“I’ll get back to you on that,” Jack said, and the line went dead.
18. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 12:00 A.M. AND 1:00 A.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME
“For a gang-banger’s crib, this place seems pretty dead,”
Tony said.
He and Judith Foy were on the stoop of an abandoned building on the opposite side of the street. Their surveillance had revealed a complete lack of activity at the Thirteen Gang’s headquarters.
“Usually these places have a lively nightlife,” said Tony.
“Punks coming and going. Women. Parties. The occasional gunplay. This crib’s way too quiet.”
Tony shook his head. He’d even paced the block twice, looking for any signs of life. But all the doors and windows along this blighted block were boarded up and covered with graffiti — including the massive garage door on the empty warehouse at the end of the block. There was not even a crack dealer in sight, and no car had driven down this street in almost thirty minutes.
“You’re sure this is the right place?” Foy asked.
Tony shrugged. “Priests tend not to lie. And the one I talked to wasn’t afraid of me. He could have just sent me away with no information.”
“Still, he could have — wait a minute.” Foy gripped Tony’s arm and pulled him back, into the shadows.
“That Hummer at the end of the block,” she whispered.
“I think I recognize it. From Kurmastan.”
Tony saw it, too. The black vehicle had swung onto Crampton Street two blocks away. Now it moved slowly toward the row house with the red door. Judith Foy gripped the digital surveillance camera, hoping to snap pictures of the Hummer’s passengers.
What happened next surprised them both. Instead of continuing down the block, the Hummer cut a sharp left at Peralta Storage, the supposedly abandoned warehouse on the corner. The garage door that seemed to be boarded up tight began to rise. Bright fluorescent light streamed out of the interior of the warehouse. Tony spotted equipment, holding tanks, men in white lab coats.
Though the angle wasn’t good, and they couldn’t see very deep into the garage, Foy managed to snap a few pictures. Meanwhile the Hummer rolled into the hidden space and the door closed behind it, plunging the block into darkness once more.
Crouched in the shadows, Tony and Judith exchanged puzzled glances.
“What’s with the lab equipment?” Foy whispered. “Do you think the gang’s manufacturing crystal meth?”
Tony shook his head. “I’ve seen meth labs before and they’re not that complex. There’s a state-of-the-art research lab inside that supposedly deserted building.” He paused and rubbed the back of his neck. “What the hell are they doing?”
Jack Bauer tightened the tourniquet with a yank. The Albino grunted, chewed his lower lip. The crimson flow from the ghastly wound in his leg slowed, but didn’t stop.
Jack knew Erno Tobias could easily bleed to death if he wasn’t careful.
“The generals thought you were an urban myth,” Jack said, tugging on the electric cord wrapped around the man’s arms. “But the Bosnian refugees I spoke with all swore you existed. They’re the ones who named you Ice and Snow.”
Bauer had addressed his captive in Serbian. Hearing his native language spoken by an American enemy seemed to throw the former assassin off balance, which was exactly what Jack wanted. Bauer also hoped the Albino might slip and say something he might not in his adopted tongue. So far, that hadn’t happened.
Jack faced the man. “After Victor Drazen was killed—”
The Albino spat on the hardwood floor at Jack’s feet.
“Murdered, you mean—”
“Neutralized,” Jack cut in. “The NATO forces seized his records, and there you were. No name, just a description.
Jack saw the hunted look in the man’s pink-rimmed, colorless eyes and knew he was wearing the Albino down.
“You were a member of Drazen’s Black Dogs,” Jack continued, gesturing to the man’s tattoo. “We wondered why every moderate politician who worked for peace ended up dead. Then we discovered it was
“They were traitors! Corrupt internationalists who allowed violent invaders to flourish inside our borders. You can pretend the refugees were innocent, that they didn’t invade our towns, murder Serbs, burn our churches. You can pretend, but I know the truth—”
“And now you’re helping those same ‘violent foreigners’
sow destruction in America.”
The Albino smiled though his pain. “I would call that irony.”
Jack slapped him hard, then knelt down and spoke softly into his ear. “That’s ancient history. Let’s talk about your current operation. Why are you helping Noor?”
“The enemy of my enemy is my friend.” The Albino snorted, licked blood off his lip. “Now you have them in your backyard. Let’s see how you like it—”
Jack fought the urge to strike him again. Instead, he grinned coldly. “You blew it, Tobias — or whatever the hell your name really is. Even at the restaurant in Little Italy, I had no idea who you were, where you were from. But when I ran into that Serbian hit team at the World Trade Center, I started to get the picture. The people at Kurmastan are just pawns. Someone else is pulling the strings.”
Jack grabbed a handful of the man’s white hair and yanked his head back. “Who are you working for?” Jack yelled. “Who’s pulling the strings and why?”
Jack released the man and the Albino hung his head.
“I hurt,” he said softly.
Jack’s fists clenched. He thought of the Black Dogs, all the murders, rapes, and carnage they’d committed in Serbia. He thought of Kurmastan and those trucks of death, rolling down America’s highways now.
“If you don’t tell me what I need to know,” Jack promised, “the pain is going to get a whole lot worse.”
The phone rang. Morris O’Brian’s eyes never left the monitor as he snatched the phone off its cradle.
“O’Brian.”
“It’s Tony.”
“Ah, the prodigal son.”
“Listen, Morris, we found the Thirteen Gang’s headquarters. It’s located at 1313 Crampton Street, Newark —”
“1313?” Morris interrupted.
