24 Declassified: 01 - Operation Hell Gate Page 20

  Jack was on his feet in time to see the metal grate close and the freight elevator begin its descent. Crossing the floor, he scooped up the AK–47. The banana magazine was nearly full—the shooter must have reloaded just before he shot the cop. Jack reached the elevator, thrust the muzzle through the grate, and opened fire.

  But instead of firing down, into the cage, Jack shot the cables. Sparks flew, a pulley wheel broke and tumbled down the shaft. Then he heard a ripping sound as the cable snapped.

  Howls echoed up the shaft as the freight elevator plunged to the basement. The screams ended abruptly when the elevator car was dashed to pieces. Smoke billowed out of the shaft, rolled over Jack until he had to shield his eyes. When the smoke cleared, Jack peeked down the shaft, saw two corpses and a pair of shattered missile launchers among the twisted debris.

  Smoke began to rise up the elevator shaft from the fire raging on the ground floor. Jack decided it was time to go. He ran back to the fire door. But when he opened it, smoke and heat struck him. A bonfire roared at the bottom of the stairs. The roof was his only hope. Jack grabbed the first rung of the ladder and climbed up to the hatch in the ceiling, praying it wasn’t locked.

  1:21:13 P.M. EDT Freight Terminal C Atlanta Hartsfield Jackson International Airport

  The hazardous material vehicles pulled away from the Boeing 727 and the ramp closed.

  Dr. Colin Fife stood on the tarmac beside CDC Director Henry Johnston Garnett. They watched in silence as the jet taxied down the runway, then leaped into the sky.

  Dr. Garnett sighed. “I only hope we’ve done enough to protect the public.”

  “Only an act of God, a totally unforeseen catastrophe like a plane crash could unleash the virus,” said Dr. Fife with confidence. “And even then the explosion and fire would most likely destroy the cultures. Oh, perhaps if the aircraft broke apart, or it crashed without a fuel explosion there might be a danger, but the chances of such an event are simply astronomical.”

  1:46:44 P.M. EDT Green Dragon Computers Queens Boulevard, Forest Hills

  Inside the Green Dragon store, Taj confronted Griffin Lynch.

  “My brother is dead, the safe house in Brooklyn destroyed, and I still do not have the memory stick I require to shoot down the CDC aircraft,” Taj complained.

  “Don’t panic,” Griffin replied. “We sent Liam to deliver the stick. He’s done it a dozen times. We don’t know what went wrong this time.”

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  “Do you think he went to the police?” Taj asked.

  Griff exchanged an unhappy look with Shamus. “We don’t know what happened, but our associates in Los Angeles know about the loss of the memory stick. Another missile launcher with a new stick has been dispatched from the Green Dragon factory in Los Angeles. It’s scheduled to arrive at LaGuardia Airport in a little over an hour.”

  Taj face clouded. “That wasn’t the plan.”

  “No, but it will get the job done,” said Griff. “Me and Shamus will pick up the launcher and bring it to you ourselves. It’ll mean changing our plans. We never wanted to come to the bridge. We should have been on a plane by now, but we’ll do it to get the bloody job done.”

  “We won’t have time to test it.”

  “We don’t need to test it. We know from Dante Arete’s trial run that the aircraft identification software works. Arete’s men were able to target an approaching Boeing 727 in the busy skies over LAX without difficulty.”

  “Then the fool was captured and we lost the device,” grumbled Taj. “And we lost another memory stick when your boy failed to deliver it to me.”

  “Liam will pay for that bloody fuck-up, I guarantee it,” Griff swore.

  Taj’s eyes clouded as he thought of his murdered brother. “I have sacrificed much. This plan had better work.”

  “It’s perfect,” said Griff. “With the CDC aircraft nearly out of fuel, it’s not likely to burn when you shoot it down. The aircraft will simply break apart— and it will be low enough to disperse the disease cultures over the city’s population. Many of the cultures will be destroyed, but enough will survive to infect millions. New York City will become a ghost town within two or three weeks.”

  The Afghani’s skeletal face split into a cruel grin. “Then I shall have my revenge, for my hand will be the Hammer of God that will smite millions.”

