Jack Bauer had just returned with the laptop under his arm. He went directly to Brice Holman’s office, where Morris was still trying to crack the security on the Director’s computer.
“Almost there, Jack-o,” he promised.
Jack’s cell warbled. He dropped the laptop on the desk, reached for the phone in his pocket.
“Bauer here.”
“It’s Tony. We’ve got an intruder on the roof.”
Jack’s gut turned to ice. “You’re sure?”
“He’s dressed like a utility worker,” Tony replied. “But he didn’t get up there by accident. I think he climbed up the maintenance hatch, deactivating the security systems as he went along. I’m down here establishing new links; he’s up there cutting them.”
“Do you know his precise location right now?”
“He’s at the base of the microwave tower on the southwest corner of the roof. I can see him because I still have visuals.”
“The intruder didn’t disable the cameras?”
“He couldn’t, Jack,” Tony explained. “They’re digital Wi-Fi and operate independently, with their own power source. The cameras have no wires to cut, no power source to disconnect. He probably doesn’t have a clue he’s being watched.”
“Listen Tony,” Jack said. “Don’t mention the intruder to anyone, and don’t set off any alarms. I don’t want to spook this guy. I want him alive, for interrogation.”
“Roger, Jack.”
“Keep this line open, we’ll talk when I get to the roof.”
“Okay.”
Jack closed the phone.
“What intruder?” Morris asked.
“Never mind,” said Jack. “Give me your weapon.”
Morris slipped the Glock out of its holster. “Take it. I hate the damned things. I’m only packing heat because it’s regulation in the field.” Morris looked around the office.
“If you want to call this the
“Stay here and keep doing what you’re doing,” Jack said, checking the weapon. “And when you’re done with that computer, get started on the laptop.”
Jack slipped out of Director Holman’s office, Glock in hand.
“Oh, that’s fine,” Morris grumbled. “Guns flashing, intruders all over the place, and no one tells
Jack moved quietly and quickly along the balcony of the Operations Center, careful to keep the Glock low. He found the door to the staircase, and used the universal code key Layla Abernathy had given him to enter the restricted area.
The stairwell was well lit, and stank of fresh paint and industrial-strength cleaning fluid. Jack took the steps two at a time, his heels echoing hollowly in the cavernous space. He led with the Glock, clutched in both hands.
Jack paused at each landing, wary of ambush. So far, however, the stairwell remained deserted.
Finally, he reached the door to the roof. Jack flattened himself against the wall and slowly turned the knob, pushing the door open a few inches. Warm air and bright sunlight flooded through the crack, filling the stairwell. From below, Jack could hear street sounds. With one hand, he drew his cell phone out of his pocket.
“Tony,” he whispered.
“I’m here.”
“Where is the intruder now?”
“He’s still at the microwave tower, but he’s not crouching anymore. I think he’s packing up to leave.”
“Roger,” Jack whispered. “Stand by.”
He put Tony on hold and used his CTU phone’s GPS
as a compass, determining that the southwest corner of the roof was through the door and to the right. Then Jack tucked the cell into his pocket and slipped through the door, stepping cautiously onto the roof. The rubber insula-tion felt spongy under his feet, but Jack was grateful the material muffled the sound of his footsteps.
He moved to the right, until he saw the steel microwave tower, its multiple dishes framed by the gleaming World Trade Center towers in the distance. He crept to a massive air-conditioning system, and ducked behind an aluminum vent.
From his position, Jack had a good view of the microwave tower, right down to its concrete base. But there was no sign of the intruder.
“Damn,” Jack grunted.
He flattened himself against the air conditioner, snatched up his phone again. “Talk to me, Tony—”
“He’s moving, Jack. He’s headed to an access hatch on the northwest corner.”
Fixated on his target, Jack closed the phone, raised his head over the edge of the air-conditioning unit. Looking to the northwest, he spotted a slight African-American man with black-framed glasses, wearing a blue uniform, walking toward an outhouse-sized structure projecting from the flat roof. The man carried two metal toolboxes in his hand, a bundle of wire over his narrow shoulders.
Jack took off at a run, circling power units and a sky-light to reach a point where he could intercept the intruder.
Then, lifting his Glock, Jack stepped into view.
“Halt,” he cried. “You are in a restricted area. Drop the boxes and get down on the ground
The man’s eyes were wide behind his thick glasses. He immediately dropped the boxes — then he took off, sprint-ing to the fire escape twenty yards away.
“Stop or I
The man sped up. Jack dropped to one knee and aimed.
At the last second he lowered his Glock, firing at the man’s moving legs.
But just as Jack pulled the trigger, the man stumbled.
Instead of hitting his knee, the 9mm bullet caught him squarely in the back of the head. The man went limp, his shattered lenses tumbled over the edge of the building as his corpse hit the roof with a muffled thump, his head inches from the ledge of the fire escape.
Bauer cursed.
Glock pointed at his victim, he cautiously approached.
Jack didn’t need to check the man’s pulse to know he was dead. The back of his head was blown out, blood and brain matter splattered on the roof. Jack holstered his weapon, bent down, went through the man’s pockets, but found nothing — not even a wallet.
Still crouched, he turned the dead man onto his back.
On the man’s forearm, Jack noticed a tattoo of a stylized number 13. He searched the front pockets of the man’s uniform, frowned when he came up empty again.
Then he remembered the steel boxes. Jack rose and turned, his back to the fire escape. He took one step, and a bright flash exploded in his head. He never saw the blow coming. His legs buckled and he crashed to his knees.
Despite the sharp stab of agony that rattled his skull, Jack fought to stay conscious, until a vicious kick to the side of his head sent him sprawling.
A blond man in the Con Edison uniform stepped off the fire escape, rubbing his fist. He glanced at his dead partner, then drew his weapon. The silencer was still attached to the muzzle, and he placed it against Jack’s bloodied temple.
Moaning, Jack coughed. “If you kill me, you’ll never get off this roof alive.”
The blond man chuckled, pushed the silencer until it gouged Jack’s flesh.
“Shut up and die,” he said.
