me across the border, and all the way back to CTU headquarters.”
The man rose, tucked the notebook into his frayed denim jacket and sauntered to the door. “I’ll deliver your report. Take care of yourself.”
Brandy smiled. “Always.”
When the man was gone, Brandy crossed the rough wooden floor to the dresser. She popped the cork on a fifth of Soberano, poured some of the liqueur into a lipstick smeared glass, and swallowed it in a single gulp. The brandy was as warm as the day and burned her throat.
She glanced at the watch on her wrist. Almost time.
The woman crossed the room, grabbed the bottle of warm brandy. Then she tore the sheets off the bed, piled them up on the mattress. On top of the pile she tore up a box of tissues. Then she sprinkled brandy over the whole mess. In the hot room, the fumes became overpowering — all the better to guarantee a fire.
Finally, Brandy reached under the pillow where she’d stashed her last john’s disposable plastic lighter. She grinned before she struck the lighter, realizing that the cowboy with the wedding ring he’d tried to hide and the breath that stank like too many beers was indeed her last john — forever.
She struck the lighter and put the flame against the tissue. The mass ignited immediately, the flames leaping up to the ceiling much faster than she’d anticipated. Brandy slipped into her sandals and crossed the room. When she ran into the hallway, she left the door behind her wide open. Amazingly fast, smoke was filling the second floor of the brothel. Brandy heard alarmed voices from another room. Time to start screaming. So she took a deep breath and opened her mouth.
11. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 3 P.M. AND 4 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME
Cole decided they would climb onto the roof of the old brick building using a vertical fire escape “hidden” in an alley off Albino Street, while Richard Lesser waited in Milo’s car a few blocks away. Initially Milo objected to the plan, distrusting Lesser to stick around long enough for them to rescue Tony. Cole eventually pulled Milo aside and smoothed things over.
“Lesser’s scared,” Keegan said while the computer genius was out of earshot. “I’ve been with him for a year and he’s never been this antsy. He needs protection from this Hasan guy and he knows I ain’t enough. As long as CTU can defend him from
Cole eventually convinced Milo to trust Lesser, but the plan itself was another matter. Milo looked around nervously as Cole led him into the alley. He felt curious eyes following them down the narrow byway, making Milo very uncomfortable. As it was, the gringo biker stuck out like a neon beer logo in a convent — dirty blond beard and ponytail, leather vest, tattoos, he was at least a head taller than everyone else around him. Even worse, Cole had donned a dun-colored duster to hide the sawed off shotgun strapped with duct tape across his broad back — a fairly obvious ploy to conceal a weapon, especially in near onehundred-degree weather. Trying to break into the headquarters of a Mexican gang and their Chechen cohorts in broad daylight seemed the height of insanity to Milo.
Yet brazenly, without a backward glance, Keegan walked up to the wrought iron ladder and began to climb. From Albino Street, a crowd of children on their way home from school gathered to point and watch them.
“Jeez, Cole. It’s broad daylight. Everyone can see us.”
Already four rungs up the ladder, Keegan peered over his big shoulder to reply. “I know, dumb ass. That’s why we better look like we belong here, capeesh? Now hurry up and climb.”
Milo took hold of the rusty ladder and placed his foot on the first rung. Groaning under their combined weight, the steel ladder rattled with every step they took.
“I hope this thing holds,” carped Milo.
“Don’t worry, we just have to get to the top. We ain’t coming back this way.”
Cole reached the roof, three stories above the street. He pulled himself over the low wall, turned and offered Milo a lift to the top. The dusty expanse of roof was flat and covered with black tar paper, peeling in places. There was a single chimney and Milo could see the recessed skylight Brandy told him to find. Beyond the edge of the building he spied the rickety, sloped roof of the wood-framed brothel that abutted the brick structure on Albino Street.
Near the chimney a chemical stench was overpowering — a reek like nail polish remover with an ammonia taint.
“God,” gagged Milo, covering his mouth.
“Vapors from the meth lab underneath us,” said Cole. “Somebody’s been cooking pills.”
“For what they’re doing to the environment alone, these guys should go to jail.”
“We’re on a rescue mission, not a campaign to stamp out evil.” Cole removed his duster, tore free the shotgun taped to his back. He drew a pair of Colts from his belt, handed one to Milo.
“Can you shoot?”
“I’ve had training, but I haven’t practiced in a long time.”
“This ain’t no fancy James Bond gun. It kicks like a sonovabitch,” Cole warned.
Milo hefted the steel-gray weapon, tucked it into his belt between the two bottles of water he’d brought. Milo glanced at his watch. “Let’s go.” He took a step toward the barred window; Cole dragged him back by the scruff of his neck.
“Look where you’re walking — away from the sun. You’re casting a shadow that’s gonna fall right across that grill.”
Milo bristled. “So?”
“Ever been in a dark room when someone walked past the only source of light?”
Milo’s shoulders sagged. There was so much he didn’t know about this field agent stuff. “Okay. You do it.”
Milo waited near the ladder while Cole Keegan circled the barred window, then got down on his belly and crawled to the edge of the window to peer inside. He backed away a moment later, returned to Milo’s side. “All I see is some guy tied to a box spring and a generator. Hispanic, longish black hair, goatee—”
“It must be Tony. He grew the goatee and hair for field work—”
“He’s alive, but he isn’t in great shape and he ain’t alone down there. I heard voices.”
Milo grabbed the Cole’s arm. “Look!”
From somewhere inside the brothel, wisps of smoke began to rise. A few lazy white puffs, followed by billows of darker smoke. They heard voices — first a woman’s hysterical screams, then many excited voices calling out in anxious fear. Smoke rolled across the tarred expanse, choking Milo, burning his eyes.
Cole didn’t hesitate. He dragged Milo to the window, kicked the iron bars once, twice. The grill didn’t budge. “You gonna help?” Cole asked.
Covering his mouth, Milo stepped forward and slammed his booted foot down on the grill with all his might. To his stunned surprise, the steel grate gave way under his weight and Milo plunged helplessly through the hole, into the dark, smoky interior of the burning building.
The impromptu meeting had broken up already, but Jack Bauer found Nina Myers and Ryan Chappelle in the conference room, still debating the best course of action. The Threat Clock had already been activated, and Jamey Farrell had been ordered to reestablish contact with Milo Pressman in Mexico by Ryan himself, who had taken over the operation.
“Sorry for the delay,” said Jack. “I waited for the CTU Autopsy Team to arrive. They’re bringing the bodies here.”
“Sit down, Jack. You look like hell,” said Ryan. He keyed the intercom built into the table. “We need a doctor in the conference room.”
