to find Milo Pressman at the diagnostics platform. Milo was a network and encryption specialist and head of CTU computer security. Snapped up by CTU just out of Stanford University, he had soulful eyes, black, curly hair, and still wore the earring he’d acquired in graduate school.
Petite, wiry, and Hispanic, Jamey was only two years older than Milo, but as a divorced single mother of a toddler son, she often felt more like a decade older in maturity. Case in point: Milo
“Welcome home, stranger. Back so soon?” Jamey said, dropping her purse.
Pressmen sat back in his chair. “Miss me?” he teased.
“No,” Jamey declared, popping the lid on her Star-bucks. “It was nice
“I took the red-eye from Washington last night. Flew in with Ryan Chappelle — first class. He gave me a ride back to headquarters with him, too.”
“Ohhh, I’m impressed.” Jamey’s tone implied she wasn’t.
“Come on, Jamey. Cut the guy some slack. Chappelle’s not so bad. Looks to me like he’s stuck between a rock and a hard place.”
Jamey waved his comment aside. “You’ve been in Washington too long. You’re talking like a bureaucrat.”
“Langley’s in Virginia.”
Jamey sipped her French Roast — cream, triple sugar — while she eyed Milo’s set up. “What’s all this?”
Milo shrugged. “Found it wrapped in plastic on the table. The directive clipped to it said Jack sent the PC over for analysis. Arrived this morning, according to the manifest.”
“You need any help with that?”
“I got it under control,” Milo replied. “Where’s Fay?”
“She’s in the field with Tony Almeida. Down in Mexico looking for some guy named Lesser.”
Milo gaped. “
Jamey looked up. “How did you know?”
“Let’s say I’m not surprised. I knew ‘Little Dick’ Lesser at Stanford. He was a total asshole then. Called himself the Goddess Silica’s gift to programming.”
“The Goddess Silica?”
Milo shrugged. “Some gaming shit. Let’s backtrack a bit…Did you say Fay’s looking for Lesser in Mexico?”
“It’s all in the daily update. Red file seven.”
“Who’s got time to read the update? I just got here after two weeks at the Puzzle Palace, and another week spent almost entirely in an emissions-proof and windowless cave at Foggy Bottom. I haven’t slept for twenty hours. Anyway, I’ve—”
Suddenly Milo was on his feet. “What the hell? I just got an unknown virus warning.”
Jamey heard the warning tone a moment later, and nearly dropped her coffee. “Where did it come from?”
“I was downloading the memory from this desktop and my security protocols went crazy. How long has it been since the archives were updated?”
CTU’s computer security archives stored a copy of every worm, virus, spyware, and adware program released onto the World Wide Web as soon as it made an appearance. The ongoing collection and analysis of computer “mayhem ware” as Milo dubbed it was one of CTU’s mandates, and the Cyber-Unit’s most important tasks. Jamey was scrupulous about updating the system at least twice a day and Milo knew it.
“Listen, Milo…I updated the archives last night at nine o’clock, before I went home. You can see the update log right on the screen.”
“Calm down. I’m not accusing you of anything.”
“Can you isolate it?”
“W00t!” cheered Milo “I already have.”
Milo stroked his keyboard as he quarantined the virus in a secure file, assigned the data a PIN, then dispatched it to the archives. He kept a copy isolated in his own system, too, for analysis.
While Milo was hunched over his computer, typing away, Jamey lifted Jack Bauer’s directive from the top of a ball of clear plastic wrap the Dell had been swathed in.
“The virus is in one mother of a file — a Trojan horse. It’s hidden inside a movie download,” said Milo.
“That makes sense,” said Jamey. “This computer belongs to Hugh Vetri. He’s a movie producer.”
“Cool,” said Milo. “How did you know?”
Jamey waved the directive under his nose. “Because I actually read this memo past page one.”
Milo blinked. “This download. The file’s called
“If it doesn’t star Brad Pitt or Vin Diesel, I don’t pay any attention,” said Jamey after a gulp of caffeine.
Detective Castalano popped the door and leaped out of the chopper. His feet hit the rocky ground before the helicopter’s skids touched down. Crouching under the whirling rotors, he raced across the roadway toward a cluster of California State Police cars and Parks Department vehicles.
Castalano almost had his man — almost. The tricky part was yet to come. The roadway in front of him consisted of two narrow lanes, pitted and cracked, a faded yellow line down the middle. About two hundred yards before the roadblock, the road vanished around a sharp curve. The shoulder of the road was raised on both sides and topped with thick tangles of trees and brush. The State Troopers had chosen their spot well. It looked perfect.
Across the road, the helicopter lifted off again, kicking up dust and blades of sere scrub grass. Castalano ran a hand through his thinning brown hair, combing it back into place as he approached the phalanx of official vehicles. A California State Policeman stepped forward to greet him.
“Castalano? Frank Castalano? I’m Captain Lang.”
They clasped hands. The state policeman was as broad as a linebacker and at least a head taller than the LAPD detective. He had a sunburned hide, iron-gray hair, and deep lines around his eyes. His black boots shined like mirrors, and Castalano would bet the farm the man had scared the bejesus out of more than a few California motorists over the years.
“Can you give me an update, Captain?”
Lang steered Castalano toward an emerald-green Parks Department Hummer. Hanging out the door, a Park Ranger in a dun-colored uniform held a large topographical map of the area around them. Another man standing over his shoulder spoke through the vehicle’s radio.
“With the help of a helicopter pilot hovering out there somewhere, these two Rangers are tracking the Jaguar’s movements, which you can see on the chart,” Lang explained. Castalano studied the map.
“The fugitive was wandering aimlessly for a while,” the Captain continued. “Then he managed to find the old access road that connected 39 to the Angeles Crest Highway. Using this service road, he came to this stretch of Route 39. But the road’s been closed for years, and he’s got himself bottled up. He can’t turn around and go back the way he came — it’s blocked by a hundred police cars by now. And back this way”—Lang jerked a meaty thumb over his shoulder—“road’s blocked by a landslide.”
“What’s your plan, Captain?”
Lang gestured toward the point on the horizon where the deserted highway vanished around the curve.
“The fugitive can’t see the roadblock until he’s right on it. We have tire shredders spread out at the base of the curve. Another set fifty yards ahead of the first. One second after he comes around that corner he’ll be cruising on rims, I guarantee it.” Lang faced the detective. “If the plan’s okay with you, that is.”
“You’re in charge here, Captain Lang. All I ask is that your men do everything they can to take this fugitive alive.”
The Captain stared at the vanishing point. “I’m afraid that’s not really up to my men, Detective. With all those tire shredders on the road, the suspect’s overall health will depend on how fast he comes around that corner.”
“He’s a suspect in a multiple murder investigation—”
