“I’m sorry about your partner,” said Jack.
Hensley nodded. “I heard you lost someone today, too, Special Agent Bauer.”
Jack changed the subject. “Tell me again how you heard about Arete’s apprehension?”
Hensley smirked, then hid the gesture with a frown. The micro expression lasted just long enough for Bauer to suspect Hensley was lying, and he and Ryan were being manipulated.
“Arete has a lot of associates here in LA. In Chicago and Detroit, too,” Hensley said smoothly. “We put out an APB with the other FBI district offices and got lucky this morning when one of our own undercover agents saw him in South Central. We were ready to pounce—”
“When we got in your way,” Jack said, forcing a regretful smile.
“And used too much force for the situation,” Hens-ley added.
“His associates were about to launch a surface-toair missile at an approaching aircraft. We had to act,” Jack replied.
Hensley flashed dark. He leveled his gaze at Bauer. “You’ve recovered this missile launcher?”
Ryan Chappelle stepped between them. “Unfortunately the missile launcher was lost when Dante Arete’s associates blew themselves up in their escape vehicle.”
Chappelle failed to mention the memory stick they’d recovered. Jack was certain the omission was deliberate, that Ryan suspected Hensley was lying, too.
Hensley frowned. “Then you don’t have any proof to back up these absurd assertions, do you?”
“What are you getting at, Agent Hensley?”
“Well, Mr. Chappelle, Dante Arete most certainly smuggled weapons across the United States border in the past two years. But he’s very careful to be far, far away when those weapons are used. And the notion of Dante’s greasy gang-bangers blowing themselves up to avoid capture. ” Hensley snorted, shook his head. “They’re urban punks, not Japanese kamikaze or Muslim terrorists. Suicide isn’t their style.”
Ignoring Chappelle, Hensley faced Jack. “Any chance your guys were popping off so many rounds it was you who blew up the van?”
“No,” said Jack evenly. “No chance.”
Hensley sensed Jack’s animosity, pulled back a bit.
“Well, you couldn’t have known about the FBI investigation, anyway. And a newly formed unit like yours is bound to stumble a few times before learning to walk.”
Hensley fixed his dark blue eyes on Jack, who ignored the slight, glanced away. Jack understood now that Hensley was a master manipulator. It was time for Bauer to rise to the level of play.
“Look,” Jack began with the proper tone of contriteness. “The FBI put a lot of hours into this investigation. I understand that. But we put in some sweat and a little blood, too — not to mention the fact that I have to deal with all the paperwork that comes with a casualty situation.”
Jack rested his arm on Hensley’s shoulder. “Why don’t we go in right now and interview Dante Arete together. He’s been sitting in that cell for hours. I’ll soften him up, you make the deal you need to make with him. I’ll even stay out of it. When I have enough information to write up my report, you can take the prisoner back to New York City and we’ve both covered our asses.”
Hensley shook his head, just as Jack knew he would.
“No can do, Bauer. What Arete may or may not say impacts at least half a dozen separate investigations— FBI investigations.”
“Let’s talk to your superiors, then,” said Jack. “Maybe we can work something out.”
Again Hensley shook his head. This time he barely bothered to hide his smirk. “They’re going to want to sit in on the interrogation too. Arete’s a big catch. A lot of folks are going to want to hold the net. But he’s not big enough to have half the New York bureau fly out here to CTU just to chat with him—”
“I’ll fly to New York,” said Jack.
Hensley blinked. Jack pressed: “You came in an FBI jet, right? I’ll just hitch a ride with you to the East Coast, fly back on a commercial flight.”
Jack glanced at Chappelle for support. Ryan shot warning daggers, but didn’t overturn him.
“Jack’s proposal has merit,” Ryan said. “I think even Senator Cheever will be comfortable with the arrangement. If you have doubts, I’ll speak to Mr. Spain about it right now.” Chappelle then gave an admirable impression of reaching for the phone.
Jack forced himself to mask a smile. When Chappelle got his priorities right, it was a thing of beauty.
Hensley threw up his hands. “All right, you win. But if this is some ploy to stall for time and talk to Arete by yourself, forget it. He’s not cutting any deals with CTU. To make sure of that, I have two Federal marshals outside who are going to be with Dante from now until we arrive in New York City.”
Jack folded his arms, met Hensley’s gaze. “He’s my prisoner, and CTU protocol requires that Dante Arete be in my custody until we reach your jurisdiction. That means he’s to be handcuffed to my wrist — just to make sure nobody tries to talk to him when I’m not around.”
Hensley nodded. “Fine, Agent Bauer. Play your games. But as soon as we’re wheels down in New York, Dante Arete is mine.”
1. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 9 P.M. AND 10 P.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME
The steady drone of the jet engines suddenly changed pitch. Jack opened his eyes, instantly alert, surprised he’d slept at all. He sat in an airline seat next to Dante Arete, the fugitive still chained to his arm by a pair of nickel-plated steel bracelets. Two federal marshals sat across the aisle, in another cluster of chairs. The younger marshal’s seat was back, he slept mouth open and gently snored. The older man — perhaps forty— was awake, though hardly alert as he sipped bottled water and leafed through a dog-eared copy of
As for Special Agent Frank Hensley, there was no sign. He’d entered a separate compartment shortly after they’d lifted off from LAX and hadn’t reappeared since. Jack suspected there was a bunk in the forward compartment, and Hensley had taken advantage of the hours to get some sleep.
Hensley reminded Bauer of an army, safely ensconced in a fortified town surrounded by the enemy. Instead of waiting for the inevitable attack, an aggressive commander would dispatch pickets to prick his foe into premature action. Hensley’s barbs — fired at Jack, at CTU, even at Ryan Chappelle — seemed to be timed to divert attention from the psychological defenses Frank Hensley had erected to keep the world at bay.
Jack sat up and stretched as much as the handcuff on his wrist would allow. Then he looked around. The FBI aircraft was not laid out like a commercial airliner. There were no rows of airline seats, only clusters — about a dozen in all. Some chairs were set around affixed tables, others were placed along the fuselage, near the windows. There were no air stewards, either. They’d been replaced by a stocked refrigerator, a coffeemaker, and a microwave oven.
Jack glanced at his watch, already set to Eastern Daylight Time. He discovered he’d slept for nearly thirty-five minutes — the longest interval of rest he’d had in the last fifteen hours. Bauer leaned forward, rubbed his face. Then he checked on his prisoner. Dante Arete had curled up into a ball and had fallen fast asleep as soon as the FBI aircraft was off the ground and the “fasten seatbelt” lights went dark. Jack shook him awake, and Arete immediately demanded to go to the bathroom. Still cuffed together, Jack escorted the prisoner to the head, then used it himself. Even in the tight confines of the restroom, the two men did not exchange a word.
When they returned to the cabin, Jack was surprised to find Hensley had reemerged. The FBI agent sat at one of the tables with the two Federal marshals, who had roused themselves into a semblance of vigilance. Hensley looked up when Bauer and his prisoner entered, then went back to punching data into his PDA. The wall, Jack noted, was still in place. Either Hensley was the most professional law enforcement agent he’d ever met — or something else was going on behind his half-lidded eyes.
“Strap in. We’re landing in five minutes.” Hensley commanded, wand poised over the tiny PDA screen.
Jack pushed Arete into a seat near a window, then strapped his prisoner down. After his own belt was
