24 Declassified: 01 - Operation Hell Gate Page 21

  Taj was gone but the Lynch brothers would see him soon, at the bridge. Griff glanced at his watch.

  “The shipment arrives in ninety minutes. That gives us an hour and a half to clean up the mess before we can cut and run.”

  “Do you think Liam still has the case?” Shamus asked.

  “I think we should determine that right now. If he does have the attaché case, this will solve our problem.”

  Griffin drew a black box remote control box from his jacket. On its featureless surface the device had one gray button and a tiny liquid crystal display. With his thumb, Griff pressed the button.

  2:44:15 P.M. EDT Houston Street, Lower Manhattan

  Jack and Caitlin were making their way to a subway entrance when Jack’s cell chirped again.

  “This is Special Agent Carlos Ferrer, D.C. Division,” said the stranger’s voice. “Ryan Chappelle sent me to rendezvous with you and pick up an Irish national named Caitlin O’Connor. Is the woman with you now?”

  “She’s close,” said Jack.

  “Good. When can we link up?”

  “I have to take care of something before I can meet you,” Jack replied. “After I’m done, I will deliver

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  Caitlin to you in person. Let’s establish a suitable

  place and time to meet.”

  They did, and the call ended.

  “So now what?” Caitlin demanded. “Are you going to dump me on somebody else?”

  “I don’t want you to get hurt,” Jack replied.

  “I’m a big girl, Jack Bauer. I can take care of myself.”

  Jack stared intensely at Caitlin. Uncomfortable, she looked away. “What’s the matter?”

  “Is your last name O’Connor?”

  Caitlin blinked. “Yes. What about it?”

  Jack frowned. “How did Agent Ferrer know your last name, when I didn’t?”

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  THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 3 P.M. AND 4 P.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME

  3:03:21 P.M. EDT CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles

  Doris Soo Min’s neck itched. She hated it when someone stood behind her. Now three people hovered there—Milo and Jamey and that creepy Ryan Chappelle.

  The intercom buzzed. “That’s the call,” said Jamey. Doris hit the button. “Hello,” she said tremulously. “Good afternoon. My name is Georgi Timko. Our mutual friend Jack Bauer tells me you have informa

  tion I require to play my role in today’s drama.” “Ohmygodohmygod...Is that a Russian accent?” “Ukrainian,” Timko replied, “but I speak Russian

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  like a Muscovite, thanks to a wonderful KGB education.”

  Doris tapped her keyboard. “I’m about to send you the data we have on the JFK strike. Are you ready to receive?”

  “Ready ...Yes, the data is here. Now let us discuss this mission CTU wants me to perform.”

  Doris did. Excitedly. In Russian.

  3:05:45 P.M. EDT Green Dragon Computers Queens Boulevard, Forest Hills

  Griffin and Shamus watched the tiny screen, currently displaying a map of Queens. On a street not too far from the store, a blip flashed intermittently.

  Griff frowned. “Someone has the attaché case, that’s for certain.”

  “It’s close,” said Shamus. “Less than a mile away and moving. Maybe Liam’s bringing it back to us like I told him to.”

  “No, it’s moving in the opposite direction, toward Queens Center Mall.”

  Griffin handed the tracer to Shamus. “Take the Mercedes and finish this. I’ll use the van to pick up the package at the airport and deliver it to Taj.”

  Shamus slipped a 9mm into his jacket. Griff faced him. “This is it, brother. You’ll never see this place again. By midnight we’re on a plane to the Cayman Islands. One more job and we leave America behind forever.”

  Shamus nodded, face grim. Griffin squeezed his arm. “Take care of the boy. We’ll meet at the bridge tonight.”

  3:33:58 P.M. EDT CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles

  Nina Myers burst into Ryan Chappelle’s office without knocking.

  “I just heard from the National Transportation Safety Board.”

  Ryan looked up from his computer screen. “What did they say?”

  “There is not sufficient evidence to ground air traffic around these crucial airport hubs. Quote, unquote.”

  “Christ. How much evidence do they need?”

  “More than we gave them, apparently. The head administrator cited the economic damage such a grounding could cause; the public’s reaction might send ripples through the travel and air shipping industries.”

