“What do you know, Jack was right!” Nina Myers yelled.
Yes, he was right, Kelly said. And if his watch had been right, just before everything stopped, Jack had succeeded in doing something…because Marks and Newhouse had set off their EMP an hour early.
Jack slid his hand along the wall as he climbed the stairs, moving with painstaking slowness that last flight until his hand touched a steel wall. He groped around until he felt a door handle. He hesitated. Were they waiting for him on the other side? Had they already bolted down some other stairs?
There was only one way to find out. Jack pulled the door open and dived forward. Gunfire pelted the door, the door frame, and the ground all around him. He rolled across the tarmac-like surface of the rooftop, came up to his knees, and rolled again as more gunshots chopped at the ground around him. Rounds were coming off close, and he realized that compared to the utter darkness of the stairwell, the night darkness of Los Angeles provided Marks with enough illumination to see him.
The rooftop of the North Tower was a small forest of utility sheds, ventilation grills, and antennae. Jack dived behind a ventilation shaft for cover. He caught his breath and ejected the magazine from his SigSauer, smacking another into place.
“You’re the idiot, Brett!” he yelled into the darkness.
“Why’s that, Jack?” Brett Marks asked in amusement. His voice came from somewhere on Jack’s right. Jack moved in that direction as silently as he could.
“This stunt is just going to make the Federal government do more of the things you hate. They’ll crack down more. They’ll take more power for themselves.”
“The people have to remember their power, Jack!” Marks shot back. “Either we’ll set an example for them to follow, or we’ll force the tyrants to become so ruthless the people have to act!”
“The tyrants are elected by the people,” Jack pointed out.
“Elected by corporations. Elected by political parties. Not by people.” Marks’s voice was moving again. Jack had trouble following it through the forest of rooftop structures. “We are the government, Jack.
Me and people like me. We cast the final vote. I intend to make sure the people remember that we have the final veto. We can make this country a real republic, greater than Rome ever was.”
Marks had stopped. Now Jack thought he knew where the militia man was hiding, behind a man-sized vent spout curved at the top. “Rome had tyrants. Dictators. That can’t be a good example for you,” he called out, using his voice to cover his footsteps.
“You really have to get some education, Jack,” Marks sneered. “Before it allowed dictators in, Rome was a republic for five hundred years. Kings were not allowed in the city. Tribunes were allowed to serve only two years in office. It wasn’t so bad.”
Jack caught a glimpse of Marks’s silhouette. He rose to his feet and took aim.
Suddenly an arm clamped around his neck from behind and he felt the muzzle of a gun press against the side of his head. “Hello, Jack Bauer,” hissed Frank Newhouse. “Drop your gun.”
Air Force One was wheels up, banking left and leaving the city lights behind them. The President had just closed his eyes in his cabin when there was a knock on the door. He grunted, sat up in his bed, and flicked on the light. “Come.”
Avery Taylor stepped into the room. Despite the hour, he looked as crisp and professional as usual. “Mr. President, sorry to disturb you, but I want to keep you informed. There’s been a blackout in Los Angeles. We’re currently assessing the risk, but there is some small chance that we’ll change our flight plan.”
Barnes groaned. “What kind of blackout? Why would it be a danger to us?”
“It shouldn’t be, sir, but it’s our job…”
“I understand, Avery, but unless there’s a direct threat to this airplane from a blackout, I want us to take the most direct path. I need to get to San Diego without complications. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
Newhouse’s left arm had closed like a clamp over Bauer’s throat, while his right hand held a gun to his head. Jack dropped his gun as ordered. Newhouse laughed in his ear. “How does it feel to be behind the curve every single time?”
“Like this,” Jack said.
With his right hand, Jack reached back and snatched at Newhouse’s gun, pulling it forward and off his head, pointing the muzzle forward. A round went off right near his head, deafening him. Jack’s left hand clamped the hammer side of the gun. At the same time, Jack punched his hands forward and his hips backward into Newhouse, stretching him. Jack snapped the gun from Newhouse’s hand, then jabbed his right elbow back into Newhouse’s gun, then into his face. He heard Newhouse’s nose collapse with a satisfying crunch.
But Newhouse was no weekend warrior. Even as he dropped from the blow, he kicked Jack’s legs out from under him. Jack hit the deck hard and felt Newhouse on top of him in an instant. Newhouse pounded Jack with a hard punch; a second punch came and Jack slipped it. Newhouse howled as his knuckles pounded the tarmac. Jack bucked his hips and rolled, feeling Newhouse grab for the gun as he did. The weapon slipped from Jack’s hand and Newhouse rolled over, aiming the gun at him with a grin. He pulled the trigger.
The gun was jammed. Jack dropped an elbow into Newhouse’s bloody face. Jack thought that might be the end of him, but Newhouse only grunted. His reached up and dug his fingers into Jack’s face and eyes. Jack winced and pulled Newhouse’s claws away, and before he knew it Newhouse had kicked him in the chest, sending him sprawling backward.
Jack rolled with the kick and came up to his feet. For a moment he lost Newhouse among the pipes, but a movement on his left caught his attention. Instead of shying away he attacked, hurling himself at the movement and catching Frank off guard. Newhouse staggered backward. Jack grabbed him by the neck and kneed him twice in the stomach. He tried to deliver another knee, but Newhouse caught his leg and dumped him on his back again. Jack felt his left shoulder give. He stabbed upward with his right hand, feeling his fingers sink into the thick jelly of Newhouse’s eye. Newhouse squealed and pushed away, straightening his arms. Jack grabbed one of his arms and spun on his back, catching the arm and shoulder between his legs. He pulled Newhouse’s arm straight, then arched his back, snapping the arm at the elbow. Newhouse screamed.
Gunfire echoed across the rooftop. Jack rolled away and felt something under his back. He grabbed for it and found his Sig in his hands. He came up firing in the direction of the muzzle flashes. Marks yelped and retreated.
Jack crawled back toward Newhouse, who lay unmoving on the tarmac. In the dark, Jack groped his way to Newhouse’s neck and checked for a pulse. There was none. One of Marks’s bullets had found the wrong target.
In the darkness, Jack heard a door open and close. Marks was running. Jack took off after him.
Marks had run down the southeast stairwell. Jack opened the door but didn’t stand in the frame. There was no gunfire. Jack plunged down into the darkness.
The door swung shut behind him and Jack was in that same pitch black. Now and then he heard shuffling below him, but he didn’t try to find it, nor did he light his flashlight.
As he pursued Marks, he tried to anticipate the militia leader’s next move. He might just try to escape and go to ground, but he’d also planned long and hard on this plot.
Two EMP devices, Jack reminded himself. They’d stolen two from Cal Tech. Did Marks have a backup plan?
It was likely. Marks had demonstrated the ability to plan for almost every contingency. They’d had two vans at Cal Tech in case surveillance picked them up. They’d used the Iranians as decoys. Marks had even had a plan to throw Babak Farrah at them as an Iranian intelligence officer in case he needed to.
That was Jack’s safest bet: Marks had the other EMP
device stowed somewhere, and he’d try to use it now. He would try to get back to the garage and escape. For Jack, that meant descending over forty flights in total darkness. He started down into the pit.
