare ammunition from the dead man’s belt.

  Holman was about to bolt for the exit when he saw Dani Taylor on the floor. Her chair was broken, and she’d untangled herself from the ropes. Now she was struggling to rise.

  “Wait… Take me with you,” she pleaded.

  “Come on, then,” Brice yelled.

  A woman lunged for Holman, and he shot her at point-blank range. Enraged howls greeted the move, but the mob retreated.

  Brice grabbed Dani’s hand. It was slippery with blood, but he managed to haul the girl to her feet. He pushed Dani behind him and nudged her toward the nearest exit.

  “Wait,” Dani gasped, snatching the shotgun from the dead man’s grip. Brice was surprised when she waved the weapon at their captors, effectively covering his back.

  “You know how to use that?” Brice called.

  “I live on a farm. I can fire a shotgun,” Dani replied.

  Another woman took a swing at Brice with a rusty rake, and he shot her, too. Robes flapping, the dead woman spun backward, into the arms of her comrades.