Unbidden, the memory returned. Two a.m., outside a strip joint on the main drag of that scummy little suburb.
The drunk convict, using the dancer for a shield, gun to her head. Gorman had a clear shot, begged Captain Kelly for authorization to pull the trigger, but it never came. The only shot fired that night went into the dancer’s skull. The single mother from Wheeling, West Virginia, died because he’d hesitated.
Through his scope, Gorman saw the driver wake up the man beside him. Both stared at the vans with open suspicion.
“If he starts that engine, the men who are supposed to be hiding inside that trailer will know something’s up,”
Gorman warned.
“Do
“You ready to shoot, Chuck?” Gorman asked.
“Ready,” Romeo said after a short pause.
“Fire on three,” Gorman said, aiming.
“Stand down and wait for my command,” Kelly warned.
“Do not fire.”
“One,” said Gorman.
“Stand down, I said!” Kelly cried.
“Two.”
Kelly was screaming in their headsets now. “If either of you shoots I’ll have your heads—”
In the truck, the driver reached for the ignition. His partner pulled a cell phone from his jacket.
“Three.”
Two holes appeared in the windshield simultaneously.
Inside the cab, two heads exploded. The men flopped forward, dead. The driver slumped over the steering wheel; the man in the passenger seat dropped to the floor.
“Got them,” Gorman whispered. “They’re down. I repeat. The targets are dead.”
“So are your careers,” Kelly growled, his voice icy with rage.
Obviously the Feds had been monitoring the conversation. As soon as Gorman announced the kills, the doors on both vans burst open. Five men in plastic biohazard suits rushed to the truck, dragging what looked like a huge cel-lophane blanket.
Gorman was impressed by the speed and efficiency with which the men tossed the massive tarp over the vehicle, then sealed the edges of the covering to the pavement with some sort of instant adhesive pumped out of a glue gun.
Inside of a minute they were finished, and a third white van raced into the plaza. This one contained a huge vacuum pump that was immediately attached to the tarp.
Before Gorman and Romeo climbed down from their respective trees, the pump was sucking the air out of the bag, hermetically sealing the vehicle and all its contents.
When they were on the ground, a man in a black jumpsuit approached them. Gorman thought it was a Pittsburgh policeman, but revised his opinion when the man got close enough for Gorman to see the CTU crest on the uniform.
“You’re the Feds?” Gorman asked, fully expecting to be arrested.
“Special Agent Clark Goodson, CTU Biological Terrorism Specialist, Midwest Division.”
Still juiced with a killer’s high, Gorman’s adrenaline was pumping and his hands trembled. He fumbled for a reply.
Suddenly the man slapped him on the back. “Exceptional work,” Goodson said. “If you’d waited, it would have been too late.”
“Tell that to our boss,” Romeo replied.
“Oh, I will.” Goodson nodded. “And if that a-hole Kelly
23. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 5:00 A.M. AND 6:00 A.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME
The euphoria of taking out the final truck was quickly dampened, once the agent at the scene delivered his report.
“That’s all we found here in Pittsburgh, Special Agent Bauer,” Goodson said into the computer camera.
Behind the battle-suited speaker, a boxy, six-wheeled military vehicle was visible in the predawn light. Six men in hazard suits, helmets off, clustered around it.
“The truck was packed with conventional explosives,”
Goodson continued. “C–4 manufactured in Eastern Europe. There were also maps that indicate their target was the University of Pittsburgh’s Cathedral of Learning.
They were planning to destroy the skyscraper during the morning rush hour. No biological or chemical agents of any kind are present.”
Jack Bauer frowned at the screen. “The bio-weapon could be small, contained in a vial, an aerosol can or even a Breathalyzer.”
Goodson shook his head. “We have a rolling CTU
Bio-Containment Lab on scene,” he said. “Along with a Fox Nuclear Biological Chemical Reconnaissance vehicle which we borrowed from the Army. Both units have scanned the entire scene with monitors so sensitive they could locate a cold germ.”
The CTU operative paused. “I’m sorry, Special Agent Bauer. We found nothing.”
Jack was about to protest, when Christopher Henderson stepped in front of him. “Thanks for your help, Goodson.
Nice work, all the way around.”
“Thank you, Director Henderson,” Goodson replied, and the screen went black.
Jack sank into a chair. “So where’s the bio-weapon?”
Henderson sat and swiveled toward Bauer. “The Economic Warfare Division has suggested that Kabbibi might have been brought into this operation for his
Jack’s withering stare silenced his boss. “They’re
Henderson shrugged. “It’s possible that’s a simple drug lab.”
“With liquid oxygen cooling tanks?” Jack interrupted.
“You don’t need that kind of technology to distill meth out of cough syrup.”
Henderson sighed. “We’ll know soon enough. Langley has finally authorized the raid on Noor’s Newark headquarters. We’re there in thirty minutes, whether Noor’s home or not.”
Jack nodded. “I’ll command the raid. Agent Abernathy will be my backup.”
Layla appeared surprised. So did Henderson, but neither challenged Jack’s decree.
Bauer’s mind was racing so fast, he was already past that decision. He was eager to focus on his enemy. “Have we learned anything more about Ibrahim Noor?”
“A little,” Morris replied, calling up the man’s profile.
“He was born Travis Bell, as you know. By the age of thirteen, he was running drugs. By eighteen, he’d created the Thirteen Gang, which took over the narcotics trade in that section of Newark.”
Morris tapped keys. “Well, well. Here’s a nugget. Con-gressman Larry Bell of Louisiana, the former NCAA player turned politician, is Travis Bell’s uncle. But apparently there’s been no contact between them for
