Part 13 (1/2)

Community Center Kurmastan, New Jersey Brice Holman awoke with a start, screams battering his ears. He felt hands gripping him, and he opened his eyes.

He was sitting upright in a metal folding chair, ropes loosely circling his arms and torso to hold him in place. He was in a large room with unfinished walls and a low ceiling.

He moaned and s.h.i.+fted in the chair. Someone struck him in the face with a balled fist. Brice saw stars - then, when his vision cleared, scores of wild, mocking eyes stared at him from behind black burkas.

Fists punched and prodded him. A woman gouged the flesh of his cheek with long fingernails. Holman ignored the pain as he tried to stare through the crowd, looking for Reverend Ahern and the rest of the pa.s.sengers from the bus.

Then an old man stepped onto the platform, a pitchfork in his wizened hands. He shook the implement in the air, and Holman nearly gagged when he saw Emily Reed's ruined head impaled on its p.r.o.ngs.

Holman strained at the ropes. They were meant to constrain him, but the ropes had been applied carelessly, and he easily freed his left hand. He slipped it into his pants pocket, felt around, then smiled grimly.

The crazy fools didn't take my cell phone!

While the women danced around him, and the old men brought in another trophy - the grisly remains of Mr. Simonson's head - Brice opened the phone inside his pocket and pressed the speed dial b.u.t.ton, sending out a call to CTU Headquarters in Manhattan.

Holman heard a scream. The crowd parted long enough for him to see Mrs. Hocklinger, bound and helpless. An old man had cut the woman's throat with a shard of broken gla.s.s. The woman twitched in her chair, her blood spilling onto the bare concrete floor. The flow soon ceased, and her eyes rolled back. When Mrs. Hocklinger was dead, a twelve-year-old boy attacked her throat with a hacksaw.

An amplified voice boomed, filling the room. Holman looked up to see a large man stride onto the platform, dressed in robes and a prayer shawl. Holman noticed prison tattoos on the man's arms and neck.

The mob began to chant. ”Noor... Noor... Noor...”

”The day is now at hand,” the man cried, silencing them with a gesture. ”Your husbands, sons, uncles, and brothers have departed this compound and will never return. Now I will tell you what bold and daring things they are going do to bring about Khilafah!” Khilafah!”

Awestruck cries greeted his words. The women tore at their clothing, their hair. The old men and young boys howled like hungry animals. The room stank of sweat and blood.

Amid the chaos, another figure mounted the platform. A striking contrast to the muscular African American, the newcomer was tall, lanky, and very pale. The Albino's colorless eyes watched the mob impa.s.sively while the man named Noor continued his speech.

”On this day, the prophecy has been fulfilled. Twelve trucks - twelve chariots of death - have left this compound, to sow death and destruction against the infidel!”

Brice clenched his teeth, his mind roiling.

I hope to G.o.d someone at headquarters is monitoring this call. I don't want to die for nothing...

3:59:05 P.M. EDT.

Communications Station One CTU Headquarters, NYC ”This is Allah's punishment on the unbeliever. We are the sword of G.o.d, the vessel of his wrath,” the male voice declared, before the rest of his message was drowned out by a cheering mob.

”What do you make of it?” Peter Randall asked.

Morris...o...b..ian shook his head. ”You are are recording.” recording.”

Randall nodded. ”Every word, every sound, since the call came in.”

”Good,” said Morris. ”We're going to have to put it through filters and screen out the background noise in order to decipher the main speaker's words. Didn't he say something about chariots of death and seeds of destruction?”

”I think so,” Randall replied.

”In my experience, that sort of talk is never good.” Morris rubbed his hand through his short, wiry hair. ”And Holman hasn't spoken during the entire call?”

”No. Director Holman never said a word. But I know he wants us to find him now.”

Morris blinked. ”How's that, mate?”

”He's reactivated the GPS chip. We can easily pinpoint his location. Brice Holman is in Kurmastan...”

10.

THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 4:00 P.M. AND 5:00 P.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME.

4:00:06 P.M. EDT.

Over Kurmastan, New Jersey Jack Bauer closed his cell phone and peered through the helicopter's window. Green hills dotted with farmhouses sped by. Plowed fields, barns, and silos rolled under the aircraft's belly.

Layla was studying him from across the aisle. She'd changed out of her business suit, into the tactical equipment she'd taken from the armory - blue overalls, a weapons belt with an a.s.sault knife, and a 9mm strapped to her waist. Her dark hair was pulled into a bun, and in oversized a.s.sault gear, she appeared small and frail.

”Who called just now?” she asked.

”Morris...o...b..ian,” Jack replied, his voice grim. ”They located Brice Holman. He's in Kurmastan.”

Layla let out a breath. ”That's not all, is it?”

”No. Your boss is in trouble.” Jack unfastened his seatbelt and moved to the c.o.c.kpit.

Fogarty greeted him with a nod. ”We've been circling the area for almost thirty minutes, Agent Bauer. We're nearly down to our reserve fuel. Either I land soon, or we're diverting to Phillipsburg or Easton to replenish.”

”I want you to land inside the compound and let us out,” Jack said. ”Then you can divert to the nearest airfield, refuel, and wait for further orders.”

The pilot and copilot exchanged looks. ”Then you've located Director Holman?” Fogarty asked.

”He's in Kurmastan, and his life may be in danger,” Jack replied.

Fogarty peered through the winds.h.i.+eld. ”We can land near the center of town. There's enough open s.p.a.ce for me to...”

”No,” Jack said. ”You have to put us down where we won't be spotted. Maybe half a mile away from the settlement. Somewhere in the woods.”

”You'll have to hike to get to main street, Agent Bauer,” Fogarty warned. ”The hills around here can be steep. You'll lose valuable time.”

Jack frowned. ”Can't be helped. I don't have numbers. My only weapon is surprise.”

Fogarty nodded. ”We'll do what we can to back you up, sir,” he said, then s.h.i.+fted his gaze to the control panel, where real-time images of Kurmastan were displayed on the digital map screen.

Jack looked, too, and counted himself lucky that CTU New York still had satellite capabilities. After the concerted bomb attacks earlier in the day, no other law enforcement agency on the East Coast had access to orbital surveillance. Right now, a satellite was beaming these pictures of the landscape around the compound to the helicopter's computer.

”I think I can put you down here,” Fogarty said, tapping the screen.