24 Declassified: Operation Hell Gate

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

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 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 — 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 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 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.

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.

Helpless, Caitlin whispered a prayer, but refused to look away, choosing to face death squarely. Her determination seemed to shake the youth. He hesitated, the gun wavering.

Powerful arms reached around the teen. One hand gripped his wrist, yanking the gun barrel to the ceiling. In the other hand, Caitlin saw something long and pointed. With a sickening crunch, Jack Bauer thrust a letter opener into the young man’s throat, twisting the dull blade to rip through tissue, cartilage, bone. The teen tried to cry out. His mouth gaped, but no sound emerged.

Then the boy’s eyes met Caitlin’s. She watched in horror, her eyes filling with tears as life, awareness faded…until it was extinguished. Silently, Jack lowered the dying teen to the floor, slipping the Uzi from his grasp. Then Jack reached over the twitching assassin, grabbed Caitlin’s wrist hard enough to bruise it. She winced as he jerked her to her feet. Jack’s hand was wet and sticky.

“Let’s go,” he said.

The Honorable William Cheever appeared appropriately senatorial as he read his opening remarks. Sitting behind the shiny expanse of polished desk, framed by twin American flags, he spoke to the video camera in sober, sonorous tones. The Senator addressed six video monitors, each with the face of a different airline CEO or his representative.

Dennis Spain, out of camera range, ignored Senator Cheever’s opening remarks. He’d heard enough of the man’s banal platitudes to last a lifetime. Fortunately, he would not have to listen to any more of them.

While the Senator droned on, Spain used the Internet to check the balance of a secret numbered account at Banque Swiss in Zurich, Switzerland. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle when he found that one hundred and fifty million dollars had suddenly appeared in the account, the amount transferred from another account with a Saudi bank in Riyadh.

Spain knew another payment of the same amount would also be his — all he had to do was type a code, reroute the videoconference to another server, where a different host would take control of the conference.

He glanced at the monitors. The airline CEOs all seemed to be listening intently, phony smiles plastered across their bland, corporate faces.

Well, they won’t be smiling much longer.

Spain thought about all the things a man could do with three hundred million dollars as he carefully entered the prearranged code. Abruptly Senator Cheever’s face was replaced by another. The man’s features were covered by a black ski mask; thick wraparound sunglasses obscured his eyes. A black curtain was the only backdrop. Seated on a stool, the man greeted the electronic assemblage.

“You don’t need to know my name, though I know all of you.”

His voice was an automated buzz, altered so much it no longer resembled a human sound.

“Unless you do as I say, each of your airlines will suffer a severe financial and public relations setback when, in the next two hours, a commercial aircraft from each carrier is shot down with heavy loss of life.

“Such a tragedy can be avoided. If my demands are met, your planes will be safe — for now. If you choose to disobey me, ignore my conditions, then the calamity that will soon unfold will serve as a powerful object lesson to your industry, and to America.”

Dennis Spain could hardly contain his amusement. The esteemed Senator from New York was sputtering like the fool that he was. On the monitors, the CEOs registered shock, outrage, disbelief. The masked man continued to speak.

“The real question is whether you will learn from this attack, or suffer more grief in the future because you continue to ignore our cause…”

Leading with the Uzi, Jack pulled a shaking Caitlin into the hallway. The lighting was dimmer now. Many of the ceiling’s recessed fluorescent bulbs had been shot out. Bits of plastic and glass shards lay everywhere. In the middle of the debris another man lay dead, his neck twisted to an unnatural angle, eyes wide and staring.

“There’s one more shooter. Holed up in the corner office,” Jack whispered.

He gestured for her to duck into a cubicle. She obeyed, then peered around the standing wall to watch Jack move cautiously down the hallway. Just before he reached the corner office, Jack ducked into another cubicle, came out wheeling a desk chair. Renewing his grip on the Uzi, Jack kicked the chair forward. The chair bounced off the closed office door with a loud crash. A burst of automatic weapon fire came from the other side, instantly shredding the wood. The top of the door fell to the floor.

Jack flattened himself against the wall, fired the Uzi through the opening until the magazine was spent. Then he cast the empty weapon aside, drew his.45 and kicked through the remains of the door, disappearing into the corner office.

