served him through three gun battles that morning.
He didn’t care. He was right. He had been right all along. There was a terrorist cell in the U.S. Rafizadeh had known his son was alive. Jack could have been furious and he probably would be furious in an hour or two, but right now he was riding the wave of euphoria that accompanied vindication. His exile among the rednecks had been unjust. He had been right.
Jack passed through the CTU checkpoint with a swipe of his badge and a wave of his hand to the guards, and walked into the main room. He looked around for Richard Walsh before recalling that his friend and mentor was in D.C. Tony Almeida gave him a nod but didn’t say much. Jack had a grudging respect for Almeida, but he wasn’t sure it was reciprocated, and that nod was about as far along as their relationship had progressed. One of the analysts threw him a small wave.
“Another day at the office.” He sighed.
He didn’t have an office — that privilege was reserved for the Special Agent in Charge, who oversaw field work, and the administrative agent who oversaw the analysts and tech work. Jack went straight to the locker room and secured his weapons. He wished he had time to shower, but the best he could do was strip down, splash water on his face and chest, and towel off. He changed into black chinos, soft-soled black shoes, and a blue button-down shirt. He wrapped himself into his shoulder rig, removed his SigSauer from the thigh holster in his locker, and snapped it into place. He reviewed the result in the mirror.
“From Delta commando to peace officer in three easy steps,” he murmured to his reflection.
He slapped his face a couple of times to wake up. He’d have to talk to Brett Marks sometime soon, and he needed to be fresh.
By the bottom of the hour he was walking out of the locker room toward his workstation. An urgent message alert was flashing on his screen. He opened it and saw a note from Kelly Sharpton to see him immediately. Jack, halfway to getting his butt into his chair, hauled himself back up and marched up the stairs. Sharpton had seen him and was waiting. He looked anxious.
Jack entered and closed the door behind him. “Look, if it’s about this morning, I really do apologize, but you know as well as I do that sometimes this job is about taking initiative—”
“Forget that,” Kelly said abruptly. “Have you worked on Marks yet?”
“No, I was about to—”
“Good. I have some news for you.” Jack was surprised, but pleased. He’d expected to be dressed down, or at least given a warning. The last thing he expected was cooperation. Still, Sharpton had surprised him. He quoted the rule book like a Ryan Chappelle clone, but he demonstrated the competence of men Jack thought of as, well, like himself.
“The DOJ knew about the Greater Nation’s tip on terrorists,” Kelly said, forging ahead. “The Attorney General himself knew. But the tip was erased from everyone else’s system, if it was ever there. The Attorney General knew, but didn’t act on it.”
Jack waited for more. “But that’s nothing. The Greater Nation are paranoid schizophrenics. wouldn’t believe half the things they say, either.”
“Would you believe the Attorney General’s office had a man inside the Greater Nation at the same time you were there? His name is Frank Newhouse.”
Jack froze, the habit of a stealth fighter assessing danger. Questions tumbled like an avalanche into his head, and he sifted them for the most pertinent ones.
“Why would the DOJ put its own man into something like that? Do they even have people of their own?”
Kelly laughed. “Well, they have the FBI, the DEA, the ATF, and the U.S. Marshalls Special Operations Group, but otherwise, they’re pretty hard up.”
“Yeah, no, but why would they send someone in there without telling us. Isn’t there supposed to be some kind of new information sharing happening?”
“That’s what I read in the papers,” Kelly said humorlessly. “But they treat us like mushrooms — keep us in the dark and feed us shit. I can’t even find a file on Frank Newhouse anywhere. Did you ever meet this guy while you were undercover?”
“Once or twice,” Jack said dryly. “You should ask Lzolski what she thinks of him.” Jack quickly summarized his two interactions with Frank Newhouse. The man certainly had training and skill. But he’d also put other people’s lives at risk both times. “If he’s undercover, he’s really convincing. Are you sure he’s a Fed?”
Kelly nodded.
“Thanks,” Jack said. “I can use that.”
As Jack left, Kelly picked up his phone and dialed. An hour ago he swore he’d never dial that number again. Of course, he’d made that same promise five or ten times over the last few years, and broken it every time.
“Drexler.”
“Hey, Deb. Take off your business voice.”
“Kelly!” Her voice sounded much lighter than it had two hours ago. “You sounded mad before.”
“Yeah, well I was. I am. I think I’m up to my ears in this thing now. But if I’m in, I’m going to be in all the way, so now I need a favor from you.”
She laughed. People rarely saw her laugh on television, which was a shame because her laugh was lively, like a fountain. “That’s the Kelly Sharpton I know. What do you need?”
“I need you to get information on someone who works undercover for the AG. The name is Frank Newhouse. I’m guessing he works for the FBI, but with all the government overlaps right now, he could be working for anyone.”
The laughter died away. “You can’t be serious. You’re with CTU! You can get anything on anyone.”
“Not till the NAP Act passes,” he said with a snort. “Seriously, I have nothing on this guy. I’m guessing he’s got a closed file somewhere, he might even do overseas work for State. You’re on the Senate Permanent Intelligence Committee. I’m guessing you know people.”
“Kelly,” she said. “That’s illegal. It could be treason.”
She regretted saying it as soon as the words left her mouth. “Don’t start that!” he snapped. He realized that he was eager to be angry with her. “What the hell do you think I just did for you!”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. You’re right,” she said, backing down immediately. “It’s just, that was for a righteous cause—”
“It was to save your skin, so don’t bullshit me,” he said. “We’ve never been that way with each other, Deb. This cause is just as worthy, if you need to dress it up to make yourself feel better. We’ve got Islamic terrorists and domestic terrorism and secret agents. It’ll look great against the backdrop of the flag, if you’re into that. Me, I just want to make sure no one dies, or at least that the right people die. I just need to know who this guy is and I need to know today.” He hung up the phone.
This day cannot get any worse, he thought.
His door opened and Ryan Chappelle strode in, with two burly security agents behind him. “Special Agent Sharpton, you are under arrest.”
Name: Marks, Brett J.
DOB: 11 November 1951
Birthplace: Lansing, Michigan
Gender M
Education: Champlain Elementary School West Point Academy, 73 Wharton School of Business, ’90
Military: U.S. Army Ranger School USASOC, 75th Ranger Regiment Tours of Duty: Grenada, Panama, Haiti, Somalia, Iraq
There was more of Marks’s dossier, a lot more. Two Purple Hearts and a Bronze Star, pysch evaluations that described him as a natural leader, “Blah, blah, blah,” Jack murmured.
“The thing is,” Brett Marks said from across the metal table, “I’m right here, you could just ask me.”
Jack looked up from the dossier. Marks looked none the worse for wear after his rough treatment (prescribed by Jack) and a few hours in solitude. His hair was too high and tight to get messy, and his eyes were as bright as they’d been at three o’clock in the morning. He sat upright in his straight-backed, unpadded chair, with his wrists cuffed together and the cuffs chained to the table frame.
“I know, but this is so well-written,” Jack said. He didn’t show it, but he was happy. He’d wanted Marks to
