city — late to work in the morning, later leaving in the evening — so rush-hour traffic had not yet lightened. Jack’s years of youthful dirt bike racing served him well as he darted between cars and trucks with ease.
As Jack twisted the throttle to slalom around a lumbering tow truck, he heard Nina Myers’s voice in his ears. “Jack, we’ve received some disturbing intelligence…”
She told him about the CDC aircraft and its deadly cargo, how the aircraft would be entering New York airspace in less than seventy-five minutes.
“That’s their target.” Jack was certain. It all added up.
“That’s our feeling here, too,” said Nina. “But Ryan is concerned that you’re on a wild goose chase. That Omar Bayat isn’t heading for Taj’s location at all.”
“No, that can’t be right. Taj and Bayat are a team. They’ve worked together since the Ali Kahlil clan was wiped out in Afghanistan. After downing the Belgian airliner over North Africa two years ago, they escaped across the border to Libya together. I’m betting that’s what they plan to do here, too.”
For a moment there was silence on both sides of the phone connection. Then Jack spoke. “Let’s assume Omar Bayat is leading us to Taj and another terrorist cell. Where would they launch an attack from? They need someplace close to the airport, above the city skyline, yet remote — a launch from a rooftop or a building would be seen.”
“How about the Triboro Bridge?” said Nina. “It’s the tallest structure in the area.”
“It’s high enough, but too public. Thousands of cars pass over that bridge every hour. The terrorists could be spotted, reported by anyone with a cell phone—”
“Jack!” It was Milo Pressman’s voice. “About a quarter of a mile upriver from the Triboro there’s a railroad bridge called the Hell Gate. The bridge goes right over Astoria Park, and across the East River to Randalls Island, then on to the South Bronx.”
“He’s right,” said Nina. “Hell Gate is actually a little closer to LaGuardia than the Triboro, though both bridges are right under the flight path to the airport.”
“Jamey, what’s happening to Caitlin now?” Jack asked.
“The vehicle is turning onto the Triboro Bridge… No. Wait. It’s on Hoyt Avenue, a road that runs parallel to the Triboro, maybe under it…”
Over the snarl of the Harley’s engine, Jack heard the analyst exclaim something unintelligible.
“Jamey? What is it?”
“Hoyt Avenue, Jack. It leads right to the shore of the East River. To Astoria Park—”
Three thousand miles away, Jack Bauer knew where he was headed. “Hell Gate Bridge…”
On a quiet residential street bordering Astoria Park, Omar Bayat stopped the van in front of a locked gate of an eight-foot chain-link fence. The sun was a hot orange ball shining between the tall oak and elm trees, but the van was shaded by the steel span of a railroad bridge a hundred feet over its roof.
The Afghani looked over his shoulder at the woman, bound and gagged on the floor of the cargo bay. “I will be right back.”
Bayat exited the vehicle, unbolted the padlock, and drove through the gate. He backed the van into a small wooden garage that butted up against one of the bridge’s ivy-covered, concrete support columns. It was cool and shady under the span, with abundant greenery bordering the fenced-in area.
Hidden from view inside the garage and behind the concrete arch, Bayat changed into green New York City Parks Department overalls. Then he opened the back door and dragged Caitlin out by her red hair. She squealed, but the sound was muffled by the gag over her mouth.
Bayat cuffed her. “Shut up or I will slit your throat.”
Caitlin whimpered, rocked unsteadily on her feet while Bayat untied her wrists. He left the gag in place. Then the Afghani pushed her to the back of the garage, where a hole had been cut in the ceiling. A twelve-foot ladder poked through that hole and up the side of the concrete support column.
“Climb,” barked Bayat.
Caitlin looked up. On top of the portable ladder, rungs had been embedded in the concrete to form a permanent ladder that ran all the way to the top of the bridge. Caitlin’s eyes went wide and she shook her head wildly, trying to tell Omar Bayat she was too afraid. He struck her again, so hard it drove Caitlin to her knees. He reached down and yanked her to her feet by her hair.
“Climb or die,” he hissed, his hot breath on her cheek. Hands shaking, limbs weak, Caitlin reluctantly reached for the first rung.
“Where is Caitlin now?” Jack yelled over the roar of the cycle.
“She’s still on Nineteenth Street, between Twenty-first and Twenty-second Drives,” said Jamey. “Maybe it’s a safe house, or a staging area.”
Jack gunned the engine and ran a yellow light. “How far away?”
“Maybe twenty minutes. Less if traffic is light,” Jamey replied.
Jack cursed. “Too far.”
“Jack, Caitlin is moving again. Across the park. She’s following the span of the bridge, moving under it.”
Jack frowned, increased speed. “Caitlin isn’t under the bridge, Jamie. I’m betting she’s
Caitlin thought the climb up the ladder was difficult until she reached the top of the span. High above the park, the gentle breeze became a gusting wind that tangled her long red-gold hair and tore at her ripped and dirty skirt. Caitlin saw four sets of railroad tracks, silver trails that led over the water and across Randalls Island. A narrow steel mesh catwalk ran along the edge of the span, paralleling the tracks.
“That way,” Omar Bayat said, pointing toward the catwalk.
Behind the gag, Caitlin whimpered and hesitated. She wasn’t overly afraid of heights, but the steel mesh in front of her looked like nothing more than a gossamer web, too fragile to hold her weight. Bayat pushed her and she stumbled onto the steel grating, yelping behind the gag. She grabbed the handrail, steadying herself.
Far below, she could see children playing in the green grass of Astoria Park. They looked so tiny to her, like scurrying mice…and then it struck her.
Movement became easier with time, as she became accustomed to the height, and the uneven feel of the catwalk’s grating. Under other circumstances, Caitlin would have enjoyed the view. The setting sun dropped lower over the horizon, illuminating the city with a golden glow.
Still over the park, they passed through a beige stone tower with a high stone roof. Over her head, parapets overlooked the East River and Manhattan beyond. When she emerged from the tower a few minutes later, Caitlin was struck once again by the view.
A quarter mile or so south, the arch of the Triboro Bridge also spanned the river, its roadway clogged with traffic. Beyond the long highway bridge, the skyline of the Upper East Side peeked over the tip of Roosevelt Island. Caitlin could see the Empire State Building, the spire of the Chrysler Building, the slanted roof of the Citicorp Center, and in the distance, the gleaming twin towers of Lower Manhattan’s World Trade Center.
By now, Caitlin had passed over the entire length of the park. Far beneath her, a narrow road paralleled the Queens bank of the East River. Rap and hip-hop music wafted up from hot rods. An ice cream truck’s jingle and the snarl of a passing motorcycle lifted on the breeze to Caitlin’s ears. It seemed strange to her how normal, everyday life was simply continuing. how people could be so oblivious to the terrible thing about to happen just over their heads.
Suddenly, the faded red steel began to vibrate under her feet. Omar Bayat pushed her into a recessed area, then stood between her and the tracks. A moment later, an Amtrak train roared past them, shaking the bridge so hard, Caitlin thought she would be shaken off, plunging to her death far below.
Finally the train passed and they resumed their hike, leaving the boulder-strewn shore behind them. Now, beneath her feet, Caitlin could see only the gray-green waters of the East River, swirling and roiling with dangerous riptides and whirlpools. Here, nearly three hundred feet above the water, the wind increased until it whistled through the high-tension electrical wires strung over the bridge, its powerful gusts threatening to sweep her slender