  Ryan scowled. “They’re not seeing the bigger picture. What kind of public relations disaster will they be facing if the terrorists succeed in just one of today’s attacks!”

  Nina shrugged. The point was moot. The NTSB had made their decision. “What are you going to do?”

  “What choice is there? I have to go with the tactical solution.”

  “That’s your call, Ryan. The other administrators will back you up, but this operation is under your command.”

  Nina knew that Ryan Chappelle was in middle-management hell. If he made the right choice, he might get a pat on the back, or perhaps even a depart

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  mental citation—mainly he would get to keep his job. If he made the wrong choice, his career would effectively be over.

  Ryan slapped his palms on the desk and stood.

  “We’re going. Activate all tactical teams. Red Alert nationwide. I want both Crisis Management Teams to assemble in the situation room in five minutes.”

  3:47:18 P.M. EDT Prolix Security, Fifth Avenue

  Prolix Security was located inside one of the older skyscrapers above Forty-second Street along Fifth Avenue. According to the building directory, the Prolix offices occupied one half of the twenty-sixth floor. Jack and Caitlin entered the building hand-inhand and walked right up to the first-floor security desk.

  A bored guard looked up at their approach. “Can I help you?”

  “Hi,” said Jack. “My name is Norm Bender and this is my wife, Rita. I used to work for Felix Tanner at YankeeLife Insurance up in Boston before he moved over to Prolix. The wife and I were in the town and got to talking about old Felix, so we were wondering if we could pop in and pay him a visit?”

  “One moment, sir. I’ll see if Mr. Tanner is in the building.”

  The security guard lifted the receiver of his desk phone, dialed a four-digit extension, and spoke for a minute. When the guard hung up, he was all smiles. “Mr. Tanner’s secretary told me to send you right up. Twenty-sixth floor, the elevator on the right.”

  “Thanks,” said Jack, relieved the guard had not asked him for identification.

  Jack and Caitlin were the only people on the elevator. When the doors closed she let out a breath. “Glad we freshened up at that restaurant. I want to look presentable. But what do I say?”

  “You don’t have to say anything. Let me do the talking. When Tanner sees me he’s going to know I’m not Norm Bender.” Jack’s features darkened. “After that, it will be Tanner doing all the talking.”

  When the elevator doors opened on the twenty-sixth floor, a woman greeted them. “Mr. and Mrs. Bender? I’m Fiona Brice, Mr. Tanner’s personal secretary.”

  Fiona Brice was a tall, poised, and elegant African-American woman, about thirty. She wore a scarlet Ann Taylor suit, her long straightened ebony hair in a French twist. A string of pearls circled her throat.

  “Mr. Tanner is very pleased to hear from both of you. If you will please follow me.”

  She led them past a deserted reception desk and down a long, carpeted hallway. They passed by several offices, all furnished, yet strangely vacant. Jack saw no personal items of any kind on the desks, the walls, the shelves. The computers were idle, the chairs neatly tucked under the desks next to empty trash cans.

  “As you can see
, our staff is attending a special conference today. Only a skeleton crew is on hand.”

  Fiona paused to allow them to catch up. “Mr. Tanner’s office is down this hall and around the bend. He occupies the corner office, with a view of Fifth Avenue.”

  Jack displayed a flashy grin. “That’s Felix. He was always a corner office kind of guy.”

  As they approached the bend, Jack reached into his

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  jacket, clutched the .45’s handle. He was ready to subdue Felix Tanner the moment the man recognized he was a fraud.

  At the corner, Fiona Brice paused again. She faced them, opened her mouth to speak—and Jack heard a muffled pop, followed by a supersonic crack.

  “Get down!” Jack cried, pushing Caitlin to the carpeted floor.

  Fiona Brice swayed on her high heels, startled. Then she dropped limply to the floor. Caitlin screamed when she saw the bloody hole in the back of the woman’s head.

  Somewhere a door opened, then slammed.

  “Move!” hissed Jack, pushing Caitlin into one of the deserted offices, under a desk. Then he was gone, into the hall or another office, she didn’t know.

