24 Declassified: Collateral Damage 2d-8 Page 19

  Once a Serbian Black Dog, Dubic was now a gun for hire, the key word being hire. The Albino had been the one to contact him, employing Dubic to assemble a strike team.

  Dubic cared little about the politics involved in this operation. He was in it for the money. Lots and lots of money.

  Bringing down the holier-than-thou Americans was merely a happy by-product.

  Just then, Noor spied Dubic. “You have news?”

  “Good news,” Dubic said. “Our operative is on the way to Newark International in a chartered plane — with the device. I’m going to the airport now to pick them up.”

  “Why the delay?” Noor demanded.

  “Ungar told me the part came from NATO military stores. Difficult to replace, though he managed to do it.”

  “Take the Hummer,” said Noor. “I’ll send someone with you.”

  Dubic nodded. “How about Tanner?” He looked around for the muscular, charismatic black man with the shaved head, but failed to see him.

  “Tanner’s not here,” said Noor. “I sent him to Manhattan to pick up your friend, the Albino.”

  Dubic glanced around the basement for a second choice, but Montel Tanner was about the only man he’d ever liked in this group. The remaining pool consisted of twitchy felons and adolescent gang members — sociopathic personalities all.

  “I’ll go myself,” he said. “It’s better that way.”

  Dubic snatched the Hummer’s keys from one of Noor’s wild-eyed lieutenants. He could feel the crazy cultist staring daggers in his back as he walked to the hole cut into the basement wall, and entered the dimly lit sewer. The tunnel was dark and damp and nearly a block long.

  The stench was overpowering, and though Dubic was not particularly tall, he had to crouch to prevent brushing his blond crew cut against the filth-covered ceiling. Water trickled along the floor. In the shadows, Dubic could hear rats scurrying.

  Relieved to be out of the horrid pit, Dubic emerged in another brightly lit basement a few moments later. More of Noor’s brown-skinned followers clustered around a moderately sized tanker truck that was parked in the back of the interior space, away from the makeshift laboratory.

  Dubic thought about the vehicle’s deadly contents and shuddered.

  He climbed into the shiny black Hummer and gunned the engine. He drove up the ramp, and the door opened automatically. As he swerved off Crampton Street toward Howard Boulevard, Dubic pulled the cell phone out of his pocket and tossed it onto the dash.

  When he reached the highway, he’d contact the Albino.

  But first he had to get this monster American vehicle through these littered ghetto streets.

  1:35:21 A.M. EDT

  Peralta Storage

  One block south of 1313 Crampton Street Newark, New Jersey

  Tony checked his watch, reached for his cell phone, and hit speed dial.

  “O’Brian here.”

  “It’s Almeida.” Tony was sitting in the shadows, his back against a run-down brick row house across the street from the abandoned warehouse, just a block away from the Thirteen Gang’s reputed headquarters. “That black Hummer I told you about eighty minutes ago. It just departed the location, heading east.”

  “You sure it was the same one?” Morris recited the license plate.

  “Yeah,” said Tony. “Same one. I got a look at the driver this time through the windshield. Caucasian, male, blond crew cut, black leather jacket.”

  “Okay…” On the other end of the line, computer keys tapped. “I’ve logged it,” said Morris. “Any other activity?”

  “Nothing,” said Tony, glancing up and down the block.

  “It’s as dead as a morgue around here.”

  “Deputy Director Foy still with you?”

  “Yeah.”

  Tony glanced at the slight woman slumped at his side.

  Ten minutes into their stakeout, she’d nodded off, her red-haired head hitting his shoulder. After everything she’d been through, he figured she could use the rest and didn’t bother waking her.

  Morris spent a minute updating Tony on things at his end. Finally, they ended the call, and Judith Foy stirred.

  “What’s happening?” she said through a yawn.

  “I checked in with Morris O’Brian. The black Hummer just left. And according to O’Brian, CTU New York dug up another mole — Peter Randall.”

  “Oh god.”

  “Morris is going to contact Jack, let him know what we’ve observed. He might even ask us to infiltrate. How are you feeling? Are you up to this?”

  Judith sat up straight, rubbed the sleep from her eyes.

  “My ribs are still a little sore, but I’m good to go.”

  “You sure?”

  “Listen, Almeida. These scumbags killed Brice. They tried to kill me. If you and Jack come up with a plan that’ll take these people out for good, believe me, I’m up for it.”

