But one thing did remain clear, even in that fog: the bad guys. They were out there, and if Jack couldn’t pierce the heart of his own government’s workings, he sure as hell could pierce the heart of the other guy’s. So when the chance to be seconded to the CIA had come up, he’d taken it in a heartbeat. CIA meant overseas work, and that’s where the enemy lived. Ironically, Jack’s most recent task with the CIA had led him right back home.
“Farouk tells me you have been in bed with AlGama’a al-Islamiyya,” Jack said. Ramin winced at the term in bed and wiggled his bejeweled fingers.
“Farouk likes to sound more important than he is,” the fat man said. “Ask anyone in Cairo.”
“I did and you’re right,” Jack said. “If I believed everything Farouk said, Burchanel here would be asking the questions, not me.” Burchanel smiled unpleasantly. “But I do believe that you’ve gotten cozy with some unsavory types again, Ramin. And I also believe that somewhere in all of Farouk’s stories about terrorist attacks on U.S. soil, there’s a little bit of truth. You’re not the type to blow yourself up for the sake of Allah, and you’re not the type to go to jail for someone else’s sake. So tell me everything you know about Abdul Rahman Yasin trying to get back into this country.”
Ramin sighed. “If you know about Yasin, then you must know about tomorrow night.”
Jack reacted, startled, despite his training. Burchanel, too. “What’s tomorrow night?”
Ramin looked equally surprised. “I thought you knew. I don’t know what it is, but I know that it is tomorrow.”
Burchanel stood up and snarled. “Tell us what it is.”
The fat man leaned back in his chair. This time it didn’t creak or pop as before. Somewhere in his brain, that seemed wrong to Jack. “I don’t know what, I swear!” Ramin squealed. “I am not a terrorist.”
“You only handle their money,” the FBI agent snapped. He leaned down, gripping Ramin’s shirt in two clublike fists.
“But not their information!” Ramin clasped his sweaty, bejeweled hands over Burchanel’s. “I only know that Yasin will be leaving the next day, so it must be tomorrow night! He would not stay longer.”
“What’s the target!” Burchanel demanded.
“Hold on…” Jack started to say.
Ramin squeaked again. “I don’t know! I only know that with Yasin you must think in threes! I heard talk of three points of attack, three opportunities, three, three, three all the time!”
“This is bullshit,” Burchanel said. He braced with his legs and heaved the fat man up and out of his seat.
Jack heard another pop. “Down!” he yelled.
The chair blew up, vanishing in a spray of light and heat, wood and metal. Jack hit the floor while a thousand angry bees tore at his clothes, some at his skin, trying to pull him in pieces away from the center of the blast.
“Dare,” Kim Bauer chose.
Her best friend, Janet York, grinned mischievously. “Kiss Dean. French!” Everyone oohed and giggled.
There were six of them, three girls and three boys, sitting in the den of Lindsay Needham’s house. The housekeeper was supposed to be watching them while Lindsay’s mother was at a meeting, but housekeepers were easily gotten rid of, and the six thirteenyear-olds had gotten down to a very intense game of Truth or Dare.
Kim Bauer looked at Luke, hoping she wasn’t blushing too badly. She was just glad Janet hadn’t chosen Aaron. Aaron was cute, but he was brother material. Luke was a hunk. He was most of the reason Kim had been willing to play Truth or Dare in the first place. Kim had kissed boys before — she was thirteen, after all! — but she’d never French kissed. She didn’t think Luke had, either. Their lips locked; something warm and wiggly, strange and uncomfortable, happened; and then it was over except for a lot of squealing and giggling.
“Okay, okay, my turn!” Kim said. Her heart was racing, but she felt no need to remain the center of all that attention. “Aaron!” she declared to a boy across the circle from her. “Truth or dare!”
Aaron had just recovered from laughing and applauding. “Truth,” he chose.
Kim knew that Aaron and Janet had been going steady, and that they’d been caught behind the gym once. Janet denied anything was happening, but Kim wasn’t so sure. “Has anyone ever touched you?” she asked.
Aaron’s laughter thinned. “Touched me? Well, sure…”
“Uh-uh.” Kim grinned. She glanced wickedly at Janet. “I mean, touched you. Down there.”
“Kim!” Janet shrieked. The others shrieked, too. All except for Aaron. Kim had expected him to blush, but instead he’d gone ghostly white.
“Well, spill!” Dean demanded, oblivious.
“Spill!” repeated the others.
Aaron was not playing along. He fidgeted, the color gone from his face, his lip trembling. He looked at Kim with wet eyes, then looked down. All the laughter died.
“Aaron?” Kim asked quietly.
The boy got to his feet and hurried from the room.
Jack stumbled out of a cloud of dark smoke and into a sea of red and blue flashing lights set against black and white. He was vaguely aware of the police cars and uniformed officers. He knew someone was trying to talk to him, but the words came through as a muffled buzz, distorted by the ringing in his ears.
Booby trap, he said. Or at least that’s what he meant to say. He couldn’t hear his own words. Bomb in the chair. Pressure release, like a land mine. The fat man sat down and that triggered it. They’re ahead of us.
The uniformed officers asked him a few more questions, but he couldn’t hear them yet. They’re ahead of us, he kept thinking and saying. They’re ahead of us. The uniforms didn’t know what that meant, so they left him sitting on the curb and went back inside to search.
Jack breathed in the cleaner air and worked his jaw as though that would open up channels and let the ringing sound leave his head. The muffled voices became a little more distinct as he watched figures in firemen’s jackets carry two people out of the house on stretchers — the fat man covered by a sheet, and Burchanel. Jack couldn’t see much of the FBI agent with the emergency personnel around him, but what little he saw looked bad.
They’re ahead of us, Jack told himself. They knew we’d talk to Ramin and they tried to put him out of service. They’re ahead of us. It occurred to him that he kept repeating that same phrase. It was not a good sign.
Someone knelt behind him, tearing the back of his shirt open. The someone — a paramedic — daubed his back with soft, wet gauze. The wetness felt cool at first, then it stung. Jack gritted his teeth but said nothing. This was easier to deal with than the ringing in his head. He could focus on pain. Sounds came into his head now as separate and distinct stimuli. Soon enough he was able to focus on two people standing in front of him. One was a paramedic— maybe the same one who had treated his back. The other was a tall man with steel-blue eyes. It occurred to Jack that he knew that man.
“…got to be a concussion,” the paramedic was saying. “And his back is torn up a little from chair fragments, but there’s nothing serious. Not like the other guys. I can’t believe he survived it, that close.”