24 Declassified: Collateral Damage

23. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 5:00 A.M. AND 6:00 A.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME

The euphoria of taking out the final truck was quickly dampened, once the agent at the scene delivered his report.

“That’s all we found here in Pittsburgh, Special Agent Bauer,” Goodson said into the computer camera.

Behind the battle-suited speaker, a boxy, six-wheeled military vehicle was visible in the predawn light. Six men in hazard suits, helmets off, clustered around it.

“The truck was packed with conventional explosives,”

Goodson continued. “C–4 manufactured in Eastern Europe. There were also maps that indicate their target was the University of Pittsburgh’s Cathedral of Learning.

They were planning to destroy the skyscraper during the morning rush hour. No biological or chemical agents of any kind are present.”

Jack Bauer frowned at the screen. “The bio-weapon could be small, contained in a vial, an aerosol can or even a Breathalyzer.”

Goodson shook his head. “We have a rolling CTU

Bio-Containment Lab on scene,” he said. “Along with a Fox Nuclear Biological Chemical Reconnaissance vehicle which we borrowed from the Army. Both units have scanned the entire scene with monitors so sensitive they could locate a cold germ.”

The CTU operative paused. “I’m sorry, Special Agent Bauer. We found nothing.”

Jack was about to protest, when Christopher Henderson stepped in front of him. “Thanks for your help, Goodson.

Nice work, all the way around.”

“Thank you, Director Henderson,” Goodson replied, and the screen went black.

Jack sank into a chair. “So where’s the bio-weapon?”

Henderson sat and swiveled toward Bauer. “The Economic Warfare Division has suggested that Kabbibi might have been brought into this operation for his political connections, not his skills. The fact that he and the Saudi Finance Minister are cousins—”

Jack’s withering stare silenced his boss. “They’re wrong, Christopher. Berkovic and his accountants are ignoring Agent Foy’s surveillance photos of the lab in Newark.”

Henderson shrugged. “It’s possible that’s a simple drug lab.”

“With liquid oxygen cooling tanks?” Jack interrupted.

“You don’t need that kind of technology to distill meth out of cough syrup.”

Henderson sighed. “We’ll know soon enough. Langley has finally authorized the raid on Noor’s Newark headquarters. We’re there in thirty minutes, whether Noor’s home or not.”

Jack nodded. “I’ll command the raid. Agent Abernathy will be my backup.”

Layla appeared surprised. So did Henderson, but neither challenged Jack’s decree.

Bauer’s mind was racing so fast, he was already past that decision. He was eager to focus on his enemy. “Have we learned anything more about Ibrahim Noor?”

“A little,” Morris replied, calling up the man’s profile.

“He was born Travis Bell, as you know. By the age of thirteen, he was running drugs. By eighteen, he’d created the Thirteen Gang, which took over the narcotics trade in that section of Newark.”

Morris tapped keys. “Well, well. Here’s a nugget. Con-gressman Larry Bell of Louisiana, the former NCAA player turned politician, is Travis Bell’s uncle. But apparently there’s been no contact between them for decades.”

“The same can’t be said for other government officials,”

Henderson interjected. “From Tobias’s computer, we’ve got evidence that Congresswoman Hailey Williams and Chief Justice Mary Chestnut of the Ninth District Court in San Francisco have both taken bribes from Noor or his people. Their arrests are imminent.”

“What about Dreizehn Trucking?” Jack asked.

“It doesn’t exist on any corporate records, state, local, or Federal,” Morris replied. “It’s no more than a name painted on twelve trucks.”

“But it fits Noor’s profile,” Layla said. “Dreizehn is the German word for the number thirteen. Noor seems patho-logically obsessed with that number.”

“Thirteen! Oh my god…” Jack rose to his feet. “That’s where the biological weapon is hidden.”

“Huh?” Henderson grunted.

“There’s a thirteenth truck, Christopher. And Noor is on it!” Jack gripped Morris’s shoulder. “Has Tony checked in?”

“Not since he lost contact with Agent Foy. She’s inside the Thirteen Gang’s headquarters, but their cell phone connection has been severed. I’m afraid Tony’s a bit fran-tic over Agent Foy’s situation.”

“Call Almeida,” Jack commanded. “Tell Tony to stay put. Tell him we’re coming — with a strike team.”

“Your name is Judith Foy, Deputy Director of the New York Counter Terrorist Unit,” Ibrahim Noor declared, looming over her.

