24 Declassified: Collateral Damage

fast-food chains.

Then a gasoline tanker that was rolling toward the police car exploded. The tank leaped into the air and split asunder, sending thousands of gallons of burning gasoline spilling down the ramp like a river of volcanic lava.

Behind the wheel, the state trooper threw up his hands to protect his face as a fireball streaked toward the windshield of his crippled vehicle. The window exploded into tiny, cutting shards. Then the billowing flames engulfed the car and filled the interior, instantly incinerating the two occupants.

14. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 8:00 P.M. AND 9:00 P.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME

8:01:29 P.M. EDT

Kurmastan, New Jersey

Jack Bauer stood in front of the burning cardboard factory, his form silhouetted by the crimson glow. Emergency lights flickered around him, flashing from a dozen fire trucks hastily summoned from the surrounding communities in response to one of the worst fires northwestern New Jersey had ever witnessed.

In the middle of the smoking chaos, Jack collared a fire chief. Water dripped from the fireman’s helmet, to mingle with the sweat on his smoke-blackened face.

“I need to get inside that factory,” Jack cried over the roar of the blaze.

“Ain’t gonna happen, buddy,” the chief replied. “That fire is going to burn itself out. There’s not enough water to smother it. We’re pumping the wells dry as it is.”

Jack looked around. Professional fire companies from Clinton, Phillipsburg, and Milford had joined volunteer units from Alpha, Milton, and Carpentersville to battle the roaring blaze. Though the old factory was by far the largest conflagration, houses and mobile homes were also engulfed in flames.

Suddenly a section of the factory roof collapsed. Rolling flames gushed out of the shattered windows and gaping doors. Cursing, Jack turned his back on the holocaust.

Any evidence the terrorists might have left inside that industrial building was incinerated now. Except for the intelligence provided by Judith Foy and the late Brice Holman, CTU was flying blind — unless they could get something out of Ali Rahman al Sallifi.

Jack ran among the emergency vehicles until he reached a CTU medical helicopter. The chief medical officer noticed Jack’s arrival and faced him.

“I’m about to dispatch Imam al Sallifi to CTU for evalu-ation, Special Agent Bauer,” the man said.

“What’s his condition now?”

“Offhand, I’d say he was suffering from a drug-induced psychosis, but I couldn’t tell you what drugs were pumped into him. He’s also violent. My team had to tranquilize him before we could drag him out of that cave. He’s dehy-drated and malnourished, too.”

“Will al Sallifi be able to talk?”

The medical officer shrugged. “In a few days, perhaps.

But I doubt they’ll get much out of him.”

“How’s the girl?”

“Danielle Taylor has been traumatized, but physically she’ll recover.”

“Take her back to CTU for debriefing,” Bauer commanded. “And tell Security to turn Agent Abernathy over to the interim director—”

The officer blinked. “I didn’t know we had an interim director.”

“He’s en route from Washington.”

The officer yanked the helmet off his head and ran a gloved hand through dark, sweat-damp hair. “Layla Abernathy is asking to speak to you.”

Jack’s cell phone chirped.

“No time. Take Abernathy back to Manhattan. Let the interim director deal with her.”

Bauer waved the officer away, then pressed the cell phone to his ear. “Bauer.”

“It’s me,” Morris replied from the security console in New York.

“What have you learned?”

“First, I’ve identified someone from Brice Holman’s surveillance photos. A fellow with bad dentures called

‘the Hawk,’ a warrior-hero from the Afghan war against the Russians. A couple of years back he became a terrorist.

Been busy since then, in Milan, London, Hamburg. The usual things. Anarchy and murder.”

“What’s he doing in America?” Jack wondered aloud.

“Haven’t a clue,” Morris said. “But he has had past contact with the compound in Kurmastan. I also located a dossier on Ibrahim Noor. Smooth operator. Good at public relations. Despite local complaints about his compound, Noor has scored some success with the local politicians.

He even endorsed the winning congresswoman for the district in the last election.”

“Where did Noor come from?” Jack asked.

“He’s made in America, Jack-o,” Morris replied. “A product of the mean streets of Newark, New Jersey —”

“Newark!” Jack cried. “Where Foy was ambushed.

Where Tony is holed up right now.”

“Nice coincidence—”

“If it is a coincidence. Tell me more.”

“Noor was born Travis Bell, in University Heights, forty-two years ago. Bell was a former gang leader and drug dealer from Newark. He was the prime suspect in several murders, and a rising star in the cocaine trade. And get this, Jack. Travis Bell had his own gang, named after the address where he grew up. Number Thirteen.”

Jack let out a breath. “The tattoos—”

“On the late Rachel Delgado’s arm, too, according to Tony Almeida,” Morris replied.

Jack stroked his forehead, lost in thought.

“Listen, Morris. Forward everything you have about Ibrahim Noor and Travis Bell to Tony in Newark. I don’t care how he does it. Just tell him to dig up all he can about the Thirteen Gang. Find out if they’re still active and who their leader is now.”

“Consider it done.”

Jack hissed. “Tell me how a street thug like Travis Bell ends up a spiritual leader?”

“Well, Jack-o, it seems Mr. Bell converted under the spiritual guidance of Ali Rahman al Sallifi, while he was serving a ten-year sentence for a drug conviction.”

“Converted to Islam, you mean?” Jack said.

“No, I don’t,” Morris replied. “They might use the jar-gon — jihad, Khilafah, and all that — but what Ali Rahman al Sallifi was preaching wasn’t Islam at all. It was more like something out of Jim Jones and the Kool-Aid drinkers in Jonestown.”

Morris paused, “The Warriors of God is a cult, Jack.

Pure and simple. Ali Rahman al Sallifi and Ibrahim Noor set themselves up as prophets, or maybe even gods.

They preached violence, not spirituality. And now their deluded followers have gone on some kind of insane rampage.”

“No,” Jack said. “Not insane. There’s a reason behind this attack. It’s not random because too many elements are involved — Mangella in Little Italy, the Albino. Someone is pulling strings here. There’s some ultimate goal in mind.

We just haven’t figured it out yet.”

He heard voices on the other end of the line, then Morris vanished for a moment. “Are you there, Morris?”

“Sorry, Jack,” O’Brian replied. “We’ve just received word of a terror attack in Pennsylvania. A State Police car