  Sick with fright, Caitlin cowered in the empty office. She heard voices speaking in a language she didn’t recognize. A shadow appeared in the doorway. Then came the pounding chatter of an automatic weapon, filling the room. Caitlin whimpered as bullets chewed up the desk and shattered the plaster above her head.

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

  4:07:35 P.M. EDT Queens Boulevard

  Sweating and tired, Liam realized he was approaching Queens Center Mall. The place was a typical suburban-type enclosed mall in the heart of the city’s second largest borough. It catered to a young crowd, including many of Liam’s mates. It also had a food court and air conditioning, both of which sounded great to Liam. He could even visit his mate Ronnie—

  That’s it! thought Liam. I’ll find Ronnie. Ronnie will help me out.

  Though he was three years older than Liam—old enough to have a driver’s license and work at the Captain Coffee kiosk at the mall—Ronnie was in the

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  same grade as Liam at St. Sebastian’s Catholic School. Ronnie had been held back twice because the nuns thought he had “disciplinary problems.”

  Liam knew Ronnie rented a garage from an elderly couple on Sixty-first Street. Last summer, when Conner Sullivan got in trouble with his da for stealing, Ronnie had let Con hole up with his motorcycle until things settled down. Conner slept in that garage for a week or more.

  That’s it, Liam decided. Ronnie’ll give me a place to crash until this all blows over and I can find Caitlin.

  Liam shifted the silver case from one hand to the other, wiped his sweaty, callused palm on his Levi’s. He suddenly noticed a New York City police car rolling alongside him. Without glancing in the cop’s direction, Liam sped up a bit. He noted with mounting panic that the car sped up a bit, too. Could they be lookin’ for me now? he wondered.

  The siren blared, sending a shudder through Liam. With watery knees he watched the car race ahead, to the next intersection, bubble lights flashing. Only then did Liam notice the word “TRAFFIC” emblazoned on the side of the squad car. The policeman had pulled over a driver for attempting an illegal turn onto Queens Boulevard.

  It took a few minutes for Liam’s heartbeat to return to normal, and the false alarm also forced Liam to make a decision. He was going to ditch the case. But he also wanted to hide it in a place where he could find it again—in case Shamus and Griff caught up with him and demanded it be returned.

  Liam looked around. He knew he couldn’t hide it in a public place, and the shrubbery surrounding the mall’s parking garage was too thin to conceal much.

  Up ahead, Liam spied an entrance to the parking garage. He left the sidewalk, trotted down the incline and into the concrete structure. The interior of the parking garage was at least ten degrees cooler than the hot June afternoon outside, though it took a moment for his sun-blinded eyes to grow accustomed to the dimness.

  Finally, Liam spotted a huge steel Dumpster parked near one of the exit ramps. Raised on thick metal wheels, it allowed just enough room for Liam to shove the case underneath the bin, and then camouflage it with some of the free community newspapers blowing around the inside of the garage. It took Liam only a minute to get down on his knees, hide the case. Then he rose, dusted himself off, and stepped out of the shadows, moving toward the ramp.

  Liam heard the squeal of tires behind him and turned—

  4:10:27 P.M. EDT Queens Center Mall, Parking Garage

  Shamus had hardly used the tracer unit. When he’d first arrived at the mall a few minutes before, he’d spied the silver case among the crowd on the sidewalk, picked out Liam a moment later.

  The lad still had the case, which would save Shamus time and trouble. He’d avoided using the detonator in his pocket, telling himself if he could retrieve the case unharmed, he would. The memory stick with its aircraft recognition system was still worth something on the underground arms market.

  Shamus had steered the Mercedes off the Boulevard

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  and onto the side street that led to the mall. Trapped behind traffic at the corner, he’d watched Liam walk down the ramp and enter the parking garage, case in hand.

  You stupid git. You stupid, stupid git. Why couldn’t you have just delivered the bloody case?

  The truth was...Shamus wasn’t at all keen on killing Liam. He was an okay lad and one of his own countrymen, but the bruises Shamus had gotten from that fuckin’ CTU agent were just fresh enough to make Griff’s view of things right, and his brother’s way of thinking had always been Shamus’s way. Like Griff said...

