“I can’t believe this!”
“Ryan, listen. It’s worse than we thought. The CDC plane is a Boeing 727, the same type of aircraft Dante Arete was targeting at LAX. Its destination is LaGuardia Airport in Queens. It’s due to land at approximately 8:45 p.m., Eastern Daylight—”
“Son of a bitch,” Ryan exploded. “That has to be the final target. No wonder nothing happened at five p.m.! The CDC plane isn’t landing until quarter to nine. They want to shoot down that aircraft, spread influenza virus over the entire city — and they just might be able to pull it off.”
“We have to warn Jack—”
“First the NTSB has to order that aircraft to land at the next airport.”
“It’s too late for that, Ryan. The NTSB already tried without success.”
“But they certainly have the authority to order it down.”
“It’s not a question of authority. Due to security concerns, the CDC aircraft is maintaining strict radio silence. The pilot reports in once every hour, and we just missed the last window. The next time they establish radio contact, the plane will be over New York City.”
“Where are they now?” Jack raced toward the Queensboro Bridge ramp, an ancient structure of dirty steel girders rising up from Second Avenue and flanked by multimillion-dollar apartment buildings overlooking the East River.
Jack had kept his cell phone connection to CTU, Los Angeles, open while Jamey Farrell followed Caitlin’s blip on a grid map of Queens. The thirtythree-second coast-to-coast delay had caused a few tense moments, but so far they were tracking the kidnapped woman with accuracy.
“The vehicle Caitlin is in is still moving along Thirty-first Street in Queens,” said Jamey. “It looks like they’re heading for the Triboro Bridge, which means they could be going to Harlem, or even the South Bronx.”
The Queens-bound traffic on the bridge’s lower level was moving in a start-stop fashion. New York was a late city — late to work in the morning, later leaving in the evening — so rush-hour traffic had not yet lightened. Jack’s years of youthful dirt bike racing served him well as he darted between cars and trucks with ease.
As Jack twisted the throttle to slalom around a lumbering tow truck, he heard Nina Myers’s voice in his ears. “Jack, we’ve received some disturbing intelligence…”
She told him about the CDC aircraft and its deadly cargo, how the aircraft would be entering New York airspace in less than seventy-five minutes.
“That’s their target.” Jack was certain. It all added up.
“That’s our feeling here, too,” said Nina. “But Ryan is concerned that you’re on a wild goose chase. That Omar Bayat isn’t heading for Taj’s location at all.”
“No, that can’t be right. Taj and Bayat are a team. They’ve worked together since the Ali Kahlil clan was wiped out in Afghanistan. After downing the Belgian airliner over North Africa two years ago, they escaped across the border to Libya together. I’m betting that’s what they plan to do here, too.”
For a moment there was silence on both sides of the phone connection. Then Jack spoke. “Let’s assume Omar Bayat is leading us to Taj and another terrorist cell. Where would they launch an attack from? They need someplace close to the airport, above the city skyline, yet remote — a launch from a rooftop or a building would be seen.”
“How about the Triboro Bridge?” said Nina. “It’s the tallest structure in the area.”
“It’s high enough, but too public. Thousands of cars pass over that bridge every hour. The terrorists could be spotted, reported by anyone with a cell phone—”
“Jack!” It was Milo Pressman’s voice. “About a quarter of a mile upriver from the Triboro there’s a railroad bridge called the Hell Gate. The bridge goes right over Astoria Park, and across the East River to Randalls Island, then on to the South Bronx.”
“He’s right,” said Nina. “Hell Gate is actually a little closer to LaGuardia than the Triboro, though both bridges are right under the flight path to the airport.”
“Jamey, what’s happening to Caitlin now?” Jack asked.
“The vehicle is turning onto the Triboro Bridge… No. Wait. It’s on Hoyt Avenue, a road that runs parallel to the Triboro, maybe under it…”
Over the snarl of the Harley’s engine, Jack heard the analyst exclaim something unintelligible.
“Jamey? What is it?”
“Hoyt Avenue, Jack. It leads right to the shore of the East River. To Astoria Park—”
Three thousand miles away, Jack Bauer knew where he was headed. “Hell Gate Bridge…”
On a quiet residential street bordering Astoria Park, Omar Bayat stopped the van in front of a locked gate of an eight-foot chain-link fence. The sun was a hot orange ball shining between the tall oak and elm trees, but the van was shaded by the steel span of a railroad bridge a hundred feet over its roof.
The Afghani looked over his shoulder at the woman, bound and gagged on the floor of the cargo bay. “I will be right back.”
Bayat exited the vehicle, unbolted the padlock, and drove through the gate. He backed the van into a small wooden garage that butted up against one of the bridge’s ivy-covered, concrete support columns. It was cool and shady under the span, with abundant greenery bordering the fenced-in area.
Hidden from view inside the garage and behind the concrete arch, Bayat changed into green New York City Parks Department overalls. Then he opened the back door and dragged Caitlin out by her red hair. She squealed, but the sound was muffled by the gag over her mouth.
Bayat cuffed her. “Shut up or I will slit your throat.”
Caitlin whimpered, rocked unsteadily on her feet while Bayat untied her wrists. He left the gag in place. Then the Afghani pushed her to the back of the garage, where a hole had been cut in the ceiling. A twelve-foot ladder poked through that hole and up the side of the concrete support column.
“Climb,” barked Bayat.
Caitlin looked up. On top of the portable ladder, rungs had been embedded in the concrete to form a permanent ladder that ran all the way to the top of the bridge. Caitlin’s eyes went wide and she shook her head wildly, trying to tell Omar Bayat she was too afraid. He struck her again, so hard it drove Caitlin to her knees. He reached down and yanked her to her feet by her hair.
“Climb or die,” he hissed, his hot breath on her cheek. Hands shaking, limbs weak, Caitlin reluctantly reached for the first rung.
“Where is Caitlin now?” Jack yelled over the roar of the cycle.
“She’s still on Nineteenth Street, between Twenty-first and Twenty-second Drives,” said Jamey. “Maybe it’s a safe house, or a staging area.”
Jack gunned the engine and ran a yellow light. “How far away?”
“Maybe twenty minutes. Less if traffic is light,” Jamey replied.
Jack cursed. “Too far.”
“Jack, Caitlin is moving again. Across the park. She’s following the span of the bridge, moving under it.”
Jack frowned, increased speed. “Caitlin isn’t under the bridge, Jamie. I’m betting she’s on it.”
Caitlin thought the climb up the ladder was difficult until she reached the top of the span. High above the park, the gentle breeze became a gusting wind that tangled her long red-gold hair and tore at her ripped and dirty skirt. Caitlin saw four sets of railroad tracks, silver trails that led over the water and across Randalls Island. A narrow steel mesh catwalk ran along the edge of the span, paralleling the tracks.
“That way,” Omar Bayat said, pointing toward the catwalk.