24 Declassified: Trojan Horse

1. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 5 A.M. AND 6 A.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME

Jack Bauer gazed at Utopia, or so the sign proclaimed. But beyond the vacant security gate and tattered chain link fence, Bauer saw only an expanse of pitted asphalt abutting an interconnected cluster of ugly, graffiti-stained concrete block buildings.

Squinting through a telescopic imager, Jack scanned the shuttered loading docks and steel doors, the windows boarded up tight. He double-checked one particular entrance, with the number 9 painted on its flat steel door. Then he tucked the tiny device into a sheath on his night-black assault suit. Now that the sun was creeping above the horizon, he no longer required the imager’s thermal or light-enhancing capabilities to pierce the gloom.

Sprawled on his belly atop a rocky brown rise that separated Utopia from another dusty industrial park, Jack lowered his head behind a clump of scrub-grass and adjusted the assault rifle in the Velcro zip holster strapped across his back. He had arrived at his position hours before, moving into place along with five members of Chet Blackburn’s CTU assault team, now scattered and invisible among the rocks and low hills around him. Though Jack could not see them, he knew another tactical squad from the Drug Enforcement Agency lurked in the bluffs on the opposite side of the complex. When the signal came, the two assault teams would converge on the buildings in a coordinated two-pronged attack.

In the dead of the hot dry night, the tactical units had converged to surround the supposedly abandoned production studio, unseen and undetected by those inside. Then they waited until the sun was a hot yellow ball surrounded by hazy dust, until the arrival of the big fish both agencies were hoping to scoop up in their net.

Jack shifted position, clenching and unclenching his sweaty hands, stretching his sleepy arms and legs, always careful not to expose his position. He moved a stone that had been chafing him, rubbed his sore neck. Compared to his days as a member of Delta Force, this was not a particularly unpleasant mission. In the line of duty Jack had experienced far worse things than watching the Southern California sun rise from a quiet bluff. Perhaps it was merely his age that made his joints ache, his muscles stiff from inactivity. Perhaps creeping old age also explained why, as zero hour approached, Jack felt an uncharacteristic edginess, an impatienceashewaitedfor thesignaltomove.

Or perhaps it was the fact that Jack Bauer had to wait for that command, just like everyone else. Working in tandem with the DEA was not part of Bauer’s job description, nor did he appreciate taking orders from others. That’s why, when Ryan first handed him this assignment weeks ago, Jack refused it. Chappelle didn’t seemed surprised by Bauer’s reaction; rather he advised Jack to look first, then decide.

“Go to the briefing this afternoon,” Ryan said. “Listen to what the DEA has to say. It may change your mind.”

To Jack’s surprise, his mind was changed after the DEA briefed him and other select members of the intelligence community about the dangers of Karma, a potent new drug poised to hit the streets of America, a narcotic that had the potential to make the crack epidemic of the 1980s look like an ice cream party.

According to researchers who studied a sample of this substance, Karma was a type of super methamphetamine. But Karma wasn’t merely a powerful stimulant. The drug also induced a sense of invulnerability and euphoria in the user, sometimes accompanied by mild hallucinogenic reactions. The pharmacological experts who studied the new compound and its effects on the brain believed Karma to be more addictive than crack cocaine or even heroin.

Karma was ingested orally — dissolved under the tongue like a lozenge or simply swallowed — and the drug’s ease of consumption was an element of its appeal. Virtually undetectable, it could be dissolved in a flavored or alcoholic beverage, which made it the perfect date-rape drug.

No one knew what criminal or narco-terrorist group initially synthesized Karma, but the drug had first appeared in the streets of Eastern Europe, Russia, and the Chechen Republic nearly a year before. Karma was not available in America or Western Europe as yet, because it was difficult to manufacture. It required real laboratory conditions to be synthesized properly. Even after synthesis, the compound broke down rapidly, making for a relatively short shelf life. Complicated, well-equipped labs for churning out the stuff had to be established locally.

The upside for criminal producers was that once the network was up and running, labs would be difficult to find. No illegal smuggling was involved in the manufacturing process. Karma’s ingredients were not controlled substances; they were common chemicals available commercially. Already, at least one overseas crime lord was bankrolling the establishment of Karma labs in Los Angeles, San Francisco, Seattle, Montreal.

