over the dead boy and scrambled up the hill.
Jack Bauer heard the shotgun blast and took off. Leading with his Glock, he ran through the trees until he reached the edge of a shallow valley. Crouching among a cluster of trees, he immediately spotted the injured teenager moving up the hill.
At the base of the hill, three women in black robes clustered around a figure sprawled on the ground. Jack heard anguished cries and wailing. Then the trio spotted the blond girl. Brandishing pitchforks and kitchen knives, the woman hiked up their robes as they climbed the hill.
The teenager glanced over her shoulder, saw the women, and picked up her pace. In another minute, she would reach his position.
Jack slipped the Glock into its holster and ducked behind the thick foliage. When the girl reached the trees, Jack reached out, snagged her, and pulled her to the ground in one smooth motion.
The girl screamed and fought him.
“I’m a friend,” Jack hissed. “I’m here to rescue you.”
Still the girl struggled. Part of her wanted to believe him — Jack could see it in her eyes — but she was beaten bloody and half mad. Too terrorized to trust anyone.
Jack heard voices, peeked through the leaves and saw the women. They were almost on him. Holding the girl down with one hand, he drew his Glock with the other.
The women reached his position a moment later. They stopped in their tracks when they spied Jack.
“Get down on the ground now!” Jack cried, reluctant to fire.
One of the women surprised him by hurling a kitchen knife. Jack deftly avoided the blade, then shot the woman in the head. As she toppled, the others reared back. Then both women fumbled for their belts. Only then did Jack notice their bulging robes, and the detonation cord dangling from their waists.
Jack aimed — but before he could fire, a volley of shots cut the women down. Layla Abernathy stepped out of hiding, a smoking Glock gripped firmly in both hands.
“I thought I told you to stay put,” said Jack, one hand pinning the teenaged girl on the ground.
“I heard the shots,” Layla replied. “I thought maybe you were in trouble.”
“Check the dead women. I think they’re wearing explosive belts. Be careful not to set one off.”
Jack looked down, into the teenager’s eyes. By now, she’d stopped struggling against him. “Are you calm? ”
The girl nodded and Jack released her. She sat up and rubbed the reddening flesh on her bare shoulder.
He examined the girl. One sleeve of her sweatshirt had been torn away; the other hung by a few threads. Dried blood caked her thin arms, covering bruises and gouged flesh. She had a black eye and a swollen nose, and chunks of her hair had been torn out by the roots.
Though she was fairly banged up, Jack concluded the physical wounds were superficial. Her psychological condition was another matter.
“You were right, Agent Bauer,” Layla said. “These women are all wearing explosive devices — bricks of C–4, connected to a detonation cord.”
She frowned. “Two of them had IDs. Both are…
Jack addressed the teenager. “Who are you? What were you doing inside the compound?”
Danielle Taylor told them her name and where she lived.
Then the harrowing story of her captivity came tumbling out of her mouth. She told them about the church group, the torture, and the beheadings. Near the end of her tale, she mentioned a Mr. Holman, the man who helped her escape.
“Holman?” Layla interrupted. “Brice Holman?”
Dani nodded.
Before Jack could silence her, Layla spoke again.
“Holman is an agent for the Counter Terrorist Unit of the CIA,” she told Dani. “I’m from CTU, too. Brice is my superior.”
Dani instantly paled, and Jack could see the look of fear and panic return to her eyes. He also sensed the girl was hiding something. He knew the only way she would open up was if he somehow earned her trust.
“Forget about that,” Jack said gently. “We’re here to help. My name is Jack Bauer. I’m—”
Then the ground trembled under their feet. As one, thousands of birds burst out of the trees and took to the sky as the rumbling roar of multiple explosions battered their ears.
Dani cried out. Layla dropped to the ground, clutching her head.
Jack whirled, seeing a dozen blasts and plumes of black smoke rising from the center of Kurmastan. On the opposite end of town, flames lit up the sky above the old paper factory.
More explosions followed. Several clapboard homes blew apart, sending debris leaping into the afternoon sky.
Then a mobile home erupted, bursting asunder like a shoe box stuffed with firecrackers.
Trailers went up in smoke and flames, the eruptions continuing for almost thirty seconds before the cacophony finally subsided. As Layla hugged the earth, smoke billowed over their position. It stank of cordite, scorched metal, and burned flesh.
“
Jack crouched over Agent Abernathy. “Stay here,” he told her. “Call Morris and tell him to send backup. We’ll need tactical teams and a medical unit.” Jack pointed to the teenager. “Take care of the girl, too—”
“What are you going to do?” Layla demanded.
“I’m going down there to find out what the hell is happening.”
12. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 6:00 P.M. AND 7:00 P.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME
Morris O’Brian watched flickering, real-time satellite images of the shattered town. Thick smoke crossed his monitor screen like a creeping black smudge. Flames licked the walls and roof of the rambling factory.
He was tempted to alert the local firefighting authorities — though in that isolated region of rural New Jersey, Morris wasn’t sure what resources were actually available.
It wasn’t his call, anyway, so Morris didn’t make it.
Jack Bauer had called for backup and Morris obeyed—
dispatching two tactical assault teams and a medical unit.
Estimated time of arrival: twenty-eight minutes and fifty-five seconds, according to his threat clock.
“The last chopper’s just lifted off from the heliport,”
Peter Randall informed him. “No problem with clearance this time.”
Morris nodded — then his cell phone beeped.
But it wasn’t a call. His ISP had just alerted him to an urgent e-mail waiting in his cache. Morris looked around for the briefcase computer he had brought with him that morning, found it behind the door where he’d left it when he started work on the troubled security system.
He dumped the briefcase on his desk and opened the lid. He wiped his thumb over the fingerprint sensor, and got clearance to proceed. His ISP protocols and passwords were programmed into the computer, and Morris had the