For thirty long seconds, Caitlin waited, listened to the silence. Finally, she emerged from her hiding place and crept carefully down the hall. She peered through the bullet-riddled doorway. Another assassin lay sprawled on his back, arms outstretched. A line of ragged bloody holes had been stitched up his abdomen. The corpse’s eyes were askew, dead lips curled back from yellow teeth. Then she saw Jack, hunched over a man in a thick leather chair. He wore a tailored suit, now ruined by powder burns and bloodstains. He was an elderly man. Silver hair framed a substantial hole in the top of his skull. Bifocals dangled from his ear.

“Mother of God. Who is he?”

“Felix Tanner.” Jack tossed the dead man’s open wallet onto the desk, but Caitlin focused her attention on the ragged hole in Jack’s jacket, the blood seeping through the tear in the sleeve. She saw he was wincing.

“You’re hurt!” She moved to help him, but Jack pulled away, searching the desktop.

“There’s got to be a clue, something in this office that will tell me who’s directing this terrorist cell. Whoever it is, he’s covering his tracks. Felix Tanner probably knew the man’s identity or he wouldn’t have been murdered.”

Caitlin watched Jack as he desperately tore through the office, scattering papers across the desk, over the dead body on the floor.

Her eyes drifted to a television monitor in the corner of the office. It was on, though there was no sound. The man on the screen wore bulky black clothes and a ski mask. He stared into the camera as his lips moved.

“Jack? Come here. I think you should see this.”

Jack stared at the monitor, adjusted the sound. He and Caitlin both listened as the masked man explained that he would not shoot down any commercial aircraft if each major airline transferred five hundred million dollars to a numbered Swiss account in the next sixty minutes.

“This isn’t terrorism,” said Jack Bauer. “It’s extortion.”

A pall had descended over the Situation Room as the Threat Clock ran down to zero hour. The room was quiet, all eyes on the wall-sized HDTV monitor. The massive screen was broken up into five sections — each displayed live surveillance video feeds from locations inside the perimeters of Logan Airport in Boston, Ronald Reagan National Airport in Washington, D.C., O’Hare in Chicago, and Los Angeles International Airport just a few miles from CTU headquarters. One section in the middle of the screen was still dark.

“I don’t see New York. Why don’t I see New York?” Ryan Chappelle snapped, his voice betraying nervous tension.

“The satellite is almost in position,” Nina replied. A moment later, crystal clear satellite imagery focused on a section of LaGuardia Airport.

“What about JFK?” Ryan asked.

“We’re blind. Georgi Timko claimed he didn’t have the resources to set up camera surveillance, and the NSA would only allow us access to one satellite.”

“I don’t like relying on some Russian mobster—”

“Ukrainian,” Doris interrupted.

“Some Ukrainian mobster, just because Jack Bauer trusts him.”

Nina frowned. “Face reality, Ryan. Without local resources, what choice did we have?”

“We’re at fifty-nine seconds,” Jamey Farrell announced.

Ryan stared at the huge screen as he spoke into a headset. “All CTU tactical units report. Is everyone in position?”

“Boston, ready,” said Milo Pressman from a workstation. On his screen he watched a grid map of Logan Airport, where a blinking blip represented the CTU tactical team lying in ambush for the terrorists to arrive.

“D.C., ready,” said a red-eyed Cindy Carlisle, the only survivor from Cyber Unit Team Alpha. “O’Hare, ready,” said Jamey Farrell. “New York City, ready,” said Doris. “Georgi says his teams are in place at both airports.” “LAX, ready,” said the voice of Tony Almeida, speaking from the ambush site at the airport. “Ten seconds,” said Nina. “Nine…eight…” “I see activity on the service road,” said Jamey.

“Positive contact at O’Hare. ” “Six…five…” “Contact at JFK,” Doris cried. “I hear gunfire.” On the HDTV screen, the satellite captured real-time images — flashes of gunfire, moving cars, an explosion. Eerily, there was no sound. “Three…two…” “Gunfire at Logan. The tactical team is already moving,” yelled Milo. “Zero…”