  The phone rang, it was Frank Hensley. Griff put the FBI agent on speakerphone.

  “There’s trouble at Wexler Storage,” Hensley began. “Add that to the raid at the factory in Los Angeles, and it’s obvious CTU is getting too close.”

  “We can’t postpone the mission,” Griff replied.

  “The mission goes on as scheduled,” Hensley agreed.

  “The bridge has been secured,” said Taj. “My men are in place.

  “Before we can proceed I want all loose ends tied up.”

  “Your will be done, Mr. Hensley,” said Taj. “I will send an assassin to kill them all.”

  “I’ve already taken care of my ex-wife in Los Angeles,” the FBI agent replied, his voice flat and emotionless. “Dispatch your assassins, along with Omar Bayat, to handle everyone else. I want you to start with Felix Tanner.”

  Taj nodded. “Felix Tanner and everyone around him will be dead within the hour.”

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  THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 2 P.M. AND 3 P.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME

  2:01:51 P.M. EDT 1234 Las Palmas Way Brentwood, California

  Mrs. Katherine Elizabeth Hensley was a California bottled-blond with platinum highlights, a tanning bed complexion, and a wealthy father who was an esteemed Federal Court judge. She lived in a mock Tudor cottage separated from the road by a swath of lush green grass. Low trees hugged the stone walls, and dense, tall shrubs framed an arched doorway. A picture window with vertical blinds looked out on the quiet street, but most of the windows were hidden from the street in the back of the house.

  Tony stopped the CTU van across the winding boulevard, under a sprawling eucalyptus tree. Jessica Schneider displayed her cell phone. “Should I call Mrs. Hensley, let her know we’re coming?”

  Tony’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Wait. Something’s not right.”

  Jessica fished in her purse, pretended to brush her hair while she scoped the area. “I don’t see anything.”

  “Look up the block. The jet-black ’84 Mustang GT with the Cobra R chrome wheels and Pirelli tires. It’s too crass and showy for this neighborhood. That’s a gang-banger’s car.”

  Jessica checked the rearview mirror. “That car behind us has a jacked suspension.”

  “That’s a Nissan 300ZX Turbo. It doesn’t belong here, either. This neighborhood has been invaded.”

  “What do we do?”

  “We’ll approach the house, but carefully. For all we know, we might be dealing with a burglary ring or—”

  A woman’s sudden scream was followed by shattering glass. Marine Captain Jessica Schneider bolted out the door and across the street before Tony could stop her.

  “Christ, not again,” he moaned, racing after her.

  By the time she reached the path to the house, the Captain had her .45 drawn. When she reached the entrance, she flattened herself against the wooden door. Tony was still twenty yards away when a figure in black leather lunged at the Captain from the thick bushes flanking the arched entranceway.

  The man smashed her against the door and dashed the weapon out of her hand. Still running, Tony spied a flash of steel, saw the eight-inch blade penetrate the Captain’s shoulder to the hilt. Despite the horrific wound, she fought back.

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  Suddenly the door opened inward. Jessica Schneider and her attacker tumbled inside the house, and the door slammed. Without slowing, Tony veered to the right and ran toward the huge picture window. He drew his 9mm, snapped the safety off, and jumped.

  Momentum carried him through the glass, but the vertical blinds entangled his
feet and Tony landed on his side. He felt more than heard a supersonic crack as a bullet passed over his head, and Tony rolled behind a massive couch. He was in a living room, on a thick cream-colored rug. Near the fireplace, two young Asian men struggled with Mrs. Hensley. In the opposite corner Tony spied the shooter, fired twice. The double-tap splashed the man’s brains onto the peach-colored walls.

  Still on the floor, Tony twisted around, fired again. One of the men yelped and let go of the woman. He was a clear target now, and Tony pumped a shot into his heart. He flew back against the fireplace and dropped, scarlet staining the virgin carpet.

  The last man gripped the woman’s long blond hair, held a razor-sharp butterfly knife to her throat. He barked something in Cantonese. Tony’s eyes narrowed as he aimed and fired again. The bullet struck the man’s knee and he went down. Tony rose and fired a second round into the writhing, screaming man, and his cries abruptly ceased.

