Standing steel and glass partitions separated the twelve-bed hospital ward, where Jack waited, from the triage unit and intensive care facility down the hall. Farther along the blast-resistant concrete corridor sat a glass-enclosed surgical theater, a biohazard treatment unit, and a state-of-the-art biological isolation and identification facility.
Dr. Brandeis had brought Jack here, sent him through the CT scanner, then the MRI. Alone now, Jack waited for the test results, and for the painkillers he’d hastily swallowed to knock his raging headache back down to a dull, manageable throb again.
Jack glanced at his watch, grimaced, and reached for the secure telephone on a buffed aluminum night-stand beside his bed. He tapped in his personal code for an outside line, then dialed his home phone. Teri answered on the second ring.
“Teri? It’s me.”
“Hello, Jack.” He could feel the chill in her voice. Well, she has a good reason to be upset.
“Look, I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner. There’s a situation—”
“Another crisis. I thought as much. Don’t worry about it.”
There was a long silence. “Is Kim home from school yet?”
Teri sighed. “Since I didn’t hear from you, I sent her over to my cousin’s house. She’s going to watch the Silver Screen Awards with Sandy and Melissa.”
Jack blanked for a second. “The Silver Screen Awards?”
“Yes, Jack. Her mother is going to be in the audience tonight, remember?”
Their early morning conversation came flooding back: how Teri had received that call from her old boss, got the last-minute invitation to attend the awards show, was excited about seeing some of her old friends.
“Of course, that’s why I called,” Jack lied. “I wanted to tell you to have a good time. What did you decide to wear?”
Jack could almost feel Teri melt a little. “My black Versace,” she told him. “You know the one…”
“I remember,” whispered Jack. “And I remember the last time you wore it.”
They’d spent a long weekend in Santa Barbara. The first night, she’d worn it to dinner. The second and third nights, dressing was the last thing on their minds. But that was nearly six months ago. They’d had few romantic moments since.
“I’ll bet you look great,” said Jack.
“You can see for yourself.” Now Teri’s voice was as soft as Jack’s. “Tonight, when I get home. Probably around midnight.”
“I’m looking forward to that,” Jack replied, but he tensed up the moment he’d said it. Although he hoped his work would be over by midnight, he honestly couldn’t be certain. “Look, about tonight, I’m really sorry—”
“Jack, don’t apologize. We both know what you do is important…more important than I probably realize. It’s just that sometimes—”
“Teri, listen—”
“Oh, the limousine is here. I have to go.”
Jack checked his watch. “So soon?”
“Yes, it actually starts in an hour. Dennis says they stage it early so they can broadcast it during prime time on the East Coast. Look, the driver’s honking. I have to leave. Bye.”
“Have a great time,” Jack said. “I love you—”
But Teri had already hung up. Jack listened to the electric hum for a moment, then dropped the receiver in its cradle. He lay back in the bed, closed his eyes and massaged his temples. When he opened them again, Dr. Brandeis and Ryan Chappelle were approaching. Jack sat up and slipped his shirt over his head — more to hide the patches, bandages and bruises than out of modesty.
“How are you feeling, Special Agent Bauer?” Dr. Brandeis asked, his eyes scanning, assessing.
“The headache is almost gone,” Jack said. “The vision’s pretty much cleared up. The rest did me good.”
From the doctor’s pinched expression, Jack knew the man wasn’t buying it. Ryan spoke next.
“Dr. Brandeis tells me you have a concussion. That you’ve been walking around with it for most of the day.”
“The MRI revealed potentially dangerous swelling of the brain,” said the doctor, addressing his remarks to Chappelle. “I’ve given Special Agent Bauer something to treat the pain and swelling already. There’s nothing more I can do. He requires rest and time to heal. I’m recommending he be relieved of active duty for five to seven days—”
Jack cut him off. “I can’t do that. We’re in the middle of a crisis. A terrorist attack may be imminent.”
Brandeis refused to meet Jack’s gaze. Speaking only to Chappelle, he argued, “Surely there are other agents who can handle this situation—”
Again, Jack cut him off. “I’m going to see this through to the end. No matter what you say.”
Ryan Chappelle faced Jack and folded his arms. “Is that how you really feel? Think about it carefully before answering.”
Jack opened his mouth to speak, then paused to consider the Regional Director’s offer, because that’s exactly what it was. Chappelle was giving Jack an out, a chance to dump this operation onto somebody else. Jack could sign himself out of the infirmary, drive over to Teri’s cousin’s house and pick up Kim. They could watch the awards show, and greet Teri when she got home.
Jack visualized the moment before he banished it from his mind. He could see Kim’s happy face. His wife in that killer dress. But then another image interceded: Hugh Vetri and his entire family brutally murdered.
Jack remembered the disk that was in the dead man’s possession. The disk that contained his CTU personnel file, home address, the names of his immediate family.
“I can’t go, Dr. Brandeis,” said Jack. “I have to see this operation through to the end. Who knows how many lives are at stake.”
With obvious frustration, Dr. Brandeis turned away from his patient and faced the Regional Director. “It’s your call, sir. You can keep this agent on active duty and risk killing him. Or you can order Bauer to stand down, place himself on medical leave under medical supervision.”
Ryan Chappelle shook his head. “I understand the dangers, Dr. Brandeis, and I thank you for bringing them to my attention. But there’s a crisis looming, one we don’t even have a handle on. It’s a threat that could have far reaching implications.” He turned to look Jack squarely in the eye. “Unfortunately, I need Special Agent Bauer. I don’t have time to get another manager up to speed. I have no choice but to return this man to active duty immediately.”
Before he sent Milo on his way north with Richard Lesser and the rest, Tony Almeida relieved Cole Keegan of his sawed off shotgun and thirty rounds of ammunition. After they drove away, he climbed into the battered white van, unlocked the secret compartment in the cargo bay and opened the cover.
Tony paused when he saw the empty cradle that had held one of the two Glocks. He remembered giving Fay that gun so she could protect herself. From the look of the crime scene, she hadn’t used it.
Frowning, Tony tucked the remaining Glock into Keegan’s borrowed duster, dug deeper into the compartment for the eight 17-shot magazines, which he stuffed into the pockets. Then he placed the shotgun and shells into the compartment and locked it again.
Tony hefted the unfamiliar weapon in his hand. The Glock was a Model 18C, a brand-new variation with a fully automatic mode capable of spitting out eleven hundred rounds per minute. Restricted and not available to civilians, the model had a left side, slide-mounted fire control selector switch; a barrel that extended past the front of the slide; and three horizontal and diagonal cuts that ran across the top of the barrel to act as compensators.