“Inshallah,” Layla muttered from the ground.
Jack crouched over Agent Abernathy. “Stay here,” he told her. “Call Morris and tell him to send backup. We’ll need tactical teams and a medical unit.” Jack pointed to the teenager. “Take care of the girl, too—”
“What are you going to do?” Layla demanded.
“I’m going down there to find out what the hell is happening.”
12. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 6:00 P.M. AND 7:00 P.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME
Morris O’Brian watched flickering, real-time satellite images of the shattered town. Thick smoke crossed his monitor screen like a creeping black smudge. Flames licked the walls and roof of the rambling factory.
He was tempted to alert the local firefighting authorities — though in that isolated region of rural New Jersey, Morris wasn’t sure what resources were actually available.
It wasn’t his call, anyway, so Morris didn’t make it.
Jack Bauer had called for backup and Morris obeyed—
dispatching two tactical assault teams and a medical unit.
Estimated time of arrivaclass="underline" twenty-eight minutes and fifty-five seconds, according to his threat clock.
“The last chopper’s just lifted off from the heliport,”
Peter Randall informed him. “No problem with clearance this time.”
Morris nodded — then his cell phone beeped. Bloody hell? Who’s calling me on my personal line?
But it wasn’t a call. His ISP had just alerted him to an urgent e-mail waiting in his cache. Morris looked around for the briefcase computer he had brought with him that morning, found it behind the door where he’d left it when he started work on the troubled security system.
He dumped the briefcase on his desk and opened the lid. He wiped his thumb over the fingerprint sensor, and got clearance to proceed. His ISP protocols and passwords were programmed into the computer, and Morris had the
“urgent message” on screen in seconds.
The e-mail came from Chloe — the kinky bird from the computer department he’d been dating on the sly. Morris read the tagline, and his knees turned to jelly.
“Oh god,” he moaned, dropping into a chair. “She’s pregnant?”
As Jack descended into the valley, he entered a pall of smoke. Passing the ruins of the mobile homes, he saw everyday signs of human habitation among the ruins — refrigerators turned on their sides, doors wide, spilling their contents, burst mattress smoldering in the sun, a shattered baby crib, torn cereal boxes, broken dishes.
There were no signs of life, but plenty of signs of death.
The grisly remains of the citizens of Kurmastan were all around him.
Jack circled one of the intact mobile homes. Sheets of opaque plastic had been hung in place of windows. The door was unlocked, and Jack opened it. Inside he saw three filthy bunks, an aluminum sink filled with dirty Styrofoam plates, plastic utensils, and swarming ants. The tiny bathroom was crammed with empty ammunition boxes, all brand-name sportsman shells purchased legally, over the counter.
When Jack exited the cramped trailer, a braying goat stumbled into his path. Startled, he watched the frightened creature bolt for the forest, spindly legs kicking up dirt.
Crouching low, leading with the weapon he clutched with both hands, Jack moved along Kurmastan’s main street. He saw a small market, blown apart now, fruits and vegetables scattered on the scorched and blackened street.
Here the smoke was choking, and Jack had to cover his nose and mouth with a tattered prayer shawl soaked in the streaming flow from a shattered water pipe.
There were many bodies around the blasted Community Center, some of them intact. Jack examined two of the corpses and discovered they’d been shot — probably by Brice Holman in the escape Dani had described.
Jack wondered where Holman was now, if he was dead or alive.
He holstered his Glock, wiped smoky tears from his eyes with the sleeve of his CTU tactical assault uniform.
It was clear that the people of Kurmastan had committed mass suicide, after savagely attacking the church group and slaughtering almost everyone. But Jack had more questions than answers.
Why were Dani’s captors, and the ones who chased her up the hill, all women, children, and the elderly? Where are all the men?
Cautiously, Jack peered through the door of the smoking Community Center. The stench of death permeated the place, but, mercifully, the roof had collapsed, so he couldn’t see much.
He circled the ruined building. In the back, he found two large Dumpsters that had been tipped over in the explosions. The smell of rotting food mingled with charred flesh, adding to the unbearable conditions.
Jack stopped in his tracks when he suddenly heard a human sound — a mad, tittering laugh.
“Hello?” Jack called.
More laughter followed, and Jack trailed the echo until he spied a six-foot pit reinforced with logs — the entrance to an underground bunker. Jack heard the laughter again, and knew it emanated from that earthen pit.
Reluctantly, he descended into the trench and entered the bunker. Inside, he found a long tunnel lined with wooden support beams. He found a light switch and tested it, but the generator was either destroyed or inactive and the naked bulbs remained dark. Jack paused, waiting for his eyes to adjust. The underground bunker was ten degrees cooler than the temperature outside, and smelled of raw wood and freshly turned earth. There was another odor, too, a kind of chemical smell Jack couldn’t identify.
He heard the mad chortling again. In this eerie place, the deranged voice set Jack’s flesh crawling. He slipped the emergency light from his utility belt and pinned it to his shoulder holster. Crouching, he proceeded along the dark, low-ceilinged tunnel.
After fifty paces, the tunnel ended with a spacious underground chamber. Large chemical barrels lined the walls. Jack played the flashlight beam over the plastic drums. All of them came from Rogan Pharmaceuticals, LLC. According to the labels, the barrels contained one of three substances — Hyperdrine, Androne, and something called Virilobil.
Curious, Jack squinted to read the fine print on one of the barrels. Then he heard the tittering laugh, this time right behind him. He played the flashlight beam into the shadowy corner and discovered he was not alone in the darkness.
Chains rattled as the other man threw up emaciated arms to ward off the harsh light. He moaned, and Jack saw a long, unkempt beard crawling with lice. The man’s hair was long, too, and hung in dull ringlets from a dirty scalp.
His fingernails were curved into filthy yellow talons.
The captive’s flesh was sallow, and there were chafing sores on his wrists and ankles where he’d been chained.
Despite the man’s horrible condition, Jack recognized him from the photos in the secret Kurmastan files. This wretch was Imam Ali Rahman al Sallifi, the supposed leader of this community.
The man trembled under the light, in the throes of some type of drug fugue or madness, Jack didn’t know which.
Only one thing was clear. This man had not been the spiritual leader of these people for a long time.
So who did control Kurmastan? And why did their leader have the compound destroyed, his followers commit mass suicide?
The bound figure shifted, and a new stench curled Jack’s nostrils. The old man was lying in his own offal.