24 Declassified: 03 - Trojan Horse (3 page)

Cautiously, Jack poked his head out. Across fifty feet of sound stage cluttered with movie props—everything from ornate period furniture to grandfather clocks, fake laboratory machinery, even a suit of armor—Jack saw another steel door that was still sealed. His movement attracted a short crackle of fire. As Jack ducked back behind cover, metal rounds splattered against the wall, spraying the two men with shrapnel and dust. Jack grunted. A shard of hot metal had pierced his battle suit, burning a hole into his left arm at the biceps. Jack swallowed bile, ignored the fiery sting.

“Angel One’s team should have been through that door by now,” Jack told Blackburn.

“They can’t get through,” Blackburn replied. “That door’s been welded shut to protect the lab from this kind of raid. The DEA has taken the lab, captured the big fish, too. Now they’re looking for another way to reach us.”

“They better hurry,” said Jack.

Blackburn eyed the stain on Bauer’s arm. “You know we can’t sit here and wait. We move or we die.” Then a wry smile appeared. “You know, we could go out the way we came in. These guys are only goons and they aren’t getting away. We could wait them out, or come back in with more muscle.”

Bauer shook his head. “Let’s finish this now, before someone gets hurt. How many shooters did you spot?”

“I counted two,” Blackburn replied. “One at three o’clock. Another one’s lurking over there near that suit of armor, or he was a minute ago.”

Now the man could be anywhere. They both knew it. Jack shook the shards of broken transmitter out of his Kevlar assault helmet, slipped it on. Jack lowered the cracked visor, then he and Blackburn checked their weapons.

“Let’s go,” Jack said.

They rolled away from one another, emerging in a sprint on either side of the pockmarked dumpster. Jack aimed the G36—at air. His prey had vanished.

Chet Blackburn was luckier. His man rose up from behind cover and opened up with twin .45s. Hispanic, mid-twenties, the
cholo
wore athletic gear, white sneakers and enough bling to open a jewelry store. He clutched the handguns in a sideways gangsta grip, too—a tactic impressive in a drive-by shooting but hardly effective in this situation.

Blackburn stood his ground as the first two shots warbled past his ears, winced when the third round nicked his body armor and tore away a chunk of battle suit. Then he fired twice. His first shot struck the shooter between the eyes, snapping his head back. The second entered under the man’s chin, blew away the top of his skull. The dead man flopped to the ground, the twitching hand pumping off one last shot, which ricocheted off the wall.

Jack spied his quarry racing across the old movie set. He raised his G36 to fire, then lowered the muzzle and slung the weapon over his shoulder. Deciding on a capture, Jack took off in a sprint. He would try to head off the youth at the edge of the set.

Blackburn glanced up from securing the dead man’s weapons. He watched Bauer catch up with the running man, seize the nape of his neck, a handful of long dark hair. Together the two men slammed into the suit of armor, which was actually a sculpture of welded steel. Jack grunted, the wind knocked out of him as the other man’s body cushioned the impact.

Chet Blackburn winced. Even from ten meters away he’d heard the sickening crunch when the fugitive’s nose flattened, his front teeth shattered against the iron breastplate.

After stumbling to his feet, Jack leaned against the medieval prop. He used plastic zip cuffs to secure the bleeding man’s arms behind his back. But before he could haul his prisoner to his feet, the studio was rocked by another explosion. Dust billowed from a far corner of the massive sound stage as a chunk of the wall blew away in a tumble of shattered plaster. Angel One, along with three other members of the DEA assault squad, emerged from the smoke.

Jack turned to face them. A trickle of blood ran down from his nose. More blood stained his battle suit. But Jack Bauer stood tall, still gripping the battered prisoner under the shadow of the medieval armor.

“Well, well,” said Chet Blackburn, teeth flashing white against his dark skin. “Here comes the cavalry, right on time.”

5:59:56
A
.
M
.PDT Santa Monica

The sound of the phone on the nightstand shook Teri Bauer out of her sleep. She rolled over, reached across the bed. The sheets were cool, unruffled. She lifted the receiver. “Jack?”

“Teri?” The voice was male, a higher octave than Jack’s, with a British accent.

Teri sat up, eyes wide. “
Dennis
? Is that you?”

The man laughed. “I can’t believe you recognize my voice after all this time.”

