as the giggling young women stepped around him. One flashed Guiterrez a smile, but the agent didn’t notice. His eyes were locked on the glass door, at its reflection of the crowded street and the sidewalk directly behind him.
In the instant before the door closed, Guiterrez spied a familiar face — Francesco Rojas, the youngest member of the crime family he’d betrayed. Rojas was the cartel’s enforcer and murderer, and he never missed his target. The assassin was standing behind him, not twenty feet away, his eyes black pools focused on Guiterrez’s back.
Instinctively, the agent’s free hand reached for the weapon he no longer possessed — he’d been forced to ditch the handgun he carried at the border crossing at Costa Rica or risk arrest. Now his futile gesture, made out of fear, surprise and exhaustion, had been spotted by Rojas. The cartel enforcer reached into his jacket and drew an Uzi. In one smooth motion, Rojas dropped to one knee and opened fire.
As a stream of bullets shattered the restaurant’s door and windows, showering the sidewalk with sparkling shards, Guiterrez leaped between two parked cars. The two women were caught directly in the Uzi’s deadly spray. Grotesquely, they seemed to dance under the impact of the high velocity shells, their colorful skirts billowing as they tumbled to the pavement. A waiter dropped limply through the restaurant’s window, the top of his head a shattered, blood-filled cavity.
Feeling no bullet impact, no jolt of pain — and not quite comprehending his good fortune — Guiterrez stumbled into the middle of the busy street, crossing against the light. But as he attempted to weave between passing cars, Guiterrez’s legs suddenly felt weighted, a pounding throbbed in his ears, and he realized he
“The target is down. Repeat. The target is down. I’m moving out.”
CTU Field Agent Tony Almeida reached behind his back, grabbed the handle of the Glock tucked into the belt holster of his black denims. A moment ago, he’d spied Gordon Guiterrez strolling along the sidewalk, but Tony barely had time to report the sighting before the firefight erupted. Two women had been torn apart by the automatic weapon’s fire. Guiterrez had lunged out of the way, but he’d been struck too. Now he was stumbling into the middle of the street, trailing blood.
Tony tried to move quickly through the panicked crowd, pointing his weapon to the ground in case of accidental discharge. The vigil for Guiterrez had been a long one. According to Jack Bauer’s uncharacteristically sketchy briefing, this was to be a simple extraction, complicated by the fact that Guiterrez was being hunted by Colombian assassins.
Bauer maintained that the cartel’s reach probably didn’t extend far enough to cover operations in Nicaragua. The moment the gunman stepped out of the crowd and fired, Tony knew Jack’s assessment had been wrong.
Tony wasn’t completely surprised by the ambush. The CIA’s south of the border security was generally sloppy, and already there’d been numerous security breaches in Central and South American in recent days. What did surprise him were the words of his boss, now coming through the headset.
“Is Guiterrez carrying a backpack or a briefcase?” Jack Bauer demanded.
Almeida spied Guiterrez sloppily dodging moving cars and vans. Jack was right. The man was clutching something. Tony was also aware of the assassin on the sidewalk, still trying to get a clear shot at the injured agent.
Almeida spoke into the pinpoint microphone. “Jack, why do you need to know—?”
“Is Guiterrez carrying something? A bag, a parcel?
“He’s got an attache case—”
“Retrieve that case at any cost. Even if it means aban
doning Guiterrez. Do you understand me, Tony?”
“Roger, Jack… I got it.”
Jack Bauer cursed as he drew his Glock. “
He pushed through the mass of people. Pedestrians who heard him — or saw the weapon — instantly obeyed his shouted command and got out of the way. Those who didn’t were dodged or elbowed aside.
Jack heard screams, outraged shouts and startled
cries.
People dashed into shops, cowered in doorways. Jack kept going. He regretted causing a panic, but at least the civilians were scattering.
Like Tony, Jack had been waiting for hours, lingering near a food cart on Bolivar Street — on the wrong side of the construction site, as it turned out. Feet pounding the pavement, he wondered where he’d screwed up.
When he and Tony had first arrived in Nicaragua, they’d hooked up with Case Officers Ben Burwell and James Cantrel at Fuqua Construction — their CIA shell company cover. But in Jack’s quick estimation, Burwell and Cantrel had been recycling the same reports for some time. The eyes and ears of United States intelligence in Nicaragua were nothing more than career floaters, coasting toward retirement, and their entire Nicaraguan operation had been lax probably since the Sandinistas were voted out of power in 1990.
After observing the two men conduct business, Jack concluded that the “organization” in Managua was riddled with cartel informants, and he and Tony were better off working on their own.
The fact that Rojas assassins were lying in wait for Gordon Guiterrez proved Jack correct on the first count — not that this validation brought him any satisfaction. But at least Jack now understood the reason why he’d been ordered not to tell Tony about the device unless it became necessary.
Christopher Henderson didn’t trust Tony Almeida any more than Jack trusted agents Burwell and Cantrel.
For a few seconds, all Tony could see were people running, all he could hear were fearful shouts and high- pitched screams. As he moved toward Guiterrez, he tried in vain to keep his eyes on the Uzi-wielding assassin, but his path was constantly blocked by panicked civilians.
Without slowing, Tony swerved off the sidewalk and into the street. A horn blared. He spun to see a red Toyota. The driver wasn’t stopping — but Tony wasn’t moving. Instead of dashing out of the car’s path, he threw himself onto the hood. The thin aluminum crumpled under his weight. The vehicle’s momentum slammed Tony’s spine against the windshield, cracking the safety glass.
Glock extended — finger off the trigger — Tony rode the hood as the vehicle continued to veer down Bolivar. When the stunned driver finally slammed on his brakes, momentum threw Tony forward. He landed on his feet, stumbled, then quickly regained his balance.
The assassin was now standing directly in front of Tony. The man still held the Uzi in one hand, but his attention was focused on the retreating Guiterrez.
Unnoticed, Tony took two steps forward, halting behind the assassin’s back. As he raised his Glock, the man whirled. His dark eyes went wide, his mouth opened in surprise. Tony could smell the gunman’s breath as he placed the Glock’s muzzle against his temple.
The assassin lifted his Uzi.
Tony pulled the trigger.
Blood and brains splattered the restaurant wall, the spent shell shattering harmlessly against the bricks. Francesco Rojas jerked once, then dropped to the pavement.
Amid the chaos, Gordon Guiterrez managed to reach the opposite side of the street. Still leaking blood, he’d stumbled through traffic, then dropped to his knees at the curb.
He heard gunfire again, a single discharge from…
He dragged across the sidewalk, using his arms, because his lower body had become oddly numb. Chest heaving, daggers of pain traveling up his torso, he braced his spine against the construction site’s rough wooden wall and sat up.
With a rush of triumph, he realized his right hand was still gripping the handle of the attache case. His misty
