truck, and only a portion of that would fit in the SUV.
Jack took the SUV driver’s wallet, glanced at the name and address, and said, “Okay, Mr. Mullins, I need you to listen.” The man was still in shock. Jack tapped him with the Sig to get his attention. “We’re stealing your car. You’re not going to report it for at least an hour, understand? Get out of here, away from this truck. Call a cab, I don’t care. If I learn that the police are looking for this SUV—”
“—if we see a friggin’ Amber Alert on the freeway with this license plate number,” Vanowen added angrily.
“—well, we know where you live.” Jack held up the driver’s license as a reminder, then stuck it in his pocket. He didn’t wait for a response, and a moment later they were driving away in the SUV.
Tony was facedown on the asphalt with some huge police officer kneeling on his back. He didn’t try to resist, trusting that the whole affair would get sorted out soon enough. The big man cuffed him and sat him up roughly, and Tony found himself looking into a big square face.
“Ya’ll want to tell me where Jack Bauer’s gone off to?” he drawled in a slow, demanding voice.
Peter Jiminez rolled up on the scene at U-Pack Storage. He’d heard the radio signals going back and forth, and would have arrived sooner except that he hadn’t been aware the surveillance team was specifically hunting Bauer.
He’d gotten the call from Chris Henderson not long before, and Henderson’s orders had been crystal clear: Find Jack Bauer, before the police do, if possible.
Jiminez had taken the trace Henderson supplied him and gone directly to the InterContinental Hotel, but he was a step behind. He’d actually intended to go back to Teri Bauer, to start over, when the U-Pack call came through.
The parking lot was clogged with emergency vehicles, and the street outside was blocked by three news vans. Peter parked on the street and slipped under the yellow police line, showing his badge to the uniform there. A moment later he laid eyes on Tony Almeida, sitting on the ground with his hands cuffed behind his back, and a bear of a man hunched over him.
“Excuse me,” he said politely, holding up his badge. “Can I help with something?”
The big man stood up, immediately looming over Peter, and studied the badge for a moment. The Counter Terrorist Unit ID seemed to carry some significance for him. “I’m just interviewing a suspect, son. Why don’t you wait—”
“That’s no suspect,” Peter replied. “He’s one of us.”
Pascal looked from one to the other skeptically. “He was apprehended while committing a felony, and he was seen abetting a wanted fugitive.”
“Deputy Marshal,” the big man corrected. “Deputy Marshal Dan Pascal.”
Tony looked up at them both. “My name is Tony Almeida. The Indonesians you’ve arrested, at least one of them is a member of a terrorist organization.” He told his story quickly.
Pascal was no stooge. He got on his radio and relayed all their information, and even waited several minutes until he could speak with George Mason, the one CTU agent he’d met before. Finally he was satisfied. He uncuffed Tony and helped him to his feet.
“You CTU people seem to have a talent for getting into trouble,” he observed.
“You’re leading the Bauer manhunt?” Peter asked.
“That’s the job,” Pascal replied. “Came pretty damned close, too, but they put up a serious fight. We got wounded, and some of them got away. Woulda been worse, but someone nailed their sharpshooter.”
“Sharpshooter?” Tony asked.
“You didn’t see? Guy on the roof. Nearly put one through my skull, and he got some of the others. But someone shot him right through the neck. Pretty shot, whoever it was. My guys brought him down a minute ago.” He chewed the inside of his cheek for a minute. “So you boys must know him. What’s Captain America doing working with these felons when he should be on the run?”
Almeida almost smiled at the Captain America reference. “I don’t know. I was on my case and nearly choked when I saw him standing there.” But when Pascal turned away to talk to another Deputy Marshal, Almeida pulled Jiminez aside. “I have an idea, though.” He repeated his theory about Tintfass.
Jiminez couldn’t, or wouldn’t, believe it. “I just don’t buy it, Tony. Jack’s been hunting terrorists since before 9/11. Why would he jump over to the dark side?”
“Money. Or maybe he’s tired of it. Or maybe he’s running from home.” Tony knew that Jack’s marriage was a roller coaster.
Jiminez clung to his naivete. “I still don’t think that’s Jack.”
It really couldn’t have worked out better, Jack thought as they pulled into the guest parking area of the Biltmore Hotel.
They’d managed to stop Vanowen’s bleeding and put a new shirt on him. Vanowen had said they could not go to the meet — they hadn’t picked up a third of the package. He had to go straight to his employer and explain what had happened. Jack, who’d also borrowed a shirt to cover his own bloodstained arm, hid his excitement, but he was eager to meet the man in charge. He followed Vanowen’s directions to the Biltmore, which, ironically, was only a few blocks from the InterContinental.
They’d put a jacket over Vanowen to hide the bloodstained shirt, but his face was pale and he needed help to walk. Fortunately there were very few people up and about at five o’clock, and when one of the few, a bellman, looked at them quizzically, Jack just said, “Fun night,” and that was it.
They rode the elevator to the eleventh floor and Vanowen guided them to room 1103. The door opened slightly and a face, hidden by the door and the shadows, stared out at them. “What?” the occupant demanded.
“It got fucked up,” Vanowen said weakly. “I gotta explain. And get help.”
The occupant’s eyes studied Vanowen, and then Ramirez, and then lingered for a while on Jack. “Vanowen, Ramirez. Come in. You stay out.”
The door opened ever so slightly more, and Ramirez helped Vanowen slip into the room. The door shut firmly.
Jack waited, but not patiently. He’d been through a rough night, as rough as any he’d experienced, but so far the plan was working. Just a few more minutes and it would be over.
Jack pressed his ear against the door. He heard muffled sounds of conversation. The words were lost but the rhythm was calm, typical. Then he heard two muted gunshots, followed by two thuds.
Shit! Jack stepped back, raised his leg, and kicked. The door swelled inward, but the frame held. He kicked again, and the door broke free of its bolt. Jack was inside instantly, SigSauer ready.
Ramirez and Vanowen lay on the floor, each with a small bullet hole in his head. There was an open door leading to the next hotel room — they’d been connected. Jack rushed through in time to see that door swing closed. He burst out into the hallway again and saw a figure running down the hall. “Freeze!” he yelled, planning to shoot anyway. The man turned and fired, missing. Jack dropped to one knee and discharged three rounds at the moving target. His quarry stumbled, but kept running. Jack sprinted forward, the long night forgotten, his heart pounding with the excitement of the hunt.
The man he chased was shorter than he, with dark hair and a Latino look. His quarry ran into the stairwell. Jack followed, with the runner a full flight below him by the time he was through the door. Jack ran down two flights in pursuit, then paused. He leveled the SigSauer and waited. As the man came around the next turn, he fired center mass, and his target dropped.
Jack ran down. The bullet had passed through the hollow of his shoulder and diagonally through his heart. Checking the wound, Jack saw a tattoo on his neck, below the collar line, that read “Emese” in gothic lettering. He hadn’t known about the tattoo. It was the same tattoo worn by one of the MS–13 soldiers. Jack was surprised, but he didn’t have to worry about it at the moment. He’d brought down Zapata.
Jack heard sirens approaching. He sat down on the stairs next to the body and waited. They could arrest him now.
