Tony spun the dazed woman around and encircled her neck with one arm, clapped his other hand over her mouth to muffle any cries. Her platform shoes kicking wildly, Rachel was dragged into the tiny bathroom.
Once inside, Tony calmly applied pressure until he snapped Rachel Delgado’s neck. Panting, he let her limp body slide to the tile floor. Then he stepped over the corpse and hurried back to the bed.
Judith Foy’s gown was disheveled, and Tony threw a sheet over her. Then he helped a dazed Agent Foy untangle the plastic cord from around her neck. The tender flesh was bruised and red and she was gasping, her face flushed.
“Why did she try to kill you?” Tony whispered.
For a moment, Judith Foy ignored the question. Tony thought it was because she didn’t have an answer. Finally, she looked up from the bed, and her eyes met his.
“CTU’s been compromised,” she rasped. “I warned you.
And I’ll bet she’s not the only traitor.”
“We’ve got to get out of here.”
“I don’t have any clothes,” Foy protested.
Tony checked Rachel’s corpse, realized the dead woman was two sizes smaller than the Deputy Director. Then he found a blue hospital robe hanging behind the bathroom door. He ripped it off its hangar and tore away the sanitary plastic wrapping.
As he left the bathroom, Tony stopped dead in his tracks. During the struggle, the buttons on Rachel Delgado’s three-quarter-length sleeves had popped. On the forearm he’d broken, Tony spied a familiar tattoo — a stylized number 13.
“Son of a bitch.”
“What?” Foy croaked, swinging her naked legs over the side of the bed.
“Never mind.” Tony tossed her the robe, then he snatched Rachel Delgado’s purse from the chair and tossed it to the woman, too. While she dressed, he went to the door and peered through the window. The way seemed clear. He faced the woman, saw the fear that haunted her eyes.
“Don’t worry. I’ll get you to a safe place,” Tony vowed.
Brice Holman awoke with a start, screams battering his ears. He felt hands gripping him, and he opened his eyes.
He was sitting upright in a metal folding chair, ropes loosely circling his arms and torso to hold him in place.
He was in a large room with unfinished walls and a low ceiling.
He moaned and shifted in the chair. Someone struck him in the face with a balled fist. Brice saw stars — then, when his vision cleared, scores of wild, mocking eyes stared at him from behind black burkas.
Fists punched and prodded him. A woman gouged the flesh of his cheek with long fingernails. Holman ignored the pain as he tried to stare through the crowd, looking for Reverend Ahern and the rest of the passengers from the bus.
Then an old man stepped onto the platform, a pitchfork in his wizened hands. He shook the implement in the air, and Holman nearly gagged when he saw Emily Reed’s ruined head impaled on its prongs.
Holman strained at the ropes. They were meant to con-strain him, but the ropes had been applied carelessly, and he easily freed his left hand. He slipped it into his pants pocket, felt around, then smiled grimly.
While the women danced around him, and the old men brought in another trophy — the grisly remains of Mr. Simonson’s head — Brice opened the phone inside his pocket and pressed the speed dial button, sending out a call to CTU Headquarters in Manhattan.
Holman heard a scream. The crowd parted long enough for him to see Mrs. Hocklinger, bound and helpless. An old man had cut the woman’s throat with a shard of broken glass. The woman twitched in her chair, her blood spilling onto the bare concrete floor. The flow soon ceased, and her eyes rolled back. When Mrs. Hocklinger was dead, a twelve-year-old boy attacked her throat with a hacksaw.
An amplified voice boomed, filling the room. Holman looked up to see a large man stride onto the platform, dressed in robes and a prayer shawl. Holman noticed prison tattoos on the man’s arms and neck.
The mob began to chant. “Noor… Noor… Noor…”
“The day is now at hand,” the man cried, silencing them with a gesture. “Your husbands, sons, uncles, and brothers have departed this compound and will never return. Now I will tell you what bold and daring things they are going do to bring about
Awestruck cries greeted his words. The women tore at their clothing, their hair. The old men and young boys howled like hungry animals. The room stank of sweat and blood.
Amid the chaos, another figure mounted the platform.
A striking contrast to the muscular African American, the newcomer was tall, lanky, and very pale. The Albino’s colorless eyes watched the mob impassively while the man named Noor continued his speech.
“On this day, the prophecy has been fulfilled. Twelve trucks — twelve chariots of death — have left this compound, to sow death and destruction against the infidel!”
Brice clenched his teeth, his mind roiling.
“This is Allah’s punishment on the unbeliever. We are the sword of God, the vessel of his wrath,” the male voice declared, before the rest of his message was drowned out by a cheering mob.
“What do you make of it?” Peter Randall asked.
Morris O’Brian shook his head. “You
Randall nodded. “Every word, every sound, since the call came in.”
“Good,” said Morris. “We’re going to have to put it through filters and screen out the background noise in order to decipher the main speaker’s words. Didn’t he say something about chariots of death and seeds of destruction?”
“I think so,” Randall replied.
“In my experience, that sort of talk is never good.”
Morris rubbed his hand through his short, wiry hair. “And Holman hasn’t spoken during the entire call?”
“No. Director Holman never said a word. But I know he wants us to find him now.”
Morris blinked. “How’s that, mate?”
“He’s reactivated the GPS chip. We can easily pinpoint his location. Brice Holman is in Kurmastan…”
10. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 4:00 P.M. AND 5:00 P.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME
Jack Bauer closed his cell phone and peered through the helicopter’s window. Green hills dotted with farmhouses sped by. Plowed fields, barns, and silos rolled under the aircraft’s belly.
Layla was studying him from across the aisle. She’d changed out of her business suit, into the tactical equipment she’d taken from the armory — blue overalls, a weapons belt with an assault knife, and a 9mm strapped to her waist. Her dark hair was pulled into a bun, and in oversized assault gear, she appeared small and frail.
“Who called just now?” she asked.
“Morris O’Brian,” Jack replied, his voice grim. “They located Brice Holman. He’s in Kurmastan.”