  1:45:03 A.M. EDT

  The Beresfield Apartments

  Central Park West

  New York, New York

  Jack Bauer had given Erno Tobias’s residence a thoroughly professional toss. He’d upended furniture, yanked the pillows off couches and chairs, and gashed the upholstery to check the stuffing.

  Jack had moved from room to room systematically, pulling out drawers, peeking behind pictures, checking behind curtains and under throw rugs. In the bathroom, Jack had found a miniature pharmacy composed of exotic drugs and elixirs.

  Jack had wanted to search the balcony, but the sliding glass door was locked, and he hadn’t yet located the keys, so he’d headed for the bedroom next.

  He’d searched the dead man’s dresser, his walk-in closet, his nightstand. He’d even stripped the bed and turned over the mattress.

  Jack’s biggest discovery, however, had been hidden inside the Albino’s ornate armoire. The arsenal included a Remington M870 shotgun, an M9 Beretta with a Knight Armament sound suppressor, two Glocks, and a G36 Commando short carbine.

  “Considering New York City’s tough gun laws, I’d say Tobias was in violation,” Jack muttered.

  Along with plenty of ammunition, Jack found a long length of nylon rope, a pair of Gerber Guardian double-edged knives, and an M9 bayonet. He tucked the three knives into the Hawk’s utility vest, which he still wore.

  Jack was considering taking the Beretta and silencer attachment, too, when the phone on the nightstand rang.

  Jack froze for a moment, startled into a single second of paralysis. By the second ring, however, he’d already made the decision to answer. “Hello,” he said, imitating the Albino’s dry rasp.

  “It’s nama, Dubic,” a man said in Serbian.

  “Jest, Dubic,” Jack replied.

  “We are back on track,” Dubic continued, still speaking Serbian. “Ungar has secured a second dispensing unit from the NATO arsenal, along with an expert to install the device. I’m on my way to Newark Airport to bring them both back to the lab.”

  “Vrlo dobar,” Jack rasped.

  “I understand that Montel Tanner is on his way to you.

  He’s going to pick you up and bring you back to Newark personally.”

  “Da. I will be ready,” said Jack.

  “Be careful. The mood is ugly with these men. When Dr. Kabbibi discovered the engineers had installed the first dispenser improperly, and damaged it beyond repair, the two men responsible were beheaded. I saw the whole thing. These cultists are savage animals. Worse than the Bosnians.”

  “Da,” Jack rasped in agreement.

  Dubic sighed. “I will say goodbye now. If all goes according to plan, I’ll meet you in front of the big bull tomorrow morning. Good luck.”

  “You, too,” Jack rasped.

  Dubic hung up, and Jack dropped the phone into its cradle. He snatched his own cell from his pocket, punched the buttons.

  “O’Brian here,” said Morris, at CTU’s Operations Center.

  “Is Tony Almeida still in Newark?”

  “Hello, Jack. Yes, he
is. I was just about to call you—”

  “Connect me with Tony and stay on the line. I want you aware of some new intel.”

  Tony answered on the first ring.

  Inside of ten minutes, Jack and Tony had devised a plan to intercept the “package” coming from Newark Airport and infiltrate the Thirteen Gang’s Crampton Street headquarters.

  1:56:59 A.M. EDT

  The Beresfield Apartments

  Central Park West

  New York, New York

  The doorman admitted the trio into the marble-appointed lobby. As they passed him, he eyed the men with curiosity.

  The shortest was a good-looking African-American man with a muscular build, a shaved head, and a polished demeanor — his deep blue, tailored pinstriped suit appeared to be worth more than the doorman’s monthly salary. The others were built like linebackers and looked like members of a gangsta rapper’s posse.

  The black man in the suit approached the desk. “Montel Tanner to see Mr. Tobias.”

  The desk clerk smiled. “Yes, Mr. Tobias left word that he was expecting you. Take the elevator to the eighth floor.

  Suite 801.”

  “Thank you, my man,” Tanner said, gesturing to his comrades to follow.

  When the elevator door closed on Tanner and his companions, the doorman spoke. “Gee, do you think they’re clubbing tonight?”

  The desk clerk shrugged.

  Outside, three late-model Cadillac SUVs were lined up on Central Park West. The doorman scanned the cars for a glimpse of scantily clad models. But the only occupants he could see were tough-looking urban males.

