Caitlin had been shoved next to a metal shed set flush against the support beam on the very edge of the span. She had very little room on the ledge. Below, the river’s black water spun in a dozen violent whirpools, each one appearing to yawn open and closed, like living monsters demanding to be fed.
Omar Bayat had used duct tape to bind her hands behind her back, but Caitlin had already managed to free them. Now she bided her time, clinging to a slim chance that Griff would change his mind about throwing her over — or she’d find a way to escape.
Omar Bayat returned to loom over her with an Uzi in hand. Nearby, the men manning the missile launcher had activated something. The Afghanis appeared to be fixated on a tiny green screen on a black box attached to the side of the launch tubes.
Griff stood on top of the metal shed, scanning the twilight sky with binoculars. Occasionally he would shift his search, peering down the tracks toward Astoria Park. His features were taut, worried. Caitlin suspected he was waiting for his brother, Shamus. She knew he would never arrive.
Inside the shed, Taj sat beside Frank Hensley on a wooden box. Caitlin knew the stranger was the FBI agent Jack had spoken about because Taj had addressed the man by name. It was Hensley who issued instructions to the Afghanis, Taj who translated them into some foreign tongue she was not familiar with.
Caitlin continued to watch these men come and go, heard every word they spoke. Some of what they said surprised her.
“Still no signal from the 727,” Taj reported.
“It’s too soon. If anything, the CDC airplane will be late.” As he spoke, Frank Hensley glanced at his Rolex. “I have a call to make. Let them know how the mission is progressing.”
Taj smiled, revealing yellow teeth. “This operation has gone well. Baghdad will be satisfied.”
Hensley’s features darkened. “Baghdad will be satisfied when America suffers the way Iraq has suffered.” He tapped out a number on a bulky satellite phone. A moment later he was speaking another foreign language Caitlin had never heard before.
Knowing Caitlin was somewhere on the south side of the bridge, Jack crossed over four sets of train tracks to the northern edge, hoping to move close enough to surprise the terrorists before he was discovered. On the north catwalk, Jack had an upriver view dominated by a sprawling Department of Environmental Protection facility on Randalls Island.
The twilight sky was bright purple, twinkling lights from the Triboro Bridge a quarter mile away and the Manhattan skyline beyond the only illumination. There were no lights on Hell Gate and the railroad bridge was cast in deep shadow. Through the steel mesh under his feet, Jack saw black rippling water far below.
As he approached the center of the span, Jack became more wary. He drew the.45, released the safety as he moved cautiously along the rickety catwalk, aware of every sound. Suddenly Jack spied a silhouette framed against the purple sky — a man was standing on the roof of a shed, watching the sky through binoculars. Jack was forced to duck behind the railroad tracks, sprawl flat on his belly across the catwalk.
Jack held his breath, listened. A barge chugged under the bridge, Jack stared down at its decks and the rippling, white-topped wake. Over the howl of the wind through the wires, the rush of the tide far below, Jack heard voices. Cautiously, he lifted his head over the tracks. The man on the shed still watched the horizon, his back turned. A few yards away, Jack saw three other men clustered around a Long Tooth missile launcher mounted on a tripod. It was too dark to make out their features, but Jack was certain Taj was one of them. Jack hoped the renegade FBI agent was among them, too. Jack had a score to settle with Frank Hensley.
Jack weighed his options, deciding he would have to crawl along the catwalk for the last fifty yards if he wanted to take his enemies by surprise. If he stood or even crouched, Jack would be exposed — the man with the binoculars or the men at the tripod would spot him, cut him down before he got close.
Before he could move, Jack felt the catwalk vibrate under him, heard the distant rumble of a train crossing the long span. He glanced over his shoulders to see a locomotive was rolling over the park, barreling toward him.
Jack was pleased. He could use the train as a shield to mask his progress, cover the noise of his feet on the mesh grating. He could run alongside the train until he reached a point opposite the terrorists—if he moved fast enough.
Rising to a sprinter’s crouch, Jack waited until the engine reached him. The bridge shook like a Los Angeles earthquake under his feet; the noise became a shrill, pounding roar that battered his ears. Finally the train reached him, and Jack took off in a run.
Feet pounding, Jack thundered down the catwalk, the sound of his footsteps mingling with the thunder of the rolling Amtrak cars. Quickly — too quickly— the final car rolled by him and down the tracks. Jack dropped flat on the catwalk as the roar receded, poked his head up a moment later. The man with the binoculars was directly across from him, separated only by the train tracks.
He shifted the weapon in his grip, wiped the sweat from his palm. Still on his belly, Jack crawled to the side of the tracks, over the first rail — still hot from the friction of the train’s passing. Jack crawled quickly across the wooden ties, then over the second rail. He slipped into a shallow depression between the tracks, then moved to the next set of rails.
Jack heard excited voices. The men at the tripod jumped to their feet, and Jack spied Taj as he raced from the shed to the Long Tooth missile launcher. With the others, Taj stared at the green glowing screen affixed to the launcher. From his vantage
point, Jack could see a single blip on the screen. The CDC aircraft had arrived. Time had run out.
Caitlin watched as Taj bolted from the shed, ran to the missile launcher. Omar Bayat followed his leader to join the others. The Afghanis clustered around the tripod, talking excitedly.
Caitlin looked up to find Griff still perched on the roof of the shed. But he was not watching the others. Griff squinted into the darkness, staring across the tracks.
Hensley emerged from the shed a moment later. He saw Griff peering into the darkness. “What’s the matter?”
Griff frowned. “I saw movement on the tracks. Someone is out there.”
“Maybe it’s your brother?”
Griff shook his head, still staring at the tracks. “He wouldn’t be sneaking up on us.”
Hensley followed Griff’s gaze. “I don’t see anything—”
A shot rang out. An Afghani next to Taj clutched his throat and tumbled over the edge of the bridge. The others scattered, diving for cover. Another shot was followed by a howl. A third shot silenced the wounded man.
“He’s over there, across the tracks!” Griff cried, pointing. He was crouching now, but remained on the roof of the shed. Hensley reached into his jacket, drew his FBI-issue handgun.
“It’s Jack Bauer. I’m sure of it. I’m going to flank him, finish him off.”
“Go,” said Griff, dragging an Uzi from his belt. “I’ll keep the bastard pinned until you clip him.”
Still crouching, Griff aimed the Uzi into the darkness and squeezed off a burst. Sparks erupted as the bullets bounced off the steel rails.
“It’s Bauer!” Hensley cried from somewhere out of sight. “He’s pinned between the tracks. Pour it on!”
Griff fired away, the noise deafening. Caitlin thought of Jack out there on the tracks, pinned down and waiting to be ambushed, and she did not hesitate.