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.
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
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,