“It was the accent that gave you away. And it’s only been a year or so.”

“Nearly two, and I’ve been counting the hours.”

Teri ran her hand through her short, raven hair, not sure what to say next. The last thing she expected was a call from her former employer, Dennis Winthrop.

“Look, I know it’s a crazy time to call, but I just got off the red-eye from London—”

“London, wow. Long trip.”

“—and I remembered how you used to wake up at four a.m. and get a couple of hours of design work done before you had to get your daughter ready for school. You always showed up at the production office around noon with really fantastic stuff.”

Teri smiled. “Oh, come on.”

“No. no, don’t sell your work short.” The man paused. “You were awake, right? I’d hate to think I got you out of bed.”

“Oh, yeah,” Teri lied. “Been up for hours now. So what’s going on?”

“Well, I’m back in town because of the awards show tonight. You know, the Silver Screen Awards...”

“Right, right. The Silver Screen Awards,” said Teri, recalling she’d seen something about the awards show on the cover of an entertainment magazine she’d flipped through on line at the supermarket.

“Did you know that
Demon Hunter
is up for three awards, including one for production design?”

“My god, I didn’t know. That’s great, Dennis. Really great. Congratulations.”

“Look, I know it’s short notice, but I opened my

L.A. office this morning and found sixteen tickets for tonight’s show sitting on my desk. My staff is going, the cast is going...and I wanted you to come.”

“I’m speechless. That’s really generous and thoughtful—”

“Not at all. You’re as much a part of the design as anyone else. You were involved and I want you to be there to share the glory. I’m calling Chandra and Carla, too. And Nancy is coming.”

“Nancy! Oh, I’d love to see Nancy again.”

“She’s had a baby you know. A son.”

“I didn’t know.”

“And Carla is engaged.”

“My god...”

“Everyone is getting married or engaged or having babies, it seems.” A short silence followed. “You’re still with Jack?”

“Oh, yes. You know.”

“Well that’s great. You can tell me about Jack and Kim tonight. You’re coming, right?”

“Well I ...I...”

“Say yes.”

“Okay, I’m coming,” Teri said, relenting at last. “But this thing is on television, right? What do I wear?”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something. You’ll look lovely no matter what you choose.”

“Okay,” said Teri nervously. “What time?”

“I’ll send a limousine to pick you up at five o’clock.

It’s early but the show is broadcast live on the East Coast.”

“I don’t need a limo, Dennis,” Teri said.

“Don’t worry about it. The studio is paying for everything. It will be fun. And, Teri . . .” His voice lowered an octave. “It will be great to see you again.”

Teri felt her cheeks flushing warm. “It will be really good to see you too, Dennis.”

1
2
3 4 5 6 7 8
9
10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17
18 19 20 21 22 23 24

THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLAC
E
BETWEEN THE HOURS OF
6 A.M. AND 7 A.M.
PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME

6:01:31
A
.
M
.PDT Utopia Studios

One ambulance departed with Jack Bauer’s prisoner strapped to a stretcher, while two paramedics worked on Jack. He let them strip away his shoulder armor, Kevlar vest, knee and elbow pads. He sat in coopera
tive silence while they patched up his arm and stanched his bleeding nose. But trouble started when one paramedic tried to put Jack on a stretcher, too. He refused, became argumentative. Finally a female emergency worker stepped forward and tried to reason with him.

“I don’tcarehow hard that helmet is,orhow tough you think you are, Officer Bauer. You most likely have a concussion and you ought to get it checked out.”

“Listen . . .” Jack checked the woman’s ID tag. “Ms. Besario...Inez. I’m fine. Really. I’m not feeling drowsy. I’m not going into shock. My vision’s fine and I don’t even have a headache.”

Her eyes were large and round and very dark. From her set expression Jack could see Inez Besario was as stubborn as he was. “You have a lump on your head and your nose has barely stopped bleeding.”

Jack smiled, touched her shoulder. “I’ll have the docs check me out after I get back to headquarters. Thank you for your concern.”

She stared up at Jack through long lashes. Then she flashed him a sly smile. “You cops are all alike. You think you’re supermen.”

Jack noticed the wedding band on her finger. “Sounds like you speak from experience.”

“Special Agent Bauer. Over here.”

