Whoever these people were — friend or foe — they were arriving in greater numbers. More alarming, they seemed to be surrounding Kahlil’s store and her car. Now Jack Bauer’s story about Shamus’s involvement with international terrorists did not sound so ridiculously far-fetched. Suddenly, Caitlin felt like an animal sitting in a trap about to be sprung.
Though Jack had ordered her to stay put and wait at least two hours before leaving the car and turning herself in to the police, Caitlin’s instincts warned her of immediate danger. With shaking hands she stuffed Jack Bauer’s belongings into her bulging shoulder bag, rolled up the windows, and stepped out of the car. Stamping a foot that had fallen asleep, Caitlin draped the heavy bag over her shoulder and used the keys Jack left her to lock the car door.
Adopting what she hoped was a casual manner, Caitlin used the reflection in the car’s windows to adjust her hair, her clothing. Then she turned on her heels and strolled away from Atlantic Avenue. With each step she felt — or imagined she felt — suspicious eyes on her back.
In her initial panic, Caitlin sought only escape. She walked quickly down Clinton Street, passing century-old brownstones fronted by iron gates and high sandstone stairs. But after several blocks, her steps slowed. Caitlin thought of her brother. It wasn’t a given that he’d come and gone already. He might still be making his way to Kahlil’s, or he might already be inside. Either way, Liam would likely face the imminent danger she was fleeing unless she did something to find and stop him.
Ashamed of her sudden cowardice, Caitlin stopped and checked her watch. By now two hours had passed since Jack went inside the market. He was sure to come out any minute, she decided, as she turned around and headed back toward the car. She was still two blocks away from Atlantic Avenue when Caitlin found the way suddenly barred. She watched while half a dozen vehicles blocked off the corner of Atlantic Avenue and Clinton Street. Meanwhile an army of NYPD officers moved down every street in an effort to cordon off the surrounding blocks of all traffic.
Stumbling forward, Caitlin could just make out the front of Kahlil’s market between two black vans. She stared while two men swathed in black body armor and helmets dragged a struggling Afghani out of the store and pinned him to the sidewalk, where they cuffed his hands behind his back.
“Miss?”
Caitlin jumped, startled. A tall, broad-shouldered New York City cop stared down at her. He offered Caitlin a reassuring smile, even as he blocked her path. “Sorry, miss. You’ll have to go another way,” the young policeman said. “There’s a law enforcement action in progress and traffic is blocked from here.”
“But my car—”
The policeman nodded sympathetically. “This whole thing might be over in a few minutes. Then we can get you to your car.”
Caitlin nodded, but did not move. Instead, she stared at the drama unfolding less than two blocks away. The cop’s eyes followed her gaze and they both watched as an Afghani man in traditional dress was dragged away by the two men in assault gear. Meanwhile other armored men moved forward, to aim what appeared to be short- barreled shotguns at the basement window. Caitlin saw white letters emblazoned on their uniforms: FBI.
With a blast and a gust of smoke, one man fired into the building. Even from this distance Caitlin could hear the sound of breaking glass — then the muffled explosion. Before the noise of the first detonation faded, another man fired a grenade through the delicatessen’s plate-glass window.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Caitlin whispered.
As shards from the shattered window rained down on the sidewalk in a silver shower, the armored assault team charged into the market, weapons raised and ready.
Jack threw his left arm across his face, buried his nose and mouth in his shirtsleeves to ward off the choking CS gas quickly filling the hot, grimy basement. Jack knew from experience that a cloud of chemical smoke tended to rise, so he remained on the ground, crawling across the floor to reach the dark form crumpled in the corner.
The older man was sprawled on his back, clothes smoldering from the heat of the explosion he’d absorbed. His frayed suit was in tatters, gore staining the shabby fabric from head to toe, and the man’s head lolled to one side, jaw shattered. When Jack finally reached him, the man’s blackened eyelids opened and their gazes met. He gripped Jack’s hand, crushing it with the last of his strength as he tried to gasp out a final word. The sound rattled in his throat and he lay still, fingers limp. Jack fumbled at the man’s throat for a pulse, found none.
