24: Deadline (24 Series) (5 page)

The woman hesitated. “Sir. Ekel made a salient, if clumsy point. President Suvarov wants Bauer dead not for political reasons, but for personal ones. This is about revenge. His motive is no different from the American’s, when he killed Pavel Tokarev.”

Bazin eyed her. “You have read Bauer’s file.”

“Just the high points.”

“And there are so many of those. Even from the incomplete picture we have of this man, one thing is abundantly clear. Jack Bauer is a tenacious, single-minded enemy. Against odds, against reason, Bauer has shown he has no mercy for those he believes have wronged him. That list now has Yuri Suvarov’s name on it. Others who have found themselves there are already dead.” He shook his head. “The man is too dangerous to be allowed to roam free. Even his own masters have conceded that. You were brought up on a farm collective, Galina. Tell me, what did you do with a dog gone too wild to come to heel?”

Her eyes narrowed. “I put it down.”

“Just so.” Bazin’s phone beeped as an acknowledgment flashed up on the screen, and he smiled thinly. “Ah. And so we begin.”

03

Jack ditched the battered Toyota near Eighth Avenue and pulled up the grey hoodie over his head, hunching forward to alter his body language. It would be dark soon, and while nightfall might make it easier for him to get lost among the city’s population, he couldn’t allow himself to drop his guard, not even for a second.

Fatigue made it hard, though. A deep, heavy weariness had settled in his bones and he could feel it slowing him down. How long had he been pushing himself over the past twenty-four hours? Even with his training, Jack couldn’t go on and on without the effects making themselves known.
Four days,
they had told him in Delta Force. A fit man of good health with food and water could make it past the seventy-two-hour mark and still keep his wits about him. He wondered how that number changed when you added in variables—such as recovering from being shot less than two hours earlier, or forced on the run.

But it wasn’t staying awake and on his feet that concerned Jack. It was keeping his mind focused. Fatigue was acidic, and it ate away at judgment and clarity. If he didn’t watch himself, Jack could be in danger of making the wrong choices at the wrong moment, and that would get him killed. It wasn’t enough for Jack to just react to the events unfolding around him. He needed to become proactive. He needed a plan.

He couldn’t rely on Chloe or CTU; he couldn’t go back to the well with his old resources like Jim Ricker and his former CIA contacts. Everyone who might have been willing to help him was either being watched, shut down, under arrest or dead. He was alone, with no backup, no hardware and nowhere to go. He glanced up briefly, imagining a great noose tightening around him. He shook off the grim image and moved on.

Jack took a deep breath and crossed over the avenue toward the corner of West Twenty-Third Street, moving with the other pedestrians at a steady, unhurried pace. Ahead of him, he caught sight of the Hotel Chelsea’s familiar frontage, the redbrick and black iron balconies of the old Victorian Gothic building ranging up toward the darkening sky. He liked the place; it had been Kim’s husband who arranged an apartment for him there, calling in a favor with a relative to get him somewhere to live while he was in town. A New York landmark since the nineteenth century, the Chelsea had been home to a laundry list of famous creatives—actors and musicians, writers and painters. His namesake Jack Kerouac had written
On the Road
there, and he remembered the first time he had entered the building, feeling something of the history soaked into the walls. It was a million miles away from the places where Jack Bauer had lived his life, the places he had called home.

The police cruiser parked across the street from the Chelsea’s front entrance was clearly visible from a good distance away, and he could make out two cops in the front seat, talking animatedly, occasionally scanning their surroundings for some sign of him. Jack walked on, shifting his course to pass by the doors to the lobby. He angled his head to see if there was a second watcher inside, but saw nothing. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to risk anything as foolish as walking in the front.

A few hundred yards away there was a plain glass door that led into a stack of offices squeezed in between a pair of restaurants, and he slipped into it and out of the line of sight. Throwing a quick look over his shoulder, Jack broke into a jog and threaded down a narrow corridor until he came to a window that opened out onto a courtyard in the center of the block. The first day he had arrived at the Hotel Chelsea, force of habit had taken him out the back of the building to scout for alternative methods of access, and the window was part of a route Jack had plotted in his mind’s eye. In his experience, it was always better to have an escape plan and not need it than to need an escape plan and not have it.