Shaking the icy water from her body, Judith Foy defi-antly met the gang leader’s gaze. Only half conscious after her violent capture, Judith Foy had been dragged through a stinking sewer, tossed into a hole blasted in the wall, and dumped on a cold concrete floor. She lay there for an inde-terminate amount of time, until someone poured a bucket of ice water over her.

Gasping against the freezing torrent, she found herself in a circle of street thugs, some white, most black or Hispanic. Harsh fluorescent lights buzzed over her head. Soon she realized she wasn’t in the garage anymore. There was no lab here, and the room stank of sweat and spilled blood.

Judith saw two headless corpses piled in the corner.

“I ordered your death many hours ago, but my command was not obeyed,” Noor continued.

Head throbbing, she studied the speaker. Noor had a body like a black bear, tattoo-etched arms thicker than her waist. His voice was deep, like Darth Vader’s without the asthma. Everything she knew about this man suggested he suffered from a delusional messiah complex. But when Agent Foy locked eyes with Noor, she saw no madness there — only a fierce and terrible cunning.

“And you’re Ibrahim Noor, alias Travis Bell,” she replied evenly. “Counterfeit holy man, full-time felon, and total wack job.”

A youth lashed out, plunged the toe of his boot into her abdomen. Judith grunted, felt the world recede again. She fought to stay conscious, and by some miracle prevailed.

“Don’t be so tough on Rachel Delgado,” Judith gasped, tasting bile. “Someone killed her first.”

The punk moved to kick her again. Noor stopped him with a gesture. Foy spit on the kicker’s leg.

Judith should have been afraid, but she wasn’t. Instead, she was filled with an all-consuming fury, a savage hatred.

She would have given her soul to kill Noor right now, tear out his throat with her teeth.

“We all thought you were a religious fanatic, but you’re not, are you, Travis?” Foy challenged. “You’re just a street punk with delusions of grandeur, using people like pawns because they’re too stupid to know better.”

Noor didn’t prevent the youth from kicking her this time. Judith howled in agony when she felt a bruised rib snap. “Tough… tough guys,” she gasped. “Beat up on a… helpless woman.”

“Did CTU send you?” Noor demanded.

“Actually… It was the neighborhood cleanup committee,” Foy replied, fighting the urge to throw up. “This place… is such a pigsty… You really should clean it up.”

The youth kicked out again. This time she managed to protect her vitals with her elbows. Her left arm felt para-lyzed now, but at least her bruised ribs were still intact.

“If CTU sent you, they made a tragic blunder,” Noor continued. “You have delivered the one tool I need to bring America to its knees.”

“A boombox blasting hip-hop?”

She waited for a fourth kick, but it never came. Instead a newcomer approached Noor. “Kabbibi is finished,” he whispered.

A smile tugged at Noor’s lips, then he faced the others.

“It is time for me to go, my friends. When next we meet, it will be in Paradise.”

The men lined up to receive Noor’s final blessings, completely ignoring the woman on the ground. Foy used the time to gather her strength, examine her environment.

She saw a red steel door at one end of the windowless room and realized she was inside 1313 Crampton Street, Noor’s gang headquarters.

The sewer must connect this place with the old Peralta Storage facility at the end of the block.

Meanwhile Noor waved his men back. “Give me thirty minutes to get clear of this place. After that, you may release yourselves from this world of corruption.”

“Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar! ” the men chanted.

Flanked by two bodyguards, Noor walked to the hole in the concrete wall and climbed through it.

As soon as their leader was gone, the room exploded with activity. Someone produced jerricans filled with gasoline. Muttering prayers — and still ignoring Judith Foy—

the men began dousing the walls, the floor, the dead men in the corner, with the flammable liquid.

“This is Raptor One. ETA, two minutes,” Captain Fogarty said into Jack Bauer’s headset.

Jack, now clad in a black CTU battle suit with Kevlar chest, shoulder, and spine plates, faced the five assault troopers inside the helicopter’s bay. He spoke into the headset in his helmet.

“As soon as we fast-rope down to the street, I want you to hit the warehouse. Blow the garage door and we’ll move in,” he said.

“The team in Raptor Two will hit 1313 Crampton on the opposite end of the block,” Jack continued. “Agent Abernathy’s team in Raptor Three will remain airborne, ready to provide backup if needed. Any questions?”