  “After all we’ve done, all that bloody water under the bridge, there really is no going back, only forward...It’s business now, Shea, just business . . .”

  When the clog ahead finally cleared, Shamus cut across two lanes of traffic and drove down the same ramp the boy had used. At the bottom, he tossed his sunglasses onto the seat next to him, next to the tracer. With sharp eyes Shamus thoroughly scanned the dimly lit parking garage.

  He’d completely circled Level One before he saw Liam emerge from behind a line of cars on the opposite end of the garage. The boy was walking toward a ramp, a silhouette against the brilliant June sunlight. Shamus swerved the Mercedes and pointed the car up the center lane.

  “Remember, Shea . . . no regrets, only opportunities.”

  Shamus stomped on the gas, too hard. The tires squealed on the oily pavement, warning the boy. Liam turned and saw the Mercedes as it bore down on him, but the boy seemed frozen in place. Shamus could see the shock in Liam’s eyes, how young he was, how scared. Shamus felt his foot letting up on the pedal, his hands on the steering wheel readying to swerve.

  Then he blinked and, suddenly, Shamus didn’t see Liam in front of him anymore, just a needy little redheaded, freckle-faced child, planting explosives to please his older brother.

  “No going back, only forward...”

  Gritting his teeth, he pressed down mercilessly on the gas pedal with all his weight.

  A Ford Explorer abruptly backed out of a parking space, into the path of the barreling Mercedes. Shamus tried to swerve out of the way but failed. The Mercedes clipped the SUV and spun out of control.

  Instead of striking Liam, the careening car bounced off a concrete pole and skidded into the Dumpster Liam had just left, smashing into it hard enough to push the metal bin against the concrete wall.

  The noise of the crash was followed by an eerie silence. The door to the SUV popped open, a young Hispanic woman stumbled out, clutching her head.

  Liam raced over to the Mercedes, saw Shamus inside and halted abruptly.

  Dazed, blood pouring from his nose and mouth, Shamus spotted the boy. He tried to exit the car, lunge at Liam,
but the door was smashed. The Mercedes sat wedged between the concrete pole and the heavy Dumpster, where Shamus still had no idea Liam had hidden the attaché case.

  Liam saw a chance to flee and took it. He vanished around a thick concrete pillar before Shamus could see that he was no longer carrying the case.

  “Run, boy, but you won’t get far.” Shamus’s voice

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  echoed hollowly in the confined space of the Mercedes as he fumbled in his pocket for the detonator. Then he pressed the button and listened expectantly for the blast.

  Underneath the Dumpster, wedged next to the battered Mercedes, the twin blocks of plastic explosives in the silver case simultaneously detonated, rocking the entire Queens Center garage. Shamus died so suddenly, he failed to feel the superheated gases charring him or register the blast he’d been so intent on hearing.

  4:21:01 P.M. EDT Prolix Security, Fifth Avenue

  The machine-gun fire was deadly, deafening. Caitlin whimpered, covered her face as plaster dust powdered her head and shoulders. Countless bullets chewed through the vacant office, shattering shelves, puncturing filing cabinets, splintering tables and chairs.

  A curtain of silence abruptly descended. The shooter had paused. Despite the ringing in her ears, Caitlin could hear the shell casings rattle and ping on the linoleum floor as the man moved about. She held her breath, terrified he’d hear her frightened gasps from her hiding place beneath the steel desk.

  The man reloaded as he moved—she knew because she could make out the hollow sound of the spent magazine hitting the floor among the brass shells, then the firm click of a new one being shoved into place. The silence continued for one minute, two. Unable to hold her breath any longer, she inhaled as quietly as she could. Finally, she moved a bit to peek around the corner. A shadow fell over her. Eyes wide, Catilin looked up, into the face of a boy.

  Dark eyes stared at her. The young man had dusty brown skin and curly black hair topped by a pure white skullcap. His dark beard was thin, almost wispy. Caitlin could see he was just a teenager, not much older than Liam. She saw him swallow uneasily as he slowly raised the black Uzi, aimed it at her head.