“Dammit!” Jack knew from the flash and the force of the grenade’s concussion that the FBI was using military-type CS gas grenades, in clear violation of federal law enforcement guidelines. They were the same devices the Bureau had used during their ill-fated siege at Waco. According to a still-classified government report Jack had read, those grenades had contributed to the fire that had swept the Branch Davidian compound almost as soon as the assault began.
Eighty people had perished at Waco, including a dozen children that the FBI was supposed to have been rescuing. The fires had been fed by that military-type tear gas — a gas with incendiary properties when used in a confined space like the Branch Davidian compound or the basement of a Brooklyn tenement.
So what was the FBI doing using the same type of incendiary tear gas canisters? Did they really want to botch another raid? Either the FBI was refusing to learn from its previous fatal blunder, or someone was out to
But even that scenario didn’t make sense to Jack. Wasn’t FBI agent Frank Hensley using Taj, along with the Lynch brothers, to carry out his scheme? So why wouldn’t Hensley try to protect his accomplices? Why would Hensley let Taj die if the Afghani terrorist still had a role to play? The only thing that made sense to Jack was the notion that Taj and his men had outlived their usefulness and had to be disposed of before they talked to the wrong people. But if that was the case, then why the frantic delivery of the attache case, unless it contained another bomb like the one that killed Dante Arete, but meant to kill the Afghanis?
Jack’s head was spinning, as much from the mystery he was trying to solve as from the gas. The only two people who could answer Jack’s questions were Taj Ali Kahlil and Special Agent Frank Hensley. The FBI agent was out of reach, so Jack’s only choice now was to stick close to Taj.
Suddenly Jack felt a crushing grip on his forearm.
A wet cloth was slapped onto his shoulders. He looked up to find Taj standing over him. The man had a cloth wrapped around his own nose and mouth to block the gas. He gestured for Jack to do the same.
From the floor above, Jack heard a stampede of booted feet followed by several shots. A long burst from an assault rifle ended with a howl, then a body struck the floor with a solid thump. The smoke in the claustrophobic basement intensified. Now the smell of burning wood mingled with the CS gas fumes. Face wrapped, Jack stood with Taj and an Afghani youth — perhaps fifteen — gripping an Uzi in his trembling hands.
The rickety door opened and another Afghani emerged from the billowing smoke. This man was short but powerfully built, perhaps fifty years old or older. He wore a turban, loose trousers, and a robe. An AK–47 assault rifle was slung over his arm, its muzzle bumping the low ceiling. The newcomer locked eyes with Taj and the men embraced. With whispered words spoken in Pashto, Taj held the man close, and Jack realized he was witnessing a farewell. Finally the man turned, yanked the rifle off his shoulder, and vanished once more into the billowing clouds of tear gas.
Jack grabbed Taj by the arm. “They’re using CS gas,” he cried over the chaos. “This whole building could burn.”
“We are leaving now,” Taj replied. “We must retrieve the attache case immediately or all our sacrifices will be for nothing.”
“Forget the case. I need to see Tanner,” croaked Jack, choking back a cough.
“The attache first, Mr. Lynch. Then I shall take you to Felix Tanner.”
Nina Myers emerged from Jack Bauer’s office and walked to the head of the metal stairs. Below, the Mission Center was a hive of frantic activity. She watched the action in silence, contemplating her next move.
Nearly every member of the Crisis Management Team was preoccupied. Tony Almeida and Jessica Schneider were interrogating the prisoner Saito, and with Milo Pressman and half of CTU’s Cyber Unit dispatched to the Green Dragon Computers store in Little Tokyo to crack their mainframe, pretty much every analyst was doing double duty. They were stretched too thin as it was, and things were about to get worse.
“Listen up,” Nina called in a loud voice. “I’m starting a second Threat Clock—”