Being a building of historic note meant that the Chelsea retained a lot of 1940’s era window fittings, making its security easy for Jack to defeat. In a few moments, he gained access to a service room on the second floor and from there he took the back stairs, pausing at each landing to make sure he wasn’t being followed.

The apartment door was crosshatched with strips of yellow hazard tape shot through with text that warned
POLICE LINE—DO NOT CROSS
. Carefully, he ducked low to avoid disturbing them and unlocked the door as silently as he could.

He caught the telltale smell of chemicals inside the entrance hall, the residue of fingerprint aerosols and luminol spray for blood detection. There were black marks around light switches and on surfaces where an evidence team had pulled prints from just about everything. In the apartment proper, it looked as if a careful tornado had moved though the rooms. Every cupboard was ajar, every drawer hanging open like a slack mouth. Jack saw his clothes in a loose heap on the bed, and the suitcases he had packed for his flight back to Los Angeles lay empty on the floor. As he expected, they had taken his laptop computer—not that there would be anything on there for the police or the FBI to use against him—and run a fine-tooth comb over everything else.

When he entered the bathroom, he knew immediately that the investigators had found the go-bag he stashed there. A tile was missing from the hung ceiling over his head, and he peeked up into the darkness within, seeing nothing but dust and cobwebs. Like the escape route, the go-bag was another habitual tic that helped Jack Bauer sleep better at night; a small, waterproof drawstring sack containing a first-aid kit, a survival knife, cash and a few fake IDs. In the event that it all went to hell, it was the one thing he could grab and go. Jack nodded at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He expected this. The FBI investigators knew the kind of man he was, and they would have known to look for the bag.

And so when they found it, they probably wouldn’t have looked for the
second
emergency stash that Jack had hidden inside the smoke hood of the cooker in the kitchen. It was still there, a small bundle of dollars and Euros in high-denomination notes, along with a Canadian passport in the name of John Barrett, an emergency identity that was known in covert ops circles as a “snap cover.”

Back in the bedroom, he discarded the clothes he had been wearing and found fresh ones. Like most of his wardrobe, Jack’s taste in colors strayed toward the darker tones, a conscious intent to blend in and stay inconspicuous. Packing light and quick, he found a black gym bag and threw in another change of gear.

He picked up a jacket and there was a woman’s fleece lying underneath it. He didn’t need to touch it to know that it had belonged to Renee.

Seeing it there triggered a flood of memory that he tried and failed to stem. To do the things that his nation had asked of him, to be the man that he was, Jack Bauer had learned to compartmentalize himself. Even as he walked into this building, Jack placed his memories of Renee Walker behind a wall and sealed them away.

Or so he thought
. In a heartbeat, it all came crashing back, and he sagged, dropping onto the unkempt bed. His head snapped up and his gaze found the bullet hole in the window, tagged with an evidence marker. A single round fired from across the street by Pavel Tokarev had impacted there, finding its target within.

Suddenly Jack was reliving it. The sound of the breaking glass and the crash as Renee’s body fell. The weight of her in his arms as he gathered her up and raced through the hotel corridors. Her pale face, the life in her eyes fading away as he watched, the terrible sense of helplessness as he knew in that moment he would lose her.

Anger and sorrow boiled up inside him. They pressed at his throat, a scream of raw fury pushing to be released. It took every ounce of Jack’s iron self-control not to give in to that need. Instead, he took the rage and held on to it, used it to burn away the exhaustion. He made it into his fuel, into the drive that got him back to his feet.

At the door, Jack closed his eyes and let himself think about Renee Walker one last time, before he turned his back and walked away.

*   *   *

Kilner parked the black Ford Fusion close to the curb and approached the police unit, leading with his badge. “See anything?” he asked the uniformed cops inside.