Jack turned at the call. Agent Brian McConnell didn’t wait for Bauer to follow. He turned on his heels and walked back to the white van parked near the blown-out door to studio nine.

“Excuse me,” Jack told the paramedic.

She nodded. “Better go,
Special Agent
Bauer.”

Inez Besario joined the other emergency workers administering first aid to Chet Blackburn’s leg. Jack hurried across the parking lot. He spied Agent Avilla, tightening the flex-ties on one of the
cholos
who’d worked him over the other day. Finally Jack caught up with Angel One at the door to the battered van. McConnell slapped the dirty side panel twice with the palm of his hand.

“Come,” a muffled voice called from inside.

McConnell jerked the handle and slid the door open. Inside the command center, Jason Peltz sat in a chair bolted to the van’s floor. The man was surrounded by computers, flickering monitors and banks of communications equipment. There was even a small chemical lab inside. A technician with gloved hands was working with vials, testing a sample of the narcotic found inside Utopia Studios. Peltz powered down his station, yanked off his headset, and stepped out of the cluttered van.

“Good job, Bauer. And you can pass on my thanks to Agent Blackburn and his people. Through intraagency cooperation, we shut down the largest methamphetamine laboratory on the West Coast and captured those responsible—”

“Wait a minute,” Jack interrupted. “Did you say methamphetamine lab? This lab was supposed to be producing Karma.”

“It appears our intelligence was faulty,” Peltz said. “My forensics people can’t find evidence this lab was used for anything more than the production of high quality crystal meth.”

Peltz frowned. Like his smile, the mask of expression never reached the man’s eyes. “I’m really sorry, Jack.”

Bauer was angry, but he couldn’t show it. He looked at Brian McConnell, but the man would not meet his gaze. Jack didn’t know if Angel One was suffering from disappointment or guilt—which meant that Jack didn’t know if this was just another DEA snafu, or if he and CTU were being played.

Reflexively, Jack massaged his throbbing temple. “That’s a bad break,” he said evenly. “Where does that leave us, Peltz?”

Peltz sighed, slapped his thigh. “Right now, we say goodbye.”

“What?”

“This is a pretty big bust, and my bosses in Sacramento wanted to make some hay out it.” Peltz paused. “The press is being alerted, Jack, even as we speak. The cameras will be here any minute. I’ve already ordered my men out. You’d best get your team out of here if you don’t want to see the faces of your undercover operatives on the network news.”

Seething, Jack turned and crossed the parking lot. He found Chet Blackburn leaning against an ambulance, studying the bandage around his leg.

“Assemble your team and get them out of here. The press is on its way.”

Blackburn blinked. “That was fast.”

Bauer looked at the white van. “Someone tipped them off. I’ll ride back to headquarters with you.”

“Don’t you want to say hello to your old pal first?”

Jack turned. Chet was grinning. Behind him a man leaned against a blue, late-model Lexus. About the same age as Jack, he wore khaki pants and a polo shirt. His arms and face were deeply tanned under light brown, thinning hair.

“Frank! Frank Castalano.” Jack grabbed the man’s hand.

“Good to see you, Jack.” Castalano slapped his arm and Jack winced. “In the shit again, eh?”

“As I recall, Frank, you were never far from the stink yourself.”

Chet sniffed the air. “I don’t smell any stink on him, Jack. He sure isn’t kicking down doors anymore. All this heat and he hasn’t even broken a sweat.”

Jack grinned. “That’s because he’s
Detective
Frank Castalano of the Los Angeles Homicide Bureau now. So what are you doing here, partner?”

Frank caught Jack’s eye. “Actually, I wish this were a social call, but it’s not.”

“Chet, you can go ahead back to headquarters and file your report,” said Jack. “I’ll find my own way back.”

Blackburn had caught the exchange. Now he was feeling the chill. “Okay then,” he said “It was nice seeing you, Frank. Keep in touch.”

After Chet and the rest of his tactical assault team piled into a black CTU tactical van and drove away, Detective Castalano opened the passenger side door of his Lexus.

“Let’s go for a ride, Jack.”

“Am I under arrest?”

Frank laughed, moved to slap Bauer’s arm again then checked himself. “Thirty minutes of your time, Jack. That’s all I ask. Then I’ll take you home. You still live in Santa Monica, right?”