According to the DEA’s best intelligence, the illegal manufacturing facility inside of the Utopia Studios complex was the first of the U.S. labs to go on line. The DEA wanted to shut it down and capture its operators before their poison ever reached the street.

His musings were interrupted when Jack’s earbud chirped.

“This is Angel Three. A car’s just come off North San Fernando Road. It’s moving east along Andrita.”

“This is Angel Two. Roger,” Jack replied, voice calm.

Angel Three — Agent Miguel Avilla — was a twenty-year veteran of the DEA. Thin, wiry and acerbic, Avilla was positioned in plain sight, right outside the studio gate and across Andrita Street from the abandoned movie studio. Unwashed and unshaven, shuffling around wrapped in a dirty blanket, Agent Avilla had posed as a homeless man for the past nine days while he’d observed the activities at the old studio.

To better reconnoiter the facility, Avilla had taken up residence among a copse of twisted trees in an empty lot, where he swilled booze openly, urinated in the gutter, and generally elicited no notice from those who worked along the lightly traveled street. He also made hourly reports to his superiors at the Los Angeles DEA office — relating the number of trucks arriving at and leaving the supposedly deserted studio, and observing several visits by a well-known representative of a Midwest narcotics distributor.

On his third day living on Andrita Street, several cholos emerged from Utopia Studios and dished Avilla a pretty severe beating. They punched and kicked him while going through his filthy clothes. Not satisfied, the punks tore up the rickety shopping basket Avilla pushed around, scattering its contents across the empty lot. Fortunately Avilla was careful and the punks found nothing but a half-bottle of cheap wine, which they poured in the gutter. After that, Avilla had established his authenticity in their minds, and the punks working at the studio pretty much ignored the homeless man just like everyone else. As a precaution, Agent Avilla continued to bury his radio and weapon in a shallow grave at the base of a scrub oak.

“This is Angel Three. The car has stopped outside the gate. Repeat, the car has stopped.”

“This is Angel One. Roger that. Probably waiting for someone to unlock the gate…These goons don’t have a clue what’s coming for them. Over and out.”

Even over the headphones, Jack could hear the tension in the other man’s voice, tension masked by too many words, too much bravado. It was obvious to Jack that DEA Agent Brian McConnell — Angel One— was not yet ready to make command decisions or lead an assault team in a raid of this scope and importance.

So why was he put in charge of the tactical teams?

“This is Angel Three. Someone’s coming out to open the gate.”

“This is it,” cried Angel One, voice tight with tension. “Get ready to move.”

Breaking protocol, Jack spoke. “This is Angel Two, hold your positions. Hold your positions.”

But no one was listening. No one from the DEA anyway. Jack could see men in black assault gear and lumpy body armor rising from cover on the opposite side of the studio compound.

“Get your men down before they’re observed, Angel One,” Jack commanded. As he spoke, Jack slipped the Heckler & Koch G36 Commando short carbine from its sheath across his back, chambered a 5.56mm armor-piercing round.

Another voice broke into the net. “This is Archangel. Stand down, Angel One. Wait for a positive ID on the men in the car.”

Jack was relieved to see the men on the opposite bluff melt back into the terrain.

Archangel was DEA chief Jason Peltz, the overall commander of this operation. Late forties, stoop-shouldered with salt and pepper hair balding in the middle, Peltz more resembled a high school history teacher than a major force in the Drug Enforcement Agency with two decades of experience. Last year Peltz had moved into the top spot at the DEA’s Los Angeles office. Since then, he’d become more of a bureaucrat than a front line operative. But Peltz was savvy enough to surround himself with dedicated, competent and incorruptible veterans of the drug wars like Miguel Avilla, so his pension was secure.

If Jack had an issue with Peltz’s management style, it was that the man chose to issue orders from a portable command center hidden inside a dirty van parked a block and a half away. As Jack saw it, Peltz should have been here, on the ground, among his troops. It troubled Jack that Peltz left the heavy lifting to an inexperienced assault team leader like Brian Mc-Connell, who was clearly not up to the task.