Grim-faced, the men shook their heads.

“Move fast and hit hard,” Jack advised. “We may be dealing with a biological or chemical weapon, so capture and containment is key.”

“One minute,” Fogarty warned.

Jack lowered his visor and shouldered a UMP

45-caliber submachine gun. “Hit the ropes!” he shouted.

The men rose and moved to the chopper’s open doors.

The stench of gasoline was suffocating. Judith Foy battled the urge to empty her stomach. Though her head was spinning, she kept her focus on a stocky Hispanic teenager with shoulder-length black hair and a Browning Hi-Power handgun tucked casually in his belt.

The youth had come down from an upper floor, empty jerrican in hand. He tossed the container into the pile of empties and crossed the room to the stack of full cans.

He was four feet from Judith when she stumbled to her feet and lurched into his path.

“I need a bathroom,” she rasped. “I’m going to be sick.”

The punk snarled something in Spanish and thrust her aside, eyes on the gas. Foy pretended to waver, but as he stepped around her, she yanked the gun out of his belt, threw the safety, and shot him in the base of the spine.

The youth howled and hit the floor. Five heads turned, mouths gaping in shock. Judith was a marksman and she hit her marks — first one man, then another.

Before she dropped the third man, he drew his own weapon and squeezed off a shot. The bullet struck sparks off the steel door. Judith lurched sideways and fired again, hitting the shooter in the forehead.

Two men remained standing. One clutched a can of gasoline like a shield; the other was reaching for his weapon.

Firing too quickly for accuracy, even at point-blank range, Judith hit the wrong man. The bullet penetrated the jerrican, and it exploded in an orange ball of fire.

Immediately, the pair was engulfed in flames that quickly spread. Fire scorched Judith, too, setting her hair and jumpsuit ablaze. Bolting across the basement, she dived through the hole and into the tunnel.

Judith landed in a shallow pool of fetid sewer water, dousing her burning clothes and singed hair. Choking, eyes burning, Judith crawled to her feet and raced through the dripping tunnel in a desperate bid to outpace the roaring conflagration at her back.

As soon as Jack’s combat boots struck pavement, he moved away from the fast-rope so the man behind him had a clear space to land.

Jack felt a hand grip his armored shoulder, turned, weapon ready. Tony Almeida was there, blinking against the prop wash.

“We’ve got to get inside,” Tony shouted over the hovering chopper’s engine. “Agent Foy’s in the sh—”

“Fire! Fire!” someone bellowed in Jack’s headset.

He glanced at the warehouse, then the gang headquarters at the other end of the block.

Smoke poured out of the roof above 1313 Crampton Street. Flickering flames reflected off Raptor Two’s aluminum belly.

Judith burst out of the tunnel, into a cavernous basement.

The space was lit by banks of halogen lights. The garage door dominated one wall, the makeshift biological weapons lab the other. There were no vehicles present — Noor was already gone.

Others were there, however. Two men in white lab coats were burning papers in a steel barrel in the center of the room. Smoke wafted up to the high ceiling. A third man sat at a small table, where he tapped the keys of a laptop computer.

A man at the barrel cried out. Judith shot him in the face, and he pitched forward, into the flames. She fired at the other man and missed.

The third man snatched the laptop off the table and ran toward the barrel, ready to toss the device into the flames.

Judith shot him in the legs, and he hit the floor. The computer slid across the concrete, stopping at her feet.

The man she missed rushed her. Judith pulled the trigger. The Hi-Power clicked on an empty chamber.

The man slammed into her, and they both went down.

As they struggled, the garage door blew apart with a deafening report, and men streamed through the shattered entrance.

Despite her ringing ears, Foy heard a shot. The man on top of her jerked, then fell limp. Almost immediately, someone flipped the corpse aside.

Judith blinked up at Tony Almeida, who lifted her off the floor with one hand.

“The cavalry has arrived,” he said, grinning. “Not that you needed us.”

“Believe me, I needed you. Grab that computer and let’s get out of here! This whole place is ready to blow!” she yelled, loud enough for everyone to hear.

Just then, a rolling ball of fire roared out of the tunnel.

“Out! Everybody out!” Bauer shouted, gesturing wildly.

Tony grabbed the computer. And Jack rushed up to Foy.

“Where’s Noor?” he cried as they ran.

“Gone. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes ago.”

Jack cursed. “And the truck?”

Judith blinked. “What truck?”