24 Declassified: Collateral Damage

1. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 7:00 A.M. AND 8:00 A.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME

Jack Bauer glanced at the World Trade Center, rising above the rooftops of Lower Manhattan. The weather was clear this Tuesday morning, the June sunlight gleaming against the two identical skyscrapers of glass and steel.

In the driver’s seat to his left, CTU Agent Tony Almeida turned the Dodge minivan onto Hudson’s slow parade of traffic. The taxis, buses, SUVs, and luxury sedans were all heading downtown, toward Tribeca, the Financial District, or the Jersey delivery system known as the Holland Tunnel.

As their minivan slowed to a crawl, Jack continued to stare at the twin towers. Back in ’93, the bombing of those buildings — by a blind Muslim cleric and his insane flock — had been the impetus for creating CTU.

Ironic, thought Jack. One of the last major urban areas to get its own CTU Operations Center is the very city that was attacked by terrorists. Doubly ironic because no one wants it. Not the FBI, not the DEA, not even the local authorities…

Just one month ago, the senior Senator from New York had argued that the presence of CTU was redundant in a city where even the NYPD had its own overseas operatives countering terror threats.

Sure, at its inception, CTU had been granted special powers by Congress, among them the ability to conduct counterespionage and counterterrorist operations on U.S.

soil, against U.S. citizens if necessary — a mandate the CIA had never before been given. But Jack knew it would take months, maybe even years, before CTU’s New York operations would be effective. He didn’t know what his superiors expected him to accomplish by sending him here—

“Bloody hell!” Morris O’Brian blurted from the backseat.

Tony had slammed on the minivan’s brakes, and Morris’s steaming hot Starbucks had sloshed over his hand.

“Seven o’clock in the bloody morning, and traffic is already snarled. This town is worse than L.A.”

Jack peered through his passenger-side window. Workers were already crowding the sidewalks. A young Hispanic bicycle messenger, wearing a red “Tri-State Delivery”

Windbreaker, a canvas bag slung over his shoulder, pedaled along the curb beside them. The messenger could have sped up, Jack noticed, but he didn’t. Just kept pace with them for some reason.

“Look at these people. It’s a beautiful, sunny day, and not a convertible in sight,” Morris went on. “What’s the matter with them? Are they vampires?”

Tony smirked into his rearview. “Maybe they’re afraid of pigeon droppings.”

The cab that had swerved in front of them to score a fare now raced away. Traffic flowed faster and another taxi slipped in front of them.

Jack lifted his chin, pointed. “The building’s three blocks ahead, on the right.”

Tony nodded and continued in the right lane.

CTU’s New York offices occupied the top three floors of a ten-story office building. Jack unhappily surveyed the scene. Unlike CTU Los Angeles, which was located in a remote, industrial section of the city, the Manhattan offices were on a teeming city street, surrounded by bustling businesses.

The United States Customs Service was practically across the street. On the next block, a curved modern office building housed an international advertising agency.

Behind CTU, a massive UPS complex sprawled across two blocks. Beyond that, the West Side Highway and the Hudson River both flowed with traffic.

There were people piled upon people passing through this area on any given day, and Jack knew that any one of them could pose a threat. With their headquarters so vulnerable, CTU New York was going to have to spend energy just covering its own back.

A horn blared behind them. In the rearview, Jack noticed a black Lincoln Continental cutting off another car in order to slip in right behind them. Traffic was flowing faster in the other lanes, but he stayed behind them instead, hugging their bumper. The driver wore a Lakers cap pulled low. His eyes were invisible behind mirrored sunglasses.

Jack frowned at the Lakers cap, glanced out the side window again, at the messenger on the bicycle. The young Hispanic male was still keeping pace with them, occasionally glancing over.

Jack looked ahead. The yellow cab in front of them drove right by an attractive businesswoman, trying franti-cally to wave it down. The cabbie ignored the fare. Why?

His on duty light was illuminated. And there was no one riding in the back of his taxi — at least that Jack could see.

It could be nothing, Jack told himself, but the hairs on the back of his neck told him otherwise. He kept one eye on the cab. Glanced again at the Lincoln behind them. The bicycle messenger beside them.

Tony and Morris were still chatting back and forth, oblivious to anything out of the ordinary.

Then the taxi in front of them abruptly stopped. It didn’t swerve toward the curb for a fare, just hit the brakes in the middle of the street. Tony instantly hit his own brakes, lurching them all forward.

“Bloody hell!” Morris cursed again as his hot coffee spilled.

That’s when Jack saw it — the skinny messenger dumped his bicycle and rushed their vehicle, hand reaching into his canvas shoulder bag.