No harm done, but the snafu should not have occurred.

“Angel Three, this is Angel One. Do you have a positive ID on the car, the passengers?”

“It’s a different car, Angel One,” Avilla replied. “I think it’s the same driver, though. There are three other men in the vehicle but I can’t get a good look at them through the tinted glass.”

“Listen to me, Avilla. I need a positive ID, pronto, or we can pack up and go home right now.”

“I’m trying, McConnell. Give me a fucking minute.”

Jack chafed at the breach of radio discipline. Communications were breaking down and Agent Mc-Connell was making the situation worse by badgering Avilla.

“Angel One, this is Angel Two,” said Jack. “I observe movement on the northeast corner of the second building. Can you confirm.”

Jack had seen a bird fluttering on the roof and recognized what he’d seen. But he wanted to divert McConnell’s focus away from Avilla long enough for the man on the street to do his job.

“This is Angel One. I see no activity in the northeast. You probably saw a bird.”

“Roger that,” Jack replied.

“This is Angel Three. I have a positive ID on the passenger. The target is in the car. Repeat, the target is in the car.”

“This is Angel One. Let’s move. Go, go, go.”

Jack burst from cover, his chukkas kicking up dust as he sprinted across the bluff and descended the rocky slope, balancing with one arm, the other gripping his assault rifle. Behind him, three more figures emerged from cover — Chet Blackburn and members of his CTU tactical team.

Jack’s feet hit the asphalt before anyone else. He flicked off the safety, then aimed the muzzle of the G36 at the steel door marked with the number 9. Feet pounded the pavement at his shoulder. It was Chet Blackburn, covering his back.

They hit the wall simultaneously three seconds later, flattening themselves on either side of the door. Already, Blackburn had sculpted a wad of C-4 plastic explosives into a donut to encircle the doorknob. He draped it around the metal lock, plugged in the detonator.

“Five seconds,” Chet Blackburn warned.

It seemed longer. Jack had pressed closer to the wall, waiting. When the blast finally came, he felt the shock ripple along his spine. The door blew off its hinges, spun away. Jack heard the clang as it landed somewhere inside the studio. The noise of the blast quickly faded. Bauer and Blackburn moved cautiously but quickly through the door. The other two men remained outside, guarding their backs and making sure no one escaped the net.

Then, from the opposite side of the studio compound, and near the front gate, the CTU agents heard shots.

Squinting against the glare, Tony Almeida slipped heavy-framed sunglasses over his eyes. Already the Southern California sun was over the horizon and burning too bright, too hot. The L.A. basin was experiencing the most severe drought in fifteen years. Down here near the border it was even worse. A haze hung over the hills from the brushfires.

But this was nothing new. Since Tony had moved to the City of Angels after his stint in the Marine Corps, Southern California seemed to be in one crisis mode after another. Droughts and the resulting wildfires. Mudslides. Riots. And the ubiquitous earthquakes.

He glanced at the TAG Heuer steel chronograph on his wrist. Nearly 5:30 with six miles to go, and traffic so thick he might not make it in time. Tony cursed, swerved the late-model Dodge truck to get around a meandering driver, nearly adding to the dents and scrapes that covered the vehicle’s exterior. The woman in the seat next to him squealed. She’d spilled some of her steaming hot coffee on her low-riders.

“Slow down, Tony. What’s the rush?”

Tony downshifted, applied the brake — not to appease Fay Hubley, but because traffic had once again slowed to a crawl in all four lanes. When they rolled to a complete stop a moment later, Tony lowered the window. Dust and hot dry air filled the cabin. Fay, dabbing at the brown stains on her faded denims, coughed theatrically. Tony ignored her, stuck his head out in a futile effort to see around a lumbering truck that filled his windshield. An aircraft heading in to Brown Field Municipal Airport roared overhead, adding to the cacophony.

Tony closed the window, slumped behind the wheel. The rattle of the air conditioner replaced the ear-battering road roar.

“Thank god you didn’t get any coffee, you’re so tense,” said Fay. “Are we late? Is that why you didn’t want to stop? I mean, we lost like two minutes at the Starbucks drive-through.”

