Holman strained at the ropes. They were meant to con-strain him, but the ropes had been applied carelessly, and he easily freed his left hand. He slipped it into his pants pocket, felt around, then smiled grimly.
The crazy fools didn’t take my cell phone!
While the women danced around him, and the old men brought in another trophy — the grisly remains of Mr. Simonson’s head — Brice opened the phone inside his pocket and pressed the speed dial button, sending out a call to CTU Headquarters in Manhattan.
Holman heard a scream. The crowd parted long enough for him to see Mrs. Hocklinger, bound and helpless. An old man had cut the woman’s throat with a shard of broken glass. The woman twitched in her chair, her blood spilling onto the bare concrete floor. The flow soon ceased, and her eyes rolled back. When Mrs. Hocklinger was dead, a twelve-year-old boy attacked her throat with a hacksaw.
An amplified voice boomed, filling the room. Holman looked up to see a large man stride onto the platform, dressed in robes and a prayer shawl. Holman noticed prison tattoos on the man’s arms and neck.
The mob began to chant. “Noor… Noor… Noor…”
“The day is now at hand,” the man cried, silencing them with a gesture. “Your husbands, sons, uncles, and brothers have departed this compound and will never return. Now I will tell you what bold and daring things they are going do to bring about Khilafah!”
Awestruck cries greeted his words. The women tore at their clothing, their hair. The old men and young boys howled like hungry animals. The room stank of sweat and blood.
Amid the chaos, another figure mounted the platform.
A striking contrast to the muscular African American, the newcomer was tall, lanky, and very pale. The Albino’s colorless eyes watched the mob impassively while the man named Noor continued his speech.
“On this day, the prophecy has been fulfilled. Twelve trucks — twelve chariots of death — have left this compound, to sow death and destruction against the infidel!”
Brice clenched his teeth, his mind roiling.
I hope to God someone at headquarters is monitoring this call. I don’t want to die for nothing…
“This is Allah’s punishment on the unbeliever. We are the sword of God, the vessel of his wrath,” the male voice declared, before the rest of his message was drowned out by a cheering mob.
“What do you make of it?” Peter Randall asked.
Morris O’Brian shook his head. “You are recording.”
Randall nodded. “Every word, every sound, since the call came in.”
“Good,” said Morris. “We’re going to have to put it through filters and screen out the background noise in order to decipher the main speaker’s words. Didn’t he say something about chariots of death and seeds of destruction?”
“I think so,” Randall replied.
“In my experience, that sort of talk is never good.”
Morris rubbed his hand through his short, wiry hair. “And Holman hasn’t spoken during the entire call?”
“No. Director Holman never said a word. But I know he wants us to find him now.”
Morris blinked. “How’s that, mate?”
“He’s reactivated the GPS chip. We can easily pinpoint his location. Brice Holman is in Kurmastan…”
10. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 4:00 P.M. AND 5:00 P.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME
Jack Bauer closed his cell phone and peered through the helicopter’s window. Green hills dotted with farmhouses sped by. Plowed fields, barns, and silos rolled under the aircraft’s belly.
Layla was studying him from across the aisle. She’d changed out of her business suit, into the tactical equipment she’d taken from the armory — blue overalls, a weapons belt with an assault knife, and a 9mm strapped to her waist. Her dark hair was pulled into a bun, and in oversized assault gear, she appeared small and frail.
“Who called just now?” she asked.
“Morris O’Brian,” Jack replied, his voice grim. “They located Brice Holman. He’s in Kurmastan.”
Layla let out a breath. “That’s not all, is it?”
“No. Your boss is in trouble.” Jack unfastened his seatbelt and moved to the cockpit.
Fogarty greeted him with a nod. “We’ve been circling the area for almost thirty minutes, Agent Bauer. We’re nearly down to our reserve fuel. Either I land soon, or we’re diverting to Phillipsburg or Easton to replenish.”
“I want you to land inside the compound and let us out,”
Jack said. “Then you can divert to the nearest airfield, refuel, and wait for further orders.”
The pilot and copilot exchanged looks. “Then you’ve located Director Holman?” Fogarty asked.
“He’s in Kurmastan, and his life may be in danger,”
Jack replied.
Fogarty peered through the windshield. “We can land near the center of town. There’s enough open space for me to—”
“No,” Jack said. “You have to put us down where we won’t be spotted. Maybe half a mile away from the settlement. Somewhere in the woods.”
“You’ll have to hike to get to main street, Agent Bauer,”
Fogarty warned. “The hills around here can be steep.
You’ll lose valuable time.”
Jack frowned. “Can’t be helped. I don’t have numbers.
My only weapon is surprise.”
Fogarty nodded. “We’ll do what we can to back you up, sir,” he said, then shifted his gaze to the control panel, where real-time images of Kurmastan were displayed on the digital map screen.
Jack looked, too, and counted himself lucky that CTU
New York still had satellite capabilities. After the con-certed bomb attacks earlier in the day, no other law enforcement agency on the East Coast had access to orbital surveillance. Right now, a satellite was beaming these pictures of the landscape around the compound to the helicopter’s computer.
“I think I can put you down here,” Fogarty said, tapping the screen.
Jack studied the map. “It’s a shallow valley surrounded by trees. What about the rotors? Do you have enough space to bring this thing down safely?”
“It will be tight, but it’s the best place to land,” the Captain replied. “Chances are they won’t see us behind this hill, and you’ll have a whole line of trees to use for cover as you move toward town.”
Fogarty paused. “With luck, you probably won’t encounter anyone until you reach this stretch of mobile homes. If you do, you may have a fight on your hands.”
Jack nodded, memorizing the landscape.
Fogarty gripped his arm with his free hand.
“Are you sure you want to do this, Agent Bauer? I mean, you and Agent Abernathy aren’t exactly a strike team.”
“I’ve already ordered Morris O’Brian to dispatch a tactical team to the scene,” Jack replied, his tone resigned.
“But we’re not waiting. We’re going in now, even if there’s only two of us.”
Brice Holman shut out the shouts and screams, the sound of Reverend Ahern’s pleading voice as he begged the mob to spare him.
His attention was focused on the old Albanian man with the 9mm Uzi in his wrinkled hand and spare ammunition clips tucked into the belt of his tattered robes. The weapon was tarnished and pitted, and Holman wondered if it was truly functional, or merely for show.