CTU.
They were Aldo Baca and Ramon Espinosa, a pair of Venezuelan nationals officially assigned to the same trade consulate in New Orleans as Colonel Paz, and legally registered as members of the diplomatic corps. That little technicality gave them, like their boss, diplomatic immunity, shielding them from arrest and imprisonment by law enforcement agencies of the host country. If caught violating U.S. law, they could only be detained and deported.
Officially, that is. But CTU sometimes had ways of getting around red tape when it hampered national security.
Baca and Espinosa had similar backgrounds: both were mid-level operatives of the Venezuelan secret police, enforcers who could be relied on for strong-arm tactics, intimidation, violence, and murder. Both also shared a modest proficiency in English.
Baca was tall, rangy, and restless; Espinosa was a hulking bodybuilder type, oxlike and impassive. Despite the stifling heat and humidity, they both wore sport coats, the better to conceal the guns carried on their persons. Judging by the big bulges deforming the lightweight jackets, they were armed with mini-cannons.
Jack and Pete had guns, too. Everybody was packing.
It had been a long night for the Colonel's protectors. There wasn't much for them to do but chat, smoke, and eyeball their surroundings, watching for signs of threat or trouble.
They were completely oblivious and unsuspecting of the presence of Jack and Pete in the dark, shuttered shop across the street and remained so as the hours passed, night giving way to gray, misty predawn.
Now was the slack time, the ebb tide, the hour when Bourbon Street is as quiet and deserted as it ever gets. Not that quiet, though, thanks to the rumbling hum of countless air conditioners mounted in the windows of buildings throughout the neighborhood.
Still, the late night revelers had all gone home and the early morning lushes had not yet appeared, the bars and gin mills remaining as yet unopened for the day.
A figure appeared, emerging from the square, entering the south end of Fairview and walking north. A teenager, possibly Latino, small and slight, with thick, straight black hair hanging down to his jawline, covering much of his beardless face. He wore wire-rimmed glasses with oval lenses, a loose-fitting, short-sleeved shirt, baggy blue jeans, and sneakers. He walked with head down and hands jammed in the front pockets of his pants as he made his way, trudging along, minding his own business.
He couldn't have looked more inconsequential and inoffensive; bodyguards Baca and Espinosa barely gave him a second glance. He walked north to the next block, turning left at the corner and vanishing from sight.
The bodybuilder, Espinosa, lit up a little chocolate-brown cigarillo. Clamped between his massive jaws, it looked like a toothpick.
Aldo Baca spat, stretched, yawned. His jacket fell open, revealing a gun worn butt-out in a leather shoulder holster under his left arm. He crossed his arms over his chest and resumed leaning against the side of the limo.
Jack Bauer said, ' Something's happening.' He was looking at the second floor, at Vikki Valence's flat, where a light had just come on, showing behind a curtained window as a pale, yellow light.
'Looks like Paz is ready to call it a night,' he said.
Baca and Espinosa saw it, too. They perked up — the long wait was over and soon they'd be on the move. The big man, Espinosa, glanced downward at the side door at street level, a tell indicating that that was where he expected his boss to emerge.
Aldo Baca straightened up from where he'd been leaning against the car's right rear fender. A smudged patch marred the finish of the machine's curved, gleaming black carapace. He took out a dirty handkerchief and rubbed the smudge, succeeding only in spreading it. He quickly pocketed the handkerchief and stepped away from the car, sticking his hands in his pockets and trying to look like he'd had nothing to do with soiling the finish of the car.
At the north end of Fairview Street, a utility truck rounded the corner and came into view, proceeding slowly southbound toward the Bourbon Street square.
Its cab fronted an oblong-shaped container box. Mounted on the roof of the box was a collapsible sectioned ladder. Blazoned on its sides was the logo of the local electric power company.
It rolled up alongside the limo, halted, and stood there in the street, idling. A heavy idle; the dirty gray exhaust clouds pouring from its tailpipe showed that it was long overdue for a much-needed tune-up. The cab windows were open on the driver's side and the passenger's side. Maybe the air conditioner was out of order.
It stood in place, not going anywhere. In the cab were two riders, a driver and a passenger. Both wore identical outfits of drab gray-green overalls.
The driver was in his mid-fifties, bareheaded, crew cut, with a pink, pear-shaped face and walrus mustache. Hands the size of oven mitts gripped the steering wheel. He was chomping on something, a piece of gum or a wad of chewing tobacco that made a walnut-sized lump in his cheek. He looked bored.
His partner, seated on the passenger side, wore a duckbilled baseball cap the same gray-green color as his overalls. He was slight, wiry, deeply tanned, his clean-shaven, wedge-shaped face a mass of fine lines and wrinkles set in a mask of perpetual irritation.
He rolled down his window, cupped a hand at the side of his mouth, and called to the men on the sidewalk, 'Hey! Hey y'all!'
Baca and Espinosa turned to look at the speaker. The man in the baseball cap said, 'That your car?'
Espinosa, shrugging his massive shoulders, said, 'I don't know.'
The newcomer was incredulous. 'You don't know? You look like you belong to it. Y'all ain't standing around here waiting for no bus, that's for sure.'
Baca spat, sneered, and said, 'So what?'
'You got to move it, that's what,' the man in the baseball cap said.
Baca's only reply was a widening of his sneer. Espinosa's gaze was mild, bovine, as he continued to puff away on his cigarillo. Neither moved to comply.
The truck driver turned to his companion. 'Show them the work order, Dixie.' He had a heavy Teutonic accent.
'Okay, Herm,' Dixie said. He reached into the glove compartment, pulled out a sheaf of official-looking papers, and held them out the window toward the others.
'See this? I'm a power company repairman and I've got a work order to fix that lamppost,' Dixie said, indicating the streetlight standing on the corner.
The lamp globe was still lit, pale and wan in the gray predawn gloom. Espinosa said, 'It looks okay to me.'
'We still got to inspect it. Orders,' Dixie said, as if that were the definitive last word on the subject.
Espinosa said, 'Who's stopping you?'
'You are. We got to use the ladder and we can't because your car's in the way,' the repairman said. He stuck his head further out the window, cording his neck muscles. The veins standing out on the sides of his forehead were thick as pencils. He said, 'You're parked in a no-parking area, or can't you read?'
Baca rose to the bait. 'What do you care? You're no cop!'
The driver, Herm, remained facing front, staring straight ahead through the windshield at nothing, as though the conversation didn't concern him.
Dixie said, 'You better haul ass and get that car out of here before I call a cop to come and have it towed away.'
Baca, smug, played his trump card, gesturing toward the limo's license plates. 'You blind? It says 'Diplomat.' That means we park where we like and to hell with your cops.'
Dixie, stubborn, shook his head. 'That don't cut no ice with me or the power company, neither. Get it in gear and haul ass out of here.'
The building's side door swung open, outward, revealing a man standing framed in the doorway. Behind him, a long, steep flight of stairs slanted upward, quickly becoming lost in the gloomy dark of the stairwell.
Pete Malo nudged Jack, murmured, 'Colonel Paz.' Jack nodded, not taking his eyes off the scene playing out