Tony let go of the steering wheel, stroked his black goatee, a larger amount of beard than he was used to beneath his lip. His hair felt strange, too. Long in the back and bunched into a small ponytail at the nape of his neck.

Fay glanced at Tony from under long blond lashes, then looked away. She pursed her glossed lips, brushed dangling strands of curly blond hair away from her tanned face.

“Chill out, will you, boss? It’s not like we’re on a deadline, right?”

“Actually we are on a deadline, Agent Hubley. If we don’t cross the border at the right time, with the right border guard on duty, we risk the chance that we might get stopped. And if they found the stuff in the back of this truck we’d have some explaining to do.”

“It’s not like we’re the bad guys. We can tell the border patrol who we are, what we’re doing.”

“Yeah, let’s let some border guard in on classified information,” Tony replied, his tone impatient. “Hell, for all we know the guard we talk to could be the same corrupt son of a bitch who let Richard Lesser escape across the Mexican border in the first place.”

Fay turned away from Tony, gazed out the passenger side window.

Tony regretted his tone, if not his words, as soon as he said them. It wasn’t Fay Hubley’s fault that she was inexperienced, that she had never gone undercover before, never even worked in the field. She wouldn’t be doing it now if circumstances didn’t demand her involvement. Tony needed Agent Hubley’s computer expertise to sniff out their prey’s cyber trail while Tony ran down the fugitive in the real world.

The man they were hunting, Richard Lesser, was approximately the same age as Fay. A graduate of Stanford, Lesser held a Master’s degree in Computer Science. He was also one of the top programmers in his class. Not satisfied making a cool half-million dollars a year creating security protocols or designing computer games, Lesser decided his first career move after university would be to hack the computer of America’s top computer security specialists, then hold its entire database hostage. Boscom Systems paid up to protect their reputation — to the tune of five million dollars. Ultimately their own cyber-sleuths managed to identify Lesser from a piece of errant coding his “Hijack” program inadvertently left buried in Boscom’s mainframe.

Two weeks ago, Lesser had managed to jump across the border hours before an indictment against him was handed down. Since his crimes were purely economic and limited to a narrow scope of damage, he wasn’t the type of malefactor CTU usually hunted. But in the past eight days, persistent and urgent chatter had been detected between two known Central American narco-terrorist groups and an unknown cell led by a shadowy figure named Hasan. All three groups mentioned Richard Lesser by name. One of these cells was located in Colombia, the other was based in Mexico City, and the third somewhere in the United States. All placed the fugitive Lesser somewhere in Tijuana, and analysts believed all three groups were dispatching representatives to snatch him up.

The intercepts set off alarm bells inside of CTU’s Cyber-Division — Fay Hubley’s unit. After being briefed, Special Agent Larry Hastings, Director of CTU’s Cyber-Operations in Washington, told Ryan Chappelle he believed Lesser to be the most dangerous fugitive of his kind in the world because of the knowledge and skills the man possessed. Hastings felt it was imperative Lesser be captured and returned to the United States, or prevented from linking up with the terrorists by whatever means necessary. With Washington’s stamp of approval, Tony’s and Fay’s mission was hastily assembled.

On the road, the traffic began to move again. Tony shifted into first and drove on in silence, still rueful over his sharp rebuke. It didn’t help Almeida’s mood that he hadn’t showered or shaved in nearly twenty-four hours. That it wasn’t even 6 a.m. and he could already feel the heat suffocating him, the grit collecting around the collar of his denim jacket, the sweat pooling in his Steve Madden boots.

“I can tell you’re not relaxing,” Fay Hubley said, trying to break the tension.

“I’ll relax when we get to Tijuana,” Tony replied, eyes forward.

Tony Almeida would have preferred to leave Fay Hubley safe in front of her computer in L.A. Under normal circumstances, that’s just what he would have done. But for this high priority mission to be successful, Tony required the help of someone who could keep constant tabs on the computer activity of the man they were hunting, to monitor Richard Lesser’s bank accounts, credit cards, his computer use and Internet activity. No one was better at this type of cyber-detective work than Fay Hubley, CTULA’s newest recruit.

