In the next few minutes, many more would die as a hellish orange glow spread out over Rutland, smothering the night sky, extinguishing every last point of light in the clear, cloudless heavens.
17. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 11:00 P.M. AND 12:00 A.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME
“God go with you,” the old man said in Spanish.
“Gracias, Padre,” Tony replied. Then he turned from the scarred metal door, glanced up and down the deserted block, and ducked into a shadowy alley.
This broken-down neighborhood had been a thriving area once, housing union workers for the nearby industrial section of the city. But the industries were long gone now, along with the well-paid jobs. The buildings around him appeared abandoned, too; but Tony knew, from the amount of discarded hypodermic needles and heroin wrappers scattered around, there had to be a shooting gallery somewhere on this block.
Ahead, in the darkness, he sensed movement — a figure stepped out of a doorway, walked toward him.
“Well, Almeida?” whispered a woman’s voice. “Get anything?”
Judith Foy was still wearing her tracksuit and ball cap.
She’d been hiding in the alley, staying out of sight while Tony conducted a quiet discussion with an old, white-haired priest.
Tony rubbed his soul patch. “Yeah,” he said. “I got something. An address.”
He’d been looking for intel on the Thirteen Gang. CTU
had nothing in their database, but apparently they were still active here in Newark. And since Tony couldn’t simply go to the Newark Police, flash his CTU ID, and ask for a file, he set out to do his own legwork.
He’d noticed fishes painted on the sides of buildings, like graffiti, with Spanish words scrawled inside, and he knew these were markers, leading illegal aliens to a Cath-olic rescue mission, where they could get help if they were in trouble with authorities, the law, or anyone else.
It was late, but Tony figured an underground rescue mission would have someone guarding the door 24/7. Sure enough, after only two sharp knocks, the heavy, battered door had cracked open.
He’d spoken to the priest in street Spanish, telling him he was trying to help his girlfriend, whose son had gotten involved with a gang. “Please, I have to find him. He may be in danger of overdosing on drugs. Can you tell me where the Thirteen Gang hangs out in this area?”
The priest was quiet for a long minute, just staring at Tony. Finally, he said, “I don’t believe your story.”
The priest said he’d heard enough confessions to hear in man’s voice when he was lying. But he said that he felt in Tony’s spirit and saw in his eyes that he was not an evil man.
Tony assured the priest that what he was doing was for the good of many — and he wouldn’t reveal where he’d learned the information. The priest gave him the address, and they’d bid each other good night.
“Sounds like you’re pretty familiar with life on the streets,” Foy observed.
“Yeah, well… talking the talk helps.”
Tony had steered clear of gangs and drugs while grow-ing up on Chicago’s South Side, mostly because his eyes were always fixed on a career in the Marine Corps. But he’d still lived on the streets — and if you wanted to keep on living, you knew whom to trust, whom to avoid, and whom to go to for information without fear of reprisals.
“So what did the man tell you?” Judith asked.
“That the Thirteen Gang has a crib on Crampton Street, three blocks away. An old brick house with a steel door painted red, all the windows boarded up so it looks abandoned.”
Foy nodded. “I remember that location. We passed it half an hour ago. Come on, I know the way…”
Jack Bauer stood on the corner of West Sixty-fourth and Central Park West, staring at the eighth floor of the Beresfield Apartments. The landmark building sat across the street from Central Park, and beside the New York Society for Ethical Culture.
The ornate, terra-cotta trimmed structure had been constructed in the 1930s, according to the bronze plaque set above the cornerstone. The plaque also stated that the Beresfield was the home of the wealthy and influential, but Jack Bauer was interested in only one of the building’s occupants: Erno Tobias, an executive for Rogan Pharmaceuticals.
Jack needed to surprise Tobias if the man was home, or thoroughly search the Albino’s apartment if he wasn’t. But getting inside wasn’t going to be easy. It was close to mid-night, but many of the apartments were still brightly lit.
The Beresfield boasted both a doorman and a desk clerk.
Going through the front door was not an option.
Fortunately, the Beresfield was an old building, with an outmoded security system that relied too heavily on the men at the front door, and not enough on modern technology. Jack saw no cameras or motion detectors outside the lobby door, or at the service entrance on Sixty-sixth Street.
Jack had already decided to enter through the service entrance. It was tucked behind an eight-foot cast-iron fence, in a shadowy alley between the Beresfield and the building behind it. All he had to do was climb the fence, pick the lock, and he would be inside. But he was forced to wait a few minutes while a chain-smoking, anorexic-thin woman finished walking her poodle. She did at last, flout-ing the pooper-scooper law by leaving the dog’s dump at the base of a fire hydrant. As soon as the woman’s stick legs disappeared around the corner, Jack moved.
With stealthy smoothness, he climbed the fence and dropped into the dimly lit alley. Hidden in the shadows, Jack used his Tac Five, CTU’s version of a Swiss Army knife, to begin probing the lock. Before he even touched it, the steel door opened.
“Madre de Dios! ”
The pudgy woman took a step backward when she saw the stranger looming in the doorway. Jack raised his hands to calm her.
“Estoy apesadumbrado que le asusté, ” Jack said, apologizing for frightening her. “Trabajo aquí, también.”
The woman smiled, and Jack knew she’d accepted his lie, believed he was an employee for one of the wealthy residents, too.
“Buenas noches,” she said, pushing past him.
“Buenas noches a usted, señora,” Jack replied.
MetroCard in hand, the woman hurried through the cast-iron gate, heading toward the subway entrance on Broadway. Jack stepped through the door and closed it behind him.
He walked down a long corridor with peeling green paint on the walls, fluorescent lights buzzing above. A freight elevator stood at the end. Beside it was a door to the stairs. He took the steps, avoiding the chance of a security camera inside the elevator.
The staircase felt wider than his living room back in Los Angeles, with marble steps and brass railings that shone dully. Jack’s footsteps echoed as he climbed. At the eighth floor, he opened the door a crack and checked the hallway.
Empty.
Jack left the stairwell and searched for apartment 801.
There were only four apartments on this floor, and he found Tobias’s quickly, placed his ear against the darkly polished mahogany. The television was on, a car commercial, then the channel changed — someone was inside.
Jack considered knocking but rejected the idea. Instead, he drew out his Tac tool and went to work on the lock.
Eleven seconds later, the tumblers fell into place and the lock clicked. Jack pushed through and closed the door behind him. He stood in a large, well-appointed foyer. The lighting was muted, the walls paneled with dark wood. An antique table held an abstract sculpture. Jack pressed his spine to the wall, drew the Glock from its holster. Clutching the weapon with both hands, he moved to the next wall and peered down a long hallway lined with framed oil paintings.