“I heard about those kids in the bus.”
“Not only them,” said Castalano. “He also killed a family in Los Angeles. And he may not be acting alone. I need to bring him back to L.A.
“Is he armed, Detective?”
“No firearms were used in the murders.” Castalano knew that wasn’t an answer. As far as anyone knew, the perp could have a fifty-caliber machine gun for a hood ornament.
The Ranger on the radio gestured for silence, listened intently. “He’s less than two miles away, coming up fast,” he said at last. “Ninety seconds, maybe less.”
Lang faced his men. “Everyone in position,” he bellowed loud enough to be heard without a bullhorn. “Get behind those vehicles. The suspect is probably not armed. Repeat, the suspect is probably
Castalano nodded his thanks to Captain Lang, studied the faces of the other men. The State Troopers were keyed up, ready to go. The Rangers looked worried as they moved behind the steel wall of vehicles.
In less than thirty seconds everyone was in position, listening. For a long moment, the only sound they heard was the winds whistling through the mountains, the rustling of trees.
Far up the road, near the curve, a State Trooper acting as an advance spotter popped out of his camouflaged position near the curve. He waved to Lang, then ducked out of sight.
The Captain touched the handle of the.357 Magnum in its holster. “He’s almost here,” Lang warned in a voice like muted thunder.
The roar of the Jaguar’s high-performance engine rapidly rose in volume and lowered in pitch, a blur of chrome and crimson raced into view. Then came the explosive blast as the two front tires blew at the same instant. Castalano winced, fearing for a moment that some trigger-happy State Trooper had opened fire. Two more sharp pops followed, and the Jag dropped to the cracked concrete. Shredded rubber rolled free, and the engine’s rumble was replaced by a terrible scraping squeal. Sparks erupted as the undercarriage hit the pavement. The Jag fishtailed, leaning so far to one side that Castalano thought the hurling steel projectile would flip over. Instead, the vehicle careened into the raised shoulder of the road, to slam to a halt in a cloud of dust and a shower of sparks and rocks.
Feet instantly pounded the ground. Castalano followed the State Troopers as they burst from cover and ran toward the car. The first helmeted trooper who reached the Jag extended his arms, aiming a Taser with both hands.
The passenger side door swung wide. A chunk of chrome clanged to the ground.
“Do
Castalano was still fifteen feet away when he saw a figure leaping out of the shattered automobile like a wolf vaulting toward its prey. The Trooper fired the Taser. It struck the man squarely in the chest, but the momentum of the driver’s attack carried both men to the ground. That’s when Castalano saw the driver’s teeth buried in the State Trooper’s neck, blood rapidly pooling on the weathered roadway.
Detective Castalano drew his service revolver, his vow to capture the man alive forgotten in the savagery of the attack. A wall of State Troopers closed around the thrashing men on the ground, more Tasers flashed. Castalano saw pops and sparks, heard a sharp cry of anguish. The stench of ozone stung his nostrils, mingling with a raw smell of sweat, the metallic stench of blood. Sharp copper tips pierced flesh, electricity crackled and the suspect jerked and howled, yet continued to fight.
Castalano pushed through the wall of muscle and black leather. His foot came down on the pavement and he slipped in a pool of blood — the Trooper’s carotid artery had been ripped open. Twitching, eyes wide in astonishment, the man poured his life on the ground while the maniac tore at him. Finally a booted foot crashed down on the back of the attacker’s head. The man grunted, went limp. Captain Lang followed with a second kick that sent the blood-soaked fugitive rolling off the Trooper and across the concrete. The other Troopers descended on the struggling man like vultures, punching and kicking.
“No!” Castalano yelled, “take him alive.”
More angry cries. Someone jerked the suspect to his feet. Though blood poured from his nose and his head lolled to one side, the man was still conscious. For the first time, Castalano got a good look at the suspect. He was five-nine or ten, maybe twenty-five, Middle Eastern. His clothes, his face were caked with gore. Fresh rivulets of blood rolled down his chin, his neck. Some of it was his. Most belonged to the State Trooper. There was old blood, too. Caked and brown. Hugh Vetri?
The man’s eyes remained unfocused. Then he caught Castalano watching him. Helpless, his arms cuffed behind him, a dozen hands restraining his hands and legs, the man spat a mouthful of hot blood in Castalano’s face.
“Hasan bin Sabah! The old man on the mountain! He sees all and when he moves his hand, no infidel will be safe.”
The man spoke through battered lips and broken teeth, his eyes wild. Yet the words were spoken clearly, precisely, in an Oxford-educated accent.
What followed his pronouncement was an incoherent scream. The man’s eyes glazed once again and he struggled anew. His cries were in another language now. Castalano figured it was some form of Arabic because the words
“Get him into the chopper,” said Castalano in disgust. “I’m flying this bastard back to headquarters for interrogation.”
As the suspect was hauled away to the clearing to await the helicopter, Detective Castalano stumbled suddenly, leaned against the hood of the smashed Jaguar. Gagging, he yanked a handkerchief out of his pants and wiped the gore off his face.
He peered inside the Jaguar. The tan leather seats were brown with dried blood, but he could see no knife or any kind of murder weapon. He did notice several empty glass vials on the floor of the car. They looked like crack vials. Then Castalano saw a vial that was still full. It contained a blue crystalline substance, definitely not crack cocaine or crystal meth— he’d seen enough of both to know the difference. The crime scene unit from L.A. had not yet arrived and Castalano decided not to wait. He snapped on a pair of latex gloves, reached into the vehicle and fumbled for the vial, which he quickly pocketed.
When he was finished, Castalano looked up to find Captain Lang looming over him.
“Good job,” the detective said hoarsely. “How’s your man doing?”
A shadow fell across Lang’s face. He shook his head.
Jack Bauer entered the conference room, clad in char-coal-gray slacks with a knife-sharp crease, a newly pressed cobalt-blue shirt. Ryan Chappelle, presiding over the hastily assembled meeting, looked up from his chair at the head of the table.
“Good of you to join us, Jack.”
Jamey Farrell sat tapping a pencil. Next to her Milo Pressman shuffled the pages of a print out. Nina Myers was there, too. She offered Jack a warning look.
“Sorry about the mix-up Ryan. I should have returned to headquarters after the raid—”
“That would have been nice,” Chappelle interrupted. “Then I wouldn’t have heard the bad news from the television report.”
“We had bad intelligence, that’s all—”
“Let’s drop this subject, Special Agent Bauer. Jamey Farrell and Milo Pressman brought me up to speed on that other matter.”
Jack took a seat opposite Nina. “The other matter?” he said.
“The computer you sent us for analysis this morning,” said Jamey. “Your instincts were correct. What we found connects up with another investigation—”
Chappelle stared at Jamey. “Are you saying Jack knew what was on this computer?”
“He reads the daily reports,” Jamey replied. “He knows Richard Lesser is a person of interest in an ongoing investigation.”
Jack knew Jamey was trying to cover for him, but he wasn’t having it. “Wait a minute,” he said. “Are you
