back, into a bulkhead — dead before he hit the ground. Frank Hensley emerged from the shadows, reloading the Glock.
He looked at Arete. “Where’s Bauer?”
“Why the hell should I help you,
“Don’t be a jackass,” Hensley replied. “I was bluffing. Talking tough. You should know all about that. Anyway, I just shot that pilot to cover your ass.”
Arete rubbed his wrist where the cuffs had chafed him. Then he kicked the stubborn emergency hatch. “Bauer’s over there, man. Under that goddamned chair. It don’t matter anyway. We ain’t getting out of here alive…”
Hensley glanced in Jack’s direction, spied Bauer’s legs sticking out of a pile of wreckage. He pulled latex gloves and a handkerchief out of his pocket, donned the gloves, and carefully wiped down the Glock with the handkerchief. Then he shifted the Glock to his left hand, drew his service revolver with his right, and approached Bauer.
Through his half-closed eyes, Jack had been watching Hensley. But playing dead in a burning aircraft was no longer an option. He had to act. When Hens-ley hauled the chair away, Jack grabbed the live wire above him and shoved the still-sparking tip against Hensley’s left arm. The FBI agent yowled and jumped backward, simultaneously discharging the revolver and letting go of the Glock. The shot missed Jack, who was already rolling away, snapping up the Glock before diving behind the cover of upended seats.
“Kill him, man!” Arete was frantic. Over the crackling fire and popping steel, they heard the distant sound of sirens. “You better waste him fast. If he starts talking—”
“Shut up!” Hensley spied Jack a moment later and opened fire.
Arete kept clutching his head and moaning. “I don’t wanna die here.”
Pinned, Jack looked around for an exit, saw one not five feet away — through five feet of open space. He’d have to get there, release the lever, and hope it wouldn’t jam before Hensley had time to hit him. Jack figured his chances were less than ten percent, but he had no choice.
Suddenly the broken aircraft lurched again, setting off a series of explosions from somewhere outside. The force of the successive blasts rocked the airplane and bounced its inhabitants around. Two things happened next: Hensley was jerked against a table bolted to the floor. He flipped over it and struck his head, his service revolver tumbling to Dante Arete’s feet. And the jammed hatch that wouldn’t budge for Dante a few moments before burst open, filling the choking compartment with cool night air.
Arete didn’t hesitate. He snatched Hensley’s weapon and jumped through the exit. Jack cried out, stumbled to his feet. Still clutching the Glock, he bolted for the same exit, stopping in the doorway to see Arete’s heading. Then he turned around and tried to find Hensley, but the smoke had become too thick.
In the choking darkness of the fuselage, he bumped into the corpse of one of the murdered Federal agents. Jack reached into the man’s jacket, found a loaded Browning Hi-Power and some extra ammo.
Jack had to make a choice and he knew it. He gave up trying to find Hensley. Instead he climbed out of the shattered aircraft and took off across the tarmac, in pursuit of the fugitive Arete.
Milo Pressman sat at his workstation, located between Jamey Farrell’s cubicle and the auxiliary computer station where Doris had set up shop.
Milo had been complaining for hours, to anyone who would listen, about being called back to work and away from his girlfriend. Apparently the whole mess was a relationship wrecker, or so he told Jamey Farrell.
“Look,” said Jamey. “Either she understands what you do or she doesn’t.”
“Tina
Milo’s pocket sent out ringtones of a Green Day download. Of course it was Tina. The cell phone conversation quickly degenerated into an argument. Jamey and Doris heard every word on Milo’s end. He hadn’t bothered trying to make the call private.
Jamey decided to fill in some blanks for Doris.
“Of course I’m not with some other woman,” Milo told his girlfriend.
“No,” whispered Jamey. “But your tongue was sure hanging out when Tony introduced you to Captain Schneider.”
Doris pushed up her large glasses with her index finger. “What’s a girl like that got that we haven’t got?”
Jamey shrugged and smiled. “Blond hair, rich daddy, and a sexy drawl that makes men drool.”
Doris smiled back and shook her head. “Barbie in a uniform. Hardly seems fair.”
“Agent Hensley! Agent Hensley!”
Sirens wailed, emergency lights flashed. In the distance, a massive aircraft hangar burned, orange flames licking the black night sky. A firefighter cupped blackened hands around his mouth and called out for Hensley one more time.
Others took up the call, their loud voices followed by the stabbing beams from a half-dozen flashlights, columns of light that cut through the smoky darkness. Deep inside the wreckage of the aircraft, someone coughed.
“Over there! He’s alive,” yelled a firefighter.
A stocky man in a gray pinstriped suit pushed past the emergency workers swathed in asbestos, splashed through the fire-retardant foam that surrounded the shattered fuselage. Feet slipping, he climbed onto the broken wing and crawled through the emergency hatch, into the cabin. “Frank! Is that you? Are you in here?”
“Over here,” a voice called weakly.
“You can’t go back there,” a fireman called. “There still fuel in those wings. It’s a miracle this aircraft didn’t explode on impact.”
Special Agent Ray Goodman ignored the man. “Frank! Talk to me, Frank,” he yelled again.
One of the firemen pointed. “I think someone’s moving over there.”
Minutes later, Goodman and the firefighter carried Frank Hensley out of the wreckage. Hensley hung limply between the two men until they reached an ambulance. Immediately, paramedics placed Hensley on a stretcher, slipped an oxygen mask over his face. The FBI agent swallowed air in great gulps. Agent Goodman loomed over him.
“What the hell happened, Frank?”
Hensley shook his head. “Don’t know…A missile, I think. ”
“It was a missile, all right,” Goodman interrupted. “What happened to Dante Arete? The marshals, they looked like they’d both been shot.”
Hensley nodded. “It was that CTU agent, Jack Bauer. Somehow he…he must have smuggled a Glock aboard. As the pilot was making the final approach, Bauer just started shooting. Killed the marshals. ”
Hensley gasped like a fish out of water. A paramedic steadied him but he pushed the emergency worker away, struggled to rise. “When the plane hit the ground, Bauer shot the pilot, too. Then he helped Arete escape…”
“Steady, Frank.”
“You don’t understand,” Hensley moaned behind the oxygen mask. “That man has got to be stopped— caught. Dead or alive. Jack Bauer is a traitor and a murderer and he’s got to be stopped. ”
2. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 10 P.M. AND 11 P.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME
“The FBI aircraft ferrying Jack Bauer and suspect Dante Arete to New York City crashed upon landing thirty minutes ago.”
Shocked, disbelieving voices erupted in the command center. Nina Myers had just descended the metal