  Tony bolted past the sobbing woman, kicked open a door. On the other side, Jessica Schneider was still struggling against one assassin. The other lay dead or unconscious in the marble entranceway. Tony grabbed the Asian man by his long black hair, yanked him backward. The assassin lunged. Tony kicked him in the throat. There was a crunch as the Asian’s larynx was crushed. Choking, he fell backward, legs kicking as he gasped for air. Tony ignored the dying man, checked Jessica’s wounds.

  The knife was still buried in her shoulder. She gritted herteeth as he sliditout.There wasalot of blood, but no artery had been pierced. The Captain looked up at Tony through glassy eyes. Her face was pale and beaded with sweat, and Tony feared she was going to pass out.

  “Stay with me!” he yelled.

  Jessica opened her eyes, focused. Then she grinned sheepishly. “Guess I was too much of a Marine, huh?”

  “You’ll live. But I’m going to get you to a hospital.”

  She waved him off. “Take me to the CTU infirmary. This day isn’t over yet. You still need me.”

  Tony offered her a faint smile while he tried to staunch the flow of blood. “Always the cowboy, right Captain?”

  “I’m from Texas. It’s in the blood.”

  Tony’s eyebrows rose. “So I see.”

  Mrs. Hensley appeared in the doorway, her blouse ripped, jeans torn, clutching the jamb for support. She had a nasty bruise on the side of her face; otherwise she was nearly as colorless as Captain Schneider.

  From the floor the Captain spoke. “Mrs. Hensley? Are you all right?”

  Wide green eyes stared at the female Marine. The stunned woman nodded.

  Tony stepped up to Mrs. Hensley. “My name is Tony Almeida. I’m an agent from the Counter Terrorist Unit. Do you have any idea why your ex-husband wants you dead?”

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  2:07:09 P.M. EDT CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles

  Ryan Chappelle called an emergency video conference with the other regional directors of Counter Terrorist Units across the nation.

  “As you can see from the briefing material I’ve sent to all of you, we’ve determined beyond a reasonable doubt that unknown terrorists are targeting six airports in five major urban areas for multiple strikes scheduled to commence in less than two and a half hours.

  “From the intelligence we’ve uncovered here in Los Angeles and with our agents in the field, we’ve concluded that the goal of these terrorists is to shoot down a large number of civilian airliners in an effort to bring air commerce to a halt and cripple the nation’s economy.

  “Fortunately, we were able to get a digital outline of the plot, down to the smallest detail. That is why I propose we assemble strike teams in each of these cities, place them in strategic locations around each of the airports. When zero hour comes, we’ll be ready...”

  “It’s risky,” said Phillip Keenan, RD of CTU, Seattle.

  “It’s an opportunity,” countered Chappelle. “With all our tactical elements in place, we have the potential for a perfect storm, a sweep of terrorist suspects larger than any in history. This raid could be a real feather in all of our caps.”

  2:09:48 P.M. EDT Los Angeles Freeway

  “I met Frank Hensley after he returned from the Gulf War, at a party at UCLA. He was still in the Army, waiting to be discharged. I was majoring in art history; he was working toward his law degree. We got married the following June...Frank was in kind of a hurry.”

  Katherine Hensley seemed small and fragile after the attack. As Tony drove back to CTU, she sat next to him in the passenger seat up front. Eyes downcast, the bruises on her face, throat, and breasts livid against her tan, Mrs. Hensley answered questions posed to her in an emotionless monotone.

  From the backseat, Captain Schneider strained to hear the woman’s soft voice over the muted road noise. A blanket, bandages, and a painkilling shot from the first aid kit were all the medical care she would accept until they got back to CTU. Jessica was determined to interrogate Katherine Hensley herself. “How was the marriage?”

  “When we first met, I thought Frank was the strong, silent type. Too late I found out he was just a man who never talked—never to me, anyway. People...people who knew him before the war...they all said he’d changed.”

  “Changed? How?”

  “Frank was captured by the Iraqis. He was a prisoner for several weeks. I guess he had a pretty rough time because Frank would never, ever talk about it. When the war ended he served out the rest of his enlistment, then quit the Army.”

