He’d completely circled Level One before he saw Liam emerge from behind a line of cars on the opposite end of the garage. The boy was walking toward a ramp, a silhouette against the brilliant June sunlight. Shamus swerved the Mercedes and pointed the car up the center lane.
“Remember, Shea. no regrets, only opportunities.”
Shamus stomped on the gas, too hard. The tires squealed on the oily pavement, warning the boy. Liam turned and saw the Mercedes as it bore down on him, but the boy seemed frozen in place. Shamus could see the shock in Liam’s eyes, how young he was, how scared. Shamus felt his foot letting up on the pedal, his hands on the steering wheel readying to swerve.
Then he blinked and, suddenly, Shamus didn’t see Liam in front of him anymore, just a needy little redheaded, freckle-faced child, planting explosives to please his older brother.
“No going back, only forward…”
Gritting his teeth, he pressed down mercilessly on the gas pedal with all his weight.
A Ford Explorer abruptly backed out of a parking space, into the path of the barreling Mercedes. Shamus tried to swerve out of the way but failed. The Mercedes clipped the SUV and spun out of control.
Instead of striking Liam, the careening car bounced off a concrete pole and skidded into the Dumpster Liam had just left, smashing into it hard enough to push the metal bin against the concrete wall.
The noise of the crash was followed by an eerie silence. The door to the SUV popped open, a young Hispanic woman stumbled out, clutching her head.
Liam raced over to the Mercedes, saw Shamus inside and halted abruptly.
Dazed, blood pouring from his nose and mouth, Shamus spotted the boy. He tried to exit the car, lunge at Liam, but the door was smashed. The Mercedes sat wedged between the concrete pole and the heavy Dumpster, where Shamus still had no idea Liam had hidden the attaché case.
Liam saw a chance to flee and took it. He vanished around a thick concrete pillar before Shamus could see that he was no longer carrying the case.
“Run, boy, but you won’t get far.” Shamus’s voice echoed hollowly in the confined space of the Mercedes as he fumbled in his pocket for the detonator. Then he pressed the button and listened expectantly for the blast.
Underneath the Dumpster, wedged next to the battered Mercedes, the twin blocks of plastic explosives in the silver case simultaneously detonated, rocking the entire Queens Center garage. Shamus died so suddenly, he failed to feel the superheated gases charring him or register the blast he’d been so intent on hearing.
The machine-gun fire was deadly, deafening. Caitlin whimpered, covered her face as plaster dust powdered her head and shoulders. Countless bullets chewed through the vacant office, shattering shelves, puncturing filing cabinets, splintering tables and chairs.
A curtain of silence abruptly descended. The shooter had paused. Despite the ringing in her ears, Caitlin could hear the shell casings rattle and ping on the linoleum floor as the man moved about. She held her breath, terrified he’d hear her frightened gasps from her hiding place beneath the steel desk.
The man reloaded as he moved — she knew because she could make out the hollow sound of the spent magazine hitting the floor among the brass shells, then the firm click of a new one being shoved into place. The silence continued for one minute, two. Unable to hold her breath any longer, she inhaled as quietly as she could. Finally, she moved a bit to peek around the corner. A shadow fell over her. Eyes wide, Catilin looked up, into the face of a boy.
Dark eyes stared at her. The young man had dusty brown skin and curly black hair topped by a pure white skullcap. His dark beard was thin, almost wispy. Caitlin could see he was just a teenager, not much older than Liam. She saw him swallow uneasily as he slowly raised the black Uzi, aimed it at her head.
Helpless, Caitlin whispered a prayer, but refused to look away, choosing to face death squarely. Her determination seemed to shake the youth. He hesitated, the gun wavering.
Powerful arms reached around the teen. One hand gripped his wrist, yanking the gun barrel to the ceiling. In the other hand, Caitlin saw something long and pointed. With a sickening crunch, Jack Bauer thrust a letter opener into the young man’s throat, twisting the dull blade to rip through tissue, cartilage, bone. The teen tried to cry out. His mouth gaped, but no sound emerged.
Then the boy’s eyes met Caitlin’s. She watched in horror, her eyes filling with tears as life, awareness faded…until it was extinguished. Silently, Jack lowered the dying teen to the floor, slipping the Uzi from his grasp. Then Jack reached over the twitching assassin, grabbed Caitlin’s wrist hard enough to bruise it. She winced as he jerked her to her feet. Jack’s hand was wet and sticky.
“Let’s go,” he said.
The Honorable William Cheever appeared appropriately senatorial as he read his opening remarks. Sitting behind the shiny expanse of polished desk, framed by twin American flags, he spoke to the video camera in sober, sonorous tones. The Senator addressed six video monitors, each with the face of a different airline CEO or his representative.
Dennis Spain, out of camera range, ignored Senator Cheever’s opening remarks. He’d heard enough of the man’s banal platitudes to last a lifetime. Fortunately, he would not have to listen to any more of them.
While the Senator droned on, Spain used the Internet to check the balance of a secret numbered account at Banque Swiss in Zurich, Switzerland. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle when he found that one hundred and fifty million dollars had suddenly appeared in the account, the amount transferred from another account with a Saudi bank in Riyadh.
Spain knew another payment of the same amount would also be his — all he had to do was type a code, reroute the videoconference to another server, where a different host would take control of the conference.
He glanced at the monitors. The airline CEOs all seemed to be listening intently, phony smiles plastered across their bland, corporate faces.
Well, they won’t be smiling much longer.
Spain thought about all the things a man could do with three hundred million dollars as he carefully entered the prearranged code. Abruptly Senator Cheever’s face was replaced by another. The man’s features were covered by a black ski mask; thick wraparound sunglasses obscured his eyes. A black curtain was the only backdrop. Seated on a stool, the man greeted the electronic assemblage.
“You don’t need to know my name, though I know all of you.”
His voice was an automated buzz, altered so much it no longer resembled a human sound.
“Unless you do as I say, each of your airlines will suffer a severe financial and public relations setback when, in the next two hours, a commercial aircraft from each carrier is shot down with heavy loss of life.
“Such a tragedy can be avoided. If my demands are met, your planes will be safe — for now. If you choose to disobey me, ignore my conditions, then the calamity that will soon unfold will serve as a powerful object lesson to your industry, and to America.”
Dennis Spain could hardly contain his amusement. The esteemed Senator from New York was sputtering like the fool that he was. On the monitors, the CEOs registered shock, outrage, disbelief. The masked man continued to speak.
“The real question is whether you will learn from this attack, or suffer more grief in the future because you continue to ignore our cause…”