  “I wonder where they’re going,” said the doorman.

  “Hip-hop clubs probably. Funny, Tobias never struck me as that type.”

  “Mr. Tobias is rich,” replied the desk clerk, “and you know the rich.”

  “Yeah.” The doorman snorted. “They know how to have a good time.”

  20. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 2:00 A.M. AND 3:00 A.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME

  2:02:52 A.M. EDT

  Eighth Floor, Beresfield Apartments Central Park West

  New York, New York

  The loud rapping on the apartment door took Jack Bauer by surprise. He’d just finished his phone conversation with Tony Almeida when he’d heard the knocking — loud enough to reach the Albino’s bedroom.

  Jack cursed. He’d expected the desk clerk to call before allowing visitors upstairs. The knocking came again, and Jack crossed to the Albino’s armoire. He grabbed the M9

  Beretta that he’d found during his search, along with a length of rope.

  “Wake up, Tobias,” someone yelled through the door.

  “It’s Montel Tanner!”

  M9 clutched in both hands, the rope looped over his shoulder, Jack approached the door, peered through the spy hole.

  A thirty-something African American sporting a blue pinstriped suit and a shaved head stood in the hallway, flanked by two massive bodyguards. Jack could tell by the way the big men carried themselves that they were armed.

  The black man in the pinstriped suit was pounding on the door. As Jack backed away, he heard one of Tanner’s men speak.

  “This ain’t right. Maybe we should take down the door.”

  Jack moved quickly back to the living room, stood over Tobias’s corpse. He unwound the rope, tied it to the thick leg of the dead man’s heavy chair. Then Jack went to the computer and yanked it off the table, breaking it free of its cables.

  A shoulder slammed into the front door, but the stout wood failed to give.

  Jack hurled the computer through the plate glass of the locked sliding door. The glass came down in a shower of crystal shards.

  The men outside obviously heard the racket because they began to shout. Jack grabbed one end of the long, nylon rope and moved through the shattered sliding door.

  As he crossed the flagstone balcony, he heard the door finally break open behind him.

  Gripping the rope, Jack climbed over the balcony’s railing and began rappelling down the terra-cotta side of the luxury building.

  2:05:19 A.M. EDT

  Corner of Howard and Broad Streets Newark, New Jersey

  The black Ford Explorer stopped at the corner of the run-down neighborhood, its chrome shining dully in the glow of the streetlight. The driver’s window opened automatically.

  “Yo, Hector,” called the twenty-two-year-old African-American driver. “Over here, man…”

  The nineteen-year-old Hispanic called Hector tucked his stash into the pocket of his baggy pants, then stepped off the curb. He approached the Ford Explorer warily.

  “Leroy? Who’s in there with you?” Hector demanded.

  “Nobody, man, this ain’t no damn ambush. I wanted you to be the first to check out my wheels.”

  Hector grinned, flashing gold teeth. “Sweet. Too sweet for you, jefe. I thought you was a customer in that chariot.”

  “Drivin’ this, the hos can smell my money.” Leroy grinned wickedly. “Yes, sir. Crack has its privileges, so long as you don’t go sampling your own merchandise.”

  Leroy glanced at the twitchy young Hector and realized that piece of advice came too late. “So was’sup?”

  Hector snorted. “Slow night. Been a lot of slow nights late—”

  To Leroy, it seemed a shadow rose up from behind the car and struck Hector down. One second, the Latin King was talking, the next minute, Hector was bleeding, pistol-whipped to the ground by some yuppie-looking Latino dude.

  The black youth reached for the stick shift to peel out, but the yuppie beaner was already on him, jamming the gun barrel into his temple.

  “Get out or I’ll shoot.”

  Dang, thought Leroy, this dude ain’t nothing like the Wall Street yuppies I sell to in Hoboken!

  Lifting his arms, Leroy showed his hands. He was too afraid to look the man in the eyes, so he tried to check him out in the mirror. He saw dark hair, sideburns, a soul patch.

  “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 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 butt 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 passenger 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, Beresfield 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 scraping across the floor.

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

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

  Tanner blinked in shock. “What the f—”

  The chair scraped 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, damn it.”

  “Yo,” his driver answered at last.

  “There’s a guy climbing down the side of the building.

  I want him— 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 ex-panse 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.

  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 clustered under lampposts instead of sticking to the shadows. Two men carried flashlights—