his security head, began a whispered conversation. Christina Hong, who had studied this man for so many weeks, burned to hear his words, strained to read his lips.
“Any word?” Nikolai Manos asked, one eye still focused on the persistent reporter from Seattle.
The bodyguard nodded. “Major Salah reports that CTU is flailing. They know nothing. In any case, the hit team has infiltrated the grounds. The men will strike momentarily.”
“Make sure no one is left alive. And kill the CTU agent. I don’t care what Major Salah believes. CTU is getting too close, too quickly.”
Forty minutes into the interrogation, Jack Bauer had obtained no useful information. At the start of the session, he’d placed Ibn al Farad in an upright chair in the middle of the study, the youth’s back to the glass wall, the sun streaming through curtains that were shrouded in white. As Jack began his gentle questioning, Omar al Farad and his sister Nareesa hovered in the background; Omar fretting, Nareesa in tears.
Soon it was apparent Jack’s questions would not be answered. Part of the problem was that his methods of extraction were limited. There was no time for truth serums to be administered, for sleep deprivation techniques or long periods standing in a position of maximum discomfort. And with Ibn al Farad’s father and aunt looking on, more radical physical intimidation was out of the question, though Jack doubted it would work in any case. The youth he interrogated was still in the insidious throes of the amphetamine Karma, and rational replies to hard questions were rare.
Jack didn’t know how long the effects of the drug would last, or even how much Ibn had absorbed before he’d been captured. Thus far, Ibn had alternated between chanting Muslim prayers and spewing raw, hateful venom at his father. His rational speech came between fits of sobbing, hallucinations, or episodes of trance-like inattention.
Jack began to wonder if shock therapy of some kind would work — either a physical shock, like an electric current or even a dousing in a tub of ice, or perhaps a psychological blow of some kind, one powerful enough to snap the youth back to some semblance of reality. Unfortunately, Jack didn’t know Ibn well enough to know his fears or weaknesses, and his options were running out.
As Ibn lapsed into one of his silent trances, a knock came at the door — an odd knock, Jack noted. Three taps, followed by two, then four more. The Deputy Minister did not react to the strange knock, though he seemed troubled by the interruption. His son Ibn, however, lifted his head and grinned when he heard the staccato knocking, a reaction that concerned Jack.
“What is it?” Omar al Farad demanded, crossing the study to the locked door. “I asked not to be disturbed.”
“It is Major Salah, Deputy Minister,” called Salah through the door. “You have an urgent phone call.”
“Hasan comes,” Ibn muttered, his dazed expression transforming into naked glee.
Jack heard the young man’s words and cried out, “Don’t open the door!”
But Omar al Farad had released the lock already. The door burst open, knocking the small man backward, into the wall.
Nareesa al-Bustani jumped to her feet. “What’s the meaning of—”
Salah’s M-16 shot the elegant woman through the mouth, spraying blood and brains on walls and furniture. Behind the Saudi officer, Jack saw the corpses of two of his guards — obviously killed with a silenced weapon.
Jack drew his Tactical, but had no time to bring the handgun into play before Major Salah leveled the muzzle of his M-16 at Jack’s heart. But just as the man squeezed the trigger, Omar al Farad threw himself on the Saudi officer’s back. The M-16 discharged a spray of bullets, blasting the glass wall behind Jack to shards, showering him with razor-sharp splinters that sliced his flesh in a half-dozen places. While the Deputy Minister struggled with the Major, Jack cut Ibn al Farad loose, intending to drag the young man out of the house. But Ibn was bleeding profusely— he’d been shot by one or more of the M-16’s stray bullets.
With a banshee cry, Major Salah flipped the helpless Saudi minister over his shoulder. Omar landed flat on his back at his son’s feet. Ibn opened his eyes in time to see Major Salah furiously reduce his father’s face to a splattered goo in a long burst of automatic fire. When Omar was dead, the officer again leveled his weapon at Jack. But when he squeezed the trigger, it clicked on an empty chamber. He’d fired on full automatic mode at the fallen Deputy Minister, emptying his magazine.
Jack raised his own weapon and fired twice — a double-tap that sent the Saudi officer’s brains out the back of his head. From another part of the compound, Jack heard smoke grenades pop, more gunfire, and he knew Chet Blackburn and the CTU Tactical Unit had arrived like the cavalry.
Kicking the M-16 out of Salah’s death grip, Jack bent over Ibn to check his condition. The young man’s lips were white, face pinched with dazed agony. One.22-caliber shot had torn away a chunk of his shoulder muscle, another had entered his left lung and exited through his back. Jack knew the boy didn’t have much time. Through the pain and shock, Ibn stared at the puddle that had been his father’s face.
“Hasan did this to you,” hissed Jack, speaking into the dying man’s ear. “Hasan murdered your family. Betrayed you. Who is he? How did you meet Hasan? Tell me.”
With pale, trembling lips, Ibn al Farad muttered a name. A moment later, Chet Blackburn burst into the room at the head of his assault team, weapon at the ready. He found a bleeding Jack Bauer in a room full of shattered glass and casualties.
Jack looked up. “I have to get back to CTU right away.”
“Carlos says you’re lookin’ for me.”
Milo glanced up from his warm beer. A woman leaned over him, her back to the busy bar, her long, wine- colored fingernails drumming the chipped table. She smiled but the expression on her full, generous mouth, painted the same dark red, did not extend to her eyes. Her complexion was the color of lightly creamed coffee; her long, blue-black hair danced around her naked shoulders. Her belly-baring halter top, pierced navel, and micro-mini faux- satin skirt left little to the imagination.
“Are you Brandy?” Milo asked timidly.
The woman moved her long fingernails from the table to the back of his neck. She lightly stroked his skin. “You must have been talkin’ to your gringo friends to hear about me. Hot news travels fast, eh, cowboy?”
“Actually Cole Keegan sent me.”
The woman’s attitude immediately changed. She looked around cautiously, then slid into the chair across the table from him.
“Where is that son of a bitch?!” the woman whispered.
“I’m here to make good on his promise to get you out of here, across the border,” Milo replied. “But first I need your help.”
Brandy shot Milo a sidelong glance. “It’s about the American dude the Chechens are torturing in the lab, isn’t it?”
Milo’s eyes went wide. “They’re torturing him?”
“They emptied out the lab about an hour ago. I knew they brought someone in earlier. Then, when I saw Ordog, I knew…”
“I need to get him out.”
“You need to get
“I need to get you
Brandy glowered at Milo as if sizing him up. He steadily met her challenging gaze. For a long moment, neither relented. Finally, the girl slapped the table with the palm of her hand.
“Go to the roof of the brick building behind the bar, Cole knows how to get up there. You find a barred window in the roof near Albino Street. Be ready to come through that window at three o’clock, sharp.”
“What are you going to do?” Milo asked.
“Make a lot of noise, empty this place out.”
“How?”
Brandy rose, touched Milo’s arm. This time her smile was genuine. “I’m gonna burn this fucking shit hole to
