to Fisk, saying, “Here, hold this.”
Taggart said, “That there’s what we call evidence, Trooper.”
Fisk took the gun. His heavy-lidded eyes were smoldering, resentful. He called Jack a dirty name and slammed the flat of the gun against the side of Jack’s face. Jack went down.
4. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 6 A.M. AND 7 A.M. MOUNTAIN DAYLIGHT TIME
The pale-eyed cop said, “Is my face red!”
It was just a figure of speech. His face wasn’t red, not really, not the way it had been earlier when he’d held a gun to Jack’s head. That had been a product of the heat of the moment, the adrenalized rush of apprehending a suspect. His complexion had since reverted to its normal color, the rugged bronze tones of one who spends much time exposed to the elements in the out-of-doors. His eyes were still pale, though, with clear gray irises that accented the prominence of dark pupils.
His name was Bryce Hardin, and he was a lieutenant in the state police, the head of a Mobile Response Team that had been formed as a troubleshooting unit for the Sky Mount Round Table. The MRT consisted of Hardin; his second- in-command, Sergeant Cole Taggart; and troopers Sharon Stallings and Miller Fisk.
They were all state police officers who’d been detached from their regular duties for this special temporary assignment. They operated out of a substation at Mountain Lake, a site on the lower slopes below Sky Mount.
The substation was a tan brick blockhouse, a minimalist single- story structure with a low, peaked roof. It contained a front desk area, a couple of detention cells, a squad room, Hardin’s office, and several back rooms. It was only in use during the warm weather months; winter’s heavy snows closed all but the main roads for weeks at a time, making it impractical to keep the substation open throughout the icy season.
Hardin’s office was a modest-sized rectangle whose entrance was in one of the short sides.
A window in the rear wall opened on a spectacular view of the eastern foothills and the river valley. Hardin sat with his back to it, facing the office door from behind a golden oak desk. A handsome reddish-brown leather couch stood against one of the long walls. The wall space above the couch was decorated with honorary plaques and citations awarded to Hardin for various achievements in law enforcement. A row of gray metal filing cabinets was lined up along the opposite wall. The space above them displayed framed photographs of Hardin posing with important-looking personages, presumably politicians and suchlike dignitaries.
A pair of armchairs stood at tilted angles facing the front of Hardin’s desk. Jack Bauer sat in one of them. It wasn’t particularly comfortable, but even if it had been, Jack was in no mood to appreciate it. He noticed that both chairs were short-legged and set close to the floor, forcing those who sat in them to have to look up at Hardin. Hardin’s desk was flanked by a pair of flagpoles mounted in floor stands. The flag of the United States stood on the left and the state flag on the right.
Hardin was in his fifties, with wavy dark hair gray at the temples framing a thick- featured, square-shaped face. He was thick- bodied, heavy in the chest and shoulders. His manner expressed sincerity and frankness. It occurred to Jack that Hardin was something of a politician himself.
Hardin said, “As the saying goes, when I make a mistake it’s a beaut! I pulled a real boneheaded move when I apprehended you, Agent Bauer. I had no idea that we were both on the same team, you being a Federal officer and all. Quite frankly — I goofed.”
Jack sat holding a towel-wrapped ice pack against the left side of his face, where Fisk had smacked him with his own gun. Jack had seen the blow coming and rolled his head with it, deflecting some of the impact. It had knocked him down and stunned him despite his evasive response. He’d never actually lost consciousness but he’d seen stars for a while. Fisk had slapped him with the flat of the gun and Jack had caught most of it on his left cheekbone. Nothing was broken and his teeth on that side were all intact as far as he could tell. The side of his face was numb and swollen with a purple- brown bruise about the size of a man’s palm. The altitude headache he’d been suffering from earlier was as nothing compared to the colossal, king-sized headbanger he was experiencing now.
Hardin had picked Jack up off the pavement and half carried, half dragged him to his patrol car and thrown him into the backseat. The first setback to the MRT’s certainty that they had snagged a hot one came when they looked inside the pickup truck and saw its sophisticated dashboard- mounted comm system. Sergeant Cole Taggart had explained it away by saying, “He probably stole the vehicle. We’ll get it all straightened out at the substation.”
The quartet formed a convoy to the substation. Hardin took the lead, with Jack in the back of his car, a wire safety grille separating the lawman in the front seat and the suspect in the back. Taggart drove the pickup truck. Sharon Stallings drove Taggart’s car, while Fisk drove the car that had been assigned to him and Stallings.
Jack had been groggy and his ears were still ringing, so he kept his mouth shut during the drive. He learned later that the town where he’d been stopped was named Random. That seemed fitting somehow.
The MRT convoy climbed Rimrock Road to reach the Mountain Lake substation. Rimrock Road was built on a stony ledge; a cliffside loomed on its west, while an ever- increasing drop over an empty void opened on its east. The road leveled off for a mile-long stretch, at the end of which the ledge widened into a large circular outcropping that was a scenic overlook point.
The substation was firmly hunkered down on that outcropping. It presented a spectacular view, but Jack’s interest in sightseeing was nil.
Taggart had had time during the drive to work the pickup truck’s comm system and make contact with the CTU Central dispatcher at Pike’s Ford. It was a tossup as to which of the two was more startled, the dispatcher or Taggart. Central managed to convey something of the reality of the situation before the convoy reached the substation.
Taggart was unable to communicate directly with Hardin through the pickup’s comm system without going through Central, something that he was not minded to do in any case now that he realized there had been a screwup of major proportions. Taggart started playing it cagey, his responses to Central becoming vaguer and more evasive before he finally signed off by saying that someone from the MRT would get back to them as soon as the issue had been clarified.
The convoy pulled into the substation parking lot. Taggart was out of the pickup fast, scurrying over to Hardin, who was still in his car. Hardin rolled down his window to allow Taggart to stick his head inside for a hurried urgent consultation. Taggart did most of the talking, or whispering rather, buzzing in Hardin’s ear. The more Taggart talked, the redder became Hardin’s ears and the back of his neck. Hardin turned around in the driver’s seat to look back at Jack, staring at him through the wire mesh grille of the protective barrier. He listened to more of Taggart’s whisperings, at one point blurting out, “Impossible!”
Taggart said, “I’m not so sure, Bryce—”
Hardin got out of the car and opened the back door. He said, “Let me give you a hand.” He gripped Jack under the arm, helping him out of the police car. He said, “Careful you don’t bump your head.” Jack gave him a dirty look.
Hardin held Jack under one of his handcuffed arms and Taggart held him under the other as the two cops walked Jack across the lot and into the station, their manner a lot more solicitous than it had been. They took him to the front desk where a suspect would normally be booked. A phone bank and two-way radio were part of the desk’s complement of equipment.
Taggart emptied out Jack’s pockets, placing their contents on the countertop. They included a couple of spare clips for his gun, several sets of keys, a note-pad and pen, some loose change, a cell phone, and a wallet. His handset transceiver had been in the truck but Taggart had brought it inside.
Taggart went through Jack’s wallet. It didn’t take him long to find Jack’s CTU ID card. It bore a thumbnail photo of Jack. Taggart and Hardin stood side by side, alternately looking at the ID and at Jack. Taggart said, “Jack Bauer, that’s the name they gave me over the radio, and believe me, Bryce, they weren’t giving much.”
Hardin said, “Uh-oh.” Stallings and Fisk had been standing off to the side, watching the proceedings. They didn’t know what it was all about but they knew that something was up.