“Down on the floor now!” Jack pulled the Glock from his holster, popped the door, kicking it open, right into the assassin. The man flew backward and stumbled against the curb.

Jack dived, crouching, from the minivan as the front windshield shattered, showering Tony with safety glass.

Two holes drilled through Jack’s empty seat. Then the rear window exploded inward.

Crouching low, Bauer leveled the Glock at the man on the ground. “Don’t move!” he commanded.

The man on the sidewalk pulled his hand out of the canvas bag, freeing the.45. He rolled to aim — Jack shot him in the face.

Another pop, and a bullet whizzed by Jack’s ear.

He spun and glimpsed the shooter, crouching in the backseat of the cab that was blocking them. The big, bald white guy grimaced, showing gold front teeth.

Jack leveled his weapon, fired. The cab’s back window shattered, but the squealing tires were already rolling onto the sidewalk. The vehicle sped away, scattering confused and screaming pedestrians before lurching back onto the street, in front of a parked city bus.

An engine gunned behind him, and Jack turned to find the Lincoln driver trying the same move as the taxi.

“Stop the car now!” Jack shouted.

The Lincoln tore off the passenger door as it sped around the Dodge. The maneuver gave Jack a clear shot at the driver. He took it. The gun bucked in Jack’s hand. The window spiderwebbed, and the driver’s shoulder exploded in a haze of blood, muscle, and bone.

The driver was thrown forward, head striking the steering wheel. The Lincoln careened into a magazine kiosk and came to a halt.

Jack was beside the vehicle in seconds, Glock clutched in both hands. He checked the backseat, but no one else was in the car.

The driver’s sunglasses and Lakers cap were gone now, and Jack recognized the man. He yanked the door open, dragged him out of the car, and slammed him down on the sidewalk.

“Who told you I was in New York?” Jack demanded, shaking the man by the lapels of his jacket. “Talk, De Salvo. Who tipped you off? Who set me up?”

The man’s eyes were glazed with pain. He tried to laugh, coughed blood instead. “Go to hell, Bauer, you lousy son of a…”

His head lolled. Jack knelt over him and checked for a pulse, found none. He quickly searched the dead man, came up with a wallet and tucked it into his own pocket.

Tony rushed over, holding his weapon. He stared at the dead man. “Who is he?”

“Was. Angelo De Salvo. His two older brothers master-minded the Hotel Los Angeles robbery.”

Tony whistled. “No wonder he wanted you dead.”

Sirens warbled, drowning out the street noise as three NYPD squad cars converged on the scene. Jack and Tony holstered their weapons and displayed their IDs. While the police circled them, both CTU agents glanced down the street, at the building that housed the Unit’s New York headquarters. The place was still as a grave.

“I don’t get it,” Tony quietly said to Jack. “A firefight a block away, and no response from CTU?”

Jack frowned at his destination. “Looks like it’s time to light a fire under these people.”

Jack Bauer leveled a cold gaze on the New York agent who met him at the elevator. She wore a pinstriped suit with a questionably short skirt and stacked heels. Her black hair was caught in a long, smooth ponytail. She had an olive complexion and large, dark, slightly almond-shaped eyes, with features that suggested Middle Eastern heritage. She introduced herself as Layla Abernathy.

“I need to meet with Director Brice Holman.” Bauer’s voice was less than friendly. “Now.”

“Oh yes. Of course!” Agent Abernathy appeared mo-mentary flustered, her gaze darting from Jack to Tony to Morris. But her composure returned inside of five seconds, and she matched Jack’s hard stare. “Brice should be here any minute. I called his cell several times. I’m sure he’ll check in soon—”

“That’s not good enough,” Jack cut in. “I left specific instructions that all CTU personnel were to be present when I arrived this morning.” He took a step closer. “Where is Brice Holman?”

Layla Abernathy frowned. “I think he’s in New Jersey.”

Jack exchanged a glance with Tony, then asked Agent Abernathy, “What’s he doing in New Jersey?”

“I don’t know,” Layla replied. “That is, I’m not sure. I’m not even supposed to know about—”

“What’s his exact location? Be specific.”

Abernathy took an uneasy breath. “Have you ever heard of a place called Kurmastan?”

Stretched out on his belly in a field of tall grass, Special Agent Brice Holman, newly appointed Director of CTU’s New York Operations Center, gazed down at the tiny hamlet of Kurmastan.

Dubbed “Meccaville” by the farmers and horse breed-ers who lived around it, Kurmastan was primarily populated by men who’d converted to Islam in state and Federal penitentiaries, along with members of their families who’d also converted.

Ignoring the sun beating down on his head, the forty-five-year-old agent checked his watch, rubbed the sweat from his eyes, and went back to peering through a pair of digitally enhanced micro-binoculars.

