In the cab, the unconscious driver slumped forward, his foot depressing the gas pedal. The truck lurched sideways and careened into the guardrail. Sparks flew as the semi roared forward. Chunks of concrete fell from the crumbling guardrail.
Jack rolled onto his stomach. Ignoring the truck’s searing hot hood under his chest and belly, he reached for Amadani.
“Take my hand!” Jack cried.
Panting, the Afghani sneered and spit blood. “I am not afraid to die,” he cried.
Jack’s fingers closed on the collar of the man’s combat vest. “You don’t have to be a martyr.”
“Yes. I do,” the Hawk replied.
As Jack tugged on the man’s vest, the former mujahideen threw up his arms and slipped free of the garment.
The rig bounced once as Amadani was swept under the rolling wheels.
Jack scrambled to his feet, then cringed when a bullet punched a hole in the hood. Another armed man had appeared on the roof of the trailer.
Jack reached for his Glock — and the vehicle lurched violently, as the guardrail broke under its weight.
Time to go.
Still clutching Hawk’s vest, Jack leaped off the out-of-control cab and slammed down on the luggage rack of a passing SUV. His arrival so surprised the driver that the woman braked, nearly throwing Jack under the wheels of a giant commuter bus.
Jack hung on, and watched the big rig rip through the steel guardrail and tumble off the curved ramp. A moment later, he heard a second thunderous crash when the truck slammed into the ground far below.
Peter Randall closed the office door and sat down behind Layla Abernathy’s desk. He adjusted the round glasses on his bland, boyish face, then went to work.
First he sorted through the stack of papers until he located the most current threat report. Then Randall activated Layla’s computer and typed in the woman’s secret password. When he was inside her system, he slipped a thumb drive into the USB port.
It took less than a minute to download the data into Agent Abernathy’s secure files, and another minute to alter the times and dates on the file folders. Finally, Randall deleted the computer’s log, erasing any sign of tampering, and put the computer back to sleep again.
Threat report in hand, Peter Randall left Layla’s office and returned to Security Station One.
“I have the threat report you requested,” he said.
“Great,” Morris O’Brian replied. “Hand it over, mate.”
16. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 10:00 P.M. AND 11:00 P.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME
Layla Abernathy shivered. She wanted to cover herself, but her arms and legs were shackled to a steel chair bolted to the floor. A chain around her throat kept her back rigid, her head erect.
She sat in the center of a large chamber, her surround-ings dark, cold, and damp — almost medieval. The con-tours of the detainment room’s gray walls seemed to defy geometry, a mad tangle of arches, angles, and shadows like something out of the German Expressionist films she’d watched in graduate school. There was no sound, except for the echo of dripping water.
They’d taken Layla’s overalls and all the tactical gear she’d carried to Kurmastan, left her with only a white Tshirt and the spandex bicycle pants she’d worn underneath.
She listened while a security team searched through her gear, which was spread out on a steel table behind her.
Layla couldn’t imagine what they were looking for and she didn’t ask.
No point. They wouldn’t answer me anyway…
Soon the guards left Layla alone, and there was nothing to listen to but the slow, maddening drip.
Then a loud clang startled her. Somewhere close by, a steel door opened and closed. Layla heard two pairs of footsteps clicking hollowly in the nearly empty cell. One man stopped at the table, and Layla heard a metallic click, like a latch being opened.
The second man loomed over her. He was thin, almost skeletal, with high cheekbones, sunken eyes, and thin, expressionless lips.
“Do you know who I am, Agent Abernathy?” the man asked in a quiet, calm voice.
Layla shook her head. She’d been holding her body as still as possible, trying to keep her mind clear and focused.
Now her lower lip began to tremble.
“My name is Christopher Henderson. I’m now in charge of the New York Division. Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” Layla said, cursing the tremor in her voice.
A strong hand seized her shoulder and an alcohol swab swiped her forearm.
“No,” she gasped.
Layla tried to move but was pinned like a butterfly on display. Her mouth was parched, her heart thumped in her chest. She barely suppressed the urge to scream.
“This will hurt a little,” Henderson warned.
Layla winced at the needle prick.
For a moment, she felt nothing. Then her limbs began to tingle as if they were on fire, burning from the inside.
Layla jerked wildly as her muscles tensed uncontrollably, and she strained at her bonds. Moaning, Layla chewed her lip and tasted blood. The pain intensified, until it felt like her heart was pumping boiling lava through her veins.
Finally, Layla cried out. In a moment, the pain eased.
“That was only the beginning,” Henderson said. “How much more agony you’ll endure depends on whether or not I’m satisfied with the answers you give me. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Layla rasped.
“Good,” Henderson said, his tone obscenely cheerful.
“Let’s begin…”
Jack Bauer examined the mangled wreckage in the glare of spotlights. Emergency beacons flashed around him. A number of local fire companies as well as the New Jersey State Police Bomb Squad had converged on the scene.
When Jack showed them his CTU ID, they allowed him to pass through the police line to view the devastation.
The truck from Kurmastan had plunged almost two hundred feet off the ramp and slammed into a Conrail switching station. The cab had been crushed beyond recognition; the dead driver was still inside. Though its tank had ruptured, and the smell of diesel fuel permeated the area, there was no fire. Still, firemen spread flame-retar-dant foam on the spillage to reduce the chance of accidental conflagration.
When it struck the switching station, the trailer had cracked open like an eggshell, spilling its deadly contents onto the railroad tracks. The aluminum shell was so twisted, Jack could hardly make out the Dreizehn Trucking logo on its hull. Plastic-wrapped bricks of C–4 were scattered like confetti. The cargo bay had been stuffed with enough explosives to bring down the roof of the Lincoln Tunnel, or level much of Times Square, if either attack had been part of the terrorists’ plan.
Among shattered crates of C–4 and an armory of guns and ammunition, Bauer counted two mangled bodies. A third corpse dangled from the top of a nearby telephone pole, where the crew of a Weehawken Fire Department ladder truck was preparing to bring it down.
Across from the tangled wreck on the railroad tracks was Waterfront Terrace Road. Its large marina complex and luxury restaurant were now being evacuated via the Hudson River. Jack could see a fleet of police and fire boats bobbing in the dark water, the lit-up Manhattan skyline rising beyond.
Jack turned away from the glare, gazed at the liquid crystal display on the PDA in his hand. The device had once belonged to the Hawk. Jack had found it, along with a cell phone, in the pocket of the man’s black utility vest, which Jack now wore over his blue jumpsuit. Bauer had already forwarded the contents of the device and the Hawk’s cell phone to Morris O’Brian for further analysis.