Both officers shook their heads. “No sign from here,” said one of them. Taped to the dash in front of them was Jack Bauer’s be-on-the-lookout bulletin, and Kilner’s lips thinned as he studied it.

“Hey, level with us,” said the other policeman. “Is this guy really dumb enough to come back here? I mean, there’s so many cops on the street right now, every perp in the city is taking a powder.”

“He’s not dumb,” Kilner told them, and frowned.

But maybe I am,
thought the agent as he walked back to his car and dropped into the seat.
Should have kept my mouth shut in the briefing.
It was clear to him that Special Agent Hadley was gunning for Bauer, and by daring to express doubts about the man’s guilt, Kilner had already put himself on the outs with the other agent before the manhunt had even begun. Why else had Hadley ordered Kilner to take a car out to the hotel if not to get rid of him?

He drummed his fingers on the dash and thought about crossing the street to go check on the apartment upstairs. Would Hadley give him a hard time for doing that? Kilner felt conflicted about the whole damn thing.

Instead, he reached into the Ford’s glove compartment and found a pair of short-frame binoculars there. Turning in his seat, he raised them and scanned the windows of the Hotel Chelsea, counting up the floors and across, searching for Bauer’s apartment. After a moment, he found it, catching sight of the broken window. He wondered about what had gone on up there. The preliminary scene-of-crime report talked about a rifle bullet that had been dug out of the wall, most likely the same round that had cut through Renee Walker and mortally wounded her.

Kilner shook his head. It was no way to die, and even as he knew that Jack Bauer had broken the law in his quest to take revenge for Walker’s killing, he couldn’t help but wonder if he would have done any different in the same circumstances.

That was still at the front of his thoughts when he saw what looked like the edge of a shadow moving inside the sealed apartment.

*   *   *

Jack considered the money and the Barrett passport. It wasn’t enough. He needed more hardware if he was going to make his flight from the city a reality. He had no gun, no communications, no vehicle.

Mulling it over, Jack considered that he was being presented with two options. The first had the lowest level of immediate risk, but it would take time and the clock was against him. He could sneak back out of the hotel and start walking, find a way off Manhattan and if his luck held, be lost in back-roads country by late tomorrow. But to do that ran the risk of being recognized at every turn. The NYPD had his face, and it wouldn’t be long before the FBI decided to tell the world he was a hunted man, and then there were whatever hostile resources the Russians were mobilizing against him.

The second option was extremely risky, it was high impact and it relied on striking fast before his pursuers could solidify their grip on the city.

In the end,
he reflected,
it’s not really a choice at all.

He edged to the window in the apartment’s living room and dropped low, looking carefully over the ledge to see down into the street. A black car had joined the NYPD cruiser across from the Hotel Chelsea’s entrance, and Jack didn’t need to see the bumper to know that it would have federal plates.

He stood up. Across the room was a bookshelf full of volumes about cookery and travel guides belonging to the apartment’s owner. The books had been removed one by one and given a cursory search, then piled in a heap back on the shelf. A colorful city guide to Montreal was among them, and Jack walked slowly across the room to get it. He made sure that he passed in front of two windows as he did so, before snatching up the book and bending its spine back against itself.

The evidence team from the FBI had gone through everything, including the books, but theirs had been a cursory evaluation done under pressure of time, and not truly thorough. Hardly surprising, given the chaos that had affected the city over the past few hours. Another team would probably come back to conduct a deeper sweep in the next day or so, but by then it would be too late.

Jack peeled away a loose section of the cardstock cover and used his fingernails to pinch the end of a tiny micro-SIM card lodged there, the same kind of memory card used in millions of commercial cell phones. The little sliver of dark plastic was smaller than the tip of his thumb, but it contained a stock of information that, if anything, was worth more than the bundle of cash he had secreted elsewhere. Quadruple encrypted for his personal use, courtesy of Chloe O’Brien’s ex-husband Miles, the data card was Jack’s equivalent of a “black book.” Now all he needed was something that could read it.