  Captain Schneider, face pale and shiny with perspiration, fought hard to focus on the woman’s stum

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  bling replies, to ignore the throbbing pain from the stab wound, the dizziness from loss of blood. She leaned forward from the backseat. “You said Frank was in a hurry to get married?”

  Mrs. Hensley nodded. “I thought it was because his parents both died while he was a teenager, that he wanted stability in his life. But after he joined the FBI, our lives were anything but stable.”

  “The job affected him?”

  “Frank took on dangerous assignments. He worked undercover and things between us became...tense. Then I found out he’d been having an affair with a coworker and I filed for divorce. In the end, I think my father was more upset than I was. Dad had helped Frank get into the Bureau, treated him like a son.”

  Mrs. Hensley looked up. She met Jessica’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “Maybe you should be having this conversation with Frank’s girlfriend. She knows more about my husband’s business than I do.”

  2:11:57 P.M. EDT Houston Street, Lower Manhattan

  Jack leaped from the bottom rung of the fire escape, landed in a narrow space between two buildings. He moved through a smoky haze to the sidewalk. Fire engines blocked Houston Street, hoses curled along the pavement like thick vines.

  Jack slipped through the crowd, rejoined Caitlin.

  “You did good,” Jack told her.

  Caitlin blinked. “I burned the bloody building down’s what I did. I feel terrible about it, too. I was so stupid, so stupid—”

  “It was a terrorist safe house. You may have saved hundreds of lives.”

  Caitlin slumped down on the curb. “I need a rest.”

  Jack leaned against a Village Voice stand. What he needed most right now was a CTU Crime Scene Unit, an “autopsy team” to work with local authorities and gather intelligence from the remains of the terrorist safe house on the sixth floor of the burning building and the shattered missile launchers in the ruined elevator. But the establishment of field offices in some cities was slow in coming, and often resisted by entrenched bureaucracies like the FBI, or local law enforcement agencies concerned with protecting their own turf. New York City was just one political hornets’ nest since its police department had its own counterterrorist team in place. Richard Walsh was lobbying hard to increase CTU’s presence, but change was coming slowly.

  Jack’s cell chirped. He listened while Nina told him about CTU’s massive tactical response to the terrorist threat. Jack told Nina what he’d di
scovered at Wexler Storage.

  “They are going to have a tough time hitting the New York airports now. I’ve destroyed the missile launchers stored here and killed most of their operatives. Except for the leaders, Frank Hensley, the Lynch brothers, and Taj Ali Kahlil, the New York cell has been neutralized.”

  “We’re not so sure about that, Jack,” said Nina. “A missile launcher got away from us at Green Dragon, LA. It will turn up somewhere. And Omar Bayat has yet to turn up.”

  “What have you found out about Felix Tanner?”

  “Tanner used to work for YankeeLife Insurance, a

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  firm that specialized in insurance for airline clients. Tanner has since moved over to the CEO’s spot at Prolix Security. Day to day, he works out of his midtown Manhattan office.

  “I’ll need the personnel files from YankeeLife downloaded to my PDA and then I’m on my way,” said Jack.

  “Not so fast, Agent Bauer.” It was Ryan Chappelle speaking. Jack was surprised Nina had not warned him the Administrative Director was on the line. “We need you to take down the rest of the New York cell, Jack. That’s your first priority. You hurt them with the attack on the storage building, but they still have the resources to carry out the JFK attack. The FBI and local authorities are not cooperating with us, so it’s up to you.”

  “Listen, I can’t do it, Ryan, but I think I know someone who can.”

  Jack explained his plan. Ryan was—no surprise— highly skeptical.

  “Trust me, Ryan,” said Jack. “This will work. Finding Tanner is more important than anything else right now.”

  “Listen, Jack,” said Nina. “There’s more to deal with than Tanner. Tony Almeida and Captain Schneider interrogated Hensley’s ex-wife. Turns out Frank Hensley had an extramarital affair two years ago. The woman in question was Fiona Brice, an FBI stenographer working in the New York office—”

  “Can we find her?”

  “We found her, Jack. Fiona Brice is currently employed by Prolix Security. She’s Felix Tanner’s personal secretary.”

  2:22:43 P.M. EDT Green Dragon Computers Queens Boulevard, Forest Hills