Before coming to this rural field, Holman had reviewed almost two years of satellite surveillance on this small religious settlement. But those pictures failed to capture the dilapidated seediness of the place.

A dozen clapboard houses sat within the dusty compound, along with seventeen rusty mobile homes, all of them centered around a communal dining hall made of cinder block. A dirty boulevard ran through the center of town. One end was dominated by Kurmastan’s only visible source of income — a factory that turned recycled pulp into cardboard boxes.

The other end held a house of worship, by far the most luxurious structure in the place: prefabricated steel with a resin facade sculpted to look like a Middle Eastern mosque, complete with a metal-framed minaret.

The mosque was no surprise to Holman because the settlement had been founded by Ali Rahman al Sallifi, an Islamic cleric with ties to radical elements in Pakistan and Egypt — and it had been on CTU’s watch list since the agency was established.

Unfortunately, most of the “watching” of Kurmastan had been done by satellite. Things had changed about a month earlier, when Brice Holman’s own boss, the Northeast District Director, ordered any active investigation of this compound to cease. The unit had limited resources, Holman was told, and they were needed elsewhere.

Holman privately disagreed. Just before he’d been ordered to stop investigating Kurmastan, a well-connected activist group had begun loudly leveling “profiling”

charges on Executive Branch agencies, and Holman suspected the decision to give Kurmastan a wide berth was at least partly political.

Deciding to have a look for himself, Holman had driven out to the compound, watching it for an entire weekend.

During that time, he encountered an FBI agent who’d also been watching the place, and had received a similar command from his own boss in Washington.

It wasn’t unusual for FBI surveillance units to trip over CTU in the field. Agents occasionally even shared information, sidestepping the current “wall” between agencies.

When Holman met Jason Emmerick of the FBI, that’s exactly what had happened. The two agents silently agreed to disregard the law prohibiting them from swapping intel.

All by themselves, they connected the dots on “Meccaville,” and a frightening picture began to emerge.

Both men had observed military-style exercises, including weapons training and obstacle courses. There was suspicion of stockpiled armaments and chatter between residents of the compound and parties in Pakistan and Afghanistan.

Holman and Emmerick came up with a plan to continue watching the “Meccaville” compound, in violation of their superiors’ directives. And surveillance chatter soon suggested something was about to go down. Something big.

Unfortunately, the agents were still lacking hard evidence to prove it.

Today, with luck, they would finally get that evidence.

According to recent chatter inside the compound, a “package” from Canada was expected to arrive at Newark Airport. Holman and Emmerick believed the arrival of this “package” was the key to setting off whatever powder keg the men inside this compound had primed.

An hour earlier, two African-American males had left this compound to “pick up the package.” One of the men was bald; the other wore his hair in long cornrow braids.

Both were in their early thirties, clad in blue suits.

Holman recognized the bald man as a former gang-banger from Jersey City. His name was Montel Tanner, or at least it used to be. Holman didn’t know what Tanner called himself now that he’d found religion. The other man, with the cornrows, Holman hadn’t seen before.

Each of these men had slipped behind the wheel of a brand-new black Hummer and took off. Jason Emmerick and his partner took off, too, tailing the two Hummers.

Holman was so certain something major was about to happen, he’d finally briefed his own CTU Deputy Director, Judith Foy, on their rogue operation. Now Judy was on board, too, and due to hook up with Emmerick and his partner at the airport to aid in the surveillance.

Meanwhile, Holman had positioned himself on a hill above the compound. He’d been staked out here since the wee hours of the morning. As a breeze rippled the grass, stirring his black tangle of hair, he lowered his micro-binoculars and shook his canteen.

Empty.

Thirsty and hot, Holman was about to return to his vehicle for a refill when a flash of sunlight off chrome caught his eye. He zoomed his binoculars in on the factory. The loading bay doors stood open, and a semi rolled out.

In itself, this wasn’t unusual. At four that morning, a truck had departed the factory, full of flattened cardboard boxes. One had left at five as well, also packed with paper.

Adhan came next — the call to prayer — sung from the mosque’s metal-frame minaret by a young African-American man in denims and a Yankees T-shirt.

The truck leaving now looked like the others Holman had seen: a Mac sleeper cab hauling a steel trailer, the logo for Dreizehn Trucking painted on its side. But when Holman glimpsed the interior of the cargo bay, he didn’t see flat stacks of cardboard boxes. Instead, Holman saw bunks. Six of them lined the walls. He spied movement.

There were men inside that trailer; he counted at least eight. One had an AK–47 resting across his knees.

Before Holman could get a picture, an arm inside the truck slammed closed the steel doors. The truck continued rumbling toward the compound’s gate, sped through and toward the rural route beyond.

Holman cursed, rising quickly, and left his hiding place, creeping through the tall grass, back to his van.

That’s when he heard a woman scream.

Yesterday evening. That’s when they’d grabbed Janice Baker. Around six-thirty p.m., they’d put a hood over her head before dragging her away. She had a clue where she was because the men hadn’t taken her far, and they’d traveled by foot.

It sounded like her abductors had carried her into their compound, then down a flight of stairs. There they’d tied her up, ignoring her muffled demands to release her, to turn her over to the sheriff for trespassing.

Gasping for breath under the thick material, Janice had struggled against the ropes that bound her to the hard chair.

Finally, she’d heard a door slam and was left alone. The place was damp and quiet. Like a grave. When the forty-year-old stay-at-home mother had first smelled the scent of freshly turned earth, she’d gasped, her panic rising.

Did they lock me in a cellar? Or toss me into a hole?

Are they planning to bury me alive?

With effort, she’d tamped down her fear. Why put me in a hole? she’d wondered. Why not just call the sheriff and have me arrested?

Janice had been cross-country jogging for years along the same rural trails, long before Kurmastan existed. The men of the town had complained several times to her about trespassing. The first time they caught her, she hadn’t even realized she’d strayed onto private property. They cursed her out, but let her go.

The second, third, and fourth times were just like today — she’d chosen to disregard the no trespassing signs and jog where she pleased. Men of the town saw her, yelled from a distance, cursed at her, but she ignored them. If they caught her, what could they do? Call the sheriff? Fine her fifty dollars tops?

When she’d been spotted the evening before, however, she was stunned by what had happened next. Soon after a few men yelled at her, two of them had set a trap.

They’d jumped out of the brush and dragged her to the ground.

They didn’t find her easy prey. Janice had managed to kick one man in the groin. He was a big African American who looked like a football player, but her blow slowed him down. She’d also managed to rake her fingernails across the other man’s face, right before he’d put the hood over her head.

They’d left her tied up for hours and hours. She’d lost track of time, hadn’t slept much, and now she was hungry and thirsty. When she heard a door open, she felt a mixture of terror and relief.

“Who’s there,” she demanded. She tried, and failed, to sound fearless. “I demand you let me go!”

Janice heard footsteps, felt strong hands fumbling with the knot around her neck. Someone was untying the hood.

Good. Maybe they’ve finally called the sheriff. Maybe now they’re going to let me go!

The hood was ripped off her head. Still tied to the chair, Janice was dazzled by harsh light from a naked light bulb that dangled from the ceiling. The room had earthen walls shored up with untreated logs — a root cellar? There was a small vent near the ceiling — bright sunlight slipped through. She squinted, realizing it was morning. They’d held her here all night!

The stranger who’d torn off her veil remained behind her, out of sight. A minute went by, then another. But the man didn’t say a word. He didn’t untie her, either.

“What are you doing?” Janice asked.

There was silence for another minute. Then came a quiet murmuring in another language. It was crazy, but Janice thought the man was praying.

“I demand you release me!” she cried. “This is kidnap-ping! Don’t you realize that? Let me go this instant!”

Without a word, the man stepped around the chair to stand in front of her. Janice Baker’s eyes went wide when she saw the machete in his hand.

Once again Janice Baker screamed.

Hunterdon County, New Jersey At the sound of the bloodcurdling scream, Holman had tensed and begun snaking on his belly, moving as close to the compound as he dared. Using his binoculars, he continued to scan the area for any sign of violence. Any sign of the woman who’d screamed.

But he saw nothing out of the ordinary. A few male residents were talking casually outside the mosque. Two females strolled out of the cinder-block dining hall, chatting with each other as if nothing was wrong.

He listened for more screams, but now heard nothing more than the birds chirping in the trees.

Holman knew he hadn’t imagined that scream, and he knew how dangerous some of the men in Kurmastan could be — many of them were lifelong criminals with rap sheets as long as a bureaucrat’s career.

Part of him wanted to charge through the front gate, find out what had happened. But that would compromise the investigation. They’d probably call the local sheriff and accuse him of trespassing. Holman couldn’t even begin to consider explaining his rogue operation to a local official.

Seething, he carefully moved away from the compound again, backtracking to his van. He retrieved water and an energy bar, and then returned to the hill to continue his surveillance of the compound. At noon, he was scheduled to leave the area and hook up with Emmerick at a nearby motel, where they’d compare notes and plan their next move.

Holman needed to brief Emmerick about that tractor trailer he’d seen with armed men in bunks inside. And Emmerick needed to brief him about that “package” from Canada.

Until then, Holman would continue to keep his eyes open for any sign of that woman, whose terrified cry kept playing through his head.