Agent Hubley was twenty-five, fresh out of Carnegie Mellon University graduate school and eager to serve her country. Instead of returning to her family in Columbus, Ohio, and taking a job with some dot.com, Fay Hubley was recruited by the Counter Terrorist Unit, where she served first in Washington, D.C., later in the Los Angeles division.

It was Administrative Director Richard Walsh who brought Agent Hubley to the West Coast after he learned she’d created a bloodhound program that could trace a computer user using a phone line to a specific telephone number, or even a Wi Fi zone. Already CTU had used her protocols to trace the activities of a computer hacker who had nearly cracked the CIA database at Langley. The man was currently behind bars and awaiting trial.

For her first undercover mission, Fay Hubley’s computer skills required the use of a quarter of a million dollars’ worth of hardware and software, now riding in the back of their van along with eye candy — several hundred stolen credit cards and a few magnetic strip detectors — there to mask their true mission.

If Tony or Fay ran afoul of the Mexican authorities, they had a credible cover story and evidence to back it up. And Tony Almeida — a.k.a. Tony Navarro, gringo credit card fraud and identity thief — had enough cash on hand to get him and his girlfriend free of any corrupt Mexican law enforcement officials.

They would face far less danger here if they were thought to be white-collar criminals than U.S. government agents working undercover. As far as Tony was concerned, DEA Agent Enrique Camarena Salazar was still a valid cautionary tale. Salazar had been snatched off the streets of Guadalajara and tortured to death by drug traffickers, who’d been tipped off by corrupt Mexican police officials.

“Look! We’re almost there,” Fay cried. “Two miles to the border.”

She gestured at the sign, sloshed more coffee on her jeans.

Tony glanced at the woman’s attire, finding it hard to reconcile Fay Hubley’s quiet, conservative, sometimes drab appearance at CTU with her current undercover persona. At one time in his life, Tony Almeida had been accurately described as a street punk. Growing up in a tough, violent neighborhood in Chicago he became tough and violent, too. Though that period in his life was long gone, Tony could still summon enough of his former self to convince the badguys that he wasone of them.But tryashe might, Tony could not imagine what hidden aspect of her personality Fay Hubley mined to create her false identity.

Over sandals and form-fitting low-riders Fay wore a scarlet, belly-baring cotton blouse with dangling, retro-1970s fringe. Sleeveless, the top revealed a tattoo of intertwined vines encircling Fay’s upper arm. Another tattoo of an elaborate dragonfly spreading its wings across the small of her back was also on display. Fay’s finger and toenails were polished bright purple to match her eye shadow and lipstick.

Last night, after the pre-mission briefing, as the pair was preparing to depart CTU Headquarters for Tijuana, Jamey Farrell got a look at her co-worker in disguise.

“Whoa,” she said, “who knew Fay Hubley was more Bratz than Barbie?”

Tony was not certain if the tattoos were real or temporary, but the mission was assembled so quickly therewould havebeennotimefor Faytoget her navel pierced — yet a delicate silver dragonfly now swung on a thin chain that dangled from the woman’s navel ring.

Tony looked away before Fay noticed his stare. Man, he thought, the quiet ones can really surprise you.

They’d made it inside the abandoned studio, only to be stopped by a hail of gunfire. Now Jack Bauer and Chet Blackburn huddled back to back, between the concrete wall and a dumpster in one of Utopia Studios’ large sound stages. Armor-piercing rounds battered the metal container with enough force to pierce the steel and ricochet like mad inside the dumpster.

“They’re cornered. They’re not going anywhere. Why the hell didn’t they just give up?” Blackburn cried over the noise. Under his faceplate, the man’s dark skin was shiny with sweat.

“They brought guns,” said Jack. “They figured they had to use them.”

Jack hunkered down, wiped the stream of blood that leaked from his nose. He yanked off his helmet, wondering why the communicator had stopped working. He discovered that the transmitter inside the liner had been shattered by the same round that had grazed his headpiece a moment before.

“Try to reach Angel One,” Jack said, spitting crimson. “Find out what’s happening on the other side of that wall.